Visiting Richard Gronier

Karlie and Kristina both laughed, and Liz managed a pained smile. But I knew that something was up, and it wasn't Alzheimer's.

Over the next few weeks Liz became a bit distant from me, though not less affectionate. We still made love regularly, and at least some of the time she seemed as passionate as ever. She was still interested in my work, in what the girls were up to, and in the life of our family generally, same as always.

But.

But there were occasional late meetings that kept her out until 8 pm. Occasional phone calls that she took privately in the den with the door closed. Once or twice they were calls from women colleagues—I knew this because I'd answer the phone—but I have no idea who the other callers might have been.

After one of her evening meetings she came into the house with a distracted, worried look on her face. I stood up to give her a hug and she said, "let me get a shower first, okay Alan? I'm tired and grubby."

Ignoring her protests I swept her into my arms, holding her tight and smelling her hair. She clearly hadn't showered since morning; on the other hand she didn't smell like sex, or a man, or like anything but herself. I let her go, and she headed for the bedroom.

Later, sitting with her in the kitchen while she made herself a sandwich, I said, "listen, Liz, is something going on that's bothering you? You've not been yourself lately, and I kind of miss you. Do we need to talk?"

She looked at me, alarmed, and said, "no, honey, really—work has gotten a little intense lately, but nothing special is going on. I could do without these late meetings, but when the Director or the Assistant Director says we all have to be there, there's not much I can do!"

She smiled at me, clearly trying to see whether I was mollified, and I pretended I was. But after she'd gone to bed that night I sat up in the living room until after 2 am, musing. Was it time to call Ernie Mattazollo again?

I knew one thing with absolute, perfect certainty. If Liz were cheating on me again, our marriage was over. It was with that thought in my head that I finally went up to bed.

Four days later it all blew up, in a way I'd never imagined. On her way out of the house after breakfast on Monday Liz said, "oh sweetie, turns out I've got another damn meeting tonight. I may not be home until 9 or so—is it all right if you feed yourself and the kids?" And without waiting for my reply she blew me a kiss and headed for her car in the garage.

Something snapped, and I rushed after her. As she got into her mini-van I jumped into the passenger seat and glared at her, while she looked at me in surprise.

"No it's NOT all right! Something's going on that you're not telling me about, and I want to know what the hell it is!"

"Alan," she said with elaborate, sarcastic calm, "it's just a late meeting of the Senior Staff. I really don't see what you're so upset about."

"Maybe you don't realize how many 'late meetings' you've been to recently, or how distracted you've been with me and the kids. You're not being straight with me, Liz!"

She didn't even try to disguise her anger. "For Christ's sake, Alan—when have I ever given you reason not to trust me?"

At that moment it happened. Her question exploded inside my head, and all my years of self-control vanished in an angry instant.

"When you spread your legs for Richard Gronier!" I shouted at her. "And if you're spreading 'em again for this Bernardo asshole, you can kiss our marriage goodbye!"

Utterly furious, I climbed out of the car and slammed the door. As I looked back through the window I saw Liz's face. It was absolutely white, stunned and frozen, her mouth hanging half open. She didn't make a sound as I stormed back into the house.

I stomped around the kitchen, blood pumping with fury, my head full of righteous indignation. The nerve of her—lying and cheating on me all over again!

It took more than twenty minutes before I was calm enough to begin to realize what I'd done. I'd revealed the secret that had allowed Liz and me to put our marriage back together. I'd undone all my own hard work and self-control, all my determination to find a way through the nightmare of her affair with Gronier and get my life back.

I dragged myself to work without much enthusiasm. All day I had trouble concentrating, my mind obsessively scrolling through the unhappy scenes in my immediate future. Was I going to lose everything, now, after so much time had passed? Were Karlie and Kristina going to have to live through a divorce?

Partly I was just sad. Sad for my girls, sad for myself, even a little bit sad for Liz. But mostly—and increasingly as the day wore on—I was furious. That fucking bitch! I had acted with unbelievable self-restraint, absolutely fucking KILLED myself trying to keep our marriage together, and she goes and does it again!

By late afternoon I realized I simply couldn't go home. I could not face her, could not look at her and talk civilly to her. I called and gave Kristina the message that I'd be out late and they should have dinner without me.

