Truth and Marriage 


It was around eleven o'clock and the party was progressing well when,
in the middle of "Truth or Dare," Anthony Williams urged his wife to
confess the worst thing she had ever done, and she announced she had
been unfaithful to him.

There's a context, a background. There always is. Margaret wasn't just
being bitchy. She had been drinking. Well, who hadn't? They were all
celebrating the season and the end of the semester. There's more. She
hadn't been feeling well. There was this persistent chill and a vague
malaise in her shoulders. It was almost bad enough to make her miss the
party. She thought she might be coming down with something, but Anthony
had insisted they go.

Then there was the game. They were playing "Truth or Dare" to remind
themselves of when they had been kids. The game and the alcohol helped
Margaret a little, but there was a kicker, that she was angry with
Anthony. Oh, not terribly angry. Just doing a slow burn. (Tony, stop
grandstanding! Just be quiet for a change!) He was expounding on the
Iraqi war and on global warming, on the worthlessness of their
students, on everything in general, being terribly overbearing, finally
telling anyone who would listen that the worst thing Margaret could
ever have done was burn a roast.

People were laughing and tossing one-liners, trading urban legends and
cutting each other off. They were reaching across to the coffee table
to snag nuts or candy or other hors d'oeuvres, sometimes spilling a
little wine or whiskey. The small fireplace put a smoky smell into the
air, and those sitting close by were ruddy from the flame, even
Margaret, who was trying to draw some warmth from it. Everyone else
seemed to be having a wonderful time.

Just before her turn at the game, Margaret saw Matt Cameron kiss Nancy
Eberle under the mistletoe. This wasn't surprising, given all the
teasing and flirting that was going on, but it was far too long a kiss,
and he had one hand on her waist and the other at her cheek, in a way
that was. He whispered something to her. It was obvious, and
indiscreet, but no one else noticed. Julia Cameron was in the middle of
the urban legends group. Jake Eberle was three-quarters drunk, staring
into the fire and occasionally looking up to howl at the end of a
story.

It came around to Margaret's turn. She could tell from the progression
of dares that hers would be to pull her skirt up to her hips so
everyone could be flashed by her thighs and panties. She wondered who
would be the first to have to show a body part. Anthony was laughing.
"Hey! That's only for me!" -- (Stop it!) -- leering around -- (Stop it!) --
then saying "Come on, Margie! Tell them your little truthie," and
Margaret felt the muscles around the base of her neck grow tense,
thinking (Damn it, Tony!) and getting wound tighter and tighter, so
when it slipped out it was with a snarl:

"I was unfaithful! To you!"

And then it was too late not to say it.

* * * * *

Margaret remembers that her husband's expression didn't change at
first. He held the leer, but it became more and more forced, until
finally he let it go. They were looking directly at each other, and his
expression became so bland he seemed almost serene. The room filled
with silence. The party noise didn't dial down all at once, but it was
quick enough. Those who were closest by had begun to howl like Jake
Eberle when they first heard her confession, but they'd caught on right
away. Those away from the game kept up their conversations until it
became clear to them that something momentous was happening over by the
fireplace. All ultimately turned to stare. Margaret was the center of
the world. No one spoke. Even Jake was paying attention.

"Would you explain?" It was Anthony. He was no longer being Tony. He
sounded sober, quiet, thoughtful, not the least bit belligerent. She
would have thought he'd be belligerent. Why was he being so soft about
it?

She thought, `My marriage!'

Then the full truth of who knew hit her. Their whole circle of friends.
All of them sitting or standing around her, all of them waiting for the
whole story, the dirt, the stuff that would let them feel superior to
her and to shun her. Did she suck him? Does she like anal? Does she do
threesomes? Did she pull the train? They would become so charged up
with thoughts of a found-out, honest-to-fuck cheater in their midst, a
bona fide, flesh-and-blood slut to replace their pale imaginings, that
they'd have extra-good sex when they got home. How wonderful to have
Margaret's real infidelity in mind. The husbands would suppose that
she'd be easy, and the wives would think it too, and fear it, but
they'd enjoy the idea that Tony-the-cuckold might need consolation. One
in particular would even act on the fantasy, though that's neither here
nor there.

