A. Homes - May We Be Forgiven

I wipe yogurt from my face — her aim sucks.

“I think they know who did it,” Cheryl says.

“Could you be more specific?”

“They — i. e., the police — know more than they’re telling the public — i. e., us.”

“Is that based on fact or your own independent conclusion?”

“I’m just saying. … We all know how these things work. I watch a lot of TV, reality and otherwise, and I’m telling you — they’re waiting for the guy to come to them, for him to make a little screw-up, to give himself away.”

“So you’re thinking they’ve already got him pegged and are watching him?”

“I’m sure of it. Nothing is as random as it seems.”

“Except that which is totally random, such as this …” I say.

“What’s this?”

“This — whatever this is between us,” I say. I can’t help but notice that I’ve become close to Cheryl, that I share things with her, that I’m starting to think of her as a friend, a confidante.

“Honey, if you were doing the math, it’s not all that random — it’s common as hell,” she says.

There’s something brash about her voice that prompts me to ask, “Have you been drinking?”

“I had a Bloody Mary this morning — kind of a little celee-bration.”

“On a weekday?”

“Yes,” she says. “They all got out early, and I spotted the tomato juice and some celery in the fridge and thought, Why the hell not.”

“You scare me,” I say.

“No, I don’t,” she says.

“Yes, you do,” I say.

I debate telling her about the A& P woman. I don’t like feeling sneaky, but what is my obligation to this married woman? I can’t exactly ask for help and then say, “Oh, by the way, I’m seeing someone. …” All the same, it slips out:

“I’m seeing someone.”

“What’s her name?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re seeing someone and you don’t know her name?”

“Yes.”

“Since when?”

“A few weeks.”

“Where’d you meet her? Is she from online?”

“We met at the A& P.”

“How often have you seen her?”

“I’ve seen her twice,” I say, and she seems relieved.

“And what have you done on those occasions?” she asks, like she’s trying to get to the bottom of it.

“I’m not sure it’s fair for you to ask me to elaborate — it’s kind of private.”

“Since when is life fair, mister? If you’re going to put your poker into someone else’s pookie, I think I have a right to know — minimally, for security purposes, so I can make an informed decision.”

“And vice versa?” I ask.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, if you should know what I’m doing, should your husband know what you’re doing?”

She looks down for a moment as if contemplating her next move — as if.

“I told him,” she says.

“Really?” I ask, genuinely surprised.

“Really,” she says.

“When?”

“After the night at Friendly’s.”

“Why?”

“I panicked.”

“About what?”

“I thought maybe someone he knew was there and had seen me.”

“Wouldn’t they be outing themselves if they told your husband?”

She shrugs. “They might have assumed that he knew, and, more to the point, I felt the need. I’m not deceitful by nature.”

“What did he say?”

She looks down again. “He said he was glad to have someone to share the burden with. And was I seeking a divorce or just entertainment?”

“And?”

“I said entertainment, and he said, ‘Well, then, I won’t worry unless you tell me there’s something to worry about.’”

“It’s nice he trusts you to use your own judgment about when he should be worried.”

“I’m very trustable,” she says, and then is quiet. “He asked if you pay me; he always wants to pay someone. And I asked if he’d ever ‘strayed,’ and he said no.”

“Why not?”

“Scared,” she says.

“Of what?” I ask

She shrugs. “I told him that if he wanted to he should. He’s got hooker fantasies. I said, ‘Do it’; he said, ‘I can’t.’ And then I asked him, ‘Do you want me to do it with you?’ ‘Like, you would participate?’ he asked. ‘No, like I would just go with you,’ I said. ‘That’s very nice of you,’ he said. ‘Since when am I not nice?’ I asked him.”

“So?” I ask, surprised by all of it — wanting more.

“So I went with him.”

“When?”

“Last Tuesday, after work.”

“To whom did you go?”

“He got a number from a guy he knows.”

“And you didn’t tell me?” I ask.

“You were busy.”

“How was it?”

“I have no idea. I sat in the girl’s living room and read a magazine — my own that I brought with me — and I kept my coat on, and then I washed it when we went home. I was careful not to touch things.”

“Did your husband have a good time?”

“He was glad to get it out of his system — but it was weird.”

“In what way?”

“He said her breasts were enormous. I met her before he went in; they looked big but not that big. He said they were hard like basketballs. And she wouldn’t kiss him.”

“Anything else?”

“Her pookie was completely waxed, from front to back. He’d never seen such a thing — he used the word ‘industrial.’ In the middle of it all, her roommate came home and said she needed to get something from the bedroom. She acted innocent enough, but I whipped out the kitchen knife I’d brought from home, figuring it was all part of the plan: the roommate comes home and they hold the guy hostage for more money. I don’t think she was planning on seeing me there. I told her, My husband is in the other room having private time with the roommate, and if you scream or ruin it for him, I’ll kill you. She and I sat quietly on the sofa. I told her it wouldn’t be long — it’s always quick with him. When he came out and saw me there, defending his … his … whatever you want to call it, I think he was very impressed. It was good for our marriage.”

“Really?” I ask, somewhat skeptical.

“It opened things up,” she says, “took us to a whole new level.”

I’m stunned.

“He wants to meet you,” she says.

“For sex?”

“No, just to say hello, maybe dinner.” She smiles. “And you thought you were the only one with news.”

“So you’re not upset about the A& P woman?”

“Of course I’m upset,” she says. “You’re shtupping some chick you met at your grocer’s dairy case who doesn’t even have a name. What exactly is it that you like about her?”

“It’s hard to put a finger on — she’s kind of mysterious.”

“It sounds like you don’t know her very well.”

“You’re not being nice.”

“You don’t even know her name,” she reminds me.

“You know what I like about her?” I say. “She demands nothing of me.”

Cheryl scrapes the last drops out of the yogurt cup; the Styrofoam squeaks. She checks her phone. “Gotta go,” she says, getting up abruptly.

“Are you dumping me?” I ask, suddenly vulnerable.

She looks at me like I’m crazy. “Which part of my-husband-wants-to-meet-you-for-dinner sounded like I was dumping you?”

“Sorry,” I say, “it’s been a very weird day.”

That evening, I finally speak to Ashley. “Are you okay?”

She doesn’t say anything.

“Was that an invisible shrug? It’s not a video phone.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Is there anything you want to tell me?”

“Not really.”

“Are you alone? I mean, are you somewhere where you are at liberty to speak?”

“There’s no one here,” she says.