We're in Trouble (25 page)

If Jenny ever had to tell someone—a stranger, the sympathetic man she imagined coming to the door sometimes, kind of a traveling psychologist and granter of divorces all wrapped up in one—about what it was like to be married to Wayne Sullivan, she would have told him about tonight. She'd say,
Wayne called me at six, after my parents got here for dinner, after I'd gotten the boys into their good clothes for the Christmas picture, to tell me he wouldn't be home for another couple of hours. He had some last-minute shopping, he said.

Jenny was washing dishes. The leftovers from the turkey had already been sealed in Tupperware and put into the refrigerator. From the living room she could hear Danny with her mother; her father was with Alex in the playroom—she could hear Alex squealing every few minutes, or shouting nonsense in his two-year-old singsong. It was 8:40.
Almost three hours later
, she told the man in her head,
and no sign of him.
And that's Wayne. There's a living room full of presents. All anyone wants of him now is his presence at the table. And he thinks he hasn't done enough, and so our dinner is ruined. It couldn't be more typical.

Her mother was reading to Danny; she was a schoolteacher, too, and Jenny could hear the careful cadences, the little emphases that meant she was acting out the story with her voice. Her mother had been heroic tonight. She was a master of keeping up appearances, and here, by God, was a time when her gifts were needed. Jenny's father had started to bluster when Jenny announced Wayne was going to be late—
Jennifer, I swear to you I think that man does this on purpose
—but her mother had gotten up on her cane and gone to her father, and put a hand on his shoulder, and said,
He's being sweet, dear, he's buying presents. He's doing the best he knows.

Danny, of course, had asked after his father, and she told him
Daddy will be a little late
, and he whined, and Alex picked up on it, and then her mother called both of them over to the couch and let them pick the channel on the television, and for the most part they forgot. Just before dinner was served her mother hobbled into the kitchen, and Jenny kissed her on the forehead.
Thank you
, she said.

He's an odd man
, her mother said.

You're not telling me anything new.

But loving. He is loving.

Her mother stirred the gravy, a firm smile on her face.

They'd eaten slowly, eyes on the clock—Jenny waited a long time to announce dessert—and at eight she gave up and cleared the dishes. She put a plate of turkey and potatoes—Wayne wouldn't eat anything else—into the oven.

Jenny scrubbed at the dishes—the same china they'd had since their wedding, even the plates they'd glued together after
their first anniversary dinner. She thought, for the hundredth time, what her life would be like if she was in Larry's kitchen now, instead of Wayne's.

Larry and Emily had bought a new house the previous spring, on the other side of the county, to celebrate Larry's election as sheriff. Of course Jenny had gone to see it with Wayne and the boys, but she'd been by on her own a couple of times, too—Emily saw her grandmother twice a month, at a nursing home in Michigan, staying away for the weekends. Jenny had made her visits in summer, when she didn't teach, while Wayne was at work. She dropped the boys at her folks', and parked her car out of sight from the road. It was a nice house, big and bright, with beautiful bay windows that let in the evening sun, filtering it through the leaves of two huge maples in the front yard. Larry wouldn't use his and Emily's bed—
God, it wouldn't be right, even if I don't love her
—so they made love on the guest bed, narrow and squeaky. It was the same bed Larry had slept on in high school, which gave things a nice nostalgic feel; this was the bed in which Larry had first touched her breasts, way back in the mists of time, when she was sixteen. Now she and Larry lay in the guest room all afternoon. They laughed and chattered; when Larry came (with a bellow she would have found funny, if it didn't turn her on so much), it was like a cork popped out from his throat, and he'd talk for hours about the misadventures of the citizens of Kinslow. All the while he'd touch her with his big hands.

I should have slept with you in high school
, she told him, during one of those afternoons.
I would never have gone on to anyone else.

Well, I told you so.

She laughed. But sometimes this was because she was trying very hard not to cry—not in front of Larry, not when
they had so few hours together. He worried after her constantly, and she wanted him to think as many good thoughts about her as he could.

I married the wrong guy
, was what she wanted to tell him, but she couldn't. They had just, in a shy way, admitted they were in love, but neither one had been brave enough to bring up what they were going to do about it. Larry had just been elected; even though he was doing what his father had done, he was the youngest sheriff anyone had ever heard of, and a scandal and a divorce would probably torpedo future terms. And being sheriff was a job Larry wanted—the only job he'd wanted, why he'd gone into the police force instead of off to college, like her and Wayne. If only he had! She and Wayne had never been friends in high school, but in college they got to know each other because they had Larry in common—because she pined for Larry, and Wayne was good at making her laugh, at making her feel not so lonely. At being gentle and kind—not like every other boozed-up asshole trying for a grope.

