Here I Am by Jonathan Safran Foer(61)
“That it was just words.”
“I do.”
“And does the distinction matter to you?”
“Between talking and doing? Sure it matters.”
“How much does it matter?”
“I don’t know.”
“He cheated on you, Julia.”
“He didn’t cheat on me.”
“Too big a word for having had sex with another woman?”
“He didn’t have sex with another woman.”
“Of course he did. And even if he didn’t, he did. And you know it.”
“I’m not excusing, or minimizing, what he did. But there’s a difference.”
“Writing to another woman like that is a betrayal, no hairs to split. I’m sorry, but I can’t sit here and allow you to think you don’t deserve better.”
“It was only words.”
“And if you’d written those ‘only words’? How do you think he’d have reacted?”
“If he knew that we were having this drink, he’d have a grand mal seizure.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s how insecure he is.”
“In a marriage with three children?”
“He’s the fourth.”
“I don’t get it.”
“What?”
“If he were only pathologically insecure, OK. He is who he is. And if he’d only cheated, I suppose I can see the way back from that. But the combination? How can you accept it?”
“Because of the boys. Because I’m forty-three years old. Because I have almost twenty years of history with him, almost all of which is good history. Because regardless of the stupidity or evil of his mistake, he’s a fundamentally good person. He is. Because I’ve never sexted with anyone, but I’ve done my share of flirting and fantasizing. Because I often haven’t been a good wife, often on purpose. Because I’m weak.”
“Only the weakness is persuasive.”
A thought walked in, a memory: checking the boys for ticks on the porch of the rental in Connecticut. They passed the kids back and forth—looking in armpits, through the hair, between toes—she and Jacob double-checking each other’s work, always finding ticks the other missed. She was good at removing them in their entirety, and he was good at distracting the boys with funny impressions of their mother shopping in the supermarket. Why that memory right then?
“What do you fantasize about?” Mark asked.
“What?”
“You said you’ve done your share of fantasizing. About what?”
“I don’t know,” she said, taking a drink. “I was just talking.”
“I know. And I’m just asking. What do you fantasize about?”
“That’s not of your business.”
“Not of my business?”
“None.”
“Drunk on your weakness?”
“I don’t find you cute.”
“Of course not.”
“Or charming. Despite all of the effort.”
“It’s effortless to be this charmless.”
“Or sexy.”
Mark took a long drink, draining the remaining half of his glass, then said, “Leave him.”
“I’m not going to leave him.”
“Why not?”
“Because marriage is the thing you don’t give up on.”
“No, life is.”
“And because I’m not you.”
“No, but you’re you.”
“There is not a part of me that wishes I were alone.”
But as the words entered the world, she knew they were false. She thought about her one-bedroom dream homes, the subconscious blueprints for her departure. They predated the sexting, by years.
“And I’m not going to destroy my family,” she added, at once a non sequitur and the logical conclusion to the line of thought.
“By fixing your family?”
“By ending it.”
Just then, at the best, or worst, possible moment, Billie came running up, giddy or asthmatic.
“I’m sorry to interrupt—”
“Is everything OK?”
“Micronesia has a n—”
“Slow down.”
“Micronesia has a nu—”
“Breathe.”
She reached for one of the glasses and took a gulp.
“That’s not water,” she said, her hand to her chest.
“It’s chardonnay.”
“I just broke the law.”
“We’ll testify to your character,” Mark said.
“Micronesia has a nuclear weapon!”
“What?”
“Last year Russia invaded Mongolia. The year before was bird flu. Usually they wait until the second afternoon, but. We have a nuke! Isn’t that cool! So lucky!”
“What do you mean we have a nuke?” Mark asked.
“We need to convene the delegation.”
“What?”
“Pay for your drinks and keep up with me.”
Mark put some cash on the table and the three race-walked toward the elevators.
“The program facilitators released a statement that a weapons dealer was caught attempting to smuggle an armed suitcase bomb through Yap Airport.”