Surprising Stacy

I turned on my phone and saw several voicemails and texts from Stacy; without reading them I went into my contacts and blocked her number, then shut the phone off again. I had no intention of listening to her--much less talking to her--until I had had a chance to calm down, but I figured that the messages would contain documentary evidence of her infidelity, which might be useful. After a shower and a cup of coffee in the self-serve breakfast area (passing on the do-it-yourself waffle station) I took a hotel shuttle to the airport, where, for a fee, a harried, grimly smiling American Airlines representative changed my ticket for a flight early that afternoon.

Stacy showed up late that night, sometime after eleven. I'd figured she wouldn't listen to what I'd said about not coming to the house, so I'd used some of the little time I had after getting back to buy new locksets for the front and back doors, and change them. I heard her cab pull up to the house, but waited until she started banging on the door to call her.

"Let me in, you asshole!" she shouted; I could hear her through the door, but I didn't intend to wear my voice out by shouting, so the phone was easier.

"You don't live here anymore," I said, when she answered. "I did warn you not to come."

"It's my house as much as it is yours!"

"It's really not," I said, calmly. "If you can find a lawyer at this time of night, I could show him or her the deed, and then they could explain it to you. Otherwise you'll just have to take my word for it."

"Please, Ward! I'm exhausted. That stunt you pulled with my key card, it took me most of the night to get it straightened out. I barely had time to get to my talk, then I had a hell of a time with changing my ticket and getting through TSA without my license. I had to have the DMV fax them copies of my ID, and even after that they did a full pat-down search. Do you know how humiliating that was? Do you hate me that much?"

"Yes," I said.

"Please," she said. "I won't bother you at all. I just need to sleep. I'm not asking as your wife, I'm asking as a human being in desperate circumstances. I hope that tomorrow we can talk, and maybe I can get you to forgive me, and we can get past this, but if we can't, I will accept it."

So I let her in, but I didn't give her a key, and I made her bed down on the sofa in the living room. And when she was finished in the bathroom, I brought her a glass of water and two Ambien.

"I don't think I'm going to need those, but thanks," she said.

"They're not for you, they're for me, so you don't kill me in my sleep," I replied.

She took the pills and chased them down with the water, then handed me the empty glass. "For what it's worth, I'm really sorry it's come to this," she said. "I hope that tomorrow we can sit down and talk about what happened."

"Go to sleep," I said. She got between the sheets she'd spread out on the sofa, and closed her eyes. I watched her until her breathing became steady.

One Ambien was usually enough to knock her out, so I figured two, plus her fatigue, would keep me safe while I slept for a little while. I didn't really think she'd kill me, but now I also really didn't trust her, and the bottom line was that I didn't feel that I knew her at all, or what she was ultimately capable of. I set my alarm for three in the morning, just in case. I could always catch up on my sleep later.

When I woke at three, Stacy was still sleeping, still in the same position. I got out my laptop and started working on what I thought was a fair split of the small amount of stuff we had together. The house, as I'd said, was mine. We each had a retirement account with the college. I had about $150,000, and I assumed that Stacy's was less, since she both makes less than I do and hadn't been working for as long. Our joint bank account had a little under $5,000, with about $1,200 in a rainy-day savings account. We each had one credit card; I didn't check up on Stacy, but I paid mine off in full every month, and I assumed she did, too. She had about $40,000 outstanding in student loans, and I was free and clear. She made a little over $70,000 a year as an assistant professor, which would jump about $10,000 if she made associate prof; I was paid $121,800. I didn't think that I'd have to pay any maintenance, alimony, whatever you call it, with us only having been married three years, and her salary obviously enough to support her without help from me, but I knew I'd have to check with an attorney, which I planned to do as soon as I could.

As for the furniture, dishes, linens, I would be happy to let her have any of what we'd acquired while living together, including the wedding gifts, but I'd want anything that was mine before the marriage. With no kids or even pets it seemed we could split up pretty easily.

Seeing Stacy peacefully asleep on the sofa, and remembering her expression of regret--not really an apology, but still--I realized that sadness had overtaken the anger in me. I wasn't naïve enough to think that it wouldn't return, but I was relieved to be rid of it for a while. I got out my phone to check the messages she'd left.

