Confession, with Wolves

I don’t remember what I told you instead of the truth. Now that I’ve reached an age where I wouldn’t take my clothes off for any man, I can unload all of this. Yes, I fucked him—more than once. Does it really crumble a world to discover such things twenty years later? Can it retroactively unmake a marriage? It’s been a good marriage. As good as it gets. I mean, how good can it get? It’s a ludicrous premise. I asked you—oh, this was years ago—to name one couple we knew who was happily married and you said, without even pausing to let the question oppress you, “Jeannie and Craig.” It startled me at the time. I wouldn’t have thought of them. But sure, yes, theirs is a happy marriage. It was delayed by his womanizing and her kids, and it was infused with alcohol. Still is. I often thought their union thrived on a curious lack of complexity on her part—not a lack of depth, but a lack of the will to complicate everything, very rare in a woman—and by her utter trust in him. Jeannie doesn’t overthink things. She’s quite sunny. Craig’s so nerve-filled, you can hear the hum just standing next to him. A good combo. They make each other laugh, they’re often intertwined. In fact, I have a photo of them where she’s perched on a stone wall and he’s holding her foot; it’s quite unconscious and charming. They seem more devoted as the years add up, while most couples just grow contemptuous. So, yes, I agree, a good marriage. Not without its struggles, but happy enough. Most marriages look fine from the outside. I’m tempted to define a good marriage by a lack of overt malice—you know, the kinds of frenzied volleys of hatred our parents perfected. Absent that, a happy marriage.

Looking back, I’d say ours was good. Others would list us if they were posed the same question, don’t you think? We held hands. For forty-odd years, we went out for dinner, often just the two of us, and invented conversations. We would sometimes watch a movie together on television, though mostly you’d watch sports and oddball documentaries on a newly discovered species of miniature deer or the kooky architect of a castle made of discarded auto parts. You’d watch things that would drive me to reading old magazines or balancing the checkbook. We had a good sex life. A vigorous one, in fact, which is noteworthy. After all, you went from buff to pot-bellied quickly, probably in the first five years. I remember Keith Watford saying, “Man, look at that bread basket,” when we ran into him at the Lionhead. He back-pedaled by adding, “Well, we all knew Kat could cook.” I gave him a glaciated smile. Don’t compliment me because my husband is fat, you ass. I eat the same damned food he does. Why is this a formula? That it’s cute when a man goes to seed after marrying? Fred Flintstone and Ralph Kramden and the couples you see out every night: fat men with cinch-waisted women. Why is that all right? Men assume women will still bed them. Well, I guess they do. A woman will fuck a fat man. The inverse just isn’t as true. You keep flinching. Is my language bothering you? Yes, that and my anger, I know.

Still, for years, I was worried about other women. Men like you attract them. Men with money, with charm, with a breed of affability. You still had an air of election, had it until your early fifties. Everyone had expectations. I doubt they could articulate them, but they had them. When we first met, you were a whiz at everything, stellar in math and sciences. Even our professors were deferential. Remember? Weren’t you pre-med then? It was so long ago. These sorts of things go unspoken, but we all thought you’d cure something, invent...