And, back home, Larry met Emily at church—he called Jenny one night during her sophomore year, to tell her he was in love, that he was happy and he hoped Jenny would be happy for him, too.

I'm seeing Wayne
, she said, blurting it out, relieved she could finally say it.

Really?
Larry had paused.
Our Wayne?

But as much as Jenny now daydreamed about being Larry's wife (which, these days, was a lot) she knew such a thing was unlikely at best. She could only stand here waiting for the husband she did have—who might as well be a third son—to figure out it was family time, and think of Larry sitting in
his living room with Emily. They probably weren't talking, either—Emily would be watching television, with Larry sitting in his den, his nose buried in a Civil War book. Or thinking of her. Jenny's stomach thrilled.

But what was she thinking? It was Christmas Eve at the Thompkins's house, too, and Larry's parents were over; Jenny's mother was good friends with Mrs. Thompkins and had said something about it earlier. Larry's house would be a lot like hers was, except maybe even happier. Larry and his father and brother would be knocking back a special eggnog recipe, and Emily and Mrs. Thompkins got along better than Emily and Larry did; they'd be gossiping over cookie dough in the kitchen. The thought of all that activity and noise made Jenny's throat tighten. It was better, somehow, to think of Larry's house as unhappy; better to think of it as an empty place, too big for Larry, needing her and the children—

She was drying her hands when she heard the car grumbling in the trees. Wayne had been putting off getting a new muffler. She sighed, then called out, Daddy's home!

Daddy! Danny called. Gramma, finally!

She wished Wayne could hear that.

She looked out the kitchen window and saw Wayne's car pull up in front of the garage, the wide white glow of his headlights getting smaller and more specific on the garage door. He parked too close to the door. Jenny had asked him time and time again to give her room to back the Vega out of the garage if she needed to. She could see Wayne behind the wheel, his Impala's orange dashboard lights shining onto his face. He had his glasses on; she could see the reflections, little match lights.

She imagined Larry coming home, outside a different kitchen window, climbing out of his cruiser. She imagined her
sons calling him Daddy. The fantasy was almost blasphemous—but it made her tingle, at the same time. Larry loved the boys, and they loved him; she sometimes stopped at the station house, and Larry would take them for a ride in his cruiser. His marriage to Emily might be different if they could have children of their own. Jenny wasn't supposed to know—no one did—but Emily was infertile. They'd found out just before moving into the new house.

Wayne shut off the engine. The light was out over the garage, and Jenny couldn't see him any longer; the image of the car was replaced by a curved piece of her own reflection in the window. She turned again to putting away the dishes. I think he's bringing presents, she heard her mother say. Danny answered this with shouts, and Alex answered him with a yodel.

Jenny thought about Wayne coming in the front door, forgetting to stamp the snow from his boots. She was going to have to go up and kiss him, pretend she didn't taste the cigarettes on his breath. He would sulk if she didn't.

This was what infuriated her most: she could explain and explain (later, when they put the kids to bed), but Wayne wouldn't understand what he'd done wrong. He'd brought the kids presents—he'd probably bought her a present. He'd been moody lately, working long hours, and—she knew—this was his apology for it. In his head he'd worked it all out; he would make a gesture that far outshone any grumpiness, any silence at the dinner table. He'd come through the door like Santa Claus. She could tell him,
The only gift I wanted was a normal family dinner
, and he'd look hurt, he'd look like she slapped him.
But
, he'd say, and the corners of his mouth would turn down,
I was just trying to
—and then he'd launch into the same story he'd be telling himself right now—

They had done this before, a number of times. Too many times. This was how the rest of the night was going to go. And the thought of it all playing out, so predictably—

Jenny set a plate down on the counter. She blinked; her nose stung. The thought of Wayne made her feel ill. Her husband was coming into his house on Christmas Eve, and she couldn't bear it.

About a month ago she'd called in a trespasser, while Wayne was away in Chicago. This was risky, she knew, but she had gotten weepy—just like this—knowing she and Larry wouldn't be able to see each other again for weeks. She'd asked if the sheriff could come out to the house, and the sheriff came. He looked so happy when she opened the door to him, when he realized Wayne was gone. She took him upstairs, and they did it, and then afterward she said,
Now you surprise me
, and so he took her out in the cruiser, to a nearby stretch of road, empty for a mile ahead and behind, and he said
Hang on
, and floored it. The cruiser seemed almost happy to oblige him. She had her hands on the dashboard, and the road—slightly hilly—lifted her up off the seat, dropped her down again, made her feel like a girl.
You're doing one-twenty
, Larry said, calm as ever, in between her shrieks.
Unfortunately, we're out of road.