(Oh Tony, please no.) Margaret was still looking at Anthony, then her
friends, again at her husband. She doesn't know when her hand moved to
her mouth. (Tony.) She remembers a whine or cry forcing itself past her
hand, but for what seemed the longest time she didn't actually say
anything. She was asking his forgiveness only with her eyes. (Please.)
She remembers somehow getting to her feet. (Please.) She remembers
looking around, finally saying "I'm sorry" while she tried to get out
of the circle without touching anyone, one "I'm sorry" to each person
she came to, each person she bumped against. Finally making it to the
hall, where there weren't any people, then to the bathroom, shutting
the door, locking it, sitting on the toilet, putting her face in her
hands and rocking forward and back, because she knew that with five
words she had destroyed her world.

* * * * *

It can't have been long before the knocking started.

Poor Margaret, sitting on the pot in a freezing bathroom in someone
else's house, knowing what would happen -- not every step but the
terrible, long course. Thousands, millions of people have shared the
experience, but she did not feel part of a community. Poor Margaret,
trembling and wiping her face with her palms, first the left side, then
the right, then the left. How much of the trembling was shivering? (I
can't face him. I can't watch him despise me.) By now, Anthony would be
gone. He would have grabbed his coat and left her there alone, his
outrage having been multiplied by his public humiliation. (Where will I
stay?)

The bathroom felt like a cell, all the better for locking herself away,
she thought. It was small like a cell. From the door to the back wall
it had just barely enough length for a small linen closet, a plain sink
below an ordinary medicine cabinet with a weak light, the toilet, and
the one fancy thing -- an old-fashioned bathtub with four claw feet. It
was perfect for her. The tiny, casement window at the back wall had
milky glass, so she was cut off from the world. It was cold like a
cell. Was that because it was all tiles, colorless ones, black and
white, set in checkerboard? So cold. Margaret hunched down and hugged
her arms close to her body. She couldn't hear the people from in here,
just vague murmurings, so she was safe for now. She imagined staying
forever. It would soon be a terribly lonely place, but she didn't
deserve any better. (I fucked him and fucked him.) There was no other
place for her. Could she stand the cold? Maybe she could wrap some
towels around herself. What would happen when other people needed to
use the toilet?

More knocking. It seemed to reverberate off the tiles. Even the sounds
hurt her. Sharp noises ricocheting off the walls. Margaret pressing her
palms to her temples. Hammers in her head.

"Margie?" It was Judith, the hostess, her friend. Margaret looked at
the door for a moment and pulled more tightly into herself, to resist
the chill. Again, "Margie. Hey, let me in, kiddo."

"Judy?" Was her voice strong enough to get though the door? Rise up,
Margaret. It was a trip of only seven feet, but Judith called a third
time before she got there. By then, she was shivering terribly and her
arms ached from the holding. When she opened the door and saw Judith
was smiling, she fell on her, put her head on her friend's shoulder,
and broke down completely. For her part, Judith let her stay a minute,
patting her back. She seemed completely at ease, as though friends fell
on her neck in her bathroom and cried every evening. "Come on, kiddo.
Let's wash your face. I'll heat you a washrag."

"Close the door." Margaret was shivering enough to put a quaver in her
voice.

"What?"

"Please close the door." Shivering. "I don't want anyone to see me." 

"It's okay."

"Please close it!" That effort took what was left out of Margaret. She
staggered to the toilet and sat and, when she did, she sagged to one
side with an eddy of vertigo or syncope.

"Sure. But it's okay. Tony explained everything."

