Two by Two

CHAPTER 13: Crime and Punishment

I was twelve years old and Marge was seventeen when she came out of the closet, or whatever the politically correct way to say it is these days. Marge wasn’t conscious of being politically correct back then; it just sort of happened. We’d been hanging out in her bedroom and the subject of the homecoming dance at the high school came up. When I asked why she wasn’t going, she turned toward me.

“Because I like girls,” she said abruptly.

“Oh,” I remembered saying. “I like girls, too.” I think part of me vaguely suspected that Marge might be gay, but at that age, everything I knew about sexuality and sex pretty much came from murmured conversations in school hallways or the occasional R-rated movie I’d watched. Had she told me a year later, when I would wedge my bedroom door shut with a shoe to have some privacy practically every day, I don’t know how I would have reacted, although I suspect it would have been a bigger deal. At thirteen-middle school-anything out of the ordinary is considered the Worst Thing Ever, sisters included.

“Does that bother you?” she asked, suddenly engrossed in picking at her cuticle.

It was only when I looked at her-really looked-that I understood how anxious she was about telling me. “I don’t think so. Do Mom and Dad know?”

“No. And don’t say a word to them. They’ll freak out.”

“Okay,” I said, meaning it, and it was a secret that stayed between us, until Marge sat my parents down at the dining room table the following year and told them herself.

That doesn’t make me noble, nor should you infer much about my character at all. Even though I sensed her anxiety, I wasn’t mature enough to understand the full gravity of what she’d told me. When we were growing up, things were different. Being gay was weird, being gay was wrong, being gay was a sin. I had no idea of the internal struggles Marge would face, or the things people would eventually say behind her back-and sometimes even to her face. Nor am I arrogant enough to believe I can fully understand them even now. The world to my twelve-year-old brain was simpler and whether my sister liked girls or boys frankly didn’t matter to me at all. I liked and disliked her for other reasons. I disliked, for instance, when she’d pin me on my back, her knees on my arms, while she scoured my chest bone with her knuckles; I disliked when Peggy Simmons, a girl I liked, came to the door and she told her that “He can’t come to the door because he’s in the bathroom, and he’s been in there a long, long time,” before asking Peggy, “Do you happen to have any matches?”

My sister. Always doing right by me.

As for liking her, it was really pretty simple. As long as she wasn’t doing something dislikable, I was more than happy to like her. Like younger siblings everywhere, I had a bit of hero worship when it came to Marge, and her revelation didn’t change that in the slightest. As I saw it, my parents treated her like a young adult while they treated me like a child, both before and after she told me. They expected more from her, whether around the house or in taking care of me. I’ll also admit that Marge made my own path to adulthood smoother than it otherwise would have been because my parents had always been there, done that with Marge first. Surprise and disappointment, after all, often go hand-in-hand when it comes to raising children, and fewer surprises usually meant less disappointment.

When I snuck out one night and took the family car? Marge did it years before.

When I had too many drinks at a high school party? Welcome to the club.

When I climbed the water tower in our neighborhood, a popular teenage hangout? That was already Marge’s favorite place.

When I was a moody teen who barely spoke to either my mom or dad? Marge taught them to expect that, too.

Marge, of course, never let me forget how much easier I had it but to be fair, it often led me to feel like an afterthought in the family, which wasn’t easy either. In our own ways, we each felt a bit slighted, but in our private struggles, we ended up leaning on each other more and more with every passing year.

When we talk about it nowadays-what she went through-she downplays how hard it was to come out to others, and it makes me admire her all the more. Being different is never easy, and being different in that way-in the South, in a Christian home-seemed to strengthen her resolve to appear invulnerable. As an adult, she lives in a world defined by numbers and spreadsheets, calculations. When she speaks with others, she tries to hide behind wit and sarcasm. She deflects intimacy with most people and while we’re close, I wonder if my sister sometimes found it necessary to hide her emotional side, even from me. I know if I asked her, she would deny it; she would tell me that if I wanted sensitivity, I should have asked God for a different sister, the kind of sister who carried a Kleenex at the ready on the off-chance a sad song began playing on the radio.

