Authors: Hannah Pittard
What Peter said was, “Billy? His name is Billy? You picked a man named Billy?” I didn’t say anything. I had already thought the same thing. I had already thought all the same things and worse. The truth, though, is that it felt good to be found out. In fact, it felt great to be found out. That’s the other thing no one tells you about cheating: getting caught doesn’t have to feel bad. Getting caught can even feel good! Because in that moment, being confronted by Peter like that, I wanted nothing more than to have sex with him. I felt turned on! Maybe I did still love my husband, and maybe I even wanted to help him raise a baby! I believed I wanted to make it work and that I wanted to be an adult, or at least
try
to be an adult and figure out how other adults live. I would tell him everything. All the secrets I tell myself every day, I would tell to him. I had just needed to know he cared. That moment—I swear to God—felt like the beginning of my life. Like the beginning of my life as a grown-up.
“I want a divorce,” he said. “You’re a fucking liar.”
I
’m one of the last ones off the plane. People have all these rules about where they sit on planes—where they’re willing to sit. Like Nell’s always upgrading to first class, which is a complete waste of money. She says there are fewer germs up there. I love that. Seriously. The idea that wealthy people carry fewer germs or that the germs from economy class know to stay in their place. Then there are people like Elliot and Rita. They’re all about bulkhead—“First on, first off,” says Elliot. I hear people trying to con the flight attendants all the time: “If I don’t get an aisle, I’ll get sick. Really. It’s bad.” I like a good con as much as the next person, but I hate a weak con. I hate a last-minute, poorly thought-out con.
So I’m one of the last ones off the plane, because seating placement isn’t something I really care about. If the plane goes down, we’re all going down together. Frank from Wisconsin doesn’t look at me; it’s as if we never talked. It’s as if I don’t know that his wife’s name is Mirabelle, that his dog is his best friend, that he keeps a stash of Elmer T. Lee in the hull of the boat in his basement. My father has ruined everything. I should offer to help Frank with his bag, but he’s already grunting and pulling it down all by himself. He thinks, because I spent the last forty-five minutes sleeping and not crying, that there is something wrong with me. He takes it personally. There’s a daughter somewhere out there. Or maybe a son. And Frank is scared to death that this daughter or son is one day going to respond to his own passing in such a brutish, callous manner. But here’s where Frank’s wrong—and I would have been happy to tell him if he’d bothered asking—Frank’s a good man, he’s no doubt been a good father. No one’s ever going to talk about him the way I talk about Stan. The problem isn’t me. The problem is my father. But Frank didn’t give me the chance to explain.
By the time I’m off the plane and walking toward baggage claim, my cell phone’s thumping and I see there are four more messages. I don’t bother listening. Two are probably from Elliot. One from Nell. Maybe one from Rita, just to say she’s sorry. I delete them all and call Elliot. He answers on the first ring.
“Where have you been?”
“On a plane,” I say. “What’s the story?”
“Did you know Sasha hasn’t been living with Dad for half a year?”
Sasha is our father’s fifth wife, and is a year younger than me.
“I did not know that,” I say. “No.”
“She and Mindy moved out,” says Elliot.
Mindy is one of our multiple half siblings. She’s the youngest, the fattest, and now, officially, the last.
“Who found him?”
“A neighbor heard the shot,” says Elliot. “Called Sasha. Sasha called the building manager. He went over there. Knocked. No answer. Went around back, there he was.”
My luggage tips over on its rollers and I forget to speak.
“Hey,” says Elliot, suddenly sounding sincere, the business in his voice falling away. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” I right my luggage and follow the flow of other arriving passengers.
“Kate,” he says. “We’ll get through this.”
“Right,” I say.
“We’re a family,” he says. “You and me and Nell.”
“Of course,” I say. I am thinking now of Peter. I am thinking of breaking the news to him. I am thinking that this might earn me some sympathy points. He can’t leave now. Of course not. That would be too cruel. He’ll have to wait until I’ve grieved. His friends would disapprove if he didn’t. And by the time I’m done grieving, I’ll have won him back. I’ll have won everything back. And Billy—Billy will be nothing more than an afterthought, nothing more than the dot above an
i
.
“I’m leaving for Atlanta in four hours,” says Elliot.
I’m almost to baggage claim, but now I stop short. The person behind me steps on my heel, mutters something, then goes around. I am in the middle of the walkway, standing completely still. If I were seeing me, I’d be annoyed. If I were seeing me, my skin would be itching; I’d be making that insane smile. I’d be thinking about screaming. I am aware of all this, but I can’t help it. I can’t make myself move.
