“Fucking Christ,” the husband said.
Yeah, no shit.
Audrey sits on the floor, shivering and tearing up, then finds Paul in the shower and leans into the spray and cries into his neck. A few minutes later though—partly because one thought she had, even as she listened, was thank god, she can leave with a clear conscience—she texts Paul the Lover the good news.
Paul the Husband celebrates with his first real food since Friday, the bowl of Trader Joe’s own organic corn flakes that he woke up craving, and before leaving for work says there’s one thing he’s not sure about, are they still unconscionably bad parents, for not cleaning this way back in the summer? They don’t know, but agree on no more shoes in the baby’s mouth, and toys they find under the couch will get washed. Or at least rinsed.
Our guests gestured like Sure, that’s reasonable.
Now here, I said, is where things get interesting. Because the scene when the kids get home is what you would expect. Audrey clutches the baby until he squirms away, grabs the red magnet sticking out of her pocket, shoves it in his mouth, never mind the dust and fuzz, and toddles toward those pristine foam tiles. Then she pulls the older boy into a hug and says yes, she is crying, but it’s because she’s so happy they’re home. Okay? Then, between that moment and Tuesday evening—and this is according to Audrey, she insists on it—nothing unusual happened, nothing unusual was said. Audrey worked, Paul worked, they had dinner that night like always, no post-ordeal sex, no crescendoing moments with the boys. And yet, when Paul the Lover opened his door Tuesday night, he could see Audrey had changed her mind.
“What?” the husband said.
“I knew it,” the wife said.
“But why?” the husband asked.
My wife, arms crossed tight, legs straight and crossed at her ankles, was glaring. Since introducing Paul the Lover I’d been reckoning vaguely that trouble turning into more trouble would mean some sort of absurd demand that I stay away from Audrey, and in response I’d been feeling vaguely indignant. I still thought I could defuse it though, insist that I wasn’t Paul the Lover, tell her the story was bad judgment, a joke gone wrong, but that glare said otherwise.
That’s just it, I said. Audrey had no explanation. Usually we tell ourselves stories to justify our decisions, right? But Audrey insists there’s no story. I’ll give her credit. She didn’t tell Paul I owe it to him to stay, or It’s only fair to the kids, or It’s the right thing to do, which would have implied, right, that there was a “wrong” thing? She told him I’m staying, and when he said he didn’t understand, the baby was okay, that meant nothing had changed, she said I’m sorry, if I could explain I would, but I can’t. I’m staying, that’s all.
“And that’s the end?” the husband said.
“That’s the end.”
“But what happened to everyone? What happened to Paul the Lover?”
“My understanding is that he got back on his feet eventually. Moved on.”
“People usually do,” the wife said.
My wife, arms still crossed, finally spoke up. “How’s the marriage doing?”
“Yeah,” the husband said. “Was this, like, a transformative experience for Paul the Husband?”
“No,” his wife said. “Life doesn’t work that way.”
“Audrey doesn’t badmouth him,” I said. “But I get the sense it’s not all sunshine and delight.”