The Missing Link 01: Steve

I just stared. Then a waitress interrupted us. Neither of us seemed hungry. We ordered coffee and water.

"Now how would you have felt, Steve?" she immediately went on after the girl left. "I got scared out of my mind. You get up, go vomit in the bathroom and faze out again on our bed. I go pick up Eric, having an awful time not to betray my obvious distress to my mother -- and when I get back all you want to know is how a fucking cufflink I've never seen ended up in our fucking bedroom. Then you pack your things and leave. You left me, Steve, and I didn't sleep a wink all night."

I can't say she never uses the word fuck, but I never heard her use it twice in one sentence -- and connected to words like "bedroom" and "cufflink," no less. I did wonder what Freud might have thought about this. I also wondered how she could look this good after sleepless nights. And lastly I wondered why I wondered about things like that.

"Liza," I said finally. "You are right. This isn't a better story. It isn't even a story at all. The only thing you do and have been doing, is trying to convince me that I was too drunk to think straight, and that I should worry about my mental condition. Why do you do that, Liza?"

She gasped, not unlike a fish out of the water. Her hands crept towards mine, clasping them.

"I don't think you are crazy, honey," she said. "I love you and I worry. Something must have happened. I read about how people change when they have a stroke. You should see a doctor, honey, you really should!"

A freezing cold crept up my spine. She wouldn't... How could she? With a voice that seemed to come from a distance, I said:

"No need to worry, Liza. I am as healthy as a horse, or maybe not a horse but the stupid ass you must think I am -- one that believes your lies, whatever you say." Her eyes widened. They moved left and right, quickly.

"Oh dear God, honey," she whispered. "I don't lie! There never was a cufflink on the table -- ever! Please, you must believe me." Her eyes stopped moving now. Her voice had turned warm and sincere. Her hands squeezed mine. Her lips even trembled slightly. It broke my heart.

"Why do you defend him so, Liza?" I asked. "Is he so important to you that you'd rather break my heart than break your secret?"

The sound was a kind of mewling until it turned into a tortured scream. She threw away my hands, kicking back her screeching chair before stomping out of the restaurant -- leaving rows of baffled faces behind. Before the doors sighed closed, I called after her:

"I'll come to see Eric tonight!" All faces in the restaurant turned my way. I shrugged.

***

I did come over to pick up Eric that night. We took a hamburger and fries to the park, where we practiced baseball. It became kind of a tradition in the weeks that followed. He never asked what was wrong -- he's a clever boy.

Liza didn't call me anymore during the days and nights that followed. I only called her if something came up concerning my visits. We never said more than our "hi's" and "bye's" when I picked him up or brought him back.

I stopped drinking and started reading. I also began to take my membership of the fitness club more seriously. I never liked the sweaty machines, but I loved doing mindless laps in the 25-meter pool. Liza was a member too, but I knew she only went on Saturday mornings -- as far as I knew anything about her anymore, that is.

One night I ran into Roger, or rather, I swam past him -- about thirty times. I only recognized him when we both climbed out of the pool. He looked good, toned and tanned. I remembered his long, muscular torso from the time we both swam at college. He grinned when he saw me, cleaning his left ear with the tip of his towel. His hair had thinned, I saw, and I wondered why that made me feel good.

"Steve," he said, walking up to me, clasping my hand.

"Roger," I answered.

We shared a drink at the 'health bar.' We had been good enough friends at college, which was remarkable as Roger back then had all the traits of the classic jock when I already showed the nerdy signs of the future bean counter I became. Most of our conversation was about reminiscing old times, shared acquaintances and the whereabouts of the men and women that made up our circle of friends, back then.

Roger left immediately after graduation to start his career in Europe. His rich father's business had obtained a spreading number of branch offices there, but Roger made a point of building his own career. I remember how we were able to keep track of his race up the corporate ladder by the Christmas cards he sent -- Rome, I remember, Paris, London and St. Petersburg. But as often is the case, our contact tapered off until there was nothing left.

Remarkably, while we reminisced he never asked about Liza. I told him we had a child and that we were still together. I left it at that.

