In the Company of Liars

ONE DAY EARLIER
MONDAY, APRIL 26

Allison thinks of her daughter as she sits on a swing in her backyard cradling a glass of wine. Mat Pagone is pacing around the yard, undoubtedly remembering the barbecues on that porch and the games with Jessica in the sandbox. Thinking about things she cannot fathom.

She wonders if there will ever be a time when she can look at this man and not feel cheated. Will she ever get past this? Will she ever look at Mateo Pagone simply as the father of her child, and not as the asshole who took her for granted and cheated on her and, probably, poisoned their daughter’s mind against her? Will she ever be able to look back at the decades with him without the wordswasted years springing to mind?

No, Mateo Pagone is not a bad man. He is old-school, a man who thinks that some of the marital vows do not apply. But not a bad person. Probably doesn’t think he has done anything wrong. And they drifted apart. Became less alike the longer they were together. Actually, the better way to say it is that Mat stayed the same, Allison grew up. Developed. From the moment she first indicated she wanted to take night classes toward a college degree, Mat was against it. Wanted to keep Allison the way she had been, dependent, supportive, compliant, and she didn’t mean that in a bad way. It was just all Mat knew, what he had seen from his parents, and their parents. The wife stays home, cooks, cleans, raises the child. Mat works and provides for them. She could sense the objection to the classes right away. Not an outright “No,” but active discouragement.Why not join the PTA? he had suggested. A bridge club. Be a Girl Scout leader. But she did it, anyway, felt that she needed to do it for herself, took college courses part-time, fit them around her daughter and husband, and tingled with anticipation for her future.

Something glorious is going to happen.

She got a college degree in theater, performed in community plays and had no inclination, whatsoever, of making it a career, had no illusions about becoming a star of the stage. In truth, she acted only for herself, not the audience, for the freedom it brought her. But soon she ached for more, and found another way to perform theater. She attended law school part-time, mostly at night. Got a job as a public defender. Wrote a novel and made more money than he did. Their marriage moved farther downhill with each step. At the end Mat wanted to preserve things-she will never know what part of that was appearances and what part was a love for Allison-but even he had seen that the end had come once Jessica moved out to go to college.

The way I am now, I’m no wife for you.

“Jessie’s thinking about studying abroad next year,” Mat tells her. His hands are stuffed in his pockets. He kicks at a stray weed in the lawn. “Spain. Sevilla, probably.”

“Okay.” She is disarmed at her response, however appropriate it may be under the circumstances. She has little to say about her daughter’s life now, little right to inquire. Allison had always supported the idea of studying abroad. Jess had been noncommittal. It isn’t difficult to discern what change has prompted her daughter’s desire for new surroundings. Anywhere, at this point, is better than here.

“I told her you and I would discuss it,” he adds, looking at her. The wind kicks a few strands of his thick hair up. He is wearing a light yellow jacket that is probably insufficient for a cold spring day.

“Your call,” she says with no emotion. She feels a tug at her heart. She’s not sure what Jessica would think of her opinion, anyway. On instinct alone, she’d probably do the opposite of what Allison recommended. Allison hadn’t seen it coming, Jessica taking her father’s side in the divorce. But Jessica has always adored Mat. It puzzled Allison, always, how the father who spent so little time with his daughter gained such an elevated stature in Jessica’s mind. She could probably count on one hand the number of diapers Mat changed. The number of meals Mat cooked. The number of piano recitals and choir concerts he attended. Everything Allison did, all those years, selflessly, yes, and she didn’t expect a gold medal for it, but how was it that Mat came away the shining parent?

Well, that wasn’t hard to figure. Mat spoiled her. Imposed no discipline. It was Allison who played the bad cop, Allison who pushed her daughter to study and imposed a curfew after that incident with the high-school teacher. And really, she loved the fact that Jess and Mat got along so well. What mother-what wife-wouldn’t want that?

But she had expected more when she and Mat split. No, she didn’t expect Jessica to accept the news with open arms. But Jess was twenty years old, for God’s sake. She had been raised to keep an open mind, to think things through. How could Jessica so easily find fault in one parent and not the other? Allison doesn’t know the answer to that question. She doesn’t know what Mat said to their daughter. She doesn’t know what methods of manipulation Mat employed to subtly cast blame in Allison’s direction. All that she knows is that Jessica would do anything for her father and would never blame him for a thing.

Mat drops the subject, looks into the cool air, closes his eyes momentarily.

“Let’s go inside,” Allison suggests.

Mat follows her into the living room, then heads to the adjacent kitchen. Allison closes the window in the living room, overlooking the backyard.

“My attorney thinks the frame-up theory makes us look desperate,” she calls to Mat. She sees, through the window, her neighbor, Mr. Anderson, following his daughter out into his backyard for a game of catch. She remembers when Jennifer Anderson was born, can’t believe she’s now eight years old, jumping around with a baseball glove, eagerly awaiting warm-weather sports.

“I agree,” Mat says from the kitchen. “Who gives a damn about hair and broken fingernails and earrings? You were there at some point, is all it proves.”

She looks away from the window toward the kitchen. Mat was probably glad to be in the next room when he said that. He’s right, but that’s beside the point. He’s acknowledging her relationship with Sam, however fleetingly. Mat must be envisioning the spin that Ron McGaffrey will put on this evidence. An earring fell out, a nail was broken, a hair was pulled out during moments of passion. Wild sex on his couch. On the kitchen table. In his swimming pool. On a trapeze over his bed. Men have the capacity to visualize the most painful scenarios in their jealousy.

The truth is that it was incredibly awkward, initially. Allison had been with exactly one man her entire life. Everything had been one way. The first time she and Sam made love and she watched him above her, Allison’s heart pounded like never before, one part excitement and three parts utter fear. It was more like her first time than her thousandth.

Sam was taller than Allison by several inches, unlike Mat, so she had to raise her chin to see his face as he rose above her. He had less hair on his chest. A thinner frame. He liked to cup her head with his hand, play with her hair. He liked to kiss her more. Liked to watch her. Made less noise in his climax, clenching his jaw and closing his eyes, little more than a guttural sound from his throat. Liked to stay inside her longer afterward. He was slow and steady.

She realizes that Mat is watching her, standing in the living room with a bottle of wine. She wonders if he can guess what is going through her mind.

Mat had been more like a jackhammer. Quick, powerful thrusts, not a gentle partner. He was a square-framed, strong man, a hunter-gatherer, and he liked to take the lead, needed to. Didn’t like it when Allison improvised. He wanted to initiate, wanted to choose the position. Liked to be on top, liked to lie above her, not on her, as if in the middle of a push-up, his triceps bulging, his chest muscles flexing. She often wondered whether he was doing that for her or for himself.

“Forget the frame-up,” Mat finally says. “The best witness is you. Say you didn’t do it.”

Allison looks away, toward the couch. “I can’t testify, Mat. You know that.”

“We’re talking about your life, here, Allison.”

“They’ll catch me in lies, Mat. I’ve lied to the police. And they can force me to talk about other things, too. It’s not an option.”

She walks over to the window again, wants to see the enthusiasm on her young neighbor’s face, wants to experience a moment of vicarious joy. The girl flings the baseball over her father’s head, and it bangs off the back door.

“I’d rather die,” Allison says.