Lately, I’ve found myself wishing that I’d impressed upon her that I saw the real her, that I’ve always loved who she was. But as close as we are, our conversations seldom reach those depths. Like most people, I assume, we talk about the latest goings-on in our lives, hiding our fears like a turtle tucking its head back into its shell.

But I’ve also seen Marge at her lowest.

It had to do with a girl named Tracey, her roommate. Marge was a junior in college at UNC Charlotte, and while she didn’t hide her sexuality, she didn’t flaunt it either. Tracey knew from the very beginning but it never seemed an issue. Often together, they fell into a close and natural friendship the way college roommates often do. Tracey had a boyfriend back home and after the breakup Marge was there to pick up the pieces. Eventually, Tracey noticed that Marge was attracted to her and didn’t discourage the feeling; she even speculated that she might be bisexual but wasn’t exactly sure. Then, one night, it happened. Marge woke in the morning feeling like she’d discovered the part of her that had been missing; Tracey woke, even more confused, but willing to give the relationship a try. They were discreet at Tracey’s insistence, but that was fine by Marge, and over the next few months, Marge fell even more deeply in love. Tracey, on the other hand, began to pull away and, after returning home for spring break that year, told Marge that she and her boyfriend had reconciled and that she wasn’t sure she and Marge could remain friends. She told her that she would be moving into an apartment that her parents had rented, and that what she and Marge had shared was nothing but experimentation. It had meant nothing to her.

Marge called me just before midnight. She was drinking and babbling, telling me bits and pieces of the story and slurring that she wanted to die. I’d just gotten my driver’s license and somehow, I knew exactly where to find her. I raced to the water tower and spotted her car parked beneath it. I made the climb and found my sister sitting near the edge, her legs dangling. There was an open bottle of rum beside her, and it was immediately clear that she was beyond drunk and practically incoherent. When she saw me, she scooted closer to the edge.

Speaking quietly, I was able to convince her to let me come closer; when I finally reached her, I put my arm around her and inched her back from the ledge. I held her as she sobbed, remaining at the top of the water tower until it was nearly dawn. She begged me not to tell our parents and after I promised, I drove her back to her dorm room and put her in bed. When I got home, my parents were livid-I was sixteen and had been out all night. They grounded me for a month, and I lost driving privileges for another three months after that.

But I never told them where I’d been, or how devastated my sister had been that night, or what might have happened to her, had I not shown up.

It was enough to know that I’d been there for her, that I’d held her in my arms when she’d needed it the most, just the way I knew she would for me.

Needless to say, after dinner with my family, Vivian and my postponed date night didn’t happen. Vivian wasn’t in the best of moods by the time we got home. Neither was I.

Sunday morning began in a lazy fashion, one that allowed for a third cup of coffee after a five-mile run, my longest run in nearly ten years. London was watching a movie in the family room and I was reading the paper on our back patio when Vivian stepped outside.

“I think London and I need a Mommy and Me day,” Vivian announced.

“A what?”

“You know, girl stuff. We’ll get all dressed up and get a manicure and pedicure, maybe have her hair styled, things like that. Kind of a mini-celebration before her first day of school, where we’re not having to rush around like crazy like we did yesterday.”

“Is any place open on Sunday?”

“We’ll find something,” she said. “I could use a good mani-pedi, too.”

“Does London even know what a mani-pedi is?”

“Of course she does. And it’ll be good to have some alone time with her, you know? I’ve been working so much lately. And it’ll give you a break, too, to do whatever you want. Goof around, work, whatever.”

“When do I ever goof around?”

“You know what I mean,” she said. “Anyway, I have to go help her pick out some clothes. I want to get all dressed up and make it special.”