At the house she hugged him, kissed his chin. He'd already told her, in a way, but now she told him,
I love you.
He'd blushed to his ears.

She was going to leave Wayne.

Of course she'd thought about it; she'd been over the possibilities, idly, on and off for the last four years, and certainly since taking up with Larry. But now she knew; she'd crossed some point of balance. She'd been waiting for something to
happen with Larry, but she would have to act even sooner. The planning would take a few months, at most. She'd have to have a place lined up somewhere else. A job—maybe in Indy, but certainly out of Kinslow. And then she would tell Larry—she'd have to break it to him gently, but she would tell him, once and for all—that she was his for the taking, if he could manage it.

This was it: she didn't love her husband—in fact she didn't much like him—and was never going to feel anything for him again. It had to be done. Larry or no Larry, it had to be done.

Something out the window caught her eye. Wayne had the passenger door of the Impala open, and was bent inside; she could see his back under the dome lamp. What was he doing? Maybe he'd spilled his ashtray. She went to the window and put her face close to the glass.

He backed out of the car, and stood straight. He saw her, and stood looking at her for a moment in front of the open car door. He wiped his nose with his gloved hand. Was he crying? She felt a flicker of guilt, as though somehow he'd heard her thoughts. But then he smiled, and lifted a finger:
Just a second.

She did a quick beckon with her hand—
Get your ass in here
—and made a face, eyeballs rolled toward the rest of the house.
Now.

He shook his head, held the finger up again.

Jenny crossed her arms. She'd see Larry next week; Emily was going to Michigan. She could begin to tell him then.

Wayne bent into the car, then straightened up again. He grinned.

She held her hands out at her sides, palms up:
What? I'm waiting.

When Wayne had first told her he wanted to blindfold her, Jenny's fear was that he was trying out some kind of sex game, some spice-up-your-love-life idea he'd gotten out of the advice column in
Playboy.
But he promised her otherwise, and led her to the car. After fifteen minutes there, arms folded across her chest, and then the discovery that he was serious about guiding her, still blindfolded, through waist-high weeds and clinging spiderwebs, she began to wish it had been sex on his mind after all.

Wayne, she said, either tell me where we're going or I'm taking this thing off.

It's not far, honey, he said; she could tell from his voice he was grinning. Just bear with me. I'm watching your feet for you.

They were in a woods; that was easy enough to guess. She heard the leaves overhead, and birdcalls; she smelled the thick and cloying undergrowth. Twice she stumbled and her hands scraped across tree trunks, furred vines, before Wayne tightened his grip on her arm. They were probably on a path; even blind she knew the going was too easy for them to be headed directly through the bushes. So they were in Wayne's woods, the one his parents owned. Simple enough to figure out; he talked about this place constantly. He'd driven her past it a number of times, but to her it looked like any other stand of trees out in this part of the country; solid green in summertime and dull gray-brown in winter, so thick you couldn't see light shining through from the other side.

I know where we are, she told him.

He gripped her hand and laughed. Maybe, he said, But you don't know
why.

He had her there. She snagged her skirt on a bush and was tugged briefly between its thorns and Wayne's hand. The skirt ripped and gave. She cursed.

Sorry! Wayne said. Sorry, sorry—not much longer now.

Sunlight flickered over the top of the blindfold, and the sounds around her opened up, became more expansive. She was willing to bet they were in a clearing. A breeze blew past them, smelling of country springtime: budding leaves and manure fertilizer.

Okay, Wayne said. Are you ready?

I'm not sure, she said.

Do you love me?

Of course I love you, she said. She reached a hand out in front of her—and found he was suddenly absent. Okay, she said, enough. Give me your hand or the blindfold's off.

She heard odd sounds—was that metal? Glass?

All right, almost there, he said. Sit down.

On the ground?

No. Just sit.

She sat, his hands on her shoulders, and found, shockingly, a chair underneath her behind. A smooth metal folding chair.

Wayne then unknotted the blindfold. He whipped it away. Happy Anniversary! he said.

Jenny squinted in the revealed light, but only for a moment. She opened her eyes wide, and then saw she was sitting, as she'd thought, in a meadow, maybe fifty yards across, surrounded by tall green trees, all of them rippling in the wind. In front of her was a card table, covered with a red-and-white-checked tablecloth. The table was set with dishes—their good china, the plates at least—and two wineglasses, all
wedding presents they'd only used once, on her birthday. Wayne sat in a chair opposite her, grinning, eyebrows arched. The wind blew his hair straight up off his head.

