Chapter “Four” Real

“I’m so sorry,” mumbled Erin, fleeing back to the den to get her clothes.

“She drove me home,” Blake said as he wiped himself with the towel and put a second around his waist.

“Oh, well then that makes all of this just peachy, doesn’t it?” asked Marlowe. “She ‘drove you home,’ sounds like it was a good trip!” Marlowe jumped from the bed to her closet where she snatched the first pair of pants and shirt she could find, and marched into the den seeing Erin getting dressed.

“You lousy WHORE!” Marlowe screamed. She took off down the stairs and to her car.

- – - – -

Her car. What was with her car today? How many times had she sat in the driver’s seat wondering where in the hell she was going? She threw it into reverse and took off.

It was still nearly the middle of the day. Close to rush hour. Maybe she should drive into the city. Less traffic. Although the reverse commute, she heard, was getting to be just about as bad as the standard one. She was still wearing her pajamas, and had flung the pants and shirt on the passenger seat.

“I need to go somewhere to get myself together,” she said to herself. “You’re gonna be fine. You’re gonna be fine.”

But after a few moments, she quickly pulled over to the side of the road. “You’re gonna be sick!”

Exiting the driver’s side, she ran in front of the car to the passenger side to throw up. Coincidence had it that she parked next to a sewer drain, and as the images of naked Erin and Blake kept replaying in her head, the contents of her stomach took a direct route to the water treatment facility. When she was done, she noted there was nothing she had to wipe herself off. Nothing but her pajamas. Opening the back door of the sedan, she jumped into the backseat, and removed her shirt  — all this on the side of Sheridan Road, one of the busiest streets in the suburbs as cars whizzed by — so she could wipe her face.

She finished changing in the back and decided the next destination would be a garbage can where she could dispose of the vomit-smelling clothes she was wearing when she found Blake cheating on her.

She was driving south on Sheridan — the route she was most familiar driving, the route to work. She pulled her Volvo sedan into the long driveway of the Grosse Point Lighthouse, a National Historic Landmark kept-up by the Garden Club of Evanston. The grounds were relatively empty.

She threw her clothes in the garbage, and because the lighthouse was a public park, used the public restroom to wash her face, rinse her mouth and wash her hands. She returned to the car to call Charlotte.

“I need your help,” said Marlowe. “I just caught Blake with a paralegal.”

“What?”

“With his paralegal. The young one. Erin. They were having sex!”

“Oh my God. Where?”

“Our house.

“Oh my God.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“Where are you? I will come meet you.” And within a few minutes, Charlotte arrived. She parked her car next to Marlowe, entered Marlowe’s Volvo.

Marlowe had a different tenor to the conversation now. “I just need to think this through,” she said. “This is not the time to panic. No rash decisions. I just need to think.”

“The guy’s an asshole, Marlowe. I don’t care if he’s dying. He’s an asshole for doing this to you.”

“The nurse did say that your personality changes when you have a brain tumor.”

“You’re not making excuses for him. Please tell me you aren’t going to start making excuses.”

“I’m not making excuses. I’m just trying to figure it out.”

“Do you even know how long this has been happening? I mean, was it the first time?”

“I have no idea.”

“He could have been doing this for months. Maybe weeks.”

“Maybe. But it just doesn’t seem like him. I honestly think it’s the brain tumor.”

“I honestly think you’re in denial.”

Marlowe’s cell phone rang. It was Blake.

“Don’t answer it,” said Charlotte.

“I’m not gonna.” Marlowe had set Blake’s ringtone to the tune of their first dance, Misty. She couldn’t handle hearing it, and clicked the phone off entirely.

They sat together in silence for many minutes.

- – - – -

“I need to take money out,” said Marlowe. “I need to take like five thousand dollars and open another account. I can live off that and save some until I get paid again. People live on professor’s salaries, right?”

Marlowe and Charlotte had only known a lavish lifestyle, thanks to their successful careers of their husbands.

“Take out ten thousand. Stick it to the bastard,” said Charlotte.

“Okay. I’ll take out ten thousand dollars and put it in an account. I’ll rent a place. Or find a hotel. I’ll find a hotel until I can find a place to rent.” And then Marlowe began to cry. “Charlotte, I just can’t go back there. Never. I can never go back there.” They hugged.

“Stay with me. Don’t go to a hotel. Stay with us until you figure out a plan. You shouldn’t be alone. This is hard. This whole thing is hard. We’ll help you,” said Charlotte.

“I can’t stay with you. You and Bill, you don’t need to get dragged into this awful mess.” said Marlowe.

“One night.”

“What will Bill say?”

“Who cares what Bill says. You’re my closest friend.”

“But Blake’s his.”

“True, but you didn’t get caught with your pants down.”

“Fine. One night. Tomorrow I’ll find a place I can stay for a while.”

