The Silent Wife: A Novel Read online

  At least he does his best to be discreet and as a rule does not advance on her friends, although there have been times. There was a couple they used to be chummy with, people they met on vacation in the Caribbean and bonded with over margaritas and snorkeling lessons. The couple ran a business selling prefab cottages, and Todd had nothing but contempt for this. Nonetheless, for several winters running they made a point of meeting up with this couple at designated resorts. She suspected that Todd and Sheila had something going on but put it out of her mind until the afternoon they disappeared from the poolside and reappeared a while later looking like cats who had lapped up a big bowl of cream. This alone she might have overlooked, but then there were the subtle displacements in Todd’s swimming trunks and the dab of something gelatinous glistening in his chest hair.

  And yet, none of this matters. It simply doesn’t matter that time and time again he gives the game away, because he knows and she knows that he’s a cheater, and he knows that she knows, but the point is that the pretense, the all-important pretense must be maintained, the illusion that everything is fine and nothing is the matter. As long as the facts are not openly declared, as long as he talks to her in euphemisms and circumlocutions, as long as things are functioning smoothly and a surface calm prevails, they can go on living their lives, it being a known fact that a life well lived amounts to a series of compromises based on the acceptance of those around you with their individual needs and idiosyncrasies, which can’t always be tailored to one’s liking or constrained to fit conservative social norms. People live their lives, express themselves, and pursue fulfillment in their own ways and in their own time. They are going to make mistakes, exercise poor judgment and bad timing, take wrong turns, develop hurtful habits, and go off on tangents. If she learned anything in school she learned this, courtesy of Albert Ellis, father of the cognitive-behavioral paradigm shift in psychotherapy. Other people are not here to fulfill our needs or meet our expectations, nor will they always treat us well. Failure to accept this will generate feelings of anger and resentment. Peace of mind comes with taking people as they are and emphasizing the positive.

  Cheaters prosper; many of them do. And even if they don’t they are not going to change, because, as a rule, people don’t change—not without strong motivation and sustained effort. Basic personality traits develop early in life and over time become inviolable, hardwired. Most people learn little from experience, rarely think of adjusting their behavior, see problems as emanating from those around them, and keep on doing what they do in spite of everything, for better or worse. A cheater remains a cheater in the same way that an optimist remains an optimist. An optimist is a person who says, after being run over by a drunk driver and having both legs mangled and mortgaging the house to pay the hospital bills: “I was lucky. I could have been killed.” To an optimist that kind of statement makes sense. To a cheater it makes sense to be living a double life and talking out of both sides of your mouth at the same time.

  In asserting that people don’t change, what she means is that they don’t change for the better. Whereas changing for the worse, that goes without saying. Life has a way of taking its toll on the person you thought you were. She used to be a nice person, nice through and through, but she can’t make that claim anymore. There was the time she tossed his cell phone into the lake, complete with the message from the female caller who addressed him as “Wolfie.” The time she put his boxers in the wash with a load of colors. The many times she’s seen to it that he misplaces things. She is not proud of these misdemeanors. She would like to think that she’s above this kind of behavior, that she accepts him for who he is, that she’s not one of those women who feel they are owed something by their men after going into it with open eyes, but she counts her own transgressions as slight compared with the liberties that he freely takes.

  Having shown Miss Piggy out, she proceeds to the gym on a lower level of the condominium, where she lifts weights and cycles 10K. Following a lunch of leftover cold vegetables with mayonnaise, she takes a shower and dresses for a round of errands. Before leaving she writes out instructions for Klara, who comes in to clean on Wednesday afternoons. Daily routine is the great balm that keeps her spirits up and holds her life together, warding off the existential fright that can take you by ambush anytime you’re dithering or at a loss, reminding you of the magnitude of the void you are sitting on. Keeping busy is the middle-class way—a practical way and a good way. She enjoys the busywork of scheduling clients, running her household, and keeping herself fit and groomed. She likes things orderly and predictable and feels secure when her time is mapped out well in advance. It’s a pleasure to flip through her daybook and see what she has to look forward to: spa visits, hair appointments, medical checkups, Pilates sessions. She attends nearly all the events organized by her professional association and signs up for classes in anything that interests her. Evenings, when she isn’t cooking for Todd, she has dinner with friends. And then there are the two extended vacations—one in summer and one in winter—that she and Todd always enjoy together.

  Driving around in her Audi Coupe, she puts the windows down and soaks up the noise and commotion of the city, taking pleasure in the din and tumult of things going on everywhere: the vendors, street musicians, and outdoor markets—and even the crowds, sirens, and traffic jams. A teenage girl with a bunch of balloons dances across the street. A man in a white apron sits in full lotus on the steps of a restaurant. She stops at the framer’s with the Rajput painting, picks up a travel book, buys a kitchen scale to replace her broken one, and on the way home sits down with a frappuccino at her local Starbucks, leaving herself enough time to walk the dog and broil a chop for dinner before attending her class in flower arranging.