Margaret blew on her hands. She put a hand on the side of the tub and
leaned, to stop the bathroom from rocking. Then she turned and gave her
friend a look of complete incomprehension. It would have been funny in
a comedy. Pure shtick, the character taking long moments to realize
what she had just heard. Or Wile E. Coyote running across the air,
delaying his doom by lack of realization. It wasn't at all funny to
Margaret, who didn't get the joke because there wasn't any joke. "What
do you mean?"

Judith's face changed. "Ohhhh!" She blew a quiet little whistle, the
kind used mostly by men, that signals significance. "Well, that
explains it. He's covering for you, and doing a pretty good job, I
might add. He's a quick-thinking guy."

"I don't understand. What are you saying? What's Tony doing?"

"He explained that you two cooked up your, um, confession in advance,
but you never expected people to take you so seriously, and you've had
a few too many drinks. You know. Yadda yadda. People want to apologize
to you, but he's telling them you need a few minutes alone. He's got
them telling drunken-friends stories. He's the center of attention
again."

Margaret still looked like she didn't understand. Finally, she put her
face back down in her hands. "No one would believe that."

"Well I was almost fooled." Judith chuckled. It had a snide sound.
"Anyway, you have deniability."

"But," began Margaret, and almost stopped, "he knows the truth." And
therein lay the real problem, the one without a solution, to be
contemplated while Margaret huddled on the toilet, now sensing the
beginning of nausea. Now grabbing the seat below her to make it stay
still, and was awash in memories.

* * * * *

(Their bathroom was different. One afternoon we did it in their house
while his kids were home. How could they not notice me? We did it in
the shower, fornicating under the water jet while John's children were
watching TV downstairs, not forty-five minutes before Janet was due
home. I had to dry myself and rush getting my clothes back on, then
sneak out the side door. My hair was still wet and dripping down my
back. I was terrified the whole time, terrified and hot.)

"What? I'm sorry." Whatever Margaret had was getting worse, She was too
weary to hold herself up. (I need to lie down.)

"I asked, when did it happen?"

Margaret wiped her eyes with the washrag. She unfolded it, spread it
completely over her face, and inhaled the heat. "It was a long time
ago. It started the night of our tenth anniversary."

"Oh my! Sounds like you had some serious issues."

"It wasn't that serious. It was stupid. Tony hadn't gotten me a
present. And he had to cancel our dinner out because of a meeting. I
was hurt, and furious."

"And you ran into Mr. Soft-Shoulders."

"More like Professor Gorgeous." (Please stop pushing.) Judith reached
out and Margaret handed her the washrag. Judith soaked it in hot tap
water, wrung it out, and gave it back to her.

"Who was it?"

"Don't. He's not here anymore. No one ever knew. Not until tonight."

She couldn't keep it from herself, though. She couldn't keep from
remembering because she was weak with whatever she was catching, and
the drinks, and what she had said. It was so small a thing in the big
picture, being upset with your husband. Then she saw good-looking John
Boehler, at the club without his wife, and they got to flirting. She
thought she shouldn't dance with him, but she did. She knew he
shouldn't walk so close, but she let him. She was afraid something
would happen, and she let his hand first brush her hip, then hold her
fingers. When they got to her car he said, "What you need is a good
anniversary kiss." He gave her a sweet, almost chaste kiss that went on
and on and became something completely different. (Before he let me up,
I knew he was going to have me.)

"So how long did it last?"

"Three months."

"Three... oh my goodness." Judith's eyebrows rose high. She whistled
again. It was the exact whistle Anthony used. "I thought maybe you fell
off the wagon for a weekend."

"No. I fell off big time." Margaret tried to laugh, but it came out as
a whimper.

"I guess it was the real deal."

"It was so crazy. I know people say that, but it was."

Judith asked something else, but the past came back and pushed Judith
aside. It made Margaret remember the first time, in John's minivan in
the parking lot at the club. She remembered herself saying "No. We
can't. Not here," and John answering, "Watch." It took a couple of
minutes to lower the back seats. There was a plush sleeping bag. The
windows were tinted. It wasn't until weeks after he broke it off that
she realized he had prepared for her, or for someone.

