Chapter 9

IT FELT LIKE I’d been stabbed. A sharp pain in my gut, my heart rate somewhere over a hundred. I’d come home at the usual time to find the house apparently empty. Unusual. The ladies should have been home. Our Amy was six months old by then. Fred’s Julian was three months. Both women nursed and they hated pumping. Our temporary nanny, a luxury but a necessary one in this first year while we were still sorting out who would do what in the house, was reading in the nursery.

The babies were fast asleep. Little angels, everyone calls them, but every parent knows how demanding the little angels, even the so-called “easy” ones, are when they’re awake. These two were thriving. Happy, alert, demanding, yes, and interested in everything around them. Amy was almost crawling. Talking, too, if you count “gaa!” and “aah!” and “blurg!” as speech.

“And the big girls, Camelia?”

“Outside, Señor Matt.” We’d told Camelia to use our first names but she persisted in addressing me as Señor and Sarah and Fred as Señora or Señorita. She told us her parents had named her after “Camelia, la Texana,” from the narcocorrido made famous by Los Tigres del Norte in their 1984 ballad, “Emilio Varela.” It’s a bittersweet story, but I had to assume her parents knew it when they named her. As far as we could tell she didn’t share any of the fictional Camelia’s shortcomings. She wasn’t murderous, and she wasn’t the naïve twit the original Camelia had been.

She would transfer from her successful first two years at our local community college to the nearest state university for her junior year. She was organized and focused, qualities she’d evidently inherited from her parents. Her father worked at the post office. Her mother ran the front office of the high school, formidable to the kids and the adults around her, but everyone also knew she’d more than once ensured a kid who needed it got a free lunch in addition to the subsidized breakfast program. The number of kids who ate breakfast at the school even in our affluent area was a troublesome reminder of the local economy’s sharp divide between the well-off and almost everyone else.

I found them outside at the shallow end of the pool. They were together. Very together. Fred was perched on the edge of the deck with her legs bent sharply, her knees back and feet up on Sarah’s shoulders. The few gymnastics lessons she’d had when she was little had stayed with her. She was flexible. Her eyes were closed. In the moment or two I watched before I stepped back out of sight I saw Sarah busy at Fred’s sex. I saw one hand moving and guessed she was giving Fred the full treatment with her mouth and fingers. To say it was arousing would be an understatement.

I was also terrified and furious.

One thing about being married for a long time is each of you knows the other’s flash points and weaknesses and triggers. I’ve forgotten what started our fight last night. Something Sarah had said, and my reaction was extreme.

“We should have washed these dishes earlier,” pointing to the almost-full dishwasher.

“No, there’s enough room for tonight’s plates, and that bowl you’re holding can go there on the side.”

“No, that’s not safe.” Sigh. “I’ll have to wash it by hand.”

I didn’t respond.

“We really should have washed these earlier.”

“God f--ing dammit, Sarah! F-- you! F-- you!” She’d taken something I’d said out of context and refused to acknowledge it. My heart was beating, I’m sure I was red in the face. Not only that, she’d persisted in something that just wasn’t that important and wasn’t really true, in my view. The goddam dishes could have gone in the dishwasher, end of story. Instead, she had to make a big deal about it and act put-upon because we (I) hadn’t done the smart thing and run the stupid machine earlier. The only thing missing was an eye-roll, and perhaps that’s only because I missed it.

We’d gone to sleep without making up, a mistake. This morning I got up and showered shaved and dressed without speaking to her. We barely made eye contact. It was probably stupid of me to drive in that mood but I did anyway. I felt the flutter in my chest, the one I’d noticed over the past six months or so, but I ignored it.

I have enough control that I didn’t snap at Doug or any of the office staff, and by noon I acknowledged to myself what I’d already known--I needed to apologize to Sarah for my language even if she’d been in the wrong. It wasn’t the first time for us, and after each fight I swore to myself I wouldn’t lose my temper when we had the next one. So far I’ve had only middling success. Still, driving home I rehearsed my proposed apology.

If past experience repeated itself I’d apologize for my behavior while outlining why I was angry. I’d separate the issue from my reaction. Almost always Sarah would acknowledge she’d misinterpreted what I’d said and she would apologize for that. A hug and a kiss would seal our reconciliation.

Not this time. Not with what I saw.

This wasn’t the first time I’d seen Sarah with another woman, but it was the first time I’d seen her with someone else, man or woman, when we hadn’t agreed about it in advance. As we got to know each other better, Sarah told me about her adventures before she’d become exclusive with Bill. Adventures with men and women.

I was terrified because I knew Sarah had become fond of Fred in the time she’d been with us. I had, too, even if I’d never put my hands in a sexual manner on her. It’s not as if she hadn’t known of my interest. Sarah and I were not always discreet, if by that one means totally private, in our lovemaking. Once we’d become comfortable with Fred in the house if the mood overtook us we’d come together on the grass outside, sometimes in the kitchen, anywhere we felt like it.

There had been something simmering in these hot summer weeks. Fred never made any direct comment when we knew she’d seen us, but we knew from her little smile when we saw her next she’d seen something. Crafty little pie that she was, Sarah told me, Fred had begun, to be a little more exhibitionist with Sarah. Swimming nude was only part of it.

“She plays with herself sometimes, Matt.” Sarah and I were in bed one morning. “I think she knows I can see her. After all, she’s lying on one of the chaise lounges in the shade by the pool.” Sarah took me in her hand and I felt myself begin to respond as she stroked me slowly, her fingers moving just at the right speed to bring me to full extension. “Yesterday we’d both been sunbathing nude. She put sunblock on me, on my back, and gave me a firm massage at the same time. There wasn’t any funny business, really,” Sarah chuckled, “but she lingered a little on my butt. Not much, just enough to suggest something. She’s strong and her hands are soft. She’s got the touch.”

Sarah grasped me a little more firmly and began to stroke in earnest. I thrust myself against her palm.

“So what did you do, Sarah?”

“I returned the favor, of course.”

I was getting close. I thrust as hard as I could and fast. “I’m almost there, Sarah.”

“Good. Just let it come when you’re ready.”

I accepted her invitation and spurted into her palm. When I finished I lay back and closed my eyes. Sarah poked me.