A picnic, she said. Wayne, that's lovely—thank you.

She reached her hand across the table and grasped his. He was exasperating sometimes, but no other man she'd met could reach this level of sweetness. He'd lugged this stuff out into the middle of nowhere for her—
that's
where he must have been all afternoon.

You're welcome, he said. The red spots on his cheeks spread and deepened. He lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles, then her wedding ring. He rubbed the places he'd kissed with his thumb.

He said, I'm sorry that dinner won't be as fancy as the plates, but I really couldn't get anything but sandwiches out here.

She laughed. I've eaten your cooking. We're better off with the sandwiches.

Ouch, he said. He faked a French accent: This kitten, she has the claws. But I have the milk that will tame her.

He bent and rummaged through a paper bag near his chair, then produced a bottle of red wine with a flourish and a cocked eyebrow. She couldn't help but laugh.

He uncorked the bottle and poured her a glass.

A toast.

To what?

To the first part of the surprise.

There's more?

He smiled, slyly, and lifted his glass, then said, After dinner.

He'd won her over; she didn't question it. Jenny lifted her glass, clinked rims with her husband's, and sat back with her
legs crossed at the knee. Wayne bent and dug in the bag again, and then came up with wheat bread and cheese, and a package of carved roast beef in deli paper. He made her a sandwich, even slicing up a fresh tomato. They ate in the pleasant breeze.

After dinner he leaned back in his chair and rubbed his stomach. When they first started dating she thought he did this to be funny; but soon she realized he did it without thinking, after eating anything larger than a candy bar. It meant all was well in the land of Wayne. The gesture made her smile, and she looked away. Since they'd married he'd developed a small wedge of belly; she wondered—not unhappily, not here—if in twenty years he'd have a giant stomach to rub, like his father's.

So I was right? she asked. This is your parents' woods?

Nope, he said, smiling.

It's not?

It was. They don't own it any more.

They sold it? When? To who?

Yesterday. He was grinning broadly now. To me, he said. To us.

She sat forward, then back. Wayne glanced around at the trees, his hair tufting in a sudden pickup of the wind.

You're serious, she said. Her stomach tightened. This was a feeling she'd had a few times since their wedding—she was learning that the more complicated Wayne's ideas were, the less likely they were to be good ones. A picnic in the woods? Fine. But this?

I'm serious, Wayne said. This is my favorite place in the world—second-favorite, I mean. He winked at her, then went on. But either way. Both of my favorite places are mine now. Ours.

She touched a napkin to her lips. So, she said, how much did—did
we
pay for our woods?

A dollar. He laughed, and said, Can you believe it? Dad wanted to give it to us, but I told him, No, Pop, I want to
buy
it. We ended up compromising.

She could only stare at him. He squeezed her hand, and said, We're landowners now, honey. One square mile.

That's—

Wayne said, Dad wanted to sell it off, and I couldn't bear the thought of it going to somebody who was going to plow it all under.

We need to pay your parents more than a dollar, Wayne. That's absurd.

That's what
I
told them. But Dad said no, we needed the money more. But honey—there's something else. That's only part of the surprise.

Jenny twined her fingers together in front of her mouth. A suspicion had formed, and she hoped he wasn't about to do what she guessed. Wayne was digging beside his chair again. He came up with a long roll of paper—blueprint paper, held with a rubber band. He put it on the table between them.

Our paper anniversary, he said.

What is this?

Go ahead. Look at it.

Jenny knew what the plans would show. She rolled the rubber band off the blueprints, her mouth dry. Wayne stood, his hands quick and eager, and spread the prints flat on the tabletop. They were upside down; she went around the table and stood next to him. He put a hand on the small of her back.

The blueprints were for a house. A simple two-story house—the ugliest thing she had ever seen.

I didn't want to tell you too soon, he said, but I got a raise at the bank. Plus, now that I've been there three years, I get a terrific deal on home loans. I got approval a few days ago.

A house, she said.

They were living in an apartment in Kinslow, nice enough, but bland, sharing a wall with an old woman who complained if they spoke above a whisper, or if they played rock-and-roll records. Jenny put a hand to her hair. Wayne, she said, where is this house going to be?

Here, he said, and grinned again. He held his arms out. Right here. The table is on the exact spot. The contractors start digging on Monday. The timing's perfect. It'll be done by the end of summer.

Here . . . in the woods.

Yep.

He laughed, watching her face, and said, We're only three miles from town. The interstate's just on the other side of the field to the south. The county road is paved. All we have to do is have them expand the path in and we'll have a driveway. It'll be our hideaway. Honey?