  2

  HIM

  He likes getting an early start, and over the years he’s pruned his morning routine down to the fundamentals. His shower is cold, which kills the temptation to linger, and his shaving gear consists of canned foam and a safety razor. He dresses in the semidarkness of the bedroom while Jodi and the dog sleep on. Sometimes Jodi will open an eye and say, “Your shirts are back from the laundry” or “Those pants are getting bagged out,” to which he replies, “Go back to sleep.” He swallows a multiple vitamin with a jigger of orange juice, brushes his teeth from side to side, the wrong but fast way, and thirty minutes after getting out of bed he’s in the elevator riding down to the parking garage.

  Well before seven he’s sitting at his desk on the fourth floor of a four-story building on South Michigan, below Roosevelt. This building—a brick and limestone structure with a flat roof and steel-framed insulated windows that were state of the art when he installed them—was his first large-scale renovation, undertaken after a decade of flipping houses and before the South Loop condominium craze sent property values out of sight. When he first acquired it the building was dead space, and he financed its conversion into office suites with three mortgages and a line of credit, all the while laboring side by side with the workmen he hired. He could have done everything himself, but if his money ran out the banks would foreclose. In this business things like mortgage payments, taxes, and insurance make literal truth of the saying that time is money. The suite he has claimed for himself is a modest one, consisting of two offices, a small reception area, and a washroom. His office is the larger of the two, the one overlooking the street. The decor is modern and spare, with bare surfaces and solar shades—uncluttered with antiques and bric-a-brac as it would be if he’d let Jodi have her way.

  He makes his first call of the day to the deli that delivers his breakfast and orders, as always, two BLTs and two large coffees. While he’s waiting he takes an old tobacco tin from his desk drawer, pries off the lid, and dumps the contents onto his desktop: Bugler rolling papers, book of matches, and small baggie containing a handful of dried buds and leaves. During the time he was depressed he found that smoking a little weed first thing could lift him out of his apathy and help him get down to work.
He’s accustomed now to the ceremony of rolling and lighting up, and he likes the mellow way of easing into his day. He takes his spliff to the window and exhales the smoke into the open air. Not that it’s any kind of secret that he likes a toke or two; he just doesn’t think that TJG Holdings should smell like a frat house.

  It used to be that from his window he had a clear view of the sky, but what he sees now is a small irregular patch of blue floating amid the condos across the street. Better than nothing, and he’s not going to knock the boom. Anyway, his attention is focused on the people waiting at the bus stop. A few are standing in the shelter even though the morning is clear and mild and the shelter is littered with trash. He likes it when he can ID some of the regulars: the bopper with the headphones and backpack, the old skinny guy in the baseball cap who chain-smokes, the pregnant woman in the sari and jean jacket. Nearly everyone is focused on the oncoming traffic, straining for a glimpse of the approaching bus. As usual, one or two have stepped off the curb and are standing in the street to get a better view. When the sighting finally occurs the tension visibly dissolves, as if they were one and all of the same mind and body. Reaching for fares, the loose congregation compresses into a restless column. He, of course, spotted the bus when it was blocks away. Sometimes he feels like God up here at his fourth-story window.

  The man from the deli brings breakfast to his desk and takes the money that’s been left for him under a paperweight. Todd gives him a nod and continues talking to Cliff York on the phone. He’s making notes but won’t need to refer to them. He has no trouble mentally keeping track of names, dates and figures, times and places, even telephone numbers. The project under discussion, a six-unit apartment house in Jefferson Park, is in the middle stages of completion. Initial obstacles—plans, permits, financing—have been overcome, and all the units have been gutted. He and Cliff, his general contractor, are talking about water pressure. They set a time to meet later in the day to look things over and hear what the plumber has to say.

  Tackling his breakfast he finds the toast a little soggy, but the bacon is crisp. When he’s finished both sandwiches and one coffee he gets back on the phone, this time with his real-estate agent, who has found him a potential buyer. This is good news. The apartment house is an interim project. If he has to he’ll hold on to it and lease the units, but the game plan is to sell it and use the capital for his next venture, an office building on a grander scale, something that will trump everything he’s done so far.

  Stephanie arrives at twenty past nine. She takes her time getting sorted and it’s half past before she appears in his office with her notepad and files and pulls a chair up to his desk. Stephanie is girlish, a young thirty-five, with bushy hair that she bundles into a ponytail. He always takes an interest in where and how Stephanie is going to place herself, whether directly across from him, where he can see her only from the waist up, or to his right, where she’s inclined to cross her legs while resting her forearm on the desktop to take notes. The oval desktop overhanging a rectangular base allows for plenty of legroom all around, so when she chooses to display her legs, for whatever reason, he counts it as his lucky day. If she’s wearing jeans he has a view of her crotch and thighs; if it’s a skirt he gets to look at her knees and calves. She doesn’t flirt but doesn’t seem to notice or care if he watches her cross and recross her legs. Today she’s in jeans but takes a seat on the far side of his desk, so he has to make do with the twin peaks that strain against the middle buttons of her blouse. She’s not much taller than five feet, which is why the size of her bosom is so impressive.