“What?” I say, though I’ve heard him perfectly well. It never dawned on me that any of us would have to go down, would want to go down, would be willing to go down. I haven’t been back in more than ten years, since before my wedding. It’s the same for Elliot. The same for Nell.
“What do you mean you’re going to Atlanta?”
“
We’re
going to Atlanta,” he says.
I’m shaking my head. This is all happening too quickly.
“Nell’s already in the air,” he says. “She’s stopping at the Denver airport and getting on my flight.”
“Wait,” I say. “I don’t understand.”
“We’re going to Atlanta, Kate.”
“Why?”
All around me, people with luggage. All around me, people moving forward. This is O’Hare. This is one of the busiest airports in the world. The odds are good that there is someone else at this airport, maybe not in this terminal, but someone else here whose father has also just died. With people dying and being born every millisecond, it’s almost impossible, in fact, that there isn’t someone else. But there’s no way—no way in the world—that there’s someone else whose father has just shot himself in the head but who has no desire whatsoever to find out why.
“Dad’s dead,” says Elliot.
“And?”
“Jesus, Kate,” he says. “Get on a fucking plane.”
I
hang up on my brother and walk outside. There are people everywhere. It’s sheer pandemonium out here. Give us a snowstorm in winter and you couldn’t find a more orderly citizenry. We do snowstorms in our sleep. But thunderstorms? Summer rain storms? We have no idea what to do. The storm’s passed by now, but you can see the smoky black to the east of the city, threatening Lake Michigan. All the people who were stranded are on the move at once. It’s wet and muggy, and I fight my way to the end of the line for a cab. What I should do is go to the front and explain that there’s an emergency. I should roll my bag right to the front, not even bothering to look at any of the people I’d be cutting, and say, “My dad’s dead. I just found out. I have to get home.” I wouldn’t even have to cry—thank God—the guy at the front would simply wave me into the first cab. He wouldn’t hesitate. He’d get me into the backseat, get my luggage in the trunk with a gentle
thunk
, and he’d see me off. “Go with God,” he might say. Something vague but ultimately inoffensive. And then I’d be off, I’d be headed home, I’d be going in the direction of my husband, of my not-yet-ex-husband, of my new life. Peter would greet me at the curb, pay for my cab, tip extra just because he can. I’d tell him my devastating news and he’d hold me and I’d realize,
Yes, my sister is right. It is everything in the world to be hugged like this. To have someone to hug me like this.
And I would begin at that very moment righting my wrongs. I wouldn’t be pushy. I would give him his space. But slowly, he’d remember our life together. He’d remember us at twenty-four, not us at thirty-four, and he’d be unable to resist. Yes, I think. This is what I should do.
And I’m about to do it, too—I’m about to wheel my luggage in a grand Hollywood style to the front of the line when I feel a hand on my shoulder. I turn toward it, ready to shoo it away. But I don’t shoo it away, because here is the only hand I have been wanting to feel.
“Peter,” I say. He must not have shaved this morning, because his five o’clock shadow is showing, making him look younger, making him look manly and strong. This is my husband. This man is still my husband. “Thank God.”
I go to hug him, but instead he takes the handle of my bag.
“Nell called,” he says.
I nod. “Right,” I say. “Of course.”
It is even better than I could have hoped. This is a sign. This is an olive branch. A tiny, tiny olive branch. A twig, really, but it’s a twig I’ll take.
He turns away from me and walks back into the airport. I follow him, totally confused.
“What are we doing?”
“She said to put you on a plane.”
“They’re headed to Atlanta,” I say.
“I know,” he says. “And you’re going with them.”
In another world, at another time, he would have hated this. He would have said, about Nell’s phone call and their travel to Atlanta, that this was typical of their behavior. And what he would have meant by typical is that my father was a despicable man who was equally awful to all three of the “original” siblings. But Elliot and Nell were older than I was. They had a few more good years with him as kids than I did. Which means—if we’re being honest—that they got more money from him. They got high school
and
college. I got high school and help with loan applications. By the time it was my turn, there were other, newer, better children to worry about educating. This is not me feeling sorry for myself. This is me recounting the facts. Maybe if Stan had had a sister or a brother—some crazy aunt or uncle to have taken me under a wing and shown me all the zany things to love about him—maybe then I would have felt differently about the man. But there was no one else. There was him and there was us and eventually there was the mounting list of pseudo mothers and half siblings. And even though the three of us agreed—
as a family
—to essentially write him and his horde of additional offspring off the minute I turned eighteen, Nell and Elliot could still be talked into answering his phone calls. They could still be talked into feeling guilty about the state of their relationships. Apparently, a college education meant a modicum of filial responsibility. Especially the older he got. But with me it was different. I felt nothing for him. I felt no guilt because I was a Bill Cunningham devotee:
If you don’t take money, they can’t tell you what to do, kid.