She sat down in the chair he'd been sitting in. She could barely speak. They had talked about buying a house soon—but one in town. They'd also talked about moving to Indianapolis, about leaving Kinslow—maybe not right away, but within five years.

Wayne, she said. Doesn't this all feel kind of . . . permanent?

Well, he said, it's a house. It's supposed to.

We just talked last month. You wanted to get a job in the city. I want to live in the city. A five-year plan, remember?

Yeah. I do.

He knelt next to her chair and put his arm across her shoulders.

But I've been thinking, he said. The bank is nice, really nice, and the money just got better, and then Dad was talking about getting rid of the land, and I couldn't bear to hear it, and—

And so you went ahead and did it without asking me.

Um, Wayne said, it seemed like such a great deal that—

Okay, she told him. Okay. It
is
a great deal. If it was just buying the woods, that would be wonderful. But the house is different. What it means is that you're building your dream house right in the spot I want to move away from. I hate to break it to you, but that means it's not quite my dream house.

Wayne removed his hand from her shoulders, and clasped his fingers in front of his mouth. She knew that gesture, too.

Wayne—

I really thought this would make you happy, he said.

A house
does
make me happy. But one in Kinslow. One we can sell later and not feel bad about, when we move—

She wasn't sure what happened next. Wayne told her it was an accident, that he stood up too fast and hit his shoulder on the table. And it looked that way, sometimes, when she thought back on it. But when it happened, she was sure he flung his arm out, that he knocked the table aside. That he did it on purpose. The wineglasses and china plates flew out and disappeared into the clumps of yellow grass. The blueprints caught in a tangle with the tablecloth and the other folding chair.

Goddamnit! Wayne shouted. He walked a quick circle, holding his hand close to his chest.

Jenny was too stunned to move, but then, after a minute, she said Wayne's name.

He shook his head and kept walking the circle. Jenny saw he was crying, and when he saw her looking, he turned his face away. She sat still in her chair, not certain what to say or do. Finally she knelt and tried to assemble the pieces of a broken dish.

After a minute he said, I think I'm bleeding.

She stood and walked to him and saw that he was. He'd tom a gash in his hand, on the meaty outside of his palm. A big one; it would need stitches. His shirt was soaked with blood where he'd cradled his hand.

Come on, she said. We need to get you to the hospital.

No, he said. His voice was low and miserable.

Wayne, don't be silly. This isn't a time to sulk. You're hurt.

No. Hear me out. Okay? You always say what you want, and you make me sound stupid for saying what I want. This time I just want to
say
it.

She grabbed some napkins and pressed them against his hand. Jesus, Wayne, she said, seeing blood from the cut well up across her fingers. Okay, okay, say what you need to.

This is my favorite place, he said. I've loved it since I was a kid. I used to come out here with Larry. He and I used to imagine we had a house here. A hideaway.

Well—

Be quiet. I'm not done yet. His lip quivered, and he said, I know we talked, I know you want to go to Indy. Well, we can. But it looks like we're going to be successful. It looks like I'm going to do well and you can get a job teaching anywhere. I'll just work hard and in five years maybe we can have two houses—

Oh, Wayne—

Listen! We can have a house in Indy and then this—this can be our getaway. He sniffled, and said, But I want to keep it. Besides you, this is the only thing I want. This house, right out here.

We can talk about it later. You're going to bleed to death if we don't get you to the emergency room.

I wanted you to love it, he said. I wanted you to love it because
I
love it. Is that too much to ask from your wife? I wanted to give you something
special.
I—

It was awful, watching him try to explain. The spots of red in his cheeks were burning now, and the rims of his eyes were almost the same color. The corners of his mouth turned down in little curls.

Don't worry, she said. We'll talk about it. Okay? Wayne? We'll talk. We'll take the blueprints with us to the emergency room. But you need stitches. Let's go.

I love you, he said.

She stopped fussing around his hand. He was looking down at her, tilting his head.

Jenny, just tell me you love me and none of it will matter.

She laughed in spite of herself, shaking her head. Of course, she said. Of course I do.

Say it. I need to hear it.

She kissed his cheek. Wayne, I love you with all my heart. You're my husband. Now move your behind, okay?

He kissed her, dipping his head. Jenny was bending away to pick up the blueprints, and his lips, wet, just grazed her cheek. She smiled at him and gathered their things; Wayne stood and watched her, moist-eyed.

She finally took his good hand, and they walked back
toward the car, and his kiss, dried slowly by the breeze, felt cool on her cheek. It lingered for a while, and—despite everything—she was glad for it.