When we were back in the locker room to shower and get dressed, he told me that he'd returned a few weeks ago. He would stay just long enough to cure an ailing business in our town that was a new acquisition of the British conglomerate he worked for. A mere stepping-stone in his irrepressible march to the top, I supposed. But by then my mind was already distracted. I was wrestling with my tie -- I hate the damned things -- when I saw in the mirror how Roger slipped on a big ring. It was a signet ring, a huge one. I was unable to see what was on it, but I did see he was wearing matching cufflinks as well.

Then I remembered he is called Roger Chesterton. I forgot his middle name, but yes, it was enough to peak my interest.

Being separated tends to give one a lot of time alone. Some of it I used to search the Internet. Roger did indeed have an M for his middle name. But I also found a Martin C. Robinson, businessman and member of the local Chamber of Commerce. He was 38 years old. At the same Chamber I found a Carlos R. Montero, the 43 year-old owner of a construction company. I never knew Liza to fall for Latino's, but then again, did I know her at all? Through other channels I dug up Maurice R. Coleville, 44 years old and a VP at one of the bigger banks in town. He was black, but again: what did I know? And last but not least I found a guy called Richard (Ricky) C. Muratti, only mentioned to be a businessman owning an "import and export" company. I couldn't find his age, but the picture hinted at somewhere between 35 and 40. His hair was slicked back. He sported a thin moustache and a shining suit. Capiche?

Doing research can get you obsessed. The hunt in itself can become a goal, so I had to stop myself. I had to realize that the excitement of finding all these names might well distract me from my dark mood, but it wouldn't bring me any closer. Closer to what, I pondered. Closer to the man who dropped his cufflink in my wife's bedroom -- and then what?

I had a list of five men with the initials that were on the backside of a cufflink -- the link that was lost and found before disappearing, taken away by my wife. All five of them lived in the vicinity and were of an age close enough to Liza's. Close enough for what? For that, yes. Most of them also seemed to be wealthy enough to own signet cufflinks. I'd found a Mo(rris) C. Rawalski, but he was 61 and lived in a poor part of town. And after deliberating for some time I decided to drop Mary R. Callahan, 28, for obvious reasons, but who knows? Do lesbians wear cufflinks?

Five names, five men. Were they signet material? No way to know. Signet rings run in old families -- traditional old money families. But they also are a status symbol, coveted by nouveaux riches who love to buy into fake tradition and show off the illusion of pedigree. And of course there were the members of special societies, like the Free Masons, but the prancing horse and the three dots didn't look like that at all, I thought.

I supposed Roger had the traditional background for them. He never wore them in college, but I guess he didn't want to flaunt his conservatism in a liberal place like that. Rickey the Mobster might also sport them for quite different reasons, but it would disappoint me in many ways if Liza fucked around with guys like him. I chuckled wearily. As if the kind of asshole she fucked would change my disgust for her actions. "Ah, but honey, I don't fuck Mafiosi, I fuck aristocracy."

The whole tawdry exercise started to annoy me. What were my options, anyway? To research each one of them? Even seek them out and confront them? "Sir, do you own signet cufflinks? I found one in my wife's bedroom." Or should I find a private detective and ask him to do the job for me? I slammed my laptop shut and went swimming. So did Roger, obviously. We once more had a drink afterwards, but we didn't talk much; he was in a hurry. Before he left he asked if I played golf, so I offered to introduce him to my club next Saturday morning.

He proved to be a great golfer; of course he would be. He also offered me part of the business of the local branch he visited. A sudden inspiration made me invite him to our house the next day. "Bring your wife, we'll do a nice barbeque." He accepted but told me his wife had stayed back in Paris. He would go back there after "tying up his little problem here."

I called Liza after he left and said we needed to talk. She seemed nervous about it, telling me she was at the Mall and wouldn't be home until dinnertime. I said that was fine, I would make dinner. She said Eric would be staying over at a friend. "Even better," I answered. She didn't ask why I said that. She seemed in a hurry.

So I got food and wine for dinner and meat and salad for the barbeque. I also bought beer, and a toy for Eric. I hesitated over a bunch of pink roses, but decided against it. Then I returned and bought them.

