Shelter Us: A Novel (28 page)

The phone is ringing as we stumble into the house. I drop my purse and the pizza and grab the phone.

“Hello?”
Please be Robert
.

“You need to be out of the house.” Joan.

“Excuse me?” I go into the hall bathroom and shut the door so the boys can’t hear me. “Robert said that?”

“That’s what’s best.”

“Is that what Robert thinks?”

“That is my opinion.”

“Well, fuck you, Joan.” It feels inordinately good to say that to her.

“Sarah,” she pointedly ignores my curse, “I raised a gentleman, and he wouldn’t kick you out. He and the kids can stay here.”

“Are you nuts?!” My hand sweats around the phone. I hear some murmuring, and then Robert comes on the line.

“Hello, Sarah?”

“Robert, did you tell her you want to take the boys away from me?” I’m barely whispering, trying to keep the boys from hearing this preposterous conversation. This should not be happening to us.

“No, of course not!” I’m not sure whether to believe him. “I never said that.”

“God, Robert.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll talk to her.”

I try to steady my voice, but it comes out shaking. “Will you come home?”

“I can’t.”

“What do you mean?” My stomach lurches, and a wave of nausea surges up into my throat. Is he leaving me? Did I ruin everything? Oliver pads down the hallway looking for me. I whisper into the receiver. “Let’s talk to each other.”

“Listen, Sarah, we do need to talk, but this isn’t a good time. Let’s talk tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? What will I tell the boys? Robert, please can we talk tonight?” The light coming under the door darkens. Oliver has sat down outside the door.

“I can’t tonight.”

“Why not?”

“I have to work.” He sighs, knowing I won’t like that answer. “Moot Court Finals. I’m a judge.”

It’s my turn to sigh.

“Mommy, can we have our pizza now?” Oliver asks from the hallway.

Life and all its needs go on. “I have to go. It’s dinnertime. Please come home soon.”

I open the bathroom door slowly. Oliver sits, legs crossed, looking up without a word. He looks so pitiful I could cry, but I clear my throat and say, “Pizza time.” It’s drearily familiar, this functioning on autopilot with dread in my gut. Oliver gets up, and we walk into the kitchen. I move slowly, as though through gauze, to the cabinets. I retrieve two plates for the boys, set them down on the table, open the box of pizza, and gingerly lay one slice on each plate. I don’t have an appetite. I fill two cups with water. Delicate, deliberate moves, as though anything hasty would shatter this last, fragile piece of normalcy.

After they are asleep, I pace the house, walk outside, come inside, pick up the phone and put it back down. I feel like I will peel my skin right off if I don’t talk with him tonight, if I can’t know that we are going to be okay. I call Bibi.

“Of course,
cariño
. I’ll be right there.”

I
had forgotten
the hell of finding parking at UCLA. I am right in front of the law school. I consider parking in the red, but I see the meter maid cruising on her three-wheeler. I drive over to the large parking structure where I can pay for the privilege of walking a half mile back. The lot is crowded. I pass rows and rows of cars on my way up. There is Robert’s.

As I walk toward the law school, I rehearse what I might say.
Robert, please don’t run away from me. We have to work together. I know this is hard, and painful, but that’s real life. Real life is bumpy and imperfect. We can’t throw everything away because of a few bumps. Please give me another chance
. I don’t know what I’ll say if he asks me pointedly what happened with Brian; I hope he doesn’t ask. Some things are better left unspoken.

With a sudden self-consciousness, I realize that I’ve been talking to myself, shout-whispering my lines. I look around, hoping no one was watching or listening to me. Gray-haired couples wearing theater clothes—polished shoes and tailored jackets—walk in twos and fours toward the Freud Playhouse on campus. No one pays me any attention.

The sight of students wearing UCLA L
AW
sweatshirts and carrying bulging backpacks reminds me of how close I am to our impending confrontation. I slow my pace as the law school comes into view. Lights glow through the windows against the dark backdrop of night. I walk up the outside steps and open the cold glass door. The main
hallway is unusually crowded for this time of night, filled with students wearing their interview suits. A sign by one of the large lecture halls says M
OOT
C
OURT
F
INALS
. I catch a glimpse of Robert. He is about to go into the lecture hall.

