The Stranger (8 page)

W
hat could he do?

Corinne simply shut down. Later, alone in their bedroom, he tried anger, pleading, demanding, threats. He used words of love, ridicule, shame, pride. She wouldn't respond. It was so frustrating.

At midnight, Corinne carefully took off the anniversary diamond studs and placed them on her night table. She turned off the lights, wished him a good night, and closed her eyes. He was at a loss. He came close—maybe too close—to doing something physical. He debated ripping off her covers, but what would that do? He wanted to—dare he even admit it to himself?—put his hands on her, to shake her and make her talk or at least see reason. But when Adam was twelve, he had seen his father put his hands on his mother. Mom had egged
him on—that was how she was, sadly. She would call him names or insult his manhood until eventually he cracked. One night, he saw his father wrap his hands around his mother's neck and start to choke her.

Oddly enough, it wasn't so much the fear, horror, and danger of seeing his father use force against his mother that bothered him. It was how pitiful and weak this act of dominance made his father look, how, even though she was on the receiving end, his mother had manipulated his father into becoming something so pathetic that he had to resort to doing something so out of character, so not him.

Adam could never lay a hand on a woman. Not just because it was wrong. But because of what it would do to him.

Unsure what to do, he slipped into bed next to Corinne. He pounded his pillow into the right shape, laid his head on it, and closed his eyes. He gave it ten minutes. Uh-uh, no way. He headed downstairs, pillow in hand, and tried to sleep on the couch.

He set his alarm for 5:00
A.M.
so he'd be sure to get back upstairs into his bedroom before the boys woke up. There was no need. If sleep paid any visit, it was too brief to register. Corinne was deep in sleep when he went back up. He knew by her breathing that this wasn't an act—she was out cold. Funny, that. He couldn't sleep. She could. He remembered reading somewhere that cops could often tell guilt or innocence by suspects who slept. An innocent man left alone in an interrogation room, the theory went, stayed awake because of confusion and nerves about being falsely accused. A guilty man fell asleep. Adam had never bought the theory, one of those things that sounds cute but doesn't really hold up. Yet here he was, the innocent guy staying awake while his wife—the guilty?—slept like a newborn.

Adam was tempted to shake her awake, catch her in that cusp between dream and consciousness, maybe get the groggy truth out
of her, but he had come to the conclusion that it wouldn't work. She had a point about being careful. But more than that, she was going to work in her own time frame. He couldn't push it too much. And maybe that was best.

The question was, what was he going to do now?

He knew the truth, didn't he? Did he really have to wait for her to confirm that she'd faked a pregnancy and a miscarriage? If she hadn't, he would have heard the denials by now. She was stalling—perhaps to come up with a reasonable rationale or perhaps to give him time to calm down and consider his alternatives.

Because what could he do here?

Was he ready to walk out the door? Was he ready to divorce her?

He didn't know the answer. Adam stood over the bed and stared down at her. How did he feel about her? He told himself, right now, without thinking about it, answer this: If it was true, did he still love her and want to be with her for the rest of his life?

His feelings were jumbled, but his gut reaction: Yes.

Take a step back. How big a deal was this deception? It was huge. No question about it. Huge.

But was it something that should destroy their lives—or was it something that they could live with? All families ignore the elephants in the room. Could he one day ignore this one?

He didn't know. Which was why he would have to be careful. He would have to wait. He would have to listen to her reasoning, even if that seemed almost obscene to him.

“It isn't what you think, Adam. There's more to this.”

That was what Corinne said, but he couldn't imagine what. He slipped under the covers and closed his eyes for a moment.

When he opened them again, it was three hours later.
Exhaustion had sneaked up on on him and dragged him down. He checked the bed next to him. Empty. He swung his legs out of bed, his feet landing on the floor with a dull thud. From downstairs he heard Thomas's voice. Thomas the talker. Ryan the listener.

And Corinne?

He glanced out the bedroom window. Her minivan was still in the driveway. He crept quietly down the stairs. He probably couldn't articulate exactly why—probably something to do with sneaking up on Corinne before she had a chance to leave for work. The boys were at the table. Corinne had made Adam his favorite—she was big on making favorites all of a sudden, wasn't she?—a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich on a sesame bagel. Ryan was eating a bowl of Reese's Puffs—health food—reading the back of the box as though it were religious scripture.

“Hey, guys.”

Two grunts. Whatever their personalities might be like later in the day, neither boy was big on pre-school conversation with his parents.

“Where's your mother?”

