Wife Living Dangerously (8 page)

“Michael never told me,” he says, moving so close I can see his bridgework, “that his lovely wife is a gourmet cook.” Is my
husband’s boss flirting with me? Or does he need to be near because of a hearing impairment?

“Oh, thanks,” I say, “but all I did was follow the recipes. Right out of the magazine. I’m so glad you enjoyed it.”

“I can’t wait for the pie,” he growls and suddenly I feel Rick Wellman’s hand graze my buttocks. Now I’m quite certain that
he is flirting with me.

I tell Michael about this incident after Rick and Lanie have left, as we’re loading the dishwasher together. Michael is doubtful.

“I just don’t see it happening, hon.” He shoves the dishes haphazardly into the racks and I’m right behind him, repositioning.
He’s rushing because his band is playing at The Rock Barn again tonight and he’s anxious to rehearse before the gig. “I really
don’t think Rick would come on to you.”

“Is that because he’s not the kind of man who flirts, or because I’m not the kind of woman a man would want to flirt with?”
I’m alarmed by the sudden rush of hostility I feel.

“Both. No. Wait. I didn’t mean that. You’re a beautiful woman. I just—”

“It’s okay. I know what you meant.” I slide the last plate into the dishwasher and go upstairs. Behind a locked bathroom door,
I stand before the mirror, studying my face. Michael is probably right. I’m not that kind of woman.

I don’t make a big deal of my dreams the way some people do. I don’t believe they’re symbolic or prophetic or necessarily
special in any way. Maybe some people dream important things, emotional insights, cultural archetypes, solutions to profound
questions, but my own dreams are just the silt runoff of my brain, meaningless fragments, flashes, bits of nonsensical dialogue,
useless images. I dream of tomato seeds, broken lightbulbs, chicken fat, trowels, tire treads, strangers. I put no stock in
my dreams. So when I dream of kissing Evan Delaney in the basement of the Bentley Institute, on the rumpled blue silk sheets
of a bed that just happens to be there, I am, as you can imagine, alarmed. In the dream I am in the archives, standing at
a file cabinet, my back to the rest of the room. I am looking for something, some kind of legal document, and I am completely
focused on my task. I don’t hear the door open or the footsteps behind me. Then a strong arm wraps around my waist, and I
am pulled close and tight against this man, and feel him swelling and hardening. I loll my head back and feel his hot breath
against my neck, his lips and tongue, and then we are on this bed, this soft, beautiful bed that has materialized amid the
bookcases and filing cabinets. Now he is over me, kissing me, licking me along my neck, breasts, belly, moving his head between
my legs. I sense that someone else is in the room and turn my head to find my mother sitting at a big oak desk. She is serving
lemonade.

I wake up gasping for air.

Michael stirs. “Bad dream?” It is four in the morning. He’d stumbled into bed only two hours ago smelling of beer and smoke.

I am acutely grateful for the fact that my dream hadn’t been projected onto the ceiling above our bed but remains locked in
my own skull.

“Yeah. Awful dream.” I am still mad at him for insisting that his boss couldn’t possibly have been flirting with me.

Michael rolls onto his side and pulls me against him. “Go back to sleep,” he whispers into my hair. “I love you.”

H
usbands in Victorian England were implored to show sexual self-restraint unless the intent was to procreate. Wives were instructed
never to move during the act of sexual congress.

I know this because one of our research interns has proposed an exploration of Victorian class-based sexual behavior during
a time of public prohibitions against sexual expressiveness and the private flourishing of prostitution and pederasty. While
aristocracy brazenly flouted sexual freedom—the Prince of Wales’s well-publicized affair with Lily Langtry was among the most
notable sex adventures of the time—the middle class pursued sexual restriction, even in marriage. Given the state of sexual
activity in my own marriage (our family room interlude was the last time we made love) I think Michael and I would fit quite
nicely in Queen Victoria’s England.

I scan the intern’s list of proposed exhibit materials: posters and pamphlets decrying the danger of onania, the heinous sin
of masturbation named for the biblical character who spilled his seed in defiance of God’s command to be fruitful and multiply;
excerpts from an authentic diary describing the frustrations of a semicelibate marriage; writings by the Swiss physician Tissot,
who warned of the physical dangers of sex, chief among them: insanity caused by the blood rushing to the brain. I’d told the
intern I’d help if she couldn’t find everything on her list; I’ve already put through two calls to Tissot’s heirs, and another
to the British Library in London.

