Lies She Told(8)

Before my better self can block the image, I see my editor lording over a leather couch. The light from a reading lamp reflects off the sweat beads on his bare brown chest. The image lingers like a hot flash. I force it back into the trash bin of my memories and rejected fantasies, blinking until I regain focus on the glowing screen in front of me. I press the keys.





Chapter 2

I lie atop the sheets, covered in darkness. Waiting. Dreading. Victoria sleeps in the crib crammed between the wall and our queen bed, breath whistling from her tiny nose. A breeze slips through the cracked window. It blurs the central air’s hum with the sounds of the river and music—loud booty-shaking baby-waking music. Party boats. Each time one rounds the island, choppy calypso invades the room, destroying the tense quiet. Interrupting my focus.

The clock sits on the nightstand, casting a green glow into the space like a searchlight: 10:00 PM. When I was little, a public service announcement would sound at this same hour, moments after my dad settled down with his bottle of Bushmills to gripe at the evening news. It’s 10:00 PM. Do you know where your children are? I’d be hiding beneath the blanket in my room. My mother would be upstairs in her bed, probably doing the same thing. The man of the house was to be avoided when drunk. Avoided period.

It’s 10:00 PM. Do you know where your husband is?

The click of the deadbolt answers. A drawn-out groan announces the door opening. The pertinent question is no longer where is my husband, but where has he been. I know what he’ll say if I ask: the office. He’s already left me a voice mail attesting to it. Hey, hon, I’ll be home late. Trying to make headway on an upcoming case so I don’t have to work on the weekend. No need to wait up. You need your rest.

Work is the safe excuse. Murder trials can require a hundred-hour workweek. There’s no homicide case on Jake’s docket, to my knowledge, but how would I know one is not in the offing? And he is working on that case of the wealthy socialite who injured a bunch of people backing her car out of a restaurant. Why wouldn’t I believe it’s taking up more time? More important, why would I ever question his stated whereabouts? Before maternity leave, I accepted such excuses without a murmur. Most of the time, I was the one giving them.

I peel myself off the bed. My full-coverage cotton panties, the mom version of tighty-whities, reflect the moonlight from the window. The same glow lands on my bare breasts. Typically, my toplessness would be an invitation for a quiet quickie. Tonight, it’s due to a lack of clean nursing bras. I bet that bitch didn’t wear a bra under her dress.

I hold myself extra straight as I creep from the room and shut the door behind me. Five weeks postpartum and my belly is almost back to normal, though I must tense to keep my lower abdominals from rounding. Whatever excuse Jake has made for his behavior, he can’t point to his wife’s weight gain.

He hangs his suit jacket in the foyer closet, the door obscuring my presence in the living area. Somehow, he doesn’t feel me feet from him. Perhaps his mind is miles away—with her. The door shuts as if in slow motion. I trace the curve of his buttocks in the light-gray suit pants, the side of his leg. I examine his arm, sleeve rolled up to his muscular bicep, his thick neck rising to his barely there beard and balding head, shaved tight so that the hair loss on the crown appears to be a choice rather than a consequence of nearing forty.

He sees me as he shuts the door and startles, stepping back toward the exit as though the woman before him is an intruder. “Beth!” He smiles, pretending he’s not disappointed by my presence. Only a corner of his thin top lip ticks up. His eyes fail to crinkle at the corners. Some things you can’t fake. “I didn’t realize you were up. Did you get my message?”

A demilune console table is pressed against the wall to my left. Without looking, I can see the two photos atop it in their heavy pewter frames. The first is of Jake and me on our wedding day. I’m hugging him while he laughs. I’d interpreted his mirth as happiness. Now I see it as mockery. He knew that I had no idea what I was getting into.

I grab the frame and hurl it at him, a pitcher trying to bean a batter crowding the base. My aim is sure, but he’s too fast. He yanks his body out of the way, head diving from the projectile, shoulders following suit. The frame grazes his dangling forearm before slamming into the front door. Glass shatters. Not in a spray, but in two neat shivs.

“What are you doing?” he sputters. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Oh, what’s wrong with me?” I grab for the other photo.

The image stops me. A few-hours-old Victoria sleeps on my half-covered breast, wearing the pink-and-blue-striped hat that St. Luke’s slaps on all newborns. I am gazing at my photographer husband, a closed-lipped smile on my face that seems to shout, We did it. Here she is. Our victory.

My distraction is to Jake’s advantage. Before I realize what is happening, his hands are around my wrists. He pulls me toward him as I struggle to wrest free while hissing insults.

“Baby, stop it. Stop.” He doesn’t yell. Either he’s guessed that Victoria is asleep in the neighboring room from my whispered epithets or he’s remembered that she goes down around ten. He leads me to the couch, fingers still locked around my wrists like handcuffs. When he sits, he pulls me onto the cushion with him. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

My response burns, bile in my throat. I am feverish with the effort of not shouting. “Where were you, really?” The words slam against gritted teeth. “Where were you while I’ve been here caring for our baby?”