"Are you all right? I mean physically?" Judith was still there.

"I don't feel very well."

Not Saturday night at the party, but six years earlier, Margaret had
felt impelled, excited, scared, unspeakably high. John Boehler and she
had French kissed, and he had squeezed her breasts through her dress.
He'd unbuttoned the dress, pulled her bra up, and licked a nipple. (I
was out of my mind.) He'd worked the dress down to her waist and up
from her legs, petting her, kissing her, removing the bra entirely,
pulling off her panties and fingering her like her senior-year
boyfriend had. (I felt guilty, but I wanted it. I knew I shouldn't but
I wanted it too much. It was electrifying.) Finally, he'd pulled his
pants down and gotten on top of her, and when he'd pushed his erect
penis inside her, the first new penis in twelve years, she had come,
and kept on coming, one wave after another, until he was finished. (My
God. Why did you have to let it be so much more exciting than sex with
Tony? Why couldn't it have been awful? I'm sorry, God. It's not your
fault.)

It was exactly like high school except that she came and she hadn't
back then. Neither was even naked. Her dress was rumpled around her
middle. His pants were down at his knees, but he hadn't bothered to
pull off his shoes or remove his jacket. Floating outside the minivan
was a thought of Anthony, and how she was fouling the nest and should
get home. But, inside, Margaret felt the pressure of John's penis, the
dampness between her legs, aftershocks from her vulva -- and the weight
of a man who wanted her, who planted intimate little kisses on her, and
who bathed her in hot breaths.

At home it was different. Anthony was absolutely apologetic, as
hang-dog as a man can be. He'd gotten her a nice card, and flowers, and
an expensive bracelet. He promised to make the evening up to her. But.
But, but, but. He was too late for all that. He had failed her. And
there was still the humming up and down her slit, put there by another
man, and the memory of the rush. And - (Oh my God!) - her thighs were
damp. She could smell the sex. She hurried into the bathroom to cleanse
herself and became so horrified that she almost confessed everything to
Anthony that very night. But -- the final but -- she had lain awake until
3:30 a.m., playing back the details of John Boehler pumping her. When
he had called her the next day, she'd dithered and hedged and finally
agreed to go to his house. (I'll explain to him why I can never do that
again.)

By the end of the day it got a lot easier.

* * * * *

Six years into the future, Margaret couldn't stop her memories and
couldn't shield herself from the understanding that her actions had
finally struck her husband, her marriage, her family, everything. (Why
did it have to happen? It almost didn't seem like me, but it was me all
right. I thought about you all the time. I obsessed about your body,
about your penis. All day I thought about doing it with you, wondering
how you'd use it on me next. After I'd been with you in the afternoon,
I'd think about it that night. I'd be out of sorts until I could be
with you again.)

More knocking. A quiet double-knock.

"That will be Tony. I'll leave you two alone."

"No! Don't leave me with him."

But Anthony wouldn't have it. "We need to be alone, Judy."

Anthony closed the door and Margaret rose and stepped back against the
tub, far enough that she pushed the shower curtain with her body. Her
feet were now cold, all the way up her shins. Somehow the curtain felt
prickly and bad where it touched her skin. She didn't have any
strength. The shivering was worse. It wracked her in surges. It was
time to sit again, wasn't it, or lie down? She couldn't keep standing
like this. Would Anthony understand if she couldn't stand? She couldn't
look him in the face anymore, not even to plead with him, certainly not
to ask if it was all right to sit. Here is where retribution began. She
was almost rocking as she tried to stand still. She held her hands
together in front of her, as though in prayer, and Anthony... well,
Anthony took a breath and asked:

"Are you all right, honey?"

His voice was soft again. His Anthony voice. It wasn't right. He would
use the voice that cut through her. He would demand an explanation, or
he'd tell her he was through with her, or he'd slap her. She half-hoped
he'd hit her but at least let her go home with him. (Whatever you did
to me, I'd deserve it.)' She tried not to start crying again. (That
won't fix anything.)