As I’m studying the proposal, Leslie leaps into my office to ask if I’ll serve on something called the Mendelsohn mural committee.

“I just can’t be bothered with this now,” she tells me.

And I can? I’m the one with three young children and the Bentley Greco-Roman anniversary extravaganza on her docket.

“Please, Jules, be a sweetheart and fill in for me. Please? Pretty please with sugar on top? I’ll be your best friend for
life.”

I close my eyes as a migraine encroaches and nod grudgingly.

“I ADORE you!” She grabs me by the shoulders and plants a lipsticky kiss on each cheek. “I owe you one, Julia.” Actually,
she owes me six hundred and forty-seven. Repaying debts isn’t Leslie Keen’s style. “The first meeting’s today, by the way.
Four
P.M.
, Whitehead Hall.”

Truth is, I could probably use the distraction. I’ll do anything to keep my mind from meandering to Evan Delaney. In unguarded
moments I have found myself speculating about whether he has ever dated a redhead, what he looked like as a little boy, and
how he spends his leisure time, all because of two brief conversations and one silly dream.

No time for those musings now that I am on the Mendelsohn committee. A poor man’s Caravaggio, Mendelsohn achieved some fame
in the early 1920s for his sensationalistic blend of sex and violence. This particular painting was bequeathed to the university
by George “Jelly” and Alma Bean, a local couple with bad taste, a lot of money, and no heirs. The mural depicts a plump, bare-breasted
blonde with her arms bound behind her back, stoic under the salacious leer of her captor. Most of the scene is thrust into
darkness, with one broad beam of light raking across the girl’s body and another illuminating a wall of big game trophies,
bears, lions, and leopards who seem to gaze sympathetically at the latest victim.

Campus animal rights activists have managed to collect 2,548 signatures on a petition demanding the painting’s immediate removal.
I’m not sure where I stand on the issue. Should the mural be removed simply because it offends the sensibilities of a special
interest group? And do I really care? I’d much prefer to be home with my husband and children tonight, eating crock pot chicken
stew and playing Candyland.

I call Michael to let him know I’ll be late and ask if he can be there when the kids get home from school.

“Sure. Oh, no. Wait. Today’s what? Monday? Oh, sorry, honey, no can do,” he says, between bites of what sounds like a big,
sloppy burrito. “Got an ex parte meeting with Judge Block. Can’t reschedule.” Pause. “What kind of committee is this, anyway?”

Though I’m sure he means no offense, Michael’s question irritates me for the following reasons:

(1) It indicates that he wasn’t listening two weeks ago when I told him about the whole Mendelsohn controversy.

(2) The question has a subtext. It is Michael’s way, conscious or not, of diminishing my work on the committee; the hidden
word is “nutty,” as in “what kind of nutty committee is this anyway?”

Though Michael says he’s proud of my career, I sometimes wonder whether he believes that his commitments are implicitly important
while mine are more like hobbies and inherently dispensable. This has been a live issue between us since we were newly married.
While my husband was in law school, I worked at a school for dyslexic kids during the day and taught English as a second language
four nights a week, yet I was the one expected to stay home and wait for the electrician.

“Never mind,” I say. “I’ll put the kids in extended day.”

“Okay, sweetie. Catch up with you later.” Pause. “Hey, listen. I’m thinking, maybe we can get the kids to bed early tonight.
How does that sound?”

It sounds like a fine idea in theory but nearly impossible given my older daughter’s circadian rhythms that invariably manage
to foil our sexual intimacy. Only after 10:00
P.M.
does Lucy ponder the existential questions: Why was I born? What happens after we die? How long before I can get my ears
pierced? Only after 10:00
P.M.
does Lucy feel motivated to sort all of Flatsy Patsy’s tiny flat plastic accessories, or plan her next birthday party, or
examine her body for birthmarks—all of which somehow require my counsel, admittedly given freely while my husband sighs and
waits and, eventually, falls asleep.

