A Good Marriage(55)
“He means he painted it.” When I turned, there was a striking woman, with reddish-brown hair falling in long tendrils, barefoot and barefaced. She was wearing a peasant-style wrap dress with a deep V-neck, so sheer it was almost see-through. “And Sebe’s not even a painter—he’s a doctor. A doctor and a painter and a tech start-up entrepreneur and an amateur horticulturist. He did this painting in one day with no planning. How annoying is that?” And she did seem actually annoyed.
“This is Zach’s lawyer, Maude,” Sebe said.
“Oh, yes.” She reached forward to shake my hand. “Is Zach okay? Sarah told me he’d been arrested.”
Her tone was so different from Sarah’s, reserved and concerned, but not at all hostile.
“He’s very upset about Amanda, obviously,” I said, because that was the right thing to lead with, even if—truthfully—it wasn’t necessarily the first thing that jumped to mind. “And, to clarify, he’s only been arrested for assaulting an officer at this point. It was a misunderstanding. But it does seem likely he’ll be charged in Amanda’s death eventually. It’s horrifying to be suspected of a crime you didn’t commit, even more horrifying to be wrongly accused of murdering your wife. It doesn’t help that he’s being held at Rikers. It isn’t just any jail.”
I saw Maude and Sebe exchange a nervous look. “Rikers?” Sebe asked.
“There are only a few places people are held over pending trial if they aren’t granted bail, which, ridiculously, Zach wasn’t. Jail is jail, but none are quite as bad as Rikers.” I considered how much to tell them. But the truth could motivate them to be more helpful. “He’s already been assaulted more than once.”
“Assaulted?” Maude looked worried, but there was something off about her affect. As though she was also suppressing some other reaction. Like a piercing scream.
“That’s awful.” Sebe reached over to squeeze Maude’s hand. And then they exchanged a look, having an entire wordless conversation with their eyes. No wonder they could have sex with other people. Sarah was right: they were bound by some preternatural force.
“I think I need a whiskey,” Sebe said finally. “Ladies?”
“Yeah, me too.” Maude turned to me. “What about you, Lizzie? I feel like we could all use a drink.”
Oh, no, thank you, was my immediate reaction. These days anything involving alcohol was immediately off-putting. But then why should Sam be the only one who got to drink at work? All things considered, I felt like I deserved a whiskey. Besides, there was this unearthly quality to Maude and Sebe that made me want to say I want to do whatever you do.
“Sure, thank you,” I said. “That would be great.”
Maude nodded, pleased, it seemed, by my willingness to join in. We both watched Sebe at the built-in bar at the far end of the room. And I wondered: Was this the way it happened? These upstairs affairs? Did the husband return with the drinks, and instead of sitting next to his wife, go to sit next to the other woman? Or maybe the husband and wife sat next to each other and began kissing and waited to see if the other woman would join in. I could picture all of it suddenly. I could see how it could happen. I could even see myself in the role of the other woman.
And the real dark truth? I realized I was intrigued. Less by the sex itself than by the notion of doing something wrong. Something to hurt Sam. I already had my own secrets, sure, but mine didn’t have a thing to do with our marriage. My mind flashed to the earring tucked in the pocket of my bag.
How stupid had I been, and for how long?
Three years into dating, Sam proposed while we were in New Orleans for the weekend, getting down on one knee in the middle of Bourbon Street, in front of a jazz bar. By then we’d been living together in Brooklyn for a year and both so focused on our careers. We were working hard and we were tired, but we were doing things that mattered. Sam somehow made me feel challenged and yet accepted; liberated, but also taken care of. And so very undamaged.
When I first saw Sam down on the ground that night, I thought for a second he’d fallen. But then I saw that little box in his hands. People were staring. And I was glad. It was the proof I’d been waiting for. I had survived, and I was happy. I wanted the world to see.
“Lizzie, I promise to live every day trying to be the man who deserves you. Will you marry me?”
“Yes!” I’d shouted, grabbing Sam’s face in my hands and kissing him. “Yes.”
After Sam had slipped the eye-popping ring—a long-ago-gifted family heirloom—onto my finger, we’d raced into the jazz bar for champagne. It was after our third drink that I started thinking we should slow down. Sam was stressed working at the Times, though, and it was hard to blame him. The standards there were impossible, and he’d made a couple of stupid mistakes. High-pressure jobs like that weren’t easy. I knew firsthand. I was finishing up a clerkship in the Southern District, on my way to another in the Second Department and then the US attorney’s office. It was all lined up—a steep, prestigious, terrifying ladder. Anyway, we were celebrating. We were getting married.
“Did you ever imagine when we met that first night that we’d be getting married?” I asked him as he ordered us another round and a new jazz band began to play. The bar was smoky and packed and perfect. And I was getting married. After all these years, I was getting a family back.