"I'm so sorry, Tony."

"Oh, that's all right. I was being an asshole. I deserved it."

"That's not it, darling. You know it's not. I never meant for you to
find out." Tiny black dots, a mist, began to appear in the air.

"About the affair? Well, that was a long time ago. I think John Boehler
is out of the picture. At least I hope he is."

Anthony smiled and, once again, Margaret didn't understand. She tried
to think, but instead she felt something terrible happening inside her.
The room grew darker, and she sensed a rushing, and the next thing she
knew she was sitting on the edge of the tub and Anthony was kneeling in
front of her, holding her so she wouldn't fall into it. He was
apologizing. "I'm sorry, honey. Lean on me. That's good. Put your head
down. Okay. Okay. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have shocked you like that."

He sounded far away.

* * * * *

They were floating somewhere, Margaret and Anthony, drifting together
among the clouds. Maybe it was a dream. She was wrapped in him, safe in
his arms, held by him, pressed against him, smelling him, protected by
him. (My Tony.) They were floating somewhere far away, high above the
ground, somewhere green and tropical. She and her husband. It was a
blazing hot day. It felt wonderful.

"Can you hear me?" Her Tony was talking. Then, "My God, now you're
burning up."

Margaret was aware again, and she had some awful combination of
muscle-pain and weakness, and dizziness. Her head ached. Her eyes were
wet. "Tony? What's happening?"

They were on the checkerboard-patterned floor, beside the tub in the
Edwards' bathroom, where Anthony was holding her. He was stroking her
face, kissing her, and looking worried. Her face was hot. Her whole
body was radiating heat.

"Lie still."

"I'm sorry Tony."

"You've definitely got a bad bug, honey. I've got to get you home."

Margaret tried to stretch out a leg. It was caught behind the toilet.
She twisted, writhed in Anthony's arms, and suddenly she knew what he
had said, the importance of it. (He knows! And he still loves me!) Once
again a comedic shtick, once again nothing funny about it, for what
comes with that knowledge? Guilt, relief, regret, thankfulness,
humiliation. Memories. It's a potent blend. Margaret began crying once
again, but this time she did it into Anthony's chest and let him
comfort her. (He loves me!) She couldn't stop crying, because Anthony
loved her.

* * * * *

Anthony let Margaret cry herself out. He spent the time extricating her
leg and adjusting her body, so that she could lie more comfortably,
then he put his mouth to her forehead. "Shh. It's okay, honey." He was
holding her like he often did after they made love.

When Margaret could talk at all she said, "I thought you'd hate me."

"You're my sweetheart. Don't worry. Nothing's coming between us."

She cried some more, then asked, "How long have you known?"

"From the beginning. No. Don't look that way. I don't know exactly when
it started, not the day and hour, but I knew for a few weeks before it
ended." 

He, too, could keep a secret. (I wish I didn't know so much. You never
thought to empty the deleted email folder on your laptop. It was too
easy to find out everything important. I could even tell the
investigator where you would be, in advance, so he could get the
photos.)

Margaret made a sound against Anthony's chest, half a cry, half a
whimper, a moan, something. (Weeks!) "Oh my baby!" Anthony just kissed
her head again.

"It's okay. It's past." He raised his head and called out. "Judy! Can
you get Margie something cold and sugary to drink?"

"But you never showed it."

What Anthony said was, "I couldn't let you know. I had to decide what
to do. And it's past." What he thought was this: (If you knew how much
I covered up hating you, you'd be terrified. I'd never felt that way in
my life.)

Margaret reached a hand up to his face, but she felt too shy to
actually touch him, now that she knew he knew. "It must have hurt you
so much."

"Yes. It did."(It still does sometimes.) He took her hand and kissed
it. "And we don't have to go over it." 

Anthony tried to help Margaret to her feet, but she grew lightheaded
again, so they went back down to the floor. He called to Judith and her
husband again, and Margaret was again assaulted by memories. (I thought
I was so careful. I thought if we had sex once in a while and I gave
you a nice `O' show, you would think everything was fine.)

