Lies She Told(25)
I push the stroller through the glass doors of a squat, square courthouse building and head for a hallway lined with ancient Otis elevators. When I press the call button, there is a metallic shriek behind the wall reminiscent of the sounds heard through subway grates. A bell rings. I wheel the stroller inside, barely fitting it between a pair of suited men and the elevator operator, an employee from a different era who eyes my nonwork attire as though I may be an undercover operative before asking what floor I need.
The doors open to a marble hallway. I roll the stroller over the hard stone, past the windowless room in which Jake’s secretary, Martha, works, squeezed between an oak desk and file cabinets. I like the woman. She’s an aging spitfire who couldn’t care less what people think of her. Last time I came here, she’d dyed her chin-length bob a silvery blue befitting a unicorn’s mane. She’d quipped that the color was closer to her natural gray than any of the Clairol shades.
Maria’s door is always open, probably because any normal person would suffer claustrophobia with it closed. As I pass, she ducks her head out like a cautious anchovy and waves me over.
“Hey, Beth. How are you? Did you bring Victoria?” Maria’s hands open and close. “I want to see how big she’s grown.”
I push the carriage over to her door and peel back the sunshade. “She’s sleeping.” I’m stating the obvious. On a normal day, I’d relish chatting with the woman. Not today, though. “Is Jake in?”
Maria’s smile twists into a bothered expression, deepening the frown line on the side of her mouth. “You know, I think he might be . . .” She points to the phone on her desk. “Let me call him for you.”
Something about her behavior sets off my new infidelity detector. Maybe it’s how she pretends not to know what he’s doing or how she retreats into the room with tiny footsteps, as if tiptoeing. Perhaps it’s how she reaches for the receiver without pausing to sit down.
I rotate the stroller and head down the hallway. “No worries. I’ll just pop my head in.”
“Beth.”
The sound of my name doesn’t pause my march to Jake’s door. It has a window encased in the wood, his full name etched into the glass. Through it, I see him seated in his office chair. A uniformed officer sits on the lip of his desk, leaning toward him.
I throw open the door with such force that it bangs against the outside wall. I feel nothing as I enter. Instead of communicating my feelings about the presence of my husband’s lover, my mind dispassionately imparts logistics. Officer Colleen is six feet away from me. Her gun is on her holster. The carriage is to my left.
“Beth!” Jake bolts upright and rounds the desk. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
The officer turns toward me, unpainted lips in a pursed smile. Her face is tinged with color, as though she’s blushing.
“Officer, this is my wife.” Jake stands between us, angled to the side, leaving open my route to shoving her onto the thin carpet and breaking the bumped bridge of her nose. She’s smaller than me but undoubtedly more athletic. Stronger. Still, I’ll have surprise. Her guard is down. She’s trying to seem friendly. She doesn’t know that I know.
“Honey, this is Colleen.” The term of endearment confuses me. I glance at Jake. The same red hue that colored his girlfriend’s skin tone transfers to him, darkening his tight smile.
The woman extends her hand. I blink at it in awe. She’s sleeping with my spouse and still has the gall to shake?
I face Jake. “I need to talk to you.”
His face scrunches with concern. “Is something wrong?”
I stare at Colleen. Her hand falls from the air onto her hips, inches away from her holster. “I was heading out anyway.” She walks behind my husband, shoulder nearly to the wall. It’s as wide a berth as she can give me.
“You’ll e-mail with that arrest report?” Jake shouts after her. She pauses, one foot already in the hall. Her expression is first puzzled and then furious. He is pretending that their meeting was professional, for my benefit. A man poised to dump his wife for his mistress wouldn’t play such games. She grunts something affirmative and strides out the open door. It slams with a bang that rivals my own moments before and the noise wakes Vicky. She starts crying, sounding that little baby alert, part yell, part meow.
“Heavy door.” Jake scoops her from the bassinet, cupping her head to his chest and supporting her back with his open palm. His weight shifts from side to side. Immediately, she starts to settle down, safe now from the noise that startled her to consciousness.
The reddish hue fades from my vision. My husband is a decent father. Doesn’t my baby deserve her dad?
“We need to talk.” The urgency has left my tone.
“Everything all right?”
“I’m going to leave Vicky with my mom in Jersey for the night.”
“Are you feeling like you can’t take care of her?”
The anger returns like a reversed tide. This must be how he’s excusing the affair. My wife became depressed after the baby. I needed attention. I look at his handsome face and regret that the picture frame missed his nose. “We need to talk.”
He stops swaying and lowers Vicky from his chest into a cradle position before placing her in the stroller. A proud smile sneaks on his face. The sight of it threatens to weaken me. Anger is a lifeline to courage. I grasp for it by picturing Colleen’s face.