  She’s brought in a sheaf of files and a list of things to run by him: pricing on ceiling fans, Web addresses of landscapers, questionable invoices. Anything that is not strictly routine, he wants to know about. He didn’t get where he is today by overlooking details or letting his business get away from him. He’s only one man and his profit margins are not stupendous, which means that everything counts. He glances at his watch, just so she knows that her late entrance has not been overlooked.

  “Nothing from Cliff?” he asks, when it comes down to the invoices.

  “Not yet.”

  “Show it to me when you get it. Last time he listed material costs for something that we supplied ourselves. What was it?”

  “Bathroom tile.”

  “Right. Bathroom tile. And grout. He billed me for the goddamn grout.”

  She’s done the research he asked her to do on toilets and hands him the brochures. “The low-flow models are cheaper than the dual-flush, but they’re not reliable,” she says.

  “What’s wrong with them?”

  “They don’t always flush.”

  “They have to flush.”

  “It doesn’t always go down.”

  “Cliff has installed them before.”

  “You can’t chance it,” she says. “Not with rental units. You should take a look at the dual-flush options.”

  He frowns and asks, “How much?”

  “It’s not too bad. You can get something reliable for five hundred.”

  “That’s three grand for the goddamn toilets. We could go to Home Depot and get toilets for fifty bucks apiece.”

  “You could, but you won’t.”

  “What else?” he asks.

  “You need to think about fridges and stoves. It could take a while for them to ship.”

  “Get me some quotes. If everything comes from the same supplier we should get a price break.”

  “How do I know what sizes?”

  “Look at the plans.”

  “I don’t have the plans. You took them home with you.”

  “Get a set from Carol at Vanderburgh. The units aren’t all the same.”

  When she’s gathered up her papers and given him a view of her retreating ass, he drifts for a while, listening with one ear to the busy noises coming from her office. His mind is on everything at once, encircling the whole of his world at a sweep, as if it were a baseball field and he were on a home run, flying by the bases, all the while with his eye on the ball. It’s come to a point where he savors the constant apprehension, the risk he takes with each small decision, the strain of being overextended, the pressure of betting everything on the current venture. The anxiety he feels is stabilizing in a way, letting him know that he’s alive and on track. It’s anxiety cut with anticipation, an interest in what comes next, a stake in things unfolding. This is what propels him through his day.

  During his depression he lost that forward momentum. In fact, the loss of it was the very thing that was wrong with him. It was time without nuance or modulation, always the same, minute by minute, day by day. He knew nothing of the defeat or futility that people assumed he was feeling. He was simply not there, an absence, an empty space.

  He checks the time and makes a call. The sleepy voice that says hello gives him a gratifying jolt, waking up his gonads.

  “You’re not still in bed.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Don’t you have a class?”

  “Not till later.”

  “Spoiled rotten.”

  “I hope so.”

  “What are you wearing?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Birthday suit.”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “Why do you think I want to know?”

  “Is this official?”

  “Off the record.”

  “I’ll need that in writing.”

  They keep this going for a long while. He pictures her lying in twisted sheets in the cramped bedroom on North Claremont where she shares an apartment with roommates. He went there once, in the early days when there were still places on her body that he hadn’t touched. Afterward, in the kitchen, the roommates gathered round and asked a lot of nosy questions—mostly about his age and his wife. After that they started meeting at the Crowne Plaza on Madison, where the staff is consistently distant and polite.

  As he talks to her he’s buffeted by feelings that
still register as vaguely foreign, making him wonder if he’s someone else, not Todd Gilbert but a man who sidled into Todd Gilbert’s body during the months when he was absent. In the short span of time that he’s known her, she’s given him back his life. That’s what he owes her, the gift of life, as found in the feelings that make a man human—not just love but greed, lust, desire . . . the whole teeming, disruptive lot. Even his impatience is a gift, the impatience to be with her that dogs him the whole day through. Even his jealousy is a gift. He knows it’s her right to be with a younger lover and fears that it’s just a matter of time before she figures this out. Painful as it is, he’s at least in the land of the living.

  Jealousy is new to him; he’s used to feeling confident with women. According to Jodi the confidence comes from growing up an only child with a doting mother, a nurse, who stuck to part-time work in spite of money being tight so she could mostly stay at home and look after him—her way of making up for the shortcomings of his father, a public-works employee who drank. When he was still in high school he assumed the role of his mother’s provider by learning how to make money and take responsibility, and for this he was much praised, not only by his mother but by his mother’s friends and his teachers and the girls he knew. Women like him. They like him because he knows how to look after them. He looks after Natasha, but there’s a catch with Natasha. She makes him conscious of his aging body and flagging vitality. Not because of anything she says or does; only because she’s young and desirable and insatiable.