The house felt empty -- not just because there were no people in it; it seemed as if some essence had leaked away. But of course this must all be just in my mind. I started by inspecting the bedroom. There was nothing out of the ordinary -- not with the bed or the bed stands; not with the closets and the drawers. There were new clothes, nice ones too, but they were all hers. Same with the bathroom -- no male toiletries, no extra tooth brush, no cufflinks lying around. Of course she could have run home to clean up, after I called, but somehow that didn't seem likely. Nevertheless, I inspected the waste bins; I even went down to the cellar -- no results there either. Then I took a shower and dressed in a fresh shirt and slacks before going down to prepare dinner.

She arrived around six-thirty. She didn't rush in, nor did she smile, hug or kiss. She wore jeans and a sweater -- plus two bags carrying the names of trendy fashion shops. The word that might describe her best was "wary." She didn't even comment on the delicious smells of the food or the flowers that stood prominently at the center of a nicely made table. She did answer my greetings, though, and excused herself for being late. Then she turned and went up the stairs. I heard the shower start. Twenty minutes later she came down, hair still damp, wearing the same jeans, but another sweater. I wondered why I felt disappointed. I wondered why I was here at all.

We drank her favorite wine. She admired the table, thanked for the flowers. She smiled, but all her actions were veiled with reserve. The happenings of the last two weeks must have made her wary; my running off, the refusal to take her phone calls or answer her e-mails, the dressing down at the restaurant, the cold attitude when I picked up Eric and who knows... the continued visits of her lover? Where had she been today, I wondered -- shopping, obviously, but all day? And did it matter? Yes, it did.

"Bon appétit, honey," I said, after serving the bowls of spicy pumpkin soup and garlic bread. "I can see that you must be confused." She looked up, smiling weakly. I blew on my first spoon and took a sip. "I just thought what the hell," I then said. "Not talking will get us nowhere either, will it?" The soup was too hot, so I lowered the spoon, watching her carefully before preparing what might possibly be a bomb.

"Part of my mission is to ask you if you would help me host a small barbeque gathering on our deck, tomorrow," I said. The question surprised her, of course. She looked puzzled. "Here?" she asked. I nodded. She sat wide-eyed. Then she suddenly rushed her words: "Of course, Steve. Of course I would."

A white smile opened up her face. "Does that mean..." she said without finishing the sentence. I held up my hand. "Don't you want to know who our guest will be?" I asked. She fluttered her lashes. "Of course, of course," she said. "Who is it?"

"Roger," I said. "Roger Chesterton -- remember him?"

I don't know what I expected -- blushing, paling, shock, embarrassment? Whatever she showed, it was nothing like that. The smile only got wider. "Roger from college?" she asked. "Tall, rich, good looking, slightly snobby Roger? God, we haven't seen him in ages, have we? Isn't he supposed to be in Europe?"

I told her how I'd met Roger and why he was here now. She asked all the right questions and seemed genuinely pleased with his visit. We ate our soup and the lamb chops I prepared. And by the time I served dark chocolate mousse and ice cream for dessert we were almost as happy and relaxed as we had been until a few weeks ago. Almost.

We drank coffee on the couch. Then I said I had to leave; she'd see me again next morning. That was when she started crying. It almost touched me. When I drove back to my dreary room I wondered if I wasn't an asshole as well, be it not the aristocratic type.

The barbeque went on famously, next afternoon. Liza wore her casual jeans and a jersey sweater, like yesterday. No dolling up for me, but neither for Roger. Her reactions convinced me that Liza hadn't seen him since the goodbye party when he left for Europe, more than a decade ago. There was never a lull in our conversation. He told us about his place in Paris and the woman he shared it with. We told him about Eric and the things that kept us busy. The air was balmy, the meat was tender and the beer cold.

Of course Roger wore a polo shirt; no cufflinks there. No signet ring either, this time. Was it normal not to wear one while casual? Who was I to know?

When he left he invited us for a follow up visit at a restaurant of his choice. I also made another golf date. We hadn't discussed our separation with him or even hinted at it. I'd felt very married all afternoon.

***

I picked up Eric at his friend's place and took him home. He was pleased to see me and beat me twice with his videogame to celebrate it. After taking him to bed and reading a chapter in his illustrated children's version of the Odyssee, I went down, planning on leaving.

"Please stay a bit longer," Liza said, offering me a glass of wine. I shrugged. "Thank you for this afternoon," she went on. "And for yesterday."

