On the other hand, that was crazy. So what if London had run to me after being stung by a bee? My feelings wouldn't have been hurt if she'd instead run to Vivian; people in healthy marriages didn't fall prey to such petty power struggles. Vivian and I were a team.
Weren't we?
I sensed instantly that Vivian wasn't in a pleasant mood when she returned from work, and when I asked about her day, she launched into a story about how the CFO had just submitted her two-week resignation, which threw the company into sudden upheaval.
"Walter was absolutely furious," she said on her way to the master bedroom. She went into the closet and began removing her work clothes. "And I can't say that I blame him. Just last week, she'd formally agreed to move to Atlanta. She even used it to negotiate a relocation fee bonus--which she already collected--and now she suddenly informs us that she's taken a new job? People are always trying to take advantage of Walter, and I watch it happen all the time. I'm so sick and tired of it."
There's that name again, remembering Marge's needling. Not once but twice.
"I'm sure she's doing what he thinks is best for her family."
"You didn't let me finish," Vivian snapped. In her bra and panties, she shimmied into a pair of jeans. "It turns out she's also been recruiting other executives to follow her to the new company, and there are rumors that a few other executives are actually thinking about it. Do you know how much damage that could do to Walter's company?"
Third time's a charm. "Sounds like a rough day."
"It was awful," she said, grabbing a white T-shirt. I couldn't help noting how stylish Vivian was, even when dressing down. "Of course, what that means to me is that because of this new wrinkle, I'm probably going to have to spend even more time in Atlanta, at least for a while anyway."
That part I heard clearly. "More time than four days?"
She held up her hands and drew a long breath. "Please don't add to an already awful day. I know you're upset. I'm upset, too. Just let me go spend some time with London and we'll talk about it later. I want to hear how her first day went and unwind and maybe have a glass of wine, okay?"
By then, she was already on her way to see London.
While they were in the family room, I made a quick dinner; chicken, rice, glazed carrots, and a salad. When it was ready, they came to the table. Vivian was still distracted and tense. London, meanwhile, kept up a steady stream of chatter--how she and Bodhi played hopscotch at recess, that Bodhi was a really good jumper, and countless other details of her exciting day at school.
After dinner, I cleaned the kitchen while Vivian went upstairs with London. Despite the late hour, I called Taglieri to speak to him about the rehearsal tomorrow and make sure he'd reviewed the script. The one thing I'd learned from clients is that the more familiar they were with the script, the more successful they were at integrating other directions.
By the time I got off the phone, I could hear the sound of shouting upstairs. I hurried up the steps, stopping in the doorway of London's bedroom. Vivian was holding a damp towel; London, in her pajamas, had wet hair and her cheeks were streaked with tears.
"How many times have I told you not to put the wet towels into the hamper?" Vivian demanded. "And this dress shouldn't have gone in the hamper in the first place!"
"I said I'm sorry!" London shouted back. "I didn't mean it!"
"Now everything is going to smell mildewed and some of the stains have probably set."
"I'm sorry!"
"What's going on?" I demanded.
Vivian turned toward me, her expression livid. "What's going on is that your daughter's new dress is probably ruined. The one she wore on Sunday."
"I didn't do it on purpose!" London said, her face crumpling. Vivian held up her hand, her lips a grim line.
"I know you didn't. That's not the point. The point is, you put a dirty dress into the hamper with your new dress, and then you put wet towels on top of them. How many times have I told you to let the towels dry over the side of the tub before you put them in the hamper?"
"I forgot!" London cried. "I'm sorry!"
"It was my fault," I interjected, the wet-towel rule clearly new to me. I'd never seen Vivian and London yell at each other like this before. The sight brought back memories of the night London and I had argued. "I just tell her to put anything dirty in the hamper."
"The truth is that she knows what to do!" Vivian snapped before directing her attention to London. "Right?"
"I'm sorry, Mommy," she said.
"I'll bring them to the dry cleaner tomorrow," I volunteered. "I'm sure we'll be able to get the stains out."
"That's not the point, Russ! She doesn't have any respect for the things I've bought her, no matter how many times I tell her!"
"I said I'm SORRY!" London screamed.
One thing I knew for sure: Vivian was way too angry and London way too tired for something like this to continue.
"How about I finish up here?" I offered. "I can get her in bed."
"Why? So you can tell her that I'm overreacting?"
"No, of course not--"
"Oh, please. You've been undermining me ever since I went back to work," she said, "but okay, fine. I'll leave the two of you alone." She started for our bedroom before facing London again. "I'm very disappointed that you don't care enough about me to listen," she said.
I saw the angst on London's face as soon as Vivian left and my first thought was to try to make sense of how cruel Vivian had sounded. I should have responded but Vivian was already down the steps and London was crying so I stepped farther into the room and took a seat on the bed. I opened my arms. "Come here, baby girl," I whispered and London came toward me. I put my arms around her and pulled her close, feeling her body continue to shake.
"I didn't mean to ruin my dress," she whimpered.
"I know you didn't. Let's not worry about that right now."