“That sounds like a very girly day,” I agreed. “I hope the two of you have a good time.”

“We will.”

“How long do you think you’ll be out?”

“Oh, I don’t know. It depends. We might not be back until dinner if London wants to have lunch. I want the day to sort of play out in a relaxed sort of way. Who knows? Maybe she’ll want to see a movie.”

Forty-five minutes later, they were out the door, and I had the place to myself. These days, it wasn’t all that common, but I’d grown so used to rushing from here to there that I wasn’t even sure what I should do. Because everything was pretty much arranged with Taglieri, there wasn’t really anything in the way of work, and other than a few dishes to place in the dishwasher, the house was tidy. I’d finished my workout and the paper and I’d visited with my family most of the day before, all of which left me wandering the house aimlessly after I’d been on my own for less than an hour. Something was missing-or rather, someone-and I realized that what I really wanted to do if I’d had the option was to ride bikes through the neighborhood with London, the two of us together on a wonderful lazy Sunday afternoon.

Vivian and London didn’t return home until nearly seven and I ate both lunch and dinner alone.

I would have loved to have been the kind of guy who’d gone to the gym or meditated, or spent the afternoon reading a biography of Teddy Roosevelt, but the low-key day led to a low-key energy level without a tinge of self-improvement ambition. I ended up spending the day surfing the Internet, one click leading to the next, whatever caught my interest. I read about a giant jellyfish that had washed up on the beaches of Australia, the ongoing travails of various countries in the Middle East, the impending extinction of gorillas in central Africa, and the “Ten Best Foods to Eat to Reduce Belly Fat Fast!”

If there was anything about the surfing to be proud about, it was that I didn’t read a single item about any celebrity. It wasn’t enough to make me hitch up my pants and walk a bit taller, but it was something, right?

Vivian and London were both weary by the time they came home, but it was a good kind of weary. London showed me her fingernails and toenails and told me that they’d seen a movie and gone shopping, in addition to eating. After her bath, I read to her as usual, but she was yawning steadily before I turned the final page. I kissed her, inhaling the scent of the baby shampoo she still preferred to use.

By the time I was downstairs, Vivian was in her pajamas and sitting in the family room, holding a glass of wine. The TV was on-some show about housewives, most of whom seemed emotionally unstable-but Vivian was more chipper than usual. She chatted about her day, gave me a coy expression when I made a suggestive comment and we ended up in bed.

It wasn’t exactly a planned date night, but I was happy nonetheless.

On Tuesday morning, London’s first day of school, Vivian and I walked with her through the parking lot, toward the classroom building. When I asked if she wanted me to hold her hand, she hooked her thumbs under the straps on her backpack.

“I’m not a little girl anymore,” she said.

Yesterday, Vivian and I had received an email from the teacher saying that the first day could be traumatic for some children and that it was best not to linger over goodbyes. A quick kiss or pat on the back and let the teacher lead them into the classroom, the email instructed. We were discouraged from standing by the door and watching, or gazing through the classroom windows for too long. We were warned against letting our children see us cry, no matter how emotional we might feel, because that might heighten our child’s anxiety. We were given the phone numbers of the school nurse, and told that the school counselor would be available in the lobby, if any parents wanted to discuss what they were feeling about their child heading off to school. I wondered if my parents had ever received a letter like that when Marge or I started school and laughed aloud at the thought.

“What are you laughing about?” Vivian asked.

“I’ll tell you later. It’s nothing.”

Up ahead, I saw my mom and dad, waiting by the car. Dad was in his plumber’s outfit, which consisted of a blue button-up short-sleeved shirt with the company logo, jeans, and work boots. My mom, thank God, was sans apron or a red hat; she blended, which I appreciated even if London didn’t care.

London saw them and started running. My dad scooped her up as she jumped. He called her Pumpkin, which I’d never heard before. I wondered if it was new or if I was completely oblivious.