By 4:00
P.M.
I am climbing the steps to Whitehead Hall, wondering if my marriage is disintegrating or I’m just in the throes of premenstrual
syndrome. I tell myself: I’m happily married. I’m happily married. I’m happily married. I’m happily married. I’m happily married.
The mantra bellows in my head as I walk down the waxed tile corridor that smells strongly of Pine-Sol and old wood, as I heave
open the heavy door, as I step into the cavernous conference room, as I see Evan Delaney sitting at the table, smiling at
me.
DEAR GOD, I’M HAPPILY MARRIED.

Evan jumps to his feet when he spots me and gestures for me to sit beside him. “You got roped into this too?” he whispers,
and I can feel his warm cinnamony breath on my neck.

I see that he has been doodling, not the assertive squares within squares that my husband draws in the white space around
The New York Times
crossword puzzle, but little cartoon faces, the kind you learn to draw when you’re a kid. A puppy with big floppy ears and
whiskers. A bald-headed guy with horn-rimmed glasses and bulbous nose. I can’t explain it, but these silly little pictures
make me want to kiss him. I’M HAPPILY MARRIED. I’M HAPPILY MARRIED. I’M HAPPILY MARRIED. I’M HAPPILY MARRIED. I’M HAPPILY
MARRIED. I’M HAPPILY MARRIED.

“Yeah, they roped me in too.” I try to sound resentful of this new obligation, but suddenly I am not sorry that I agreed to
serve on the Mendelsohn mural committee. I suspect that Evan Delaney isn’t sorry either. He eases back in his chair and moves
his arm a fraction of an inch closer to mine; he isn’t touching me, but he is definitely in my air space, and I think I can
feel the heat radiating off that sinewy arm, though I may be imagining it. It may just be my own heat, is what I’m saying.
I don’t let myself inhale the scent of him. I don’t let myself see how his dark curly chest hair peeks above the crew neck
of his soft gray sweater, don’t let myself notice his strong fingers, the raised bumps where he’d shaved his jawline this
morning, the flecks of gold in his softly hooded green eyes, the fringe of dark lashes. No, I do not notice anything at all
about Evan Delaney.

Art history professor Donatella Pope, who has a mustache and smells like chicken salad, stands at the head of the long, highly
polished walnut conference table and explains the procedure. The only makeup she’s wearing is a swipe of bright red lipstick,
which, along with the mustache, gives her an almost hip but ultimately unattractive Frida Kahlo wannabe effect.

“I want you,” Donatella calls out, “to partner with the person to your left. Take a half hour, process your thoughts. We’ll
reconvene to share and synthesize.” She claps her hands briskly. “And remember, our goal here is to be sensitive to the students’
concerns. But let’s remain cognizant of the university’s mission too, you know?” She claps again. “Okay, people, let’s get
rolling!”

At my left is Vernon Blankenship, professor emeritus of mathematics who has age spots as big as my whole head and weeping
sores on his elbows. I am grateful when Evan ignores the person to
his
left, a petite blonde from East European Studies, and leads me toward the back of the room. I’m also grateful that this conference
room is lit the old-fashioned way, with skin-flattering tungsten lamps and sconces shaped like Easter lilies. We just sit
there for a moment, not saying anything. He seems so awkward and happy.

I surprise us both when I reach for his eyeglasses. “May I?”

I gently remove them before he can answer, mist the lenses with my breath, and use the edge of my cotton blouse to wipe them
clean. He looks a little lost without his glasses, but his eyes are bigger now and even more vividly green. I hand them back.
“Better?”

He blinks and smiles. “Much. Thank you.”

I can hear my pulse hammering in my ears. “I’m sorry. I can’t believe I just did that. I didn’t, I mean, I’m sorry if that
was rude.”

“Not at all, Julia.”

I see my name leave his lips in slow motion. I see his tongue linger behind his teeth when he reached the “lee” in Ju-lee-ah,
and my name is suddenly so much more than the appellation by which I’d been known my whole life, but a bit of lovely music,
or the name of a soft pink flower.

“Maybe we should talk about the mural,” he says, and I notice a deep flush moving up his neck, crimson against his olive skin.
“Um, here’s what I’m thinking. On one hand, the students have a point, I suppose. If you like animals, and I do, very much,
the mural is, well, it is offensive. It’s also not very good art. I’m not sure anyone would suffer if they hauled it away.”

I nod my head. I am not even listening. I am replaying the eyeglass-removal scene in my mind and wondering if he’s doing the
same.