At dinner, her husband, Steve, was downright chatty. Bess could feel the tension in the air, but he seemed oblivious, or just in denial about what had happened, what was happening still. Bess studied Casey’s profile as she robotically speared and chewed her food. She seemed to be eating normally, so it probably wasn’t an eating disorder. Bess tried to take comfort in that as Steve held court. He asked the girls about their days, told a mildly interesting story about a coworker, and was, for a moment, a glimpse of his charming self. He even listened to Bess explain what she did in self-defense class and did a good job feigning interest. She did not mention hiding in the stall after class to avoid talking about Norah. But Norah came up anyway. Steve did, at least, wait until after the girls had disappeared back into their rooms.
Once upon a time, it had been punishment to send them to their rooms, now it was punishment to ask them to come out of them. Bess would go crazy being trapped in such a small space for hours at a time. She needed to be outdoors, her hands in the dirt, her nose filled with the smell of growing green things. She needed to look up and see the clouds, feel the breeze kiss her cheeks. She glanced out the back window at her garden shed, the one Steve had let her purchase and design for Mother’s Day last year. She’d long since stopped hoping he’d know what to do for her. She’d just started doing it for herself, then thanking the girls for getting her just what she had wanted as they accepted her gratitude while trying to pretend they knew what she was talking about.
She kept her eyes on the shed as Steve inquired about “her friend.” That was how he referred to Norah, as though she had become a stranger when they’d spent holidays together, gone on vacation together, drunk countless glasses of wine in this very kitchen. Norah didn’t have much family, so she and Violet had become part of theirs, for a time.
“I don’t know anything new,” she answered him, her voice so mechanical she sounded like a robot even to herself. For some unexplainable—not to mention inconvenient—reason, she felt her throat tighten, the warning prick of tears behind her eyes. She steeled herself, thought of what her instructor called fight mode. You could’ve chosen flight, but you’ve chosen fight. Now it’s time to dig in. How many times had she heard that phrase?
She dug in.
“Huh,” he said. “That surprises me, with the way you women talk.” He chuckled, sounding like the stuffed shirt he had become. “It’s all anyone can talk about in my office.” He picked up his plate and carried it to the sink without being asked. She watched in stunned surprise as he turned on the spigot and began to rinse it. “It’s got people speculating,” he said. She watched his back, his shoulder blades moving underneath his white shirt, gone wrinkled and dank from a day of meetings and stress, as he rinsed the plate off and placed it in the dishwasher.
“I’m sure there’re men in this town who should be worried,” she said. It was just an observation, but she knew he would take it as a veiled threat.
He turned to face her. “Not me,” he said, looking like a man caught red-handed. “I swear.”
She looked at him coolly, narrowed her eyes as if she were deciding whether to believe him or not. She let him squirm for a moment because she could and this is what their marriage had become, weird moments of delighting in each other’s torment. She let him squirm, but she knew that though Steve Strickland was a lot of things, a patron of escorts was not one of them. She did their finances, ran checks and double checks, had tricks beyond what Steve probably thought her capable of to know what he was up to. She knew more about his finances than he did. She’d know if he ever paid for sex. She’d know, and she’d have a solid reason to end their marriage. He hadn’t given her a good reason in a few years, but she was waiting. The next time would be the last one. She would be done.
“I know,” she said.
“OK, good.” He laughed nervously. “Wouldn’t want you thinking the wrong thing,” he said.
But that wasn’t the problem, she thought as she took the spot he had vacated behind the sink to finish cleaning up. It wasn’t that she was thinking the wrong thing. It was that she was thinking the right one. She knew her husband very well, knew more than he was aware of. But he didn’t know her at all. She wasn’t sure that he ever had.
He’d been the Ferris Bueller of their high school, the charismatic, popular guy who could start a whole trend by accident. Once he’d worn mismatched socks because the power was out in his house that morning and he’d been unable to see what he was doing. For months afterward, the other guys at school wore mismatched socks, looking to Steve for affirmation that they were doing it right, hanging on the nod they received in response like a kiss on the ring.
And she’d been the Sloane to his Ferris, caught in his orbit, made valid by his arm around her as they sauntered down the hall. Like Sloane, she’d gazed adoringly at him and thought, He’s going to marry me. Back then, she’d thought that would be all she’d ever need. That was her endgame, her purpose for living. She would be complete when she took his name, could call herself his wife. But of course, that hadn’t been true. How many girls had been just like her, thinking marriage would somehow make their lives—make them—make sense? The change in names had not changed her. And it hadn’t changed him. It wasn’t until after they were married that she’d realized that all those times he’d walked with his arm around her shoulder, he’d been looking at everything else but her.
Steve Strickland had had numerous flings since then. They were never serious enough to be called affairs; he didn’t care about those women any more than he cared about Bess. Steve loved women because he wanted—he needed—to be idolized, to be revered. He’d been faithful to her in high school because he’d gotten that need met by his popularity. But when he entered the wider world and was no longer the big fish in the small pond, the guy who could get the prom date changed because of his sister’s wedding, he’d started seeking out other means to get it, to feel that rush of adoration again.
She knew this about him without him ever offering it as explanation. Spend a lifetime studying someone, and you absorb their emotions, their reactions, their thoughts—no words needed. She knew about his conquests, and he knew she knew. She’d caught him more than once. But she’d forgiven him every time because she’d felt she had no choice but to. They had children, and she could not bear to harm them by taking their father from them. She’d seen the statistics, heard the stories. One of their old friends had gotten divorced, and the next year their teenage daughter had gotten pregnant.
And then there was the matter of money, of supporting herself. She’d quit college in order to work full-time and put him through school. But after the girls had come along, they’d agreed she’d stay home and put all her focus into them. When she had time, the only work she did was in her own garden; she’d had no opportunity for a job that would draw a decent paycheck, no visible means of supporting herself long-term. And Steve, with the help of all his golf buddies (half of which seemed to be lawyers), would’ve found a way to play dirty, to cut her off as close as he could, to make sure she paid for divorcing the likes of him. If she ruined his reputation, he would ruin her.