Part 12 (2/2)

I jabbed a finger at her face. ”You are nuts. You are one of those crazy, psycho girls. If I had a pet rabbit, I'd lock it up. Come home and find it boiling in a pot on the stove one day.”

”Huh?”

Of course she was too young to get the cultural reference. I grabbed her hand. ”See, honey, it would never work out with us.”

We both turned around at the same time when we realized we weren't alone.

I hadn't even heard the door open.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

MY WIFE SEEMED more perplexed than anything, although her confusion didn't last long. She stuck her keys in her purse and acted like a normal person. I introduced Nicki as ”a friend from work,” even though Jenny knew everyone I worked with, having just suffered through NEI's Christmas party a couple months ago. I was standing, dripping s.h.i.+rtless, holding hands with a girl young enough to be my student if I were a college professor. Except I wasn't any professor.

Nicki mumbled a polite h.e.l.lo, and then gathered her handbag and excused herself, quick as possible. Took her twelve seconds to get out the door, although her exit felt more like a never-ending, drawn-out scene from a Lifetime movie.

When we were alone, Jenny said, ”We have to talk.”

”I know how bad that looked, but it's not what you think.”

”Okay,” she said.

”I'm serious. I just met that girl. She works-worked-at the Longmont Courthouse. See, there was this kid. Well, first there was this woman. Who had a policy with us? Olisky. Donna Olisky. She said she was driving, but it was really her son. Remember? I was telling you about him? The accident? Brian. The kid with the brother who died, the wrestler? Anyway, I was checking up on that, and that girl, Nicki, she uncovered some strange s.h.i.+t about this one judge who's been sentencing kids to a sketchy juvie. Place called North River. Minor offenses. I mean, they're minors but the crimes are no big deal. Shoplifting. Some drugs, too. She wanted my help. That's it. I swear.”

”I said I believe you.”

I stared at my wife, unable to get a read on whether she was being sarcastic or trying to draw me out into the open where she had more room to maneuver-and I had less places to hide-like a boxer taking advantage of speed and reach. I cast a sideways, suspicious glance.

”Jay, what do you want me to say? I believe you.”

Somehow that response bugged me even more. ”Wait a second. You walk in here, see me half dressed with a pretty, young girl. I tell you nothing is going on, and that's that?”

”Are you lying to me?” my wife asked.

”No!”

”Okay, then.”

I felt this indignant surge to fight and protest my innocence. But I'd already been acquitted. Why was she letting me off the hook? There had to be an angle. Then I remembered that douchebag up in Burlington. Stephen. t.i.ts and tat. Quid pro quo. A sneaky trick, pretending to be cool in order to make me look like a bigger a.s.shole.

”This is about the other day,” I said. What better way to prove a point? ”I lose my temper because you had a lunch date with a guy. But you walk in, see me half dressed with some girl, and you're going to act like the grown-up? I get it.” I wasn't sure how any of this added up to my being the victim, but like I learned with the Patriots' last season: when you have no defense, your best bet is to keep your offense on the field as long as possible.

”I don't worry about you s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g around, Jay. That's never been your problem. Sometimes I think it'd be easier if that was your problem. Running around and getting some on the side would be a pleasant distraction at this point.”

Then it hit me. She was alone. She carried no bags. My son wasn't here. My wife wasn't coming home. ”Where's Aiden?”

”With my mother. In Burlington.”

”Why?”

”Because,” Jenny said, in that pretend-patient tone a person adopts when she's grown sick of explaining rudimentary basics-five is less than eight, a lamb is a baby sheep, fire hot, hungry eat-”we need to talk.”

”About?” I asked the question. I didn't want to hear the answer.

”About how I can't go on like this. About how this relations.h.i.+p isn't working. It's toxic.”

”Toxic,” I repeated. ”Which women's magazine did you read that in?”

”What we're doing here is not good for me. Or you. Or our son.”

”Now we're not 'good' for our son?”

”Not the way we are going right now, no, we're not. Aiden might only be three years old, but he can still tell something is wrong. Do you want to expose him to us always fighting? Or going days without talking to one another? How do you think that affects his growing up?”

”I'm a good dad,” I said.

”Yes,” Jenny agreed, ”you are. A good dad.”

Subtext implied. A good dad. But a lousy husband.

I dropped in the chair. Next to the cigarettes and tea plate ashtray overflowing with b.u.t.ts. I knew the house stank like the tiki porch in the summertime. Didn't matter that I'd propped a fan in the window, blowing out the smoke. Acrid remnants remained. My wife glanced down at my pack but didn't say a word. We had more pressing matters confronting us. The ink had barely dried on the wedding certificate, and here we were, negotiating terms of surrender.

”And what do you propose we do?” I said.

”I don't know. That's why I'm here. To talk. Figure it out.” Jenny sat at the table. Facing one another at opposite ends like we were signing a peace treaty, discussing where borders would be drawn, what land traded hands. In a flash I got a horrible premonition, as if someday, perhaps very soon, we'd be sitting down like this again, only next time with lawyers, making it official, hammering out details about who got nothing. Because the only thing of value was our son, and he belonged to her. Kids stay with the mom.

”Y'know, before your mother steamrolled me-”

”She didn't steamroll you-”

”Sorry,” I said. ”I meant to say before your mother blindsided me, I'd driven to her house to tell you good news. I cracked a big case and am up for a promotion.” I smidged my fingers together. ”I mean, I'm this close to getting sent down to Concord, the big office. Which will come with a raise. We'll be able to afford a down payment on a house-”

”I called your office, Jay.”

”So?”

”So Andy DeSouza told me he gave you the week off.”

”I told you. That's not my fault. That girl, Nicki, she got this crazy idea, and she sucked me into it.”

”Into what, exactly?”

I took a deep breath before explaining about Judge Roberts, North River, and unjust sentences. I left out the parts about police brutality. If Jenny had seen the bruises on my ribs, she hadn't asked about them. The house was pretty dark. I spoke slow, made sure to ramble less and make myself sound as sane as possible. Good ol' level-headed Jay. Except that ”good ol' level-headed Jay” hadn't shown his face around here in a while. Even as I was talking, reasonable had been replaced with a stranger, whose train accelerated too fast around corners, coming dangerously close to cras.h.i.+ng over the cliff. I could see the revulsion reflected in my wife's expression as I resolved to ride this to the end of the line. So of course I poured on the gas.

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