Then Mike let out a sound—half sob, half breath. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I’m sorry for all of it.” “Enough,” Susan said, more firmly now. “Stop blaming yourself.”
“This is not your fault. Not at all.” I stood there and understood nothing. What were they talking about? What