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By Root 833 0

relieved after my tantrum, almost exhilarated. The pain and rage gave way to endorphins that pulse through my system, soothing me. Iva Lou was right. I had my defenses up; my lack of feeling about my husband’s affair was just a facade. There’s a lot inside me that I haven’t addressed. The worst part is the realization that my husband is not the man I thought he was. I thought he loved me so much that there wasn’t room for Karen Bell or any other woman to wheedle in and take him. How pathetic he looked when I told him I knew. There is no worse face in the world, the face of a man who gave it all away. I’ll never forget it.

My marriage is over. It’s sad, but it isn’t nearly as sad as losing Joe. I instantly compare the two, because now, and for the last three years, everything is measured against that loss. I can’t help it. And I realize that everything I’ve done since Joe’s death has been busywork. My strategy has been to keep myself occupied until I can be with my son again. I can fill up my life with work and games and trips and even have moments when seeing Joe again isn’t the only thing I think about; but as surely as I am diverted, the thought comes back. The ache of my loss never stops. It is as real to me as my breathing.

I find Theodore’s house quickly (I’m surprised; my sense of direction is usually terrible). It’s late. Thank God there’s a light on. I knock on the door. Theodore looks out the window; when he sees it’s me, he comes to the door and flings it open.

“What’s wrong?”

“Jack has another woman. That woman I told you about. From the Halloween Carnival. It’s all true.”

“Come in.”

The second I enter Theodore’s living room, I am better. I need to be around things that are familiar and someone I can count on. I love his home. It smells like him. The same albums that he had in his log cabin in Big Stone Gap line the bookshelves. The same couch. The same coffee table. The same easy chair. Nothing has changed. I enter a safe realm when I’m with Theodore, the one constant in my life.

“You look like a banshee.”

“I don’t have any money.”

“What?”

“I don’t have my purse.”

“You just left?”

I nod.

“Does Jack Mac know where you are?”

“No.”

“We should call him and tell him you’re safe.”

“I don’t know Karen Bell’s phone number.” I burst into tears and throw myself on the futon.

“That’s her name?” Theodore hands me the box of Kleenex. “That’s a crappy name.”

The way Theodore says “crappy” makes me laugh. Great. I’m laughing and crying, just like the head case this whole ordeal has turned me into. “I’m not calling him.”

“But what about Etta?”

“She’s spending the night with her friend Tara. It’s Tara’s birthday.”

Theodore picks up the phone.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m calling your house. Okay? Just let me call your house.”

I’m too tired to put up a fight. I hear Theodore tell Jack that I am here, and then there’s a long time when Theodore listens and doesn’t talk. Great. Jack is telling him the whole sordid tale. Is my husband including the fact that his girlfriend coats herself in Man Tan? She is inappropriately bronzata in seasons that she should not be. Theodore hangs up the phone.

“Well, now I know his side.”

“I left the clue in the house!” I tell him, sitting up.

“What clue?”

“The letter. She wrote him a letter, told him she loved him and was waiting for him.”

“Honey, you found a letter she wrote—not one he wrote. That’s her side of things. She may be in love with him, but he’s not in love with her.”

“How do you know?”

“He told me.”

“And you believe him? Wake up. He has a girlfriend. He’s had her a long time—and he spent the summer with her. How much proof do you need?”

“I know. I get it. It sounds like the plot of a bad Connie Francis movie, not that there ever was a bad one. Let’s say your husband had an affair this summer, and now it’s over. Now, I don’t know what ‘affair’ means to him—maybe they just talked about it, or fooled around a little, or maybe even a lot. But that doesn’t matter now. It’s over. He wants you to come home.”

“Just like that.”

“Well, not ‘just like that,’ but