She imagined Larry coming home, outside a different kitchen window, climbing out of his cruiser. She imagined her sons calling him Daddy, and the thought made her blush. The fantasy was almost blasphemous, but it made her tingle at the same time. Larry loved the boys, and they loved him; she sometimes stopped at the station house, and Larry would take them for a ride in his cruiser. His marriage to Emily might be different if they could have children of their own. Jenny wasn’t supposed to know — no one did — but Emily was infertile. They’d found out just before moving into the new house.
Wayne shut off the engine. The light was out over the garage, and Jenny couldn’t see him any longer; the image of the car was replaced by a curved piece of her own reflection in the window. She turned again to putting away the dishes. I think he’s bringing presents, she heard her mother say. Danny answered this with shouts, and Alex answered him with a yodel.
Jenny thought about Wayne coming in the front door, forgetting to stamp the snow from his boots. She was going to have to go up and kiss him, pretend she didn’t taste the cigarettes on his breath. He would sulk if she didn’t. This was what infuriated her most; she could explain and explain (later, when they put the kids to bed), but he wouldn’t understand what he’d done wrong. He’d brought the kids presents — he’d probably bought her a present. He’d been moody lately (working long hours was what he’d told her), and — she knew — this was his apology for it. In his head he’d worked it all out; he would make a gesture that far outshone any grumpiness, any silence at the dinner table. He’d come through the door like Santa Claus. She could tell him, The only gift I wanted was a normal family dinner, and he’d look hurt, he’d look like she slapped him. But, he’d say, and the corners of his mouth would turn down, I was just trying to — and then he’d launch into the same story he’d be telling himself right now—
They had done this before, a number of times. Too many times. This was how the rest of the night was going to go. And the thought of it all playing out so predictably—
Jenny set a plate down on the counter. She blinked; her throat stung. The thought of him made her feel ill. Her husband was coming into his house on Christmas Eve, and she couldn’t bear it.
About a month ago she’d called in a trespasser while Wayne had the kids at a movie in Indy. This was risky, she knew, but she had gotten weepy like this, and she and Larry wouldn’t be able to see each other for weeks yet. She’d asked if the sheriff could come out to the house, and the sheriff came. He looked so happy when she opened the door to him, when he realized Wayne was gone. She took him upstairs, and they did it, and then afterward she said, Now you surprise me, and so he took her out in the cruiser, to a nearby stretch of road, empty for a mile ahead and behind, and he said, Hang on, and floored it. The cruiser seemed almost happy to oblige him. She had her hands on the dashboard, and the road — slightly hilly — lifted her up off the seat, dropped her down again, made her feel like a girl. You’re doing one-twenty, Larry said, calm as ever, in between her shrieks. Unfortunately, we’re out of road.
At the house she hugged him, kissed his chin. He’d already told her, in a way, but now she told him: I love you. He’d blushed to his ears.
She was going to leave Wayne.
Of course she’d thought about it; she’d been over the possibilities, idly, on and off for the last four years, and certainly since taking up with Larry. But now she knew; she’d crossed some point of balance. She’d been waiting for something to happen with Larry, but she would have to act even sooner. The planning would take a few months at most. She’d have to have a place lined up somewhere else. A job — maybe in Indy, but certainly out of Kinslow. And then she would tell Larry — she’d have to break it to him gently, but she would tell him, once and for all, that she was his for the taking, if he could manage it.
This was it: She didn’t love her husband — in fact she didn’t much like him — and was never going to feel anything for him again. It had to be done. Larry or no Larry, it had to be done.
Something out the window caught her eye. Wayne had the passenger door of the Impala open and was bent inside; she could see his back under the dome lamp. What was he doing? Maybe he’d spilled his ashtray. She went to the window and put her face close to the glass.
He backed out of the car and stood straight. He stood looking at her for a moment in front of the open car door. He wiped his nose with his gloved hand. Was he crying? She felt a flicker of guilt, as though somehow he’d heard her thoughts. But then he smiled and lifted a finger: Just a second.
She did a quick beckon with her hand — Get your ass in here — and made a face, eyeballs rolled toward the rest of the house. Now.
He shook his head, held the finger up again.
Jenny crossed her arms. She’d see Larry next week; Emily was going to Michigan. She could begin to tell him then.
Wayne bent into the car, then straightened up again. He grinned.
She held her hands out at her sides, palms up: What? I’m waiting.
1970
When Wayne had first told her he wanted to blindfold her, Jenny’s fear was that he was trying out some kind of sex game, some spice-up-your-love-life idea he’d gotten out of the advice column in Playboy. But he promised her otherwise and led her to the car. After fifteen minutes there, arms folded across her chest, and then the discovery that he was serious about guiding her, still blindfolded, through waist-high weeds and clinging spiderwebs, she began to wish sex was on his mind after all.
Wayne, she said, either tell me where we’re going or I’m taking this thing off.
It’s not far, honey, he said; she could tell from his voice he was grinning. Just bear with me. I’m watching your feet for you.
They were in a woods; that was easy enough to guess. She heard the leaves overhead, and birdcalls; she smelled the thick and cloying smells of the undergrowth. Twice she stumbled, and her hands scraped across tree trunks, furred vines, before Wayne tightened his grip on her arm. They were probably on a path; even blind she knew the going was too easy for them to be headed directly through the bushes. So they were in Wayne’s woods, the one his parents owned. Simple enough to figure out; he talked about this place constantly. He’d driven her past it a number of times, but to her it looked like any other stand of trees out in this part of the country: solid green in summertime and dull gray-brown in winter, so thick you couldn’t see light shining through from the other side.
I know where we are, she told him.
He gripped her hand and laughed. Maybe, he said, but you don’t know why.
He had her there. She snagged her skirt on a bush and was tugged briefly between its thorns and Wayne’s hand. The skirt ripped and gave. She cursed.
Sorry! Wayne said. Sorry, sorry — not much longer now.
Sunlight flickered over the top of the blindfold, and the sounds around her opened up. She was willing to bet they were in a clearing. A breeze blew past them, smelling of springtime: budding leaves and manure.
OK, Wayne said. Are you ready?
I’m not sure, she said.
Do you love me?
Of course I love you, she said. She reached a hand out in front of her and found he was suddenly absent. OK, she said, enough. Give me your hand or the blindfold’s off.
She heard odd sounds — was that metal? Glass?
All right, almost there, he said. Sit down.
On the ground?
No. Just sit.