There were questions Margaret didn't want to ask, but now had to. They
were of the things she'd known would be the cost if Anthony ever found
out, that she had worried about, on and off, across the years. She had
to ask him now, because he'd known all along.

"How could you stand to stay with me?"

To this, a sigh. Margaret felt it in Anthony's chest as much as heard
it. "I saw a `Dear Abby' column. A woman asked what she should do about
her philandering husband, and Abby told her to decide whether she'd be
better off with him or without him. I followed the advice." Another
sigh. (I'd want you. I'd want to hurt you. I'd want what was best for
the kids.)

"But how could you still love me?" Margaret almost didn't ask that
question, because she was afraid he would decide, after all this time,
that he didn't.

"That was harder." For a long time he thought he didn't. (I was trying
to be practical.) That changed when he'd remembered how they had been
before, how once they had held hands, and talked, and walked with arms
around each other, and played. He remembered the little things she had
done for him because she was affectionate. (Somehow, I'd grown
irritated with you. Why? You took time away from my work. You talked
about things that bored me. You didn't do chores efficiently. Stupid
things. We argued over nothing, Margie. It wasn't all bad. It was just
flat. Why wouldn't you look around?)

What he said was, "But I missed you, and realized I'd lost you, and my
only hope was to win you back."

Margaret noticed the hesitation in Anthony's voice. She saw him stare
at nothing in particular. A towel rack. The door. (You loved me all
along. You did. Even then.) She touched her hand all the way to his
face, and when she moved the syncope grew worse.

Anthony helped Margaret to stand again, leaning against him, then swung
his left arm under her knees and picked her up like a child. (My poor
darling. I once believed, because you're so powerful, that you couldn't
be hurt.) The room rocked and then they were out in the hall.
Margaret's right arm was swinging back and forth, like a doll's arm.
She couldn't hear people. (I must have broken up the party.) She pulled
her arm from down below, all the way up to Anthony's neck, pulling
herself in with whatever energy she could find, so that her face was at
his shoulder. "My strong man," she whispered. He smiled. (Would you
carry me like this if you knew just how bad I was? Could you still love
me? Could you stand to even touch me? I'll tell you if you ask, but
please don't ask.)

Anthony carried her into a den in the back of the house. The room was
all wood--floors, walls, ceilings. To Margaret it was like a shelter
deep in the woods. Safe with her Anthony, who took care of everything.
(What if you knew about the time in John's office? He made me take off
my clothes and masturbate right in front of him, then suck him all the
way. Students were waiting out in the hall, to see him. I don't want
you to know about that. I don't want you to know how turned on I got
when I thought about it later.)

Anthony lay her on a leather couch and took a glass of apple juice from
Judith, and helped Margaret drink. Judith rested the fingers of one
hand on Anthony's thigh while Margaret sipped. She wasn't obvious about
it, and Anthony ignored her.

(This is so much better, Margie. It's so good being tender to you. How
long did I want to crush you? I wish you hadn't brought it back up. At
one point I planned to convert everything to cash and disappear with
the twins. When you got home, we'd be gone. All you would have would be
the photos from your affair. But then there was the other side.)

Judith left again.

"I remember what you did. I didn't know why you were suddenly so
sweet." Margaret's forehead was now covered in a fine sweat. "Right
after it ended. That was when you arranged the surprise trip to Blowing
Rock, just us two, and your mother came in to baby-sit the twins."

"Yeah. Part of my plan. I didn't know what I'd do if you refused to go.
It was either that or... I don't know." A shrug. He was losing the words.
"I didn't know if it was already too late." So much had changed. (When
we were first together, you'd sparkle when you were around me. That's
the word my mother used. Sparkle. I thought it was silly. Childish. It
embarrassed me. Then you weren't sparkling anymore.)

"What if...?" She almost stopped herself. "What if it hadn't ended then?"

