The Damp, Gray Gone Ch. 02

"Awkward, huh?" she said after a moment, her voice low and her eyes on the floor.

She had dark circles under her eyes, her pallor looked pale, and her hair was dull and lifeless.

"You doing okay?" I said, lifting her chin with my hand.

She looked up at me with a blank stare. "Sure."

"You don't look so good."

She looked around the living room, now stark and half empty after our property division.

"You need some new furniture."

"Probably this weekend," I said. "I'll probably go shopping while Kyle's with you this weekend."

She paused, then nodded.

"Hey Mom," Kyle said, running through the kitchen toward her with little Sonny doing his best to catch up from behind.

"What's this?" she said, leaning down and pulling Kyle into a tight hug.

Kyle was squirming with the pressure of her squeeze, and he managed to break free enough to scoop the bouncing puppy into his arms.

"He's Sun Tzu," Kyle said. "Isn't he great?"

She looked at me, then back to Kyle and the puppy. "Sun Tzu?"

"We call him Sonny."

Kyle held him out to Whitney, who took the writhing, wheezing little creature into her hands and stared at him.

"He's ugly," she said, smiling.

"He's cool," Kyle insisted. "Real cool."

She handed Sonny back to Kyle, who made faces at the dog before holding his cheeks closer to Sonny's face for an endless series of squealing licks.

"So he finally got his dog," Whitney said, her eyes staying on Kyle and Sonny.

"It's helped," I said.

"I see that."

We watched for a moment longer, but the silence soon became uncomfortable.

"Well, you two best be going," I prompted.

Her vacant stare jarred at that, and she turned and looked at me.

"You'll have him back by eight or so?" I asked.

"Somewhere around there."

"Give him here," I said, holding out my hands to Kyle.

He transferred Sonny to my arms, then turned and took Whitney's hand.

"So what're we gonna do?" he said to his mom as they walked out the door together.

I didn't hear her response, preferring to close the door behind them.

"No," I said, holding Sonny up and looking into his sparkling brown eyes. "What're we gonna do? Huh?"

His yipping response told me our plans had better include dinner.

* * * * *

"Has either of you ever read this?" I asked, sliding one copy each across my desk toward Randy Meeks and Heather Farley.

I, Claudius, by Robert Graves. They picked up their copies, looked at the cover, then flipped to read the book's description on the back cover.

"Never heard of it," Randy said, pushing his glasses up before running his fingers through his tangled hair.

"Me, neither," Heather said.

"It's about Claudius, a Roman Emperor who died in 54 A.D."

"And we're gonna be researching him?" asked Randy, confused. I preferred military history, and he must've had visions of researching some great historical battle.

I shook my head. "Not Claudius. Or the others, for that matter. No, I want you to read the book and tell me what you think we should be researching and writing about. Something that's not been covered in great depth."

"Based on this?" Heather asked, looking at the book again.

"Based on that," I said. "Read the whole thing by Tuesday and get me a memo on your recommendations. Each of you. And don't work together."

"So you want our own ideas?" Randy asked with no apparent aggravation at being asked to do this over the Labor Day weekend. "Not a joint effort between the two of us?"

"Precisely, Mr. Meeks. I want you to each read it and come up with a new angle of looking at the transition period from Roman Republic to Roman Empire. Any aspect of that transition. This book, while not history as such, can at least be useful in showing you how many things happened in history that we don't really teach. Or even know, for that matter."

He shot a glance at Heather, but she was already reading the first page of the book.

"So I'll leave you both to it," I said, waving them off.

Randy rose to leave, but Heather stayed still, locked in the book.

"Ms. Farley?" I said.

She looked up, her concentration broken. "Yes?"

"You don't have to do it here," I said. "You can probably go back to your dorm or apartment or whatever and work on it there."

She frowned, then shook her head. "If it's just the same to you, I'd rather stay here. My roommates are back and getting set up. I'll never be able to--"

"The library?" I suggested.

She smiled a dazzling array of teeth and sparkling green eyes. "Here's fine."

Randy looked from her to me, then back to her again. She was already slouched back into the chair reading again.

We gave each other a look. Women. Then he smiled, shook his head, and left.

"Tuesday then," he said on his way out.

