“And vice versa?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, if you should know what I’m doing, should your husband know what you’re doing?”
She looks down for a moment as if contemplating her next move — as if.
“I told him,” she says.
“Really?” I ask, genuinely surprised.
“Really,” she says.
“When?”
“After the night at Friendly’s.”
“Why?”
“I panicked.”
“About what?”
“I thought maybe someone he knew was there and had seen me.”
“Wouldn’t they be outing themselves if they told your husband?”
She shrugs. “They might have assumed that he knew, and, more to the point, I felt the need. I’m not deceitful by nature.”
“What did he say?”
She looks down again. “He said he was glad to have someone to share the burden with. And was I seeking a divorce or just entertainment?”
“And?”
“I said entertainment, and he said, ‘Well, then, I won’t worry unless you tell me there’s something to worry about.’”
“It’s nice he trusts you to use your own judgment about when he should be worried.”
“I’m very trustable,” she says, and then is quiet. “He asked if you pay me; he always wants to pay someone. And I asked if he’d ever ‘strayed,’ and he said no.”
“Why not?”
“Scared,” she says.
“Of what?” I ask
She shrugs. “I told him that if he wanted to he should. He’s got hooker fantasies. I said, ‘Do it’; he said, ‘I can’t.’ And then I asked him, ‘Do you want me to do it with you?’ ‘Like, you would participate?’ he asked. ‘No, like I would just go with you,’ I said. ‘That’s very nice of you,’ he said. ‘Since when am I not nice?’ I asked him.”
“So?” I ask, surprised by all of it — wanting more.
“So I went with him.”
“When?”
“Last Tuesday, after work.”
“To whom did you go?”
“He got a number from a guy he knows.”
“And you didn’t tell me?” I ask.
“You were busy.”
“How was it?”
“I have no idea. I sat in the girl’s living room and read a magazine — my own that I brought with me — and I kept my coat on, and then I washed it when we went home. I was careful not to touch things.”
“Did your husband have a good time?”
“He was glad to get it out of his system — but it was weird.”
“In what way?”
“He said her breasts were enormous. I met her before he went in; they looked big but not that big. He said they were hard like basketballs. And she wouldn’t kiss him.”
“Anything else?”
“Her pookie was completely waxed, from front to back. He’d never seen such a thing — he used the word ‘industrial.’ In the middle of it all, her roommate came home and said she needed to get something from the bedroom. She acted innocent enough, but I whipped out the kitchen knife I’d brought from home, figuring it was all part of the plan: the roommate comes home and they hold the guy hostage for more money. I don’t think she was planning on seeing me there. I told her, My husband is in the other room having private time with the roommate, and if you scream or ruin it for him, I’ll kill you. She and I sat quietly on the sofa. I told her it wouldn’t be long — it’s always quick with him. When he came out and saw me there, defending his … his … whatever you want to call it, I think he was very impressed. It was good for our marriage.”
“Really?” I ask, somewhat skeptical.
“It opened things up,” she says, “took us to a whole new level.”
I’m stunned.
“He wants to meet you,” she says.
“For sex?”
“No, just to say hello, maybe dinner.” She smiles. “And you thought you were the only one with news.”
“So you’re not upset about the A& P woman?”
“Of course I’m upset,” she says. “You’re shtupping some chick you met at your grocer’s dairy case who doesn’t even have a name. What exactly is it that you like about her?”
“It’s hard to put a finger on — she’s kind of mysterious.”
“It sounds like you don’t know her very well.”
“You’re not being nice.”
“You don’t even know her name,” she reminds me.
“You know what I like about her?” I say. “She demands nothing of me.”
Cheryl scrapes the last drops out of the yogurt cup; the Styrofoam squeaks. She checks her phone. “Gotta go,” she says, getting up abruptly.
“Are you dumping me?” I ask, suddenly vulnerable.
She looks at me like I’m crazy. “Which part of my-husband-wants-to-meet-you-for-dinner sounded like I was dumping you?”
“Sorry,” I say, “it’s been a very weird day.”
That evening, I finally speak to Ashley. “Are you okay?”
She doesn’t say anything.
“Was that an invisible shrug? It’s not a video phone.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Is there anything you want to tell me?”
“Not really.”
“Are you alone? I mean, are you somewhere where you are at liberty to speak?”
“There’s no one here,” she says.
“You sound sad,” I observe.
I can hear her clothing shrug.
“Scared?”
She says nothing.
“Ash, if it’s okay, I’m just going to talk for a couple of minutes, but I want you to feel free to interrupt at any point. Okay?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Okay. So the woman who runs your school called me. I know what happened. And the first thing I want you to know is, it’s okay. I want you to know that you’re not in trouble. And that I understand and don’t think it’s weird or anything. I also want you to know that you can talk to me, tell me whatever you want or not tell me, I just want you to be okay. The thing that I care most about is your well-being.”
“Can I ask a question?”
“Of course.”
“Do I have to move back into my old house?”
“Your old house?”
“It’s officially called Rose Hill, but everyone calls it Patchouli.”
“Is there a reason you shouldn’t live in your old house?”
“Well, where I am now there’s a TV, and I really like watching TV. It helps me calm down. Like at night, if I can’t sleep, I just put it on and Miss Renee doesn’t mind.”
“Miss Renee? The head of the lower school?”
“Yeah, and then, like, if I’m really stressed, sometimes I come back in the middle of the day and watch, like, All My Children, General Hospital, One Life to Live, and then all is good again — it’s like they really help me understand the world and get some perspective. Also, my life is more like the people on the soaps than most of the people around here.”
“Interesting,” I say. “I need to think about that.”
“I really can’t go back to the old house,” she says. “I’m not okay with that.”
“I hear you.”
She starts to cry. “I want to come home.”
“We can do that,” I say.
She sniffles. “I have a project due. …”
“How about you come home for the weekend?”
“Okay,” she says, sniffling.
“Can you manage until then? We don’t have to decide about the house issue right now. I think Mrs. Singer said you could stay with her—I bet she has a television.”
“Not as many channels,” Ashley says, still sniffling.
I pick her up on Friday afternoon. The entire way up to the school, I marvel at the scenery; the trees have sprung into bloom.
Ashley babbles the whole way home — going on and on about soap operas. I can’t tell if it’s an anxiety response, an odd verbal downloading of daytime drama, or some kind of hypomanic state — I simply let her roll.