“Today’s the big day,” my mom said. “Are you excited?”

“It’s going to be fun,” London said.

“I’m sure you’ll love it,” my mom assured her.

My dad kissed London on the cheek as he lowered her to the ground.

“Will you hold my hand, Papa?” London asked.

“Of course I will, Pumpkin.”

London walked ahead with my dad while Vivian told my mom a bit about the email we’d received from the teacher. My mom frowned in confusion.

“They have a counselor for the parents?”

“She works for the school,” Vivian explained. “Some parents might be nervous or upset. I’m sure she’ll nod and listen and tell them they’ll be fine. It’s no big deal.”

“Are you nervous?”

“No. I feel a trace of sadness, like it’s the end of an era, but that’ll pass I’m sure.”

“Well… good.”

We entered the lower school building and as I watched mothers and their children entering the classroom two by two, I thought of the story of Noah’s ark, London’s favorite book. I expected to see Emily and Bodhi but didn’t spot them; I wondered if she’d already come and gone or hadn’t yet arrived.

Not that it mattered, of course. We stood in line with other parents and children who were heading toward the kindergarten class; sets of two by twos both in front and behind us. The line moved quickly and when we were at the door, Vivian took charge, joining my dad and London.

“Okay, sweetie. Give Papa and Nana a kiss, okay? Then it’s my turn.”

London did as she was told, kissing both my parents before kissing Vivian.

“Your dad will pick you up, but I want to hear all about school when you get home. And remember, you have piano today at four, okay? I love you.”

“I love you, too, Mommy.”

The teacher was smiling. “Well, hello London. Good to see you again. Are you ready for a fun day?”

“Yes, ma’am,” London replied, and with a gentle hand on her back, Vivian scooted London forward while the teacher made room for her to pass. As cautioned, we didn’t linger at the door or windows, though I was able to spot London standing at a low table littered with felt of different shapes and sizes. Kids were stacking them, making designs. Still no sign of Bodhi, but London didn’t seem fazed.

It was only when we were making our way back to the car that I registered what had happened.

“I didn’t have a chance to kiss her goodbye.”

“That’s okay. You’ll see her after school.” Vivian shrugged.

“Do you want to swing by the lobby to see the counselor?”

“Not a chance,” she said. “I’m already late for work. Walter is probably pacing his office, waiting for me.”

While London was in school, I reconfirmed all aspects of filming before meeting with the head of the camera crew. We reviewed the schedule, along with the footage that was needed-especially for the longer commercial, which had more than a dozen different shots and would need three days-and made sure we were on exactly the same page. After that, I also cold-called the offices of half a dozen plastic surgeons, and lined up two meetings for the following week.

Not bad for a day’s work, and when I went to pick up London, I waited in a queue that stretched down the street. Unlike the drop-off, pickup was more chaotic and time consuming, and it took twenty minutes before London finally got in the car.

“How was your first day of school?” I asked her, slowly pulling out and watching her reflection in the rearview mirror.

“It was fun,” she said. “The teacher let me help her read Go, Dog. Go! at story time. Some of the kids don’t even know their letters yet.”

“They’ll catch up,” I said. “I don’t think I was reading when I went to kindergarten.”

“Why not?”

“My parents didn’t read to me too much. They probably assumed I’d learn to read when I was in school.”

“Why didn’t they read to you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe they were too tired.”

“Mom reads to me when she’s tired. And you read to me when you’re tired.”

“People are just different, I guess. Hey, by the way, did Bodhi ever show up at school?”

“Yes and we get to sit at the same table. He’s really good at coloring.”

“That’s great. It’s nice to sit by someone you already know.”

By then, the school was receding in the distance. “Daddy?”

“Yes?”

“Can we go to Dairy Queen before piano? Since I went to school today?”

Noting the time, I did a quick calculation. “I think we can squeeze that in.”