I sat down with her, sipping the wine.

"Now, what was this all about?" she then asked. Liza is a shrewd woman. I played innocent. "I couldn't very well entertain him at my shabby hotel room, could I?" I asked. She didn't buy it. So I decided to do what I'd planned not to do.

"Roger owns signet cufflinks," I said.

She didn't pale, but all softness left her face. She rose abruptly and walked over to the window, looking out.

"Okay," I said, rising too after putting down the glass. "I'll be around Tuesday afternoon to pick up Eric." And I turned to leave.

"No, Steve!" Her voice stopped me in my tracks. "Please stay. This can't go on like this."

My heart quickened. Would she confess? I turned, searching for her eyes. Or would she lie again? And even if she did, would I still consider it lying if she kept denying the existence of the damn cufflink? These last weeks had been hell for me; a hell that was based on one hazy memory -- a memory of which the only proof had disappeared. I had left the love of my life for that one unproven, alcohol-soaked memory. I had left my son for it; my home and my life. Through the last two weeks I had become uncertain about my memories. I guess her unwavering determination wore me down. How certain was I? And should I destroy my life over it?

Why would she still lie? If she confessed her affair, could that be worse than the price we were already paying? If she truly cared about me, about us, these last weeks must have been hell for her too. She must have been as softened by this weekend, as I had been. Why not take the risk and come clean? And I? Why not take the risk and believe her?

"I listen," I said.

It turned out, though, that there wouldn't be much to listen to. She just smiled, saying nothing. Then she put down her glass and crossed her arms in front of her, hands down. Her fingers gripped the hem of her top, pulling it over her head. She shook her hair free; then threw the sweater aside. She started walking to me, swaying her hips in her tight jeans. Her bra cupped her breasts in white lace. It wasn't new or special. I saw a glimpse of dark nipples.

She closed her eyes and opened her lips; a wet tongue ran around them. Halfway she stopped. Her hands crept up behind her back, deftly opening the catch of her bra. The cups slid off, freeing her breasts, making them sway with her movements. She lost the bra and cupped her breasts; the nipples slid in and out between her fingers. I noticed the subtle softness of her belly, betraying her motherhood. It always touched me -- not now.

She started walking again, placing her feet like a model. It made her hips sway. The jeans rode low on her hips. Her eyes never left mine. Then her face was almost into mine. I felt the warm air of her breath on my skin. Her bare tits flattened against my chest. I felt her hands at my belt. She moaned.

It was then that I pushed her away. She lost her balance when she hit the low table, but somehow ended on her knees. Her eyes were wide with disbelief. Her mouth worked, but there were no words.

"I listened," I said. "And do you know what is so very ironic? This time I would have believed you if you'd kept to your story." I waved my hands to encompass her body. "But this story? Sorry, honey, I don't think even you yourself believe it. Bye Liza."

I turned on my heels and walked away, feeling my cock throb in its confinement. I heard her voice when I reached the door. She called my name.

***

I didn't sleep that night. Had I misunderstood? Had I overreacted? I didn't think so. I felt used, manipulated. I felt patronized and let down. It made me sweat. It also made me cry.

In the morning I called my secretary not to count on me. And in the afternoon I sat with my lawyer. I learned I didn't need to have proof; "irreconcilable differences" were good enough for me. She could have the house if she kept her hands off my business. Sharing our private assets 50/50 was fine, but I had to have shared custody of Eric. There would be child support, naturally, and even some alimentation. The lawyer said he was sorry. I said I was too.

Liza was served two days later.

***

The moment I pressed the bell of the house that used to be mine its door flew open. Liza yelled in my face. She was too close and her voice too loud for me to understand her. The name Eric was in it, though. I waited until I might begin to understand what she said, but she went from screaming to crying -- drowning her words. Then she fell against me, sobbing into my shoulder. I shortly wondered how much she cried, recently.

The material of my jacket muffled her voice enough to make me heard. "I came to pick up Eric," I said. The sobbing stopped. She looked up. Her face was blotched, her eyes wild.

"You won't get him," she said, hoarse with emotions. "You won't get to see your son until you talk to me. I won't agree to the divorce until you listen to me. Do you hear?" Her fists were around the lapels of my jacket.