Someone Else's Husband(94)
“No, Richard, I do not know. I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She glared at him.
They were quiet for a long moment.
“How bad is this situation, Richard?” Gretchen asked finally.
Richard gestured to the Rikers visiting room. “I mean, I’d say the situation is not great.”
She wasn’t going to let him wriggle away like that. This wasn’t a game. She leaned in and lowered her voice.
“Just yes or no.” She was asking whether he’d done it, without saying the words. “I am here. And I will agree to stay here, for the sake of our children, for the duration of this situation. Provided you tell me the truth right now. If I find something out later, I will leave. I mean it. Even if it hurts your case. Maybe I will even leave in such a way as to be sure it does.”
Richard’s face moved through anger to sadness, then settled on resignation. And in the silence, it was impossible for Gretchen to breathe.
“I did not kill Frankie,” Richard said. And there was a look on his face, a knowing look—that was the word that came to mind. “Did I have a crush? Maybe. Did I cross a line with her? I think you would probably feel I did. I’m not proud of that. And I am sorry, truly. I’m going to make it up to you if I get that chance. But, in this situation, I’d say there’s been a fair amount of bad judgment to go around.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Gretchen noticed she was gripping the sides of her chair. She forced herself to let go.
Richard shrugged. “It means even the most perfect people can let their anger get the best of them, Gretchen. Even you.”
I followed them for the whole loop—into the park and back. They stopped there and talked for a while with long faces. Like maybe they were even talking about how she was upset, unhappy. How she wanted to change things, finally.
Because that’s the thing: I know there are problems. I know all about it. And I understand. I know her in a way no one else can. Some people are just connected that way. They don’t even need to talk about it.
Later, I followed him sneaking out to see her. Together like it’s nothing. It’s not right. Not at all. For her. For me. It’s cruelty all around. And to what end? Why not just come clean and let everyone finally be happy?
And so that’s what I’ve decided. To make sure everyone tells the truth. I owe it to her. I owe it to myself. She feels the same way. I know it. The way I know my own thoughts.
Things for me aren’t great right now. But what’s that saying: Things are always darkest before the dawn.
And she’s the key to turning on the lights.
Before
Frankie
September 10
Richard’s apartment building is stunning in that old-world, Upper East Side way—intimidating, too. As the Uber Richard sent pulls away, I stand on the sidewalk, self-conscious about my bare feet and pajamas. I look down at myself, at the mess I’m in. The mess I am.
We never should have spoken after we came back home.
* * *
*
I woke up in my tent, headlamp on, halfway in my sleeping bag, still wearing all my layers, including my parka. What the hell? Then, slowly, it all came back: Van, the rock, the way he cried out. Just the one time. Then the silence. That fucking awful silence.
For hours we’d held out hope that somehow he would survive.
While we waited for word, Bakari found a bottle of whiskey secreted at another campsite and proffered it as we sat dazed in the dining tent. He told us to be careful—drinking at altitude was risky. But the waiting was too excruciating to face clear-headed.
And then the news had finally come: Van was dead. His body already being transported to a hospital near the airport to be readied for the trip home.
We all got drunk. It didn’t take much. We weren’t any less sad, but after a while it became harder to feel. And then, well, I didn’t really remember.
I checked my watch: 6:13 a.m.
Someone coughed—in my tent. I startled.
“It’s okay. It’s okay,” Richard said. When I rolled over, he leaned across the tent and handed me my water bottle. “Here, drink this.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“Bakari was right about the whiskey,” Richard said. “It hit us hard. You most of all. Probably a body mass thing, but you just put your head down on the table all of a sudden. You were half asleep while we walked you back here and got you into your sleeping bag. You okay now?” Richard looked sad sitting on his sleeping bag in the pale morning glow in the tent.
“Yes, I think I’m…really hungover? Or that could be altitude.”
“Both, probably. Or the shock,” Richard said.
“Is Van really…”
Richard nodded and looked away. “Yeah. It’s going to be so brutal—his wife, you know? They just—they were really, really in love. Not just married, you know? She’s going to be dev—” His voice cut out.
“I’m so sorry.” I reached out and put a hand on his hiking boot. I meant to do it only for a second. I intended to lift my hand away. But I could not. I did not.
Richard and I were kissing before I fully realized what was happening. It was tentative at first. But then we exploded against each other, hands digging under layers of clothing to find bare skin. I was on top of him, my hips pushed forward against his. Hands searching every part of each other. It wasn’t until I reached for his belt that I felt a jolt of shame. I was already pulling away when I heard a voice outside the tent.