The last secret_ a novel - Mary McGarry Morris [14]
“It's this heat. I'm just no good in this heat,” he'd sigh.
“It's not the heat, Kenny, now be honest,” she'd laugh. “You're just not good much after noontime.”
“I know, but don't tell Ollie,” he'd say in a waggish whisper, peeking into the corridor for escape.
She stares at him now, her jaw set. Torn from her moorings, she can't help herself She's been swept off her feet by so powerful a force that there's no fighting it, nothing to hold on to. Nothing fixed. No one to trust. Every event, every memory, every conversation, however innocuous, demands examination, each word and detail culled, dissected in the harsh light of this new terrible knowledge—that for the past four years her husband has been sleeping with another woman. And he will not have it called an affair, refusing to allow her that small security, however painful. Why? Does that make it seem tawdry, beneath him? Does its connotation of brevity and superficiality taint what he and the bitch have shared? While on the other hand, does calling it a relationship invest it with depth and connection? Caring? Love? Around the table mouths open and close, laughing, talking, drinking, smiling. Boring Nora, always way too serious, well, she finally got her comeuppance, and this soundless screaming, can't they hear the madwoman? Of course they can. They're just pretending, being polite. Mustn't spoil their evening. Their ball. All the expensive dresses. Their delight in one another. Stupid to have come. She doesn't belong here. Never has. Never will.
This morning Drew asked to spend the weekend at his friend Billy's house. He didn't say so, but he wants to escape the bedlam of slamming doors, the sudden tears, Ken's sorrow, her flights into the bathroom, where she runs the shower to drown out the moaning. Drew's request triggered another memory, the last time he spent the weekend at Billy's. Just this past December. Ken had driven up to Burlington that Friday for a conference of New England newspaper publishers. He called early that evening to say there was a blizzard and rather than risk a treacherous drive back, he'd get a room and leave first thing the next morning. Of course, she said. Good idea. No problem. She should have gone online and checked the weather up in Vermont. Probably still could. She'd need the date. December's telephone bill. He probably drove up there with her, the two of them laughing in anticipation of a night together without excuses, making a joke of not having to sneak in, God knows when, and pretend that he'd fallen asleep on the couch, watching television. Thinking back, she is shocked at her blindness.
The glittering din, all these smiling faces, talking at once, the gold and black themed ballroom teeming with people who know that Ken and Robin Gendron … what? How do they put it? Slept together? Had an affair? Not for four years—no, four years is more than that. Four years is commitment. It's love. That's what Ken means by relationship.
“Smile!” Jimmy Lee has them all pushing their chairs closer to fit in the picture. “You're not smiling, Mrs. Hammond!” Jimmy says from behind his camera.
She tries.
“Better than that, Mrs. Hammond! You look like you've just lost your best friend,” he chides.
Joanne Whiteman glances at Bibbi Bond, who draws a deep breath, ticks her square red nails on the rim of her plate.
The adultery support group, Nora thinks, flashing a wider smile. After the picture, Ken excuses himself and, with frail Evvie on his arm, goes off in search of other ball committee members, Jimmy Lee in their wake, bags of equipment slung from his black leather coat. As the Chronicle's front