I drove over to the Hyatt, checked into a room, ordered a sandwich and a beer from room service, and sat gloomily watching a series of dumb movies until nearly midnight.

Then I went home, quietly packed a suitcase with my toiletries and a few days worth of clothes, and headed back to the hotel. Fortunately Liz was a heavy sleeper—she didn't stir at all while I moved silently around the darkened bedroom. It was all I could do not to shake her awake and shout at her.

The next day at work was even worse. It seemed that with every passing hour I got more angry, less able to concentrate. My cell phone was off and I switched my office phone to go straight to voice-mail; by 4 pm I had seven messages. Three of them were from Liz, and I made myself listen to the first one.

In a quavery voice she said, "honey? Are you all right? I'm so ... so very sorry about ... Richard. I never knew you knew about that. But I swear, there's nothing going on with Tom Bernardo, or with anyone else. Please, you've got to believe me!

"Honey, please come home so we can talk. I'm so .... [a heavy sob] I'm so sorry, so very sorry... Please, please come home!"

The other two messages were more of the same. I cursed as I deleted them. She was so, so sorry! How fucking nice for me!

It was my night to cook, and I realized I couldn't leave the girls without dinner. I picked up a couple of pizzas and a big Greek salad at Giovanni's and took them home around 5:30, when I knew Liz wouldn't be home yet. I spent a few minutes hurriedly eating and joking around with the girls, then told them I had to go back in to work and left the house. I spent another angry, lonely night at the Hyatt.

The next day was my third away from the house, and there were five more messages from Liz by the end of the day, all of them tearful and apologetic, all of them swearing she wasn't screwing around with Bernardo.

I just didn't want to talk to her. I didn't want to listen to her, see her face, even fucking think about her. So I sent her a text message that said, "oh really? and I'm supposed to believe you why, exactly?" And I turned my cell phone off and headed back to the Hyatt. This time I didn't even bother to call the girls—let Liz have to explain why daddy wasn't coming home!

By Thursday, Day Four of my absence from the house, I could see that something had to be done. I was over-tired and emotionally raw. I missed my daughters like crazy, but I felt as though if I had to face Liz I'd just explode. I wondered about picking up the girls and taking them out for dinner, without Liz.

Then at about 2:30 a middle-aged man I vaguely recognized came into my office.

"Mr. Hendricks?" he said. "I'm Peter Danielson, a lawyer at the Medical Center. We've met once or twice before."

I did remember him, from a couple of social gatherings with Liz's colleagues, and I invited him to sit.

"May I close the door?" he asked, and I nodded, waiting while he returned to his chair.

"I know I have no legally binding way to do this," he began, "but I'm going to request that you keep our conversation confidential. I hope that once we've talked you'll see why I'm making that request of you.

"Your wife asked me to come speak to you," he continued, and when I started to respond he put up his hand to stop me.

"There's a very ... touchy situation at the Medical Center right now having to do with Tom K. Bernardo, and she indicated to me that ... that, well, you may have gotten the wrong impression. If you don't mind, I'm going to fill you in on the circumstances—and as I say I will respectfully ask that you keep this totally confidential."

The story he told me came as quite a surprise. Bernardo had sexually harassed several women at the hospital (and in one case committed sexual battery—fondling her breasts without warning and against her will). Danielson was working with the women, two of whom reported to Liz, as they carefully built the case against Bernardo. It appeared, based on some discreet research, that Bernardo had left a previous job under the cloud of similar accusations.

The trouble was that he was the nephew of the junior senator from Indiana, and everybody was afraid of the potential shit-storm that his uncle could raise if the situation weren't handled right. So Peter and his legal staff were proceeding very carefully and quietly to get all the affidavits and evidence lined up before calling in the police. That's what Liz's late meetings had been about, and that's why she'd been so pre-occupied and distant for several weeks.

When Danielson was finished with his story I sat quietly for a few moments. At first I was relieved and elated: thank God she wasn't cheating on me again! Maybe we could really work things out after all.

But my elation didn't last long. Why the fuck couldn't she have told me this story, or at least a little bit of it? Didn't she trust me enough to keep my mouth shut? For that matter, how did I know that Danielson wasn't blowing smoke up my ass? He and Liz worked together and knew each other well—was it possible he was just doing her a favor by spinning a tall tale for my benefit?