Two shrugs.

He stepped fully into the kitchen and looked out the window and into the backyard. Corinne was out there. Her back was turned. A phone was pressed up to her ear.

Adam felt his face redden.

When he pulled open the back door, Corinne spun toward him and put up a “wait a sec” finger. He didn't. He stormed toward her. She hung up the phone and slipped it into her pocket.

“Who was that?”

“The school.”

“Bullshit. Let me see the phone.”

“Adam . . .”

He put out his hand. “Give it to me.”

“Don't make a scene in front of the boys.”

“Cut the crap, Corinne. I want to know what's going on.”

“There's no time. I have to be at school in ten minutes. Do you mind driving the boys?”

“Are you for real?”

She stepped close to him. “I can't tell you what you want to know yet.”

He almost punched her. He almost reared back his fist and . . . “What's your strategy here, Corinne?”

“What's yours?”

“Huh?”

“What's your worst-case scenario?” she asked. “Think about it. And if it's true, are you going to leave us?”

“Us?”

“You know what I mean.”

It took a second for him to get the words out. “I can't live with someone I can't trust,” he said.

She tilted her head. “And you don't trust me?”

He said nothing.

“We all have our secrets, don't we? Even you, Adam.”

“I've never kept anything like this from you. But clearly, I have my answer.”

“No, you don't.” She moved close to him and looked up into his eyes. “You will soon. I promise.”

He bit back and said, “When?”

“Let's meet for dinner tonight. Janice's Bistro at seven. Back table. We can talk there.”

H
ummel figurines sat on
the top shelf. There was a little girl with a donkey, three children playing follow-the-leader, a little boy with a beer stein, and finally a boy pushing a girl on a swing.

“Eunice loves them,” the old man told Adam. “Me, I can't stand the damn things. They creep me out. I keep thinking someone should make a horror film with them, you know? Like instead of that scary clown or leprechaun. Can you imagine if those things came to life?”

The kitchen was old wood paneling. A
Viva Las Vegas
magnet was on the fridge. There was a snow globe with three pink flamingos on the ledge above the sink. The mounting read
MIAMI, FLA
in a florid-script font—“Fla” in case you weren't sure which Miami,
Adam guessed.
The
Wizard of Oz
collectible plates and an owl clock with moving eyes took up the wall on the right. The wall on the left had numerous yet fading police-related certificates and plaques, a retrospective of the long and distinguished career of retired Lieutenant Colonel Michael Rinsky.

Rinsky noticed Adam reading the certificates and muttered, “Eunice insisted we hang them up.”

“She's proud of you,” Adam said.

“Yeah, whatever.”

Adam turned back toward him. “So tell me about the mayor's visit.”

“Mayor Rick Gusherowski. Busted him twice when he was in high school, once for drunk driving.”

“Was he charged?”

“Nah, just called his old man to pick him up. This was, what, thirty years ago. We did that more back in those days. Considered drunk driving a minor offense. Stupid.”

Adam nodded to let him know that he was listening.

“They're real strict with the drunk-driving stuff now. Saves lives. But anyway, Rick comes to my door. Mr. Mayor now. Got the suit, with the American flag in the lapel. Don't join the military; don't help out the little guy; don't take in your tired, your poor, your huddled masses—but if you wear a little flag, you're a patriot.”

Adam tried not to smile.

“So Rick comes in with his chest out and this big grin. ‘The developers are offering you a lot of money,' he says to me. Goes on and on about how generous they're being.”

“What do you say?”

“Nothing yet. I just kinda stare at him. Let him bloviate.”

He signaled to the kitchen table for them to sit. Adam didn't want to sit in Eunice's chair—it felt wrong somehow—so he asked, “Which chair?”

“Any's fine.”

Adam took one. Then Rinsky sat. The vinyl tablecloth was old and a little sticky and felt just right. There were still five chairs here, though the three boys he and Eunice had raised in this very house were grown and gone.

“Then he starts in on me with the good-of-the-community stuff. ‘You're standing in the way of progress,' he tells me. ‘People will lose their jobs because of you. Crime will increase.' You know the deal.”

“I do, yes,” Adam said.

Adam had heard it before many times, and he wasn't unsympathetic. Over the years, this downtown neighborhood had gone to seed. Some developer, getting a ton of tax breaks, had come in and bought up every building on the block on the cheap. He wanted to knock down all the dilapidated homes, apartments, storefronts, and build shiny new condos and Gap stores and tony restaurants. It wasn't a bad idea, really. You could make fun of the gentrification, but towns needed new blood too.