- – - – -

The Peters’ home was tucked deep into a tree-filled neighborhood in Lake Forest. It was originally built and owned by the Montgomery family of Montgomery Ward’s, and the Peters were fanatics about keeping the wall coverings, the furniture, and the fixtures authentic. Charlotte and Bill filled their home with pictures of their kids, knickknacks from their travels, and sentimental items from relatives passed so that their expansive home felt darling and not so much like it was trying to show off. It felt substantial and cozy all at the same time.

A welcoming aroma of a simmering beef bourguignon led them through the front door by the nose. Charlotte, who Bill had nicknamed “the Julia Childs of the slow cooker,” was a huge fan of the contraption, and over the years, perfected dozens of entrees.

“It smells delicious,” said Marlowe.

“Thank you,” said Charlotte. “I’ll show you your room.”

Marlowe was thankful that a hearty meal would await them after she got settled and wondered how Charlotte — so successful professionally — still managed to be the consummate homemaker.

The guest room was the rear room on the second floor. It was something out of a Martha Stewart magazine: a subdued color scheme filled with all sorts of textures, nubby to sheen, and detailed with thoughtful accessories like a carafe for water on the nightstand and lavender-scented sachets in the empty dresser drawers.

“You’ll need pajamas,” said Charlotte. “I’ll go and get some. And perhaps a robe?”

“That sounds great.”

“There’s an extra toothbrush and towels in the bathroom around the corner. Let me know if you need anything else.”

Marlowe stepped into the bathroom, which she was thankful was attached to the guest room. Fully stocked, it had extra razors and tooth brushes, travel-sized toothpastes and soaps, sewing kits, eye masks, all sorts of sample-sized lotions, fragranced bath oils, soaps. There was absolutely nothing at all that Marlowe could have desired that wasn’t here.

Why did she ever agree to stay with the Peters? The place was too perfect. Something out of a magazine. The people who lived here didn’t have dead children, brain tumors or naked women running around the house. Not that any of that made life more comfortable for Marlowe, but it certainly made things more real. Marlowe started the bath. Maybe if she surrounded herself in perfumed bubbles, just for a little bit, she could escape into perfection.

- – - – -

Bill came home at seven o’clock just as Marlowe and Charlotte finished setting the table for dinner. Over the years, Bill had gained weight. Hadn’t they all. But Bill had gained more. Like he said, Charlotte was the Julia Childs of the slow-cooker, and Bill was her ever-ready epicurean. He had grown comfortable in their relationship, and his body showed it, which was no matter to Charlotte whose very soul loved his essence.

He walked through the door, kissed Charlotte, and then turned to Marlowe to give her a hug.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. His words were perfect. They were exactly what she needed, and Marlowe broke down in tears. She backed away from him, more aware than ever of being close to another woman’s man, though nothing even faintly resembling anything at all every sparked between Marlowe and her best friend’s husband. Marlowe was on guard.

“I’ll be fine. I’ve survived worse,” she said. It brought everyone to a dead silence.

“Well,” punctuated Charlotte, “we’ve got dinner all set.”

“And it smells like heaven,” said Bill.

“Let’s eat,” said Charlotte, and they sat at table.

- – - – -

Between the wine pouring and food passing and light conversation, Marlowe had internalized that social protocol demanded she and no one else break the ice about her predicament. The longer it took for her to bring it up, the more tension and loss for words everyone seemed to have. Bill was here now, and as an impromptu guest in his house, it was nearly mandatory that she more than mention it. The thing was, Marlowe knew that Bill would have a different take on the situation. There was no way that he and Blake didn’t speak. Like Charlotte and Marlowe, they were the best of friends.

“Thank you for sharing your home,” she said. That was easy enough. She could do this.

“Certainly,” said Bill. “Anything for you, Marlowe.”

“I’m assuming you’ve spoken with Blake,” she said. There. She said it. It was out there. Happening. She could do this.

“Yes. I have,” he said.

“I see,” and her voice trailed off.

“He feels horrible,” he said.

“Horrible that he cheated or horrible that he was caught?” she said.

“I’m not going to defend him,” said Blake. “It was wrong and I told him as much.”

“Good.”

“You should talk with him.”

“I believe he needs to talk with me. An apology for starters.”

“He said he did try to talk with you, but you stormed out in a big hurry.”

“Wouldn’t you?”

“Like I said, I’m not defending the guy, but you two need to talk.”

“Did you tell him I’m staying here?”

“No.”

“Good. Don’t. I’ll be out of your hair in the morning and you won’t have to be put in the middle of this.”

“Marlowe, the man is dying. He’s flipped his lid. Talk with him.”

“He knows how to get in touch with me,” she said.

“The I suggest when he calls, you pick up the phone,” said Bill.