"But Mommy's mad at me."
"She'll be okay in a little while. She had a rough day at work and I know she's really proud that you did so well in school today."
Her cries gradually began to subside, diminishing to sniffles. I wiped her tears away with my finger.
"I'm proud of you, too, Pumpkin."
"Papa calls me that, not you."
"Maybe I can call you that, too."
"No," she said.
Despite her sadness, I smiled. "Okay. Maybe I'll call you... Donkey."
"No."
"Butterbun?"
"No," she said. "Call me London."
"Not even baby girl? Or sweetie?"
"Okay," she nodded, her head shifting against my chest. "Mommy doesn't love me anymore."
"Of course she does. She'll always love you."
"Then why is she moving away?"
"She's not moving away," I said. "She just has to work in Atlanta sometimes. I know you'll miss her." As I held my daughter, I ached for the little girl who was no doubt as confused as I was by what was happening to our family.
It took more than the usual number of stories before London was able to finally settle down enough to go to sleep. After kissing her on the cheek, I went downstairs and found Vivian pulling items from the closet.
"She's ready for a kiss if you want to head up."
Vivian grabbed her cell phone and walked past me, placing the clothes she'd removed on the bed in the master bedroom. There were two open suitcases, each of them already half packed and there were far more outfits than necessary for a three-day trip. There were business suits and workout clothes, casual wear and dresses more appropriate for dinner dates. I wasn't sure why she was packing so much. Did she not intend to come home this weekend? Surely she would have mentioned that already... but then I realized that there was no reason to believe that. I would learn what was up when she wanted me to know. As I stared at the half-packed suitcases, the phrase corporate apartments leapt again to mind. Though I'd felt hollowed out when I'd been with London only moments ago, the emptiness had now been replaced with kn
ots.
I couldn't bear staring at the clothes any longer so I went to the kitchen and debated whether or not to pour myself a drink before deciding against it. Instead, I stood before the sink and absently stared at the backyard. The sun had gone down not long before, the sky still clinging to the last vestiges of daylight, and the moon had not yet risen. The resulting sky--a fast-fading twilight--struck me as strangely foreboding.
I felt a growing understanding emerging along with a creeping sense of fear. The more I thought about my wife, the more I accepted the notion that I no longer had any idea what she was thinking. About London, about me. About us. Somehow, despite the years we'd been together, she'd become a stranger to me. Though we'd made love only two nights earlier, I wondered if was because she loved me or because it was a habit, a lingering residue of the years we'd spent together, more physical than emotional. But that option, as heartbreaking as it felt to me, was better than the alternative--that she'd made love to me as a distraction, because she was doing or planning something even worse, something I didn't even want to imagine.
I told myself that it wasn't true and even if she was vacillating when it came to her feelings toward me, she would always want what was best for our family.
Wouldn't she?
I didn't know, but then I heard Vivian speaking in a low voice as she descended the stairs. I heard her say the name Walter and she told him to hold on; I knew that she didn't want me to know she was on the phone. I heard the front door open and close. Though I shouldn't have, I crept toward the living room. The drapes were closed, the living room already dark, and I stood behind the curtains, gazing through the opening between the fabric and the glass. I was spying on my wife, something I had never imagined doing before, but the rising fright made it feel as though my free will had vanished. I knew it was wrong, even as I was craning my neck and shifting the curtain--and by then it was too late to stop.
I could not hear much until Vivian laughed, a joyful sound, one that I hadn't heard in what seemed like years. But it wasn't simply the laugh that startled me; it was the way she smiled and the light in her eyes, the giddiness she radiated. Gone was the Vivian who'd come home surly from work or snarled at London; the irate Vivian who'd been in the master bedroom was nowhere to be seen.
I had seen that expression on Vivian's face before in moments of undiluted happiness, often having to do with London. But I'd also glimpsed it when we were alone, back when I was younger and still single and courting a woman I'd met at a cocktail party in New York.
Vivian looked like she was in love.
By the time Vivian reentered the house, I was in the den. Afraid of what I might say, I avoided speaking with her. I didn't want to spend time with her and I forced myself to review Taglieri's script, the words meaning nothing at all, even as I read them.
I felt her move behind me, but only for an instant. I heard her footsteps recede to the master bedroom, where I knew she planned to fill both suitcases until they were nearly bulging.
I stayed in the den for an hour, then another, and finally a third hour. Vivian finally came back to check on me. I think she was caught off-guard by the fact that I hadn't sought her out. The last she knew, I'd been comforting a crying London, and because she knew me, she assumed I would try to discuss the incident.
Now, though, like she'd done so often to me, I'd left her wondering what was going on.
"Are you coming to bed?"
"In a little while," I answered without turning around. "I still have some work to do."
"It's getting late."
"I know," I said.
"I shouldn't have yelled at London the way I did. I apologized when I tucked her in."
"I'm glad," I said. "She was upset."
She waited. I still didn't turn. She continued to wait but I added nothing more.
"Okay, whatever," she finally said with a sigh. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight," I whispered, but even as I said it, I had begun to wonder whether that really meant goodbye.