“So he keeps talking, about the shiny new Kasselton, how it will make the neighborhood safe and bring people back and all that. Then he comes up with his big pot sweetener. The developer has new senior-living housing in the heights. And then he has the gall to lean across and give me the sad eyes and say, ‘You need to think about Eunice.'”

“Wow,” Adam said.

“I know, right? Then he says I should take this deal because the
next one will be worse and they can throw me out. Can they really do that?”

“They can,” Adam said.

“We bought this house in 1970 off my GI Bill. Eunice . . . she's fine, but sometimes her mind isn't on the track it's supposed to be. So she gets real scared in strange places. She starts to cry and shake even, but then she gets home, right? She sees this kitchen, she sees her creepy figurines or that rusty old refrigerator, and she's okay again. Do you understand?”

“I do.”

“Can you help us?”

Adam leaned back. “Oh yes, I think I can.”

Rinsky studied him for a few moments, his eyes penetrating. Adam shifted in the chair. He could tell what a great cop he must have been. “You got a funny look on your face, Mr. Price.”

“Call me Adam. What kind of funny look?”

“I'm an old cop, remember?”

“Of course.”

“I pride myself on reading faces.”

“And what are you seeing on mine?” Adam asked.

“That you're cooking up a badass, killer idea.”

“I may be,” Adam said. “I think I can end this quickly if you have the stomach for it.”

The old man smiled. “Do I look like I'm afraid of a fight?”

W
hen Adam got home
at six
P.M.
, Corinne's car wasn't in the driveway.

He didn't know whether that surprised him. Corinne was usually home before him, but she probably wisely figured that there might be a scene if they met up at home before their Janice's Bistro dinner, so it would be best to avoid him. He hung up his coat and placed his briefcase in the corner. The boys' backpacks and sweatshirts were strewn across the floor, as though they were debris from a plane crash.

“Hello?” he shouted. “Thomas? Ryan?”

No answer. There was a time in this world when that meant something, maybe was even a cause of concern, but with the video games and the headphones and the teenage boys' constant need to
“shower”—was that a euphemism?—any concern was short-lived. He started up the stairs. Sure enough, the shower was running. Probably Thomas. The door to Ryan's room was closed. Adam gave it a brief knuckle rap but opened without waiting for a response. If the headphones were loud enough, Ryan might never reply; if he just opened it, he felt as though he was completely invading his son's privacy. The knock-and-open somehow felt like a parentally fair way to handle the dilemma.

As expected, Ryan was lying in bed with his headphones on, fiddling with his iPhone. He slipped them off and sat up. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

“What's for dinner?” Ryan asked.

“Good, thanks. Work was busy, sure, but overall, yeah, I'd say I had an okay day. How about you?”

Ryan just stared at his father. Ryan often just stared at his father.

“Have you seen your mother?” Adam asked.

“No.”

“She and I are going to Janice's tonight. You want me to order you two a pizza from Pizzaiola?”

There are few questions more rhetorical than asking your child whether they want you to order them pizza for dinner. Ryan didn't even bother with the yes, heading straight to the “Can we get buffalo chicken topping?”

“Your brother likes pepperoni,” Adam said, “so I'll go half-and-half.”

Ryan frowned.

“What?”

“Just one pie?”

“It's only the two of you.”

Ryan did not seem placated.

“If that's not enough, there are Chipwiches in the freezer for dessert,” Adam said. “That okay?”

Grudgingly: “I guess.”

Adam headed back down the hall and into his bedroom. He sat on the bed and called the pizzeria, adding an order of mozzarella sticks. Feeding teenage boys was like filling a bathtub with a grapefruit spoon. Corinne was always complaining—happily, for the most part—that she had to food shop every other day at the least.

“Hey, Dad.”

Thomas wore a towel around his waist. Water dripped from his hair. He smiled and said, “What's for dinner?”

“I just ordered you guys pizza.”

“Pepperoni?”

“Half pepperoni, half buffalo chicken.” Adam held up his hand before Thomas could say more. “And an order of mozzarella sticks.”

Thomas gave his father a thumbs-up. “Nice.”

“You don't have to eat it all. Just leave the leftovers in the fridge.”

Thomas made a confused face. “What is this leftovers of which you speak?”

Adam shook his head and chuckled. “Did you leave me any hot water?”

“Some.”

“Great.”