The stop for ice cream meant that we arrived at the piano teacher’s house with only a few minutes to spare. London had been on the go for eight hours, nine by the time the lesson was over, and that didn’t count the time it had taken her to get ready for school. She was going to be exhausted by the time we got home.

While London practiced, I took a walk through the neighborhood. My knees were a bit achy from the regular jogging but not too bad. I had just set out when I heard my cell phone ringing. Marge.

“How did London do on her first day?” Marge asked without preamble.

“She had a good time,” I answered. “Her friend Bodhi was there.”

“Yeah? How about Bodhi’s mom?”

“I didn’t see her,” I said. “We were gone by the time she and Bodhi got there.”

“Thank God,” she said. “Otherwise, poor Emily might have been melted by Vivian’s laser-beam death stares.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be working instead of picking on my wife?”

“I’m not picking on her. If anything, I’m on her side. I mean if Liz started hanging out with her ex, who also happened to be a terrific, beautiful, recently separated woman, I’d be trying to annihilate her with my laser-beam stares, too.”

“What is it with women?”

“Oh please. Don’t even go there. Are you kidding? I’m sure you just love hearing her bring up Walter in every conversation. Even I was getting tired of his name.”

“She works for him,” I said, trying to downplay it. “It’s normal.”

“Yeah? What’s my boss’s name?” When I didn’t answer, she went on. “And who cares if they work together, exercise together, travel together, and fly on the private jet together, right? And what does it matter if she mentions her billionaire boss’s name more than she mentions yours? You’re so evolved that you’re above feeling even the slightest tinge of jealousy.”

“Are you trying to get a rise out of me?”

“Not at all,” she said. “But I do want to know how the rest of your weekend went, after you left Mom’s. I take it you didn’t bring up the new-bank-account or apartment-in-Atlanta things?”

“No. Saturday night ended up being pretty quiet. We went to bed early. We were all tired. And on Sunday, I had a break actually.” I told her a bit about Vivian and London’s day.

“Like I didn’t see that one coming,” Marge offered.

“What are you talking about?”

“Did you notice the way she was staring at you after London was stung by the bee?”

I remembered exactly but didn’t want to say it. Instead: “She was just upset that London was hurt.”

“Nope. She was upset because London went running to you and not her to comfort her. Liz noticed it, too.”

I remembered thinking the same thing and said nothing.

“So what does she do?” Marge went on. “She spends all day with London on Sunday, and then rushes London into the classroom before you had a chance to kiss her goodbye.”

“How do you know about that?”

“Because Mom called and told me. She thought it was odd.”

“You’re crazy,” I said, suddenly feeling suddenly defensive. “You’re reading too much into it.”

“I might be,” she admitted. “I hope I am.”

“And stop talking about Vivian like that. All of you need to stop dissecting everything she does. She’s been under a ton of pressure these last few weeks.”

“You’re right,” she said. “I was out of line. I’m sorry.” There was a pause. “What are you doing now?”

“Are you trying to change the subject?”

“I’m doing my best. I’ve already apologized.”

“London’s at her piano lesson. I’m on a walk. I figured I’d burn a few more calories before dinner.”

“Good for you,” she said. “You look thinner in the face by the way.”

“You can’t really tell yet.”

“Oh yeah you can. This last weekend, I was like… wow.”

“You’re just trying to butter me up so I don’t stay mad at you.”

“You never stay mad at me. You’re such a people pleaser, you’ll probably hang up worried that my feelings were hurt because you called me out.”

I laughed. “Goodbye, Marge.”

The thing is, as unhappy as I was about Marge’s assessment of Vivian, I couldn’t shake the notion that there may have been more than a grain of truth in it. The only event that didn’t fit neatly into Marge’s theories was our amiable Sunday night, but even Vivian’s unexpected warmth could have been explained by the feeling that she’d reaffirmed her undisputed primacy in London’s life.

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 knots.

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 through 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.