"Why didn't Liz tell me this?" I asked him. "Or some of it, at least."

He half-smiled apologetically. "That was at my request, Mr. Hendricks. We were all a little ... well, paranoid, frankly. So I asked that no one breathe a word about this, even to spouses, until it was made public."

"And when will that be?" I asked sardonically.

"Next Monday," he said earnestly. "We've finally gotten everything in place, and the arrest will probably be made by Monday afternoon."

There wasn't much more to say. I thought a bit more, then told him I was willing to keep the matter confidential.

"Thank you," he said, rising from his chair. "And I'm sincerely sorry if this ... situation has caused a problem between you and your wife. She's ... been under a lot of strain about it. Several of the victims are close friends of hers. I know we'll all be glad when the matter is in the hands of the police and Bernardo is removed from the working environment."

****************

When I came in the front door that evening Liz was standing in the front hall, wearing an apron and looking very nervous. There were dark circles under her eyes, and I could see the tension in her whole body. I imagined I looked much the same.

"Hi Alan," she said, coming forward to hug me; but the look on my face must have changed her mind, because she stopped, stricken, and just gazed at me.

"Hello Liz." I moved past her to hang up my coat in the closet. "Are the girls home?"

"They're upstairs at their computers," she said, as I walked into the kitchen. Dinner was simmering away on the stove, and the table was already set. I got myself a beer and sat down at the counter.

"Did Peter Danielson reach you?" she asked, sounding a little nervous.

"Yeah, he came and spoke to me today."

There was a silence. Liz stirred the pasta on the stove, apparently waiting for me to say more.

"Honey, I hope—I hope that he reassured you. About Bernardo, I mean. That there is absolutely nothing going on between us. I'm so sorry I didn't tell you!"

"Yeah, well, I heard his story. As for reassured ... let's just say that the jury is still out."

She looked shocked. "I don't understand. Didn't he explain about the ... sexual harassment, and the delicate case?"

"Yes," I said evenly. "A very convincing story. It might even turn out to be true, I guess. But let's just say I'll be waiting until I see it all in the papers."

Liz opened her mouth, then closed it. I could see she was astonished by my skepticism, but I didn't particularly give a fuck!

After more than a minute of silence she said, "are ... will you ... are you coming back home?"

"I'm back, for now. My suitcase is in my trunk—I'll get it later, when the girls are in bed. How are they doing, by the way—what do they think is going on?"

"I told them you were working on a big project and needed to stay several nights late at the office, but I don't imagine they believed me. I just ... didn't want to get into it, at least not until we had talked a little bit."

She turned to me imploringly, and I could see the tracks of tears on her cheeks.

"Alan, please—I know we have a lot to talk about. About ... Richard Gronier, and all that. I am so, so sorry. I never dreamed that you knew anything about it. I am so ashamed!" She broke off, and cried quietly into her hands for a minute.

Then she looked back up at me and said, "but I never—never!—did anything with Tom Bernardo, or with any other man. I swear it!"

I looked at her and shrugged. I wasn't feeling particularly convinced.

Dinner was strange, and oddly amusing. The girls were delighted to see me and full of curiosity about what was going on. But, being teenagers, they didn't express either emotion directly. They teased me more than usual—I was looking old, my tie was horrible, why didn't I exercise more—and I reveled in it, understanding that it was their way of reconnecting with me.

Their energy and high spirits also made it easier to conceal the fact that I had nothing to say to Liz. I could pretty much ignore her without it being obvious to the girls, who were busy with their own stories and their teasing.

After dinner I spent some time with each of the girls, catching up on their school situations and social issues, and just reveling in the joy of my two wonderful daughters. And when they'd headed for their rooms I retrieved my suitcase, unpacked, undressed and went straight to bed. I did all this without a word to Liz, who was standing in the bathroom in her nightie, brushing out her hair.

She watched me warily, and when I was about to turn out the light she said, "Alan—can we talk?"

"I don't think there's anything to talk about," I said, rolling on my side away from her.