I read the texts first. They started out conciliatory: she loved me, it was only sex, she was sorry for hurting me, I hadn't done anything to drive her away. Then the tone changed to frustrated and upset: I was overreacting, how dare I walk out without trying to resolve anything, I had better pick up my phone or she was going to get really angry, where was her fucking key card, etc. The voicemails were more of the same, with extra cursing. I saved the ones that included direct reference to her infidelity, although I didn't think it would matter to the divorce, which would probably be based on irreconcilable differences, just to make everything quicker and easier.

Speaking of which, I needed a lawyer, and had no idea how to find a good one. Fortunately for me, my brother is a licensed member of the bar who practices in Charlotte, which is both far enough away that I don't have to see him very often, and still in North Carolina, so he's plugged in to the network that includes Wake County, where I live. He does corporate law, mostly for the banking and insurance industries. I don't know much about it, except that he has clearly sold his soul to the devil. I mean it: the things he makes happen should not be allowed to happen in a world where everyone has a fair chance to succeed. But he is my brother, so he has to help me. And I am in the mood to make a deal with the devil, if it will help me rid myself of the harpy who has ripped my heart out. But I have to wait until he's in his office, which usually isn't until after 7am.

With two hours to wait, it's time for a run.

By seven o'clock I've logged ten miles and showered, ready to beard the lion in his den.

"Hi Raymond, it's Ward."

"I can see it's you, Ward. What can I do for you this morning?"

"You can give me the name of a good divorce attorney in my area."

"Huh. What did you do?"

"It wasn't me, it was her."

"I'm sorry to hear that, really. I liked Stephanie."

"Stacy. And I'd be happy to set you up with her, but Wanda might object."

"Huh. You want scorched earth, or easy out?"

"Scorched earth is tempting, but I'll take easy out. Someone with lots of experience, though."

"Trust me, I know just the guy. Let me confirm, and I'll text you his number."

"Thanks, bro. I owe you one. Say hi to Wanda and kids, okay?"

"Huh. Yeah, okay. Gotta call on the other line. Bye."

I didn't even know if Stacy was going to hire a lawyer, but I kind of hoped she would, just to watch Raymond's "easy out" guy mop the floor with whoever it turned out to be. Raymond doesn't like me any more than I like him, but he's a professional. Which, it occurred to me, Stacy was not, to say nothing of Thierry Faraj. Professionals don't mix business with pleasure.

At eight it was time to make coffee. Stacy would be awake soon, and I didn't want to encourage her to stay on the sofa for any longer than she needed to get a full night's sleep. Charity is not forgiveness, after all.

When I brought her a mug, she sat up.

"Thank you," she said.

"You're welcome," I replied. "I think you promised to vacate the premises on the condition that I allowed you to spend the night here."

"Okay, yes, I did. I was kind of hoping we could talk, though, before. I have some things to say that I think you need to hear."

"All right," I said. "I'll listen, but I don't see that it's going to change anything. You have to go to conferences as a condition of your job, and so do I. I was fine with that as long as I believed that you respected me enough to reject other men's advances, and not to lie to me about things you do when you're away that you know would hurt me if you were truthful."

"I understand," she said. "I know I took advantage of your trust, but I do respect you."

"You are this close to pissing me off right now," I warned her. "Lying is a form of manipulation: you get me to behave in a certain way, or, more to the point, not behave in a certain way--i.e., getting angry--by keeping the truth from me. You don't manipulate someone you respect. You accept their right to decide for themselves how to act, based on the best available information."

"In a perfect world, maybe. But spouses lie to one another all the time, and a lot of marriages are happier for it."

"You should have this discussion with your next husband before you marry him. I wish you had had it with me, and then we could have avoided all this"

"Fine. I'm a terrible person," she said. "I lied, and expected to get away with it. How could you find out? How could anyone? What did it matter if no one ever knew?"

"The fact that you can ask that question is the reason we're getting divorced."

"Why? Hundreds, maybe thousands of people do the same thing at MLA every year: they have fun with someone new and different, then leave it all behind and bring some of the happiness they found back to their homes and spouses."

"I'm not going to argue with you about whether cheating on your spouse and lying to them about it is morally justifiable. If you think it is, and you clearly do, you're welcome to your opinion, but you're not welcome to stay married to me. Why don't you just find someone who thinks the same way, and both of you can have an open marriage?"

"Because I love you. And I don't want an open marriage. I never intended for this to happen, and I promise you I have no intention of ever doing something like this again. But when I met Thierry, I had this overpowering feeling that a few nights of casual sex with him, with no love or strings attached, would be transformative. I wasn't looking for it, but when the opportunity presented itself, I felt I had to take it."