Thirteen days passed before I learned the truth.
I went to the agency the following day and found the perfect young actress for the commercial I envisioned; that commercial would film later in September, once a chunk of the editing on the first two had been completed. I rehearsed with Taglieri and we shot the commercial outside the courthouse the following day, and completed the voice-over for the second commercial. We filmed the second commercial, and the following week, I made the presentations to the two plastic surgeons. I left one of those meetings thinking I had a chance to land my second client, and went to work on a more detailed proposal.
As my first step, I immersed myself in the doctor's website and studied the direct mailings he'd done in the past. They'd been designed by his office manager and they were all over the board when it came to the themes we'd discussed--safety, professionalism, improved self-image, and limited recovery time--and I had no doubt I could design a more cohesive campaign. After that, I reviewed a dozen websites for plastic surgeons around the country and touched base with my tech guy, getting a rough estimate of the costs.
From there, I got started, and I spent two full days putting my ideas into the kind of presentation that I thought was necessary for his business.
The hours I wasn't working were devoted to London and taking care of the house. And the laundry. And the yard. And the hamsters. I brought London to and from school, piano, and dance--Vivian took her to art class on Saturday--and we rode our bikes on six separate days. By that point, London had grown confident enough on the final ride to let go of the handlebars for a couple of seconds on a flat and straight stretch of roadway.
We celebrated with lemonade on the back porch while we again looked for bald eagles.
As for Vivian, she returned on Friday evening, and spent most of the weekend with London. She was polite to me, but seemed intent to keep the two of us at a distance. I went to visit my parents on my own, and when she left on Monday morning, she brought along with her two more bulging suitcases. By then, the only things left in her closet were the clothes she seldom wore. She told me that she would be using one of the corporate apartments, but by then, I'd expected her to say exactly that.
She was gone all week. She FaceTimed with London every night at six and occasionally she tried to prod me into conversation. I couldn't do it. She got angry with me about it on Tuesday and Thursday, and hung up on me when I still wouldn't rise to the bait.
She came home on Friday afternoon at the start of Labor Day weekend, catching me slightly off-guard. Actually, part of me was shocked to see her at all, even though I didn't want to admit that to myself. London was thrilled. Vivian picked her up from school and took her to dance, then eventually got London ready for bed. She told me when it was my turn to go up, and I read four stories, staying upstairs longer than I had to, because I was afraid to face Vivian alone.
But she said nothing that frightened me. Though date night was off the table--even I wasn't in the mood--Vivian was strangely pleasant, making small talk, but I wasn't in the mood for that either.
Saturday and Sunday were quiet days. Vivian spent nearly all her time with London--just the two of them--while I worked out, cleaned the house, reviewed the footage for the commercials and made some notes, and visited my parents. I avoided Vivian because by then, I was afraid of what she was going to tell me.
On Monday, Labor Day, Marge and Liz had a barbecue at their place. Vivian, London, and I spent most of the afternoon there. I didn't want to go home because I knew what would happen once we did.
I ended up being right. After I read to London and shut off the lights, Vivian was sitting at the dining room table. "We should talk," she began. Her words are mostly a jumble to me even now but I caught the major points. It just happened, she said; she hadn't mean for it to happen. She'd fallen in love with Walter. She was moving to Atlanta. We could talk next week, but she was traveling to Florida and Washington, D.C., and besides, I probably needed time to sort throug
h what she'd told me. She didn't see the point in arguing about it; it had nothing to do with me; things just happen. She was leaving tonight, too. She'd told London that she would be working out of town again, but hadn't told London yet that she was leaving me. It was easier that way, for now, but we'd talk about London when emotions weren't so fraught. And, she added, she wouldn't be staying the night.
The private jet, she said, was waiting.
CHAPTER 14
Shock
When I was in college, my friends and I used to go out on the weekends, which typically began Thursday around three and concluded upon waking late on Sunday morning. One of the guys I hung out with most--a guy named Danny Jackson--shared the same major and we ended up in many of the same classes. Given NC State's sizable student population, it seemed to me that the class-scheduling gods must have decided that we needed to see more of each other.
Danny was as easygoing a guy as I ever met. Born and raised in Mobile, Alabama, he had a very pretty older sister who was dating the punter for the Auburn Tigers, and he never said a bad word about his parents. He seemed to imply they were pretty cool as far as parents went and they must have passed that on to him, because I felt the same way about him. Whatever I wanted to do--grab a burger at two in the morning, or swing by a frat party or watch a ball game at the local sports bar--Danny was always up for it. Whenever we met up, we'd find ourselves picking up our conversation in the same spot we'd left it, even if it had been weeks since we'd seen each other. He drank PBR--he swore it was the best beer in the world, as evidenced by the blue ribbon--and while he would often drink enough to acquire a buzz, he had an automatic slow-down switch in his head that pretty much prevented him from ever becoming drunk. Which was quite a contrast with the rest of the college population--for them, getting smashed seemed the entire point of drinking.