"But honey, we—"

"When I see Tom Bernardo's face in the newspaper," I interrupted her brusquely, "and I read all about how he's been arrested, then I'll be ready to talk to you. Until then, I'm back because I missed the girls."

And with that I turned out the light. Just before sleep overwhelmed me, I heard her crying quietly.

****************

For the next day, Friday, and through the weekend and the following Monday, I tried as hard as I could to be my normal self around Karlie and Kristina. I think I succeeded pretty well, though they couldn't possibly have failed to notice the strain between Liz and me.

As for Liz, my anger and suspicion threatened to boil over whenever she spoke to me. I was cold and distant, responding to her questions with a minimum of words, making clear in my body language that I didn't want to be around her. Her face wore a look of helpless misery; but instead of drawing my sympathy it only made me angrier. You bitch, I thought, you earned this! You've got a husband who doesn't trust you one inch, and you're the one who made it happen!

On Tuesday morning I was standing in the kitchen in my bathrobe, making coffee, when Liz came in from the front porch with the Cincinnati Enquirer in her hand. Without a word she handed it to me, holding the front page so I could see the headline:

"Medical Center Administrator Arrested"

There in black and white was a picture of Bernardo, obviously a file photo. I took the paper and read the story carefully. Sexual harassment and sexual battery, four alleged victims, nine charges filed. He'd been suspended from the hospital; he'd hired Granato & Greevey, one of Cincinnati's most prominent law firms, to defend him. He declared his complete innocence, claiming that it was all "just a misunderstanding". Anonymous quotes from hospital colleagues professed shock and dismay: he was such a nice guy, no one would have expected it, blah blah blah.

I put the paper down and regarded Liz, who was watching me expectantly.

"I guess it's true," I said slowly. "The guy sounds like a total scumbag. Can you tell me who the victims were, and how they're doing?"

To my surprise, her face sagged and she started to cry. She covered her face with her hands, and within moments I heard heaving, wracking sobs.

For a moment tenderness broke through my wall of anger and resentment; I moved to the chair next to Liz and gently pulled her into my arms, letting her rest her head on my shoulder as she wept noisily for several minutes.

Finally she calmed down enough to look up at me, wet-faced. "I was so afraid you'd never talk to me again! I just didn't know what to do."

She blew her nose, then wiped her streaming eyes with a napkin. Sitting up straight, she looked right into my eyes and said solemnly, "Alan, I had nothing to do with Bernardo—nothing! I swear it. Except helping Alexa and Diane and the others when that son-of-a-bitch harassed them. They've been wrecks, especially Diane. And that's what all the meetings have been about, and why I've been so pre-occupied."

"I know. I wish to hell you'd told me about it, but I know Danielson asked you not to."

There was a silence. The tender mood seemed to slip away, silently, and the room was full of tension again.

She said, "but ... there's the other ... my ... my affair."

I said nothing, just watched her try to hold my gaze. She couldn't do it, and looked down at the table.

"Alan, I am so sorry. So ashamed. I had no idea you knew, and I ...

"When it ... ended, I ... it was like, within a few days, I started to wake up again. Like I'd been in some kind of dream. And I was so full of horror at what I'd done! So angry at myself—just furious.

"And then I realized I was the luckiest woman on earth. I'd done this ... this terrible, unforgivable thing. But it was over, and you didn't know, and I still had my marriage and my children. It was like crashing my car, horribly, because I was reckless, and walking away without a scratch.

"So I realized that there was only one thing..."

Liz was interrupted by the sounds of the girls pounding down the stairs into the kitchen, late for the school bus as usual. For a few minutes the room was full of frenzy and laughter, as they grabbed for a muffin and a glass of juice, shouted their after-school plans to us, gave us each a hug and kiss and sprinted out the door.

When they were gone we grinned at one another, the room seemingly still resounding with their noise and energy. "We're so lucky," I said, and Liz nodded.

"They're terrific girls," she said. "And it isn't all just luck, either—we've been pretty good parents all these years."

We smiled a moment longer, and Liz took my hand in hers. But then she leaned toward me and said, "Alan, how did you know—about ... about my affair? And why didn't you say anything?"

"No!" I said harshly. I was instantly furious, as though a switch had been thrown. All the tenderness and closeness of that morning had vanished. I dropped her hand and stood up from the table.