“Robert!” I call to him. “Robert Shaw,” I raise my voice to be heard over the crowd. There is a momentary hush at the force of my voice before the din rises again. Robert freezes when he sees me. I cross the hall to him, my nerves sizzling on the surface of my skin. “Robert, we have to talk.”

Maintaining his stony look, he says, “Please go home, Sarah.” He scans the room to make sure no one is staring at him.

I rub my arms to try to calm my nerves. “I can wait here until you’re done.”

“Just wait for me at home,” he says.

“I tried that all day, and it didn’t work so well. Please.”

“Fine. Wait in my office. I’ll be done in an hour or so.”

“Okay. I’ll be waiting for you.”

Without another word, he walks into the lecture hall. I hear him say, “Good evening, everyone,” and the event begins. The heavy doors to the hall slowly close, softening the sound of his voice until it is gone. I am suddenly alone. I wander across the marble floor to the student lounge. I pick up a week-old campus newspaper from a round wooden coffee table, and let it drop back where I found it. I brew a cup of Lipton tea, taste its bitterness, and toss it out. I take the stairs up to the professors’ office level. As I wander the maze of hallways, I pass an open door. Jane Hardaway, tenured professor of constitutional law and the woman who recruited Robert to come here, looks up from her desk and catches me passing by.

“Sarah, is that you?”

I have to stop, even though a chat is the last thing I want. I try for a hurried tone of voice. “Hi, Jane. Not interested in Moot Court?”

Her white hair is wrapped in a knot on top of her head, a pencil stuck through to secure it. It is the kind of thoroughly pure white that happens prematurely, so it’s impossible to tell her age. The color
contrasts sharply with her square black glasses, the overall effect giving her a rock-’n’-roll-librarian aura.

She pulls her glasses off and leans back to stretch. “No, I’ve got too much to do.
Law Review
wants an excerpt from my book, but it’s not published yet, so I don’t know what I can give them.” Then her face softens and she considers me with a twinge of pity. “Sarah, I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am.”

My stomach drops. About what? Has Robert confided in her about our fight?

“And I feel partly to blame,” she continues.

What is she talking about? My mind reviews its catalog of Robert’s late nights and weekend conferences. My head is pounding; bizarre notions of an office romance bang against my skull as I try to understand what she’s saying. “Jane, excuse me, but what exactly are you sorry for?” I prop myself in her doorway, holding the frame for support with both hands, ready to hear the worst.

She looks surprised and sits up straight again. “Oh.” She furrows her brow. She straightens a pile of papers on her desk, stalling. I see her rethink her comments. “Well, I just assumed that Robert had talked with you.”

My mind races with the possibilities. I’m sick to my stomach at the idea that Robert has been unfaithful, despite what I’ve done. Mine was a fluke, a weakness from sorrow, stress, and dredged up history, never to be repeated. I manage to speak. “Well, we don’t get to talk much. You know how it gets with the kids and everything.” I make excuses for not having a relationship with my own husband, while reminding her that he has a family.

“Yes, of course. I shouldn’t say anything. Robert will want to tell you his own way.” Her eyes look anywhere but at me. She picks up a mug from her table, puts it down. She wants more than anything to get away from me, but she is trapped in her office and I’m blocking her escape route. She turns back to her keyboard and screen, her only escape.

I don’t budge. The urgent need to know fuels me, gives me more
resolve than I expected. “Jane,” I say with the strongest voice I can muster, “tell me what is going on.”

She looks at me one more time and makes a decision. “Sarah, I’m just so sorry to be the one to tell you,” she begins. I grasp the door frame more tightly. I focus on her lips to help me decipher what she’s saying. “As you know, we’re a public school. There have been severe budget cuts in this economy.”
What does that have to do with anything? Get to the point. Tell me my husband is leaving me
. “I fought for Robert, but the dean announced at last week’s faculty meeting that Robert’s position is being terminated, effective next year.” She pauses to let it sink in. “It was not an endowed chair, so it was on the list to be cut. Two others, also—not that that should make you feel better. The dean had no choice. I’m very sorry, Sarah.”

The whole time she is talking, the pounding in my ears gets louder, until I can barely make out any sounds. My vision has blurred, and I’m not even looking at her; I’m running through every conversation, every silence, over the past few months, wondering why Robert didn’t tell me this was going on, or if he did try to tell me. I remember the phone call I ignored when I was at the park with Izzy, his early meetings at school, the faculty meeting last week. I catch my reflection in Jane’s window—the deep furrow between my eyebrows, my sagging shoulders. I straighten my posture and try to rub the crease away.