I remembered none of those alleged good years and so I had nothing to pine for. And so now, of course, with our father finally dead, I am the only one going about her life as usual. I am the only one responding to this suicide—a final act of manipulation—in the proper way. Nell and Elliot are the ones being maudlin, dramatic. Peter, on any other day, would understand all this. You get married exactly for this sort of unspoken understanding. He’s been around long enough to know the dynamics of my family, and ordinarily he recognizes all this without me having to explain a single thing.
He wheels my bag to the end of the Delta ticket line and just stands there, looking forward.
“I’m not going,” I say. “I have a life. I have things here that are more important.”
He says nothing.
“It’s so good to be home.” I stretch out my hand and touch his arm.
Still he says nothing.
“Besides,” I say, “I can’t afford a ticket right now. You know that.” And he does know that. My semester has just ended. I’ve one paycheck left before the summer, before I go three months as an unpaid stay-at-home screenwriter.
“Kate,” he says.
“Yes?”
“This doesn’t change anything.”
He puts his finger under my chin and raises it so that I am looking at him.
“I’m sorry about your dad,” he says.
“Thank you,” I say, blinking.
“But this changes nothing.”
For the better part of a decade, Peter has been my best friend. I want him to forgive me. Of course I want him to forgive me. But why—just now—does being so near to him make me want to puke? Why has his finger under my chin turned my insides clammy and cold?
“I know what I want,” I say.
“You have no idea.” He says this gently, with an air of resignation. “That’s the problem.”
If my hormones worked, I’d be crying right now. There’s a biological imperative that lets every other woman in the world cry at precisely this moment—the moment when her man is standing on a precipice, about to make a life-changing decision. But not me.
“I want
you
,” I say. “I’m ready. I am. I promise.”
“Ready for what?” The gentleness is gone from his voice. I’ve seemed needy, panicked. He takes his hand away from my chin and faces the front of the line.
“To get our marriage back,” I say. But even to me, my tone registers as flat.
He kicks my bag forward.
“Why did you come here?” I say.
“To the airport?”
“Yes. Why?” I don’t want to get angry. I don’t want to
sound
angry, because I realize I have no right, but I feel angry. I feel outrageously angry. I feel hurt, and I want him to feel sorry for me. Never have I wanted so badly for someone to feel sorry for me. I want him to feel bad about the way he’s acting. “Why did you come here if nothing’s changed?”
“Because of Nell,” he says.
“What about her?”
“She told me to go to the airport and make sure you got on a plane,” he says. He laughs, and it’s an ugly, mean laugh, and I think, for half a second, that it is exactly
this
laugh that allowed me to cheat on him in the first place. “And I knew—the minute she told me about Stan—I knew you’d think this would change things.”
“I said I was sorry.” There’s a couple behind us who look annoyed that we’re in line at all. We’re not being as aggressive with moving ahead as they’d like us to be.
“By ‘sorry,’” he says, “what do you mean exactly? I want you to be very clear.”
“I mean, I’m sorry that it happened.”
The person in front of us moves ahead and Peter rolls my bag forward.
“Do you mean that you wish it hadn’t happened?” he says.
“That’s not what I said.”
“So you’d do it again?”
“No. I would not in the future do it again.”
“But if you could go back, you wouldn’t undo what you’ve done?”
I don’t say anything.
“So you’re
not
sorry.”
“I am.”
“Then why won’t you tell me what I want to hear?” He pauses, and I know what he’s going to say next, because it’s what he always says when he wants to hurt me. “Pretend we’re in a movie,” he says. “All you have to do is say the line.”
I shake my head. “I’m trying to be honest.”
“Honest?” He nudges a shoe into my bag so that it inches away from us. “What do you know about honest?”
“I’m working on it,” I say.
“Now she wants to work on it,” he says, looking around, addressing an invisible audience. An odious habit. “Now she wants to be honest. Not last week, not last year, but now.
After
the fact.” He pauses. “Lucky me.”
He’s right, of course. I don’t know what I want. But it feels impossible to admit this to him. He’s backed me into a corner and given me no graceful exit. The couple behind us—the man—coughs. I glance back and make the briefest eye contact with the woman. It’s just long enough to see that she feels sorry for me and suddenly—
poof!
out of nowhere!—I’m crippled with shame to be standing in line with my husband, waiting like a child to be manhandled onto a plane.