"You were both married. You both had kids. I had to count on it." 

Margaret didn't need to know everything, didn't need to know Anthony
had stormed into Boehler's office with copies of the photos, and told
him, "If you ever see my wife again, I'm giving these to Janet and
passing them around the university! You call Margaret this minute and
tell her it's over -- that you're tired of it!" (I could have killed
that motherfucker.)

"Well, you were right. He dumped me."

(And I surprised myself by feeling sorry for you, at how sad you
became. I would have thought I'd bask in the glow of your broken heart.
But that was my chance to come back into the picture.) All Anthony said
was, "He was a dick."

Margaret knows John was more than a dick. He was a dick without a
conscience or limits. While Anthony helped her to her feet, her face
hot, her body hot, her energy draining to the floor, Margaret was
remembering. (Once he just pushed me over the back of his divan and did
me from behind. I didn't want him to come, because he'd stop.)

"How could you ever trust me again?"

"It just took time." (I know when I became certain you wanted me again.
I was grading papers, and you leaned over the chair to kiss my head,
and you played your hands over my nipples. You asked, Don't you need to
come to bed? Maybe I could tell you that. I also snooped in your laptop
for over two years. I still do, every so often. I'll never tell you
that.)

Margaret raised her head as though she was going to make a point, then
stumbled from the den, though the hall with her hand across her mouth,
back to the bathroom, where she began throwing up onto the toilet seat.
Anthony followed her and held her hair out of the way. When Judith
looked in he said, "I'm sure it's the flu." They let her retch until
she was empty, then carefully, ever so carefully, helped her out to the
car, half carrying Margaret, who was still remembering despite
everything, the nausea, her shoulders, her head: grunting and pounding
against John to wring her last climax from a session. Being completely
winded and sweaty. Dozing, tangled in each other.

* * * * *

The next day, Margaret was sweaty and winded in bed at home, and dizzy,
nauseous, guilty, miserable. Anthony had set a plastic trashcan beside
her, in case her stomach took her short, and a travel-mug of iced
ginger ale. When she thought she couldn't eat anything, he proved her
wrong by bringing in soda crackers and a cold, peeled, navel orange,
and when he set them down she grabbed him around the waist and held
onto him like she was drowning.

"I love you so much!" She was crying again. Maybe it was weakness from
the flu. Maybe it was relief at being unburdened. Maybe it was love. "I
promised myself I'd never do anything like that again. I promise I'll
never hurt you again."

"I love you too, honey. And I know you love me." (You began acting
sweet to me. I thought you loved me again, but it seemed too soon. Then
one day I surprised you at your office at lunchtime, and you began to
sparkle.)

Anthony peeled her arms away and tucked her back in bed. Her eyes were
still feverish. He took her temperature, then kissed her.

"Don't. You'll catch it too."

"Then you can nurse me." She pulled him back down and kissed him. It
made her dizzy. Everything made her dizzy.

"I want to do that. I want to nurse you. And I want to make love."

"You're on. That'll be the best way to catch it."

"Tony. If I ever so much as look at another man, will you please beat
me?"

"I promise. I'll smack you right on the kisser." He made a fist and
touched it lightly to her lips. (I'd hurt you. The next time I would.)

"I'm serious!"

"So am I." He laughed and kissed her forehead. (I might kill you.)

Anthony had to go back to the kitchen, to make dinner for the twins, so
Margaret had plenty of time to think. There was so much she couldn't
tell him, ever. (You don't understand, my darling. I love you so
deeply, you could never know. But I was never your rutting bitch. I
wish I had been that way with you. It's the worst thing about the whole
period, how thrilling it was.)

As Margaret was drifting off, she thought that Anthony would certainly
catch the flu from her, and she would be able to care for him. When the
bug made him as weak as a kitten, she would give him a long, slow
blowjob into the night, to thank him for loving her. She could hardly
wait.

Meanwhile, Anthony went on line to check that John Boehler was still at
a university far away.