“How long has he known about this?”

“Well”—she turns to her computer, grateful to be asked a question she can answer—“it’s been on the table for a while.” She clicks on her calendar, looking for something. “Okay, here. It was first on the agenda at February’s academic council meeting. Since the beginning of February, he’s been aware of the possibility—well, really, the probability—that his position here would be gone at the end of the semester.”

February, March, April, May. He’s kept this to himself for months. All the while, I was keeping my own secrets. My face flushes with heat and I start to sweat. Jane jumps up and guides me into the chair she keeps for students who come bearing questions. I put my head on my knees, determined not to pass out.

“Sarah, I know you’ve both been through a lot.” Jane’s voice sounds distant, like it’s coming from another room. “But everything is going to be fine.” She pats my arm like a person unaccustomed to giving comfort. Open palm.
Pat pat pat
. “Robert is going to have a lot of offers. Maybe even USC, so you won’t have to deal with moving.” She talks fast, as though speedy words carry more weight. She thinks my reaction is about his losing his job, but it’s about us losing each other. She prattles on, “And we have many alumni at law firms who are
very
interested in him. And, of course, there’s a lot more money in private practice.” Again with the ineffective comfort.

I keep my head low until my vision begins to come back, then sit up slowly. I could tell her I’m not worried about money or jobs, that I’m overwhelmed by the revelation that he has been keeping secrets, too, the shock of how broken our marriage is. But I just say, “I’m okay. I’m just . . . it’s been a stressful couple months. And I didn’t eat dinner,” I offer as an excuse to cover my embarrassing ignorance about this whole thing. I sit up. I test out my legs; they hold my weight. “I’m going to wait in his office.” She watches me walk down the hall, relieved to be rid of me and my emotions.

I keep a hand on the wall for support. I find his office, confirmed by the nameplate: white letters on faux wood, slid into a chrome holder affixed to the wall with large Phillips-head screws. I picture someone sliding the nameplate out, tossing it in a trash can. His door is ajar, so I push gently, as though someone might be in there. I feel for the switch and the light flickers on. I observe the contents of Robert’s office like an anthropologist trying to evaluate who this person is based on the artifacts that surround him. It’s a small office, three long strides across. Dark wood shelves are bolted to the wall behind his desk, heavy with law books, journals, a photo of him and Justice Breyer. In the center of all is a framed picture of the four of us from last year’s holiday-card photo session. I smile at Izzy and Oliver’s laughing faces, captured in the moment after Izzy farted. On the opposite wall, above the chair for visitors, are Robert’s college and law school diplomas in matching frames. Beneath the window on the side wall is a filing cabinet,
covered with more law journals and a wooden inbox for student bluebooks.

I notice a small picture frame on his desk, facing his chair. I lift it gently, knowing who it is: Ella, wrapped in a hospital blanket, white with blue and pink stripes, her cone-shaped head in a matching soft hat. Her tiny red lips like a heart. Her eyes squint open, newborn ocean blue, right at the camera.

I sit down in the visitor’s chair and lock eyes with the image that is cradled in my hands. I want to sing to her, hold her, protect her from what happened. I do not hear the footsteps in the hallway. I’m not sure how long he has been standing there when I feel Robert’s eyes on me. I turn to him, and his face is blank, waiting for me to speak. There’s so much I want to say. I want to ask if he’s leaving me, or if I get another chance. I want to know why he didn’t tell me about losing his job so I could help him carry his burden. I want to know why we are so lonely when we need each other so badly. I want to know if he’s ever gone to someone for solace he doesn’t find at home.

“Robert,” I croak. My throat is wound tightly around my voice. I swallow, try to loosen my words. “I’m so sorry.” He gets down on his knees in front of me so we are face-to-face. “I’m sorry, Robert, I’m sorry.” I apologize for all of my shortcomings. He lifts his hands to my face and holds my head, looks into my eyes for a long time. His eyes are red and wet. He moves his hands down my neck to my shoulders, then leans forward and buries his face in my neck, and we embrace and cry together. We cry for her and for us, for the child we lost and the marriage we may have lost, too.