“Please,” I whisper to Peter and try to take the handle of my luggage. “Just leave.”
“You won’t get on a plane if I leave,” he says, pushing my hand away. I don’t dare look at the woman. “You’re broke, remember?”
Technically, I am not broke. Technically, I am simply in debt.
The man behind us coughs again. It makes me want to gag. Does he think I don’t know this is pathetic? Does he think his coughing is teaching us—me—a lesson? Let the man cough all he wants.
“Pretend it didn’t happen,” I say. “Put yourself in my shoes.”
He smiles. “Hold on.” Now he nods his head. “Let me give that a try.” He nods his head some more. “Your shoes, you say?”
I mimic his nod.
At last
, I think.
Now we are getting somewhere.
This is progress. Progress at last. Why did it never occur to me before to ask him, simply, to consider my side of things?
“Something like this?” he says. His smile is gone. “My wife who loves me and trusts me and supports me—” He pauses. “This wife comes home one day and says, ‘Baby love, all I’m asking is that you just think about this
one
thing, that you just
consider
it. I know we didn’t want it when we first got together. But we’re both reasonable people. We’re both adults. And so I know it’s within your adult brain’s power to just consider the idea of adoption. To just
consider
it.’”
“Stop,” I say.
But he doesn’t.
“And I, the husband, I say—for some fucked-up, unknowable reason—I say, ‘Yes, baby love, let’s abso
lute
ly look into that. That sounds like a
beau
tiful idea. Why don’t you go do a year’s worth of footwork and waste your precious time, while I go out and find a maid to screw?’” He pauses. “Something like that?”
“We don’t have a maid.”
“Unbelievable,” he says.
“You’re not trying hard enough,” I say. “You didn’t even try.”
“Know who you remind me of?” says Peter. We are next in line. We are almost to the front. All I want now is to get this over with. All I want is for Peter to buy my ticket and then disappear. Fuck it. Send me to Atlanta.
“No,” I say.
“Your father,” says Peter.
It’s such a cliché, but my mouth has actually dropped open. I’m tempted to laugh. In all the endlessly exhausting conversations we’ve had about the affair over the past thirty days, not once has Peter thought to associate me with my father. But today, on the day of his death, he gets the brilliant idea to make the comparison.
“You’re going to feel shitty about saying that,” I say.
“I won’t,” he says.
Wrong. Absolutely wrong. He’s stooped to my level, and he’s already regretting it. I can see it all over his face. Poor Peter: He forgets. He is my husband. I still know him. He can hate me all he wants, but he can’t suddenly unknow me. Them’s the rules, baby love.
He wheels my bag to the counter and takes out his wallet.
“Atlanta,” he says. “One way.”
The woman at the kiosk takes his card. I hand her my ID. She doesn’t make eye contact with me while she’s doing the paperwork. I never wanted to be one of these women. I never wanted to be looked at—or not looked at—by other women with pity.
I am handed my ticket and Peter is handed back his credit card. We walk a few paces away from the kiosk. He turns to me, and I turn to him.
“Do you have any cash on you?” he says. “Any at all?”
“I’m fine,” I say. “I’ll be fine. They have ATMs at airports.”
“How much is in your account?”
I’m looking past Peter, at a trash can outside the women’s restrooms. There’s a little kid in sweatpants and a sweatshirt. He looks poor. Not dirty—I’m not Nell. Just poor. I wonder what he’s doing at the airport. How can poor people afford to fly? I can’t even afford to fly. Without Peter, there’s no way I’d be able to make this trip, not without asking Nell or Elliot for a loan, which you couldn’t pay me to do.
“I have enough,” I say at last. I give a little shrug.
Peter reaches toward his back pocket and my neck goes instantly hot. I cross my arms and shove my hands into my armpits. I wish we were invisible. I wish we were in a bubble and no one could see us, because, really, the people who
are
seeing us, what do they think they see? Do they see two awkward strangers? Do they see a shady deal in progress? Or do they see a husband and wife? And if they
do
see a husband and wife, what do they make of the husband taking out his wallet, of the wife staring shamefaced at the floor?
“Kate,” he says.
His wallet is poised between us, in the mere inches of ether between his hand and my heart. My breathing is erratic and it occurs to me that if I fainted, if I simply let my body go limp and fall to the ground, he’d have to put away his wallet and tend to me. He’d have to. Facts are facts.