Adam normally wouldn't shower and change, but he had time and felt oddly nervous. He showered quickly, managing to stay seconds ahead of the hot water, and shaved away the Homer
Simpson five-o'clock shadow. He reached into the back of his cabinet and pulled out an aftershave he knew Corinne liked. He hadn't worn it in a while. Why he hadn't worn it recently, he couldn't say. Why he had chosen to wear it tonight, he couldn't say either.

He put on a blue shirt because Corinne used to say that blue worked with his eyes. He felt stupid about that and almost changed, but then he figured, what the hell. When he started out the bedroom door, he turned around and took a long look at this room that had been theirs for so long. The king-size bed was neatly made. There were too many pillows on it—when had people started putting so many pillows on a bed?—but he and Corinne had spent a lot of years here. A simple and insipid thought, but there you go. It was just a room, just a bed.

Yet a voice in Adam's head couldn't help but wonder: Depending on how this dinner went, he and Corinne might never spend another night in here together.

That was melodramatic, of course. Pure hyperbole. But if hyperbole couldn't feel free to roam in his head, where could it roam?

The doorbell rang. No movement from the boys. There never was. They had been trained somehow to never answer the house phone (it wasn't for them, after all) and to never answer the doorbell (it was usually a delivery guy). As soon as Adam paid and closed the door, the boys clumped down the stairs like runaway Clydesdales. The house shook but held its ground.

“Paper plates okay?” Thomas asked.

Thomas and Ryan would eat on paper plates exclusively because it meant easier cleanup, but tonight, with the parents away, it was pretty much a given that if he forced real plates on them, they'd be in the sink when he and Corinne came home. Corinne
would then complain to Adam. Adam would then have to scream for the boys to come down and put their plates in the dishwasher. The boys would claim that they were just about to do it—yeah, right—but not to worry because they'd be down and do it when their show was over in five (read: fifteen) minutes. Five (read: fifteen) minutes would pass, and then Corinne would complain to Adam again about how irresponsible the boys were, and he'd shout up to them with a little more anger in his voice.

The cycles of domesticity.

“Paper plates are fine,” Adam said.

The two boys attacked the pizza as if they were rehearsing the finale of
The
Day of the Locust
. Between bites, Ryan looked at his father curiously.

“What?” Adam said.

Ryan managed to swallow. “I thought you were just going to Janice's for dinner.”

“We are.”

“So what's with the getup?”

“It isn't a getup.”

“And what's the smell?” Thomas added.

“Are you wearing cologne?”

“Eeew. It's ruining the taste of the pizza.”

“Knock it off,” Adam said.

“Want to trade a slice of pepperoni for a slice of buffalo chicken?”

“No.”

“Come on, just one slice.”

“Throw in a mozzarella stick.”

“No way. Half a mozzarella stick.”

Adam started for the door as the negotiations wore down. “We won't be late. Get your homework done, and please stick the pizza box in the recycling, okay?”

He drove past the new hot yoga place on Franklin Avenue—by
hot
he meant temperature of the class, not popularity or looks—and found parking across the street from Janice's. Five minutes early. He looked for Corinne's car. No sign of it, but she could be parked in the back lot.

David, Janice's son and quasi maître d', greeted him at the door and brought him to the back table. No Corinne. Well, okay, he was here first. No big deal. Janice came out of the kitchen two minutes later. Adam rose and kissed her on the cheek.

“Where's your wine?” Janice asked. Her bistro was BYO. Adam and Corinne always brought a bottle.

“Forgot.”

“Maybe Corinne will bring some?”

“I doubt it.”

“I can send David to Carlo Russo's.”

Carlo Russo's was the wine store down the street.

“That's okay.”

“It's no hassle. It's quiet right now. David?” Janice turned back to Adam. “What are you having tonight?”

“Probably the veal Milanese.”

“David, get Adam and Corinne a bottle of the Paraduxx Z blend.”

David brought back the wine. Corinne still wasn't there. David opened the bottle and poured two glasses. Corinne still wasn't there. At seven fifteen, Adam started to get that sinking feeling in his gut. He texted Corinne. No answer. At seven thirty, Janice came
over to him and asked if everything was okay. He assured her that it was, that Corinne was probably just caught up in some parent-teacher conference.

Adam stared at his phone, willing it to buzz. At 7:45
P.M.
, it did.

It was a text from Corinne:

MAYBE WE NEED SOME TIME APART. YOU TAKE CARE OF THE KIDS. DON'T TRY TO CONTACT ME. IT WILL BE OKAY.

Then:

JUST GIVE ME A FEW DAYS. PLEASE.