Page 38 of Everything You Want Me to Be
I knew her completely and yet not at all. I could say exactly how she’d feel about any given book or play, what her favorite drink was, why she hated reality TV, the kind of people that made her nervous. Yet I didn’t know her face, her age, her weight, or her life. She could be divorced with six kids. She could be waiting on a job transfer so she could leave her husband. How could I be cheating with someone I couldn’t pick out in a lineup?
Yes, we’d had sex. Three times. It was cyber sex, though. What was the difference between that and one of Elsa’s romance novels? There was no one I could ask, no one I trusted besides HollyG, and when I did break down and ask her one day, she told me that everyone cheats in their heart and she was happy to tell me that I wasn’t any better than anyone else. I laughed, of course, but answered that I was more worried about being worse than everyone else. Then she said something I’ll never forget. She waited a long time to respond before she wrote, “You’re no worse than me. That’s all that matters.”
God, I was euphoric when I saw those words. Absolutely euphoric in a way only a complete sack of shit can be. I read her reply a dozen times, loving how she paired us together in a few simple phrases, how we had become the only ruler against which the other could be measured. You’re no worse than me, she said. So she was married, too. It made it somehow better, to know that she was as culpable as I was, that even our sins were compatible.
I locked myself in the spare room upstairs, telling Mary and Elsa that I was grading papers and developing lesson plans.
“How many lessons do you need for those kids?” Elsa asked me one night as I was clearing the table and preparing my exit.
“It’s a lot of work the first year. I’m starting from scratch and I’ve got six classes with different ages and abilities, not to mention teaching for the standardized tests. I have to go in with a game plan every day.”
“But it’s Friday, isn’t it?” Elsa looked to Mary for confirmation, who nodded silently while scooping the leftover potatoes onto a scarred metal tray that she always set outside after dinner for the barn cats. Since the chicken butchering day, she’d said less and less to me, and nothing that mattered.
“All the more reason to get a jump on it.” I grabbed a Coke from the fridge and ducked out of the kitchen before she could inquire further. I should’ve asked Mary if I could help wash the dishes or what she wanted us to do over the weekend, anything that would tamp down the raging guilt that raced through me every time I looked at her during the last month, but she seemed to want nothing from me, as if my total incompetence as a farmer had excluded me from every other area of her life. I didn’t pursue it. I didn’t try to reach her anymore, and as I shut the door to the spare room and logged onto my computer, I actually felt somewhat justified—complete bastard that I was—because she had turned away from me first. Mary was the one who’d left our marriage for someone else, and when HollyG found me in that forum I was desperate. Every night I’d been searching for first editions, signed copies, and rare or out-of-print books. It was my knee-jerk reaction to loss, ever since my parents’ divorce when I was ten. It wasn’t only the escape that attracted me; it was the predictability. Books were finite, a world contained between two covers that could be repeated as many times as I turned the first page. No matter how much misery Tolstoy unleashed or how often Chuck Palahniuk’s characters fucked their lives up, their stories became charted, inevitable. I could count on them. Lonely and hungering for connection, I went searching for books. What I found was something else entirely.
HollyG:There you are.
Her words, always so vital and direct, able to cut through all my bullshit, appeared on the screen and erased every thought of Mary or infidelity. Everything in me came to attention, but I was surprised. She usually wasn’t online this early.
HollyG:Things are slow tonight. I’m bored and want to see your face.
LitGeek:I’ll take that as a metaphor.
I’d been a teacher for less than two months and I was already doing that speech correction crap.
HollyG:No, actually I meant it literally.
LitGeek:??
HollyG:Do you want to meet me?
I sat bolt upright in the creaky dining room chair, scanning the words again to make sure I hadn’t misread. I typed, deleted, started again.
LitGeek:I do, but it’s not a good idea. You know my situation.
HollyG:Yes, I know. So how about we meet without meeting?
LitGeek:Again with the “??” What are you up to?
HollyG:There’s a community theater production ofJane Eyrein Rochester next week.
LitGeek:Does the wife take all in this version?
HollyG:You’ll have to come see to find out.
LitGeek:I don’t understand. You’ll be there?
HollyG:I’ll be at the Thursday matinee. I’ll wear a gray dress with white cuffs. We won’t talk or even sit near each other. Just a glance across a crowded room. We’ll meet without meeting.
LitGeek:I can’t. We’re walking a fine line already.
HollyG:Don’t worry, I won’t let you fall. Think about it. I’ll be there, whether you go or not.
God, I couldn’t get the idea out of my head. For two straight days it tortured me. The temptation to see, to give face and form to the only person in a hundred miles who gave a shit about me was overwhelming. By Sunday night I’d all but given in. What could be less illicit than two strangers watching a play on opposite sides of a theater? And I had this hope that seeing her in the flesh would kill my demented infatuation. Maybe she’d be sixty or covered in eczema. I could dream.
Calling in sick wasn’t an option. Mary would hear about my sick day before the play even hit intermission, thanks to Elsa’s cozy chats with the principal. I wasn’t eligible for vacation time yet either, but when I walked into school Monday morning I had a plan. We were readingJane Eyrein my senior Advanced English class, so why not take a field trip? I’d have eighteen kids with me, all eager for a day out of school with their cool, new teacher. It was the perfect cover. I got the principal’s approval, reserved a bus, and printed out permission slips, all before the first student walked into my classroom that morning.
As Mary and I got into bed the night before the play, though, my duplicity was making me nauseated.