"Bullshit. I saw the guy. He didn't look like anything special to me, just a horndog Frenchman on the make. I think since he let you know you wouldn't have to work for it, you just said to yourself, 'why not? Ward will never know.'"

"You're wrong," she said. "I'm not sure how to explain it, but he was irresistible to me. I love you, I want to be with you for the rest of our lives, but when he made it clear to me he wanted me, I literally could not imagine refusing him. I don't expect you to understand that, but it's true."

"Okay, fine. You experienced an overwhelming compulsion to be a cheating slut. All the more reason to dump your cheating ass, that you claim to be compelled to fuck other guys when they work their magic on you. Are you seriously suggesting that I should overlook what happened?"

"I wish you would. I don't think there are many guys out there with the particular magic that he--Thierry--had over me. Maybe none."

"Maybe dozens. Maybe thousands. You're asking me to take a big risk, and I can't see that you're offering me anything in return. You hurt me more deeply than you know, just fucking this one guy. In the cold light of day I am clear about one thing, and that is that I don't love you enough to let you hurt me that way again. Ever. That you would ask me for another chance is just more evidence of your selfishness."

"Does it not matter that I couldn't help myself?"

"No. I refuse to accept that. Everyone has a choice. You're just trying to avoid responsibility for a decision that you can't defend. Unless you are asking me to believe that this guy genuinely had some magic power over you, I have to believe that you could have said no. You chose not to. You chose to be unfaithful. The least you can do is accept that your failure was the result of a choice that you did not have to make."

"Okay. But let me leave you with this: if you think there's a woman out there who will be faithful to you no matter what, in the face of the most irresistible temptation she's ever experienced, you're kidding yourself. You may find a wife who will be completely faithful, but that will only be because she was never truly tempted--not like I was. So, if you want a truly faithful woman, find the least attractive, least companionable woman you can, and marry her. You'll have a faithful wife, but it may not make for the wonderful marriage you think it will."

"Fuck you, Stacy. I hope you wind up an impoverished adjunct teacher, with twenty cats and no friends. It's exactly what you truly deserve, you cheating, fucking slut."

"All right, Ward. I'll let you have the last word. I owe you that much, at least. I am an imperfect person, and I did hurt you, and I deserve to pay for that. I didn't mean for it to happen, but it did, and I don't really blame you for what you did to retaliate, although I wish you could see that it wasn't necessary. You are a good man, the kind most women are looking for. If you find someone else to love, I hope she will make you happy."

"Thanks, Stacy. And my advice to you is don't look for another husband. You aren't built for it. You can have a lot of fun fucking strangers at conventions, so why not make a virtue of necessity? But if you do decide to try again, you need to sit down with the guy and tell him what happened to our marriage, because he deserves to know what he's getting into. I hear there are some men out there who get off on the idea of their wives fucking other guys. If you're lucky, you may find one."

"I think that's my cue to leave," said Stacy, standing up. "Just let me collect a few things, and I'll be gone. I will let you know where you can have me served with the divorce papers. I would appreciate it if you didn't do it at the school."

"I'll forward the address to my attorney," I said. "As long as you are where you say you'll be, I won't have you served at work."

I never did get to see my attorney in action. Stacy signed the agreement we sent her, splitting our bank accounts, and leaving me to walk away with the house, my retirement intact, and no maintenance. She moved into a small apartment that the school kept for visiting faculty. Marlowe is a small community, and I have friends all over campus; after I told a few people what had happened, the word spread, and a lot of people, especially some of the married women, turned against her. She was popular with the students, however, and got her publications in, so she was awarded tenure on schedule. The following year she found another job somewhere else, and moved away. I don't know where, and I don't care.

I had plenty of friends willing to set me up, and I met a lot of nice women who didn't really excite me the way I thought a prospective spouse should do, until I was introduced to the new Assistant Registrar at the College. Her name is Deborah, she's divorced (he left her for a younger woman), and she's a runner, too, plus we have a few other things in common. Early on I told her about Stacy, and how our marriage ended because of her irresistible attraction to some guy she'd just met, and she told me that it sounds like bullshit, and that, as far as she's concerned, there's no acceptable excuse for the failure to forsake all others once you've found the person you want to spend the rest of your life with. As long as we continue to agree on that, I think we may have a future together.