Page 31 of The Wife

“So what was that?”

I remembered a few boys eagerly passing around a magazine when I was a couple of years older than Spencer, scanning the school hallways to make sure no teachers were watching before covertly handling the transfer. Into the next backpack the magazine went. Trisha and I concocted a plan to get a glimpse at what we were missing. While Teddy Dunnigan was working on his homework at lunch, Trisha undid an extra button on her blouse and leaned over to ask if he knew the math assignment for sixth hour. While he ogled her, I slipped my hand into the open backpack on the floor behind him and made off with our bounty.

By that time, I had seen plenty of R-rated movies and a couple ofPlayboys. I had even let Bill McIlroy cop a feel under my shirt. But I hadn’t seen—or heard of, or even imagined—the kinds of things depicted in the photographs in that magazine.

Those pictures would be tame compared to the videos that were now prevalent online. I had read articles about the damage that pornography does, especially to kids, boys in particular. We supposedly had filters to keep Spencer from looking at that stuff, but I had no idea how well they worked, especially for a kid as smart as my son.

“Nothing,” he said, a little too quickly.

“Spencer... .” I started to reach for his phone, but he snatched it first.

“Not cool, kid.”

He relented and handed over his device.

His browser was open to a blog calledThe Pink Spot. I had never heard of it.

The photo at the top of the post was the one making the rounds—Rachel’s blurred face nuzzling up to Wilson Stewart. Someone had marked the photo with a red no-smoking insignia.

I skimmed the post quickly enough to gather that the author was complaining about the “victimization” of the “brave woman” who had stepped forward to question Jason Powell’s “white male privilege.” I hadn’t had a chance yet to check that day’s Internet activity.

“Now it’s a race thing?” I asked, immediately feeling guilty for speaking to Spencer about this. I was supposed to be protecting him. “It’s just one blogger.”

“Look at the comments,” he said, not meeting my eyes.

There were twenty-four so far, not many compared to a mainstream website, but more than a few. I finally found the one Spencer was talking about.

His wife grew up four blocks from me. Thinks she’s hot sh*t. Always goes to the fanciest restaurants when she visits to make sure we know she “made it.” Truth is, she ran away in high school for 3 years and came home after she got knocked up. Only thing she has going for her is this guy. If he’s guilty, I say, KARMA BABY!

I recognized the name of the commenter, Deb Kunitz, as a girl two years behind me in school.

Another commenter had a follow-up question:I would have assumed his wife was a fellow academic or maybe in politics. Does this add another layer to the story? Maybe he can’t handle an intellectual equal?

A second reply followed:Sounds like an interesting angle. Please DM me on Facebook if you’re willing to give me specifics.I realized that the reply had come from the author of the original blog post. She had asked Deb for a “direct message,” a private e-mail, looking for the details of my background, which apparently might provide “another layer” to Jason’s “story.”

“The Pink Spot?” I said aloud.

“It’s like a snarky chick website. Fake feminism, if you ask me.”

How did my kid know all this?

“It’s fine, Spencer.” It would take access to police reports to figure out exactly where I had been for those three years, and even those wouldn’t contain all the facts. “Don’t worry about it, okay?”

I could tell he was thinking about saying more, but then he flashed a toothy grin over the back of the sofa. “Hey, Mom. Can you explain to me why it’s calledThe Pink Spot? Because I don’t understand.”

“You’re trying to put me in the grave, aren’t you?”

“Don’t kill me, but you totally sounded like Grandma right then.” He was back on his screen again, looking at something that had nothing to do with me.

21

Kerry Lynch answered the door in her work clothes, but she was holding a nearly empty wineglass, a small, fluffy white dog circling her bare feet.

“Cute little girl,” Corrine said.

“Boy, actually, but yeah, he’s a sweetie. Aren’t you, Snowball? I spoil him like crazy to make up for the fact I’m never home. Sorry you have a shitty mommy, baby.”

Kerry had sounded so shaken when she called that Corrine drove all the way out to Port Washington to take her report. In truth, she could also use the overtime.

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