* * * * *

By three, my last faculty meeting of the week was complete. There was still no word about Professor Whitman and the potential vacancy for Dean of History, and I was afraid to say anything to anyone or let on in any way that I knew something could be up. The other professors--Whitman included--likewise seemed to be going about business like there were no changes on the horizon.

"You still here?" I said upon entering my office. Heather had moved from the chair and was now behind my desk scribbling notes on a piece of paper.

"Uh huh," she said, not bothering to look up.

I watched her, amazed. It was clear she'd finished at least most of the book by now, which was no small feat. And given her frantic writing pace, it was also clear that she had a plethora of ideas for research projects.

"Can I have my desk back?" I asked, tossing my briefcase in the chair she had been sitting in when I'd left two hours before.

"In a sec," she said. She finished writing something, underlined a word three times, then looked up at me.

"Wow," she said, her face a mixture of wonderment and amazement. "How've I never heard of this book before?"

"Good question," I responded, walking behind the desk and looking at her notes. It was a series of questions. Very perceptive questions at that. "It's a classic," I mumbled. "One of the top works of the twentieth century by almost anyone's reckoning."

"Jesus," she said, wheeling my chair back and hopping up, snatching the notes away before I'd finished reading them. "It's really . . . I don't know . . . inspiring, I guess. To think that you can do something like this with something like that."

"Like what?"

She laughed. "Roman history, Professor. I mean, come on. Have you ever studied anything so incredibly dry and boring in your life?"

Before I could respond, she threw her arms around me and hugged me tightly. "This is gonna be so much fun."

I froze, terrified of three things. First, that someone would walk through the door at any moment and I'd be in deep shit. Second, that her hug would last too long and she'd feel my soon-to-be-rampant hard on pressed against her. Third, and in apparent conflict with the latter point, that her hug would end anytime soon. It felt . . . well, you know.

I cleared my throat just before terror number two could rear its ugly head--so to speak--and backed away from her.

"Fun," I agreed.

She winked at me. "Tons of fun," she confirmed, then slid the book and her notes into a backpack which she slung over her shoulder. "Same time tomorrow?"

I tried to find my voice, but couldn't. She took this for a yes.

"Til then," she smiled. "Toodles."

She sashayed out the door, the sashay more provocative than the day before.

There was no doubt she knew her effect on me. Hell, she had that effect on any straight, post-pubescent male with a pulse. And she seemed more than willing to use it whenever the mood struck her.

CHAPTER TEN

I didn't really feel like going back to the office the next morning, beautiful blonde coed or not. Instead, I had two spare keys for the office made--one for each intern--and left them with Sarah, the secretary, bright and early the next morning.

With three free days over the Labor Day weekend now expanded to four, I spent the morning surfing the net for living room and master bedroom furniture ideas.

A few things that should be exceedingly obvious. First, I'm a guy, so I could care less if my furniture all matches the rest of the decor. Second, I'm a guy, so I don't really know what decor is to begin with, let alone how to match any of it. Third, I'm a guy, so shopping for furniture ranks right up there with flat beer and colonoscopies on my list of shit to avoid--pardon the pun.

To that end, God bless the internet. We have a few furniture stores in Grant City, including the ones in the shopping mall on the edge of town. Rather than wade through the shopping throng for hours the next morning, I decided to get some ideas up front, make sure they were in stock, and get it all done without hardly leaving the house.

Two hours later, though, I knew I was in deep shit. Apparently, furniture fabrics, styles, and colors are all written in a secret code that only women can understand. I, who can speak two languages and read four (English and Spanish; those two plus Latin and Greek, if you're curious) simply couldn't decipher what the hell they were describing. The pictures helped some, but not much. So with a sigh, I gave up.

Sun Tzu was sleeping in his crate in the corner of the den, his smattering of snores, grunts, and dreamy yips barely audible, yet strangely soothing. I decided to look through my e-mail, then crash for a nap before Kyle got home.

I had four e-mails. Heather and Randy both e-mailed that they were done reading I, Claudius and hoped to have me their preliminary notes by Monday morning. I e-mailed them back and said Tuesday was fast enough. The third e-mail offered to introduce me to the wonders of Viagra at a low introductory rate, which was more than a touch insulting. The fourth e-mail, though, would soon have me wishing I had saved the Viagra offer, because I was sure an erection was nowhere in my immediate future. Oh no, that fourth e-mail emasculated me all over again.

The message was from CLDLaw@lincty.net, and it was entitled "Saturday?" I clicked the message, not knowing what to expect.

"I know you're still mad at me," the text read. "but I really wish we could move past all of that. What's done is done and there's no changing it. Now that the dust is settled, though, I was wondering if you wanted to have a drink together or maybe even dinner. There's no reason we can't still be friends. Or more."

And just that quickly, all the pain of the past five months came crashing back down on me. Sure, I knew sooner or later I'd be seeing Whitney with other men. Hell, we were both going to be moving on, and it did no good to pretend otherwise.

This, though, was different. Way different. This was a reminder of that great unanswered question: What the hell had happened to my marriage? Reading the message again and again, I could glean no clues to help me answer that question, but I now had an e-mail address to investigate if I wanted answers.

I sat back, tense as hell and still trying to decide whether I should investigate this further when another thought occurred, a thought that all but directed my course of action. Namely, how had this e-mail come to my e-mail address? Actually, to the e-mail address Whitney and I used to share?

The answer came almost immediately: Whitney had opened another e-mail account; an e-mail account with a name close to our own.

I logged out of the e-mail account, then went through the log in procedure again. I typed "Patterson123@lincty.net." I stared at it for a minute, then added a 4. "Patterson1234@lincty.net." I typed in my password--hell, any password would work--and got "Invalid E-Mail Address." I deleted the 4 and stared.

It had to be close to our actual e-mail address. There was no way they'd been communicating through our home e-mail. Given how often I checked our e-mail, it was far too risky to use our own address. Still, it had to be close. Close enough where one extra letter or number--or one less, for that matter--would result in the e-mail coming to our regular address.

Five minutes later, I had it. "Patterson_123@lincty.net." That little underline made all the difference. Now that I had a valid address, time to figure out the password. I tried everything. Her name, my name, Kyle's name, middle names, parent's names, maiden names, all of the names with birthdates and social security numbers and anniversary dates and old phone numbers. Nothing. The message was always the same. "Invalid Password."

I looked at the clock on the wall. Almost three. Kyle would be home soon. Then my eyes drifted over to a small, brass nameplate, the paperweight I'd gotten for Whitney when she won her first jury trial. SuperLawyer. I remembered giving it to her, and remembered more vividly her giddiness and giggling and excitement as she placed it smack dab in the middle of her desk all those years ago. And now there it sat, dusty and ignored, forgotten on a shelf in the corner of my den. I wondered how long it had been sitting there, how long since she'd taken it out of her office and brought it back here.

Turning back to the screen, I typed it in. SuperLawyer. The second attempt, with all lowercase letters, and I was in. One click on the history of undeleted messages, and I was staring at a list going back eleven months.

"Dad," Kyle called from the front door, slamming the door behind him.

"In the den," I said, highlighting the whole list and clicking Print All.

"Hey, Dad," he said, steamrolling into the room and straight for the crate. "Hey, Sonny."

The pup was already up, standing, yipping at Kyle, his tail going a mile a minute.

"Come on," he said, opening the crate and running back out of the den, Sonny in hot pursuit.

I looked at the list of e-mails being printed, then to the door Kyle had just run through, then back to the e-mails. I clicked on a message dated March 19, 2010. The evening Kyle and I had stayed awake eating pizza and watching movies, Whitney silent on the couch the whole time. The evening a few hours after I'd told her I was going for the divorce.

"I know this is tough on you," he wrote her. "You've been so unhappy for so long, and now you're feeling guilty and sad. Sad at the shambles your marriage has become, guilty because your little boy is going to be going through this. I wanted more than anything to take you into my arms again today. Hold you and hug you and make tender, gentle love to you. While I understand your confusion, and how torn you are about finally leaving him, just remember how happy we will all be together. You, Kyle, and me. I want it more than anything in the world, and I know you do, too. We'll be the happiest family in the world when that day finally arrives."

I was right, I thought. She'd met him that day, but she hadn't screwed him. Not that day, at least. The e-mail strongly implied that they had already had sex by then, though.

I read her response to CLDLaw. It was from the next morning.

"He told me yesterday afternoon that it's over," she wrote. "Luke is divorcing me. We are telling Kyle today sometime. I don't know what to do. Last night we ate pizza and watched movies until Kyle fell asleep across Luke's lap. You should have seen them. They were so peaceful and content. As I watched them, I realized one thing. You and I don't have anything like what Luke and I have, and we never will. I don't know what I have been doing for the past two months, but it stops now. I do NOT want to see you again."

"Dad?" Kyle said from the doorway.

I looked up.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

I tried to smile. "Nothing, little man."

I exited the e-mail and scooped up the thick stack of printed messages. "Just let me put this away, and I'll come out and play with you and Sonny, okay?"

His face lit up in joy. "Hurry," he said, running back outside.

I locked the e-mails in a drawer, then went out to the backyard to join Kyle and the Romescu clan all playing with Sonny. The poor little fellow seemed about to burst from the excitement of having five screaming kids all chasing him and throwing things for him and petting him. He looked exhausted by the love being showered upon him, and I envied him.

"It was a good idea, Doc," Sally said from behind me.

"It's taken his mind off of things, that's for sure."

She placed a hand on my shoulder. "It'll all get better, you know. It'll take awhile, but it'll get better."

I put my hand over hers. "Thanks."

"No problem," she said, reaching around and pressing a cold can of beer into my chest. "Now come on. It's Friday night."

We both drank our beers and chatted while watching the kids run little Sonny ragged.

* * * * *

"Did you feed him yet?" Whitney asked as she shouldered Kyle's duffle bag shortly after six.

"No. Figured you'd want to take him out or something."

"Probably just something quiet back at the apartment," she said. "It's been a long week."

"Tell me about it."

"Classes starting next week?"

I nodded, not really wanting to engage in small talk with her. She knew damned well classes always started immediately after Labor Day. And she knew Kyle hadn't been fed because he'd asked her where they were going the second she walked in.

"No furniture yet," she said, her eyes lingering across the great room and kitchen.

"This weekend."

She turned to me and gave a small smile. "That's right. You told me that."

Kyle raced back into the room, stopping at the couch before he came to us. Sun Tzu was sprawled on his side in the middle of the couch, still panting in exhaustion from the afternoon play session.

"Bye, Sonny," he said. He petted the dog, gave him a gentle kiss on the muzzle, then hopped up and ran to me for a hug.

"Have a good weekend, Dad," he said, squeezing me tightly. "I love you."

"I love you, too," I said.

He took Whitney's hand, and she led him to the door.

"Have a good weekend, Luke," Whitney said.

"You, too," I said, then--bitterness finally rising to the surface--added, "Super lawyer."

She froze, then turned over her shoulder and looked at me for a moment. The look on my face must've confirmed her worst fears because she sagged, nodded, and led Kyle to her car.

* * * * *

Four hours and three beers later, I knew a few things.

First, Whitney had lied. She'd slept with him on at least a half dozen occasions.

Second, he was clearly a lawyer. A lawyer with a firm whose e-mail address was CLDLaw@lincty.net.

Third, there was a firm in nearby Sherman Oaks named Cahill Levine & Dunleavy. There were nine lawyers in the firm, and seven of them were men. There was no e-mail address listed on their web site.

Fourth, he'd chased her. Hard. And it took months before Whitney had finally succumbed to his advances.

Fifth, despite his repeated entreaties, she'd never taken back up with him after her e-mail of March 20.

Sixth, with the exception of the occasional digs from him about how I didn't really care for her feelings and ambitions, there was no indication what I'd done wrong. None of Whitney's e-mails--not a goddamned one of them--had said anything negative about me. Instead, I was more like an afterthought in all but her March 20 e-mail. In that one, I read more like a fond memory, sort of like a nostalgic look back at a happy Christmas memory from childhood.

There were still some things I didn't know, though.

First, who the hell was he? Neither of them had addressed or signed any of their messages back and forth.

Second, what started this? Sure, he'd chased her, but I had no clue if she'd first sent the signal she was available or looking.

Third, when did I go from being Whitney's husband and the love of her life to a fond memory? When did she quit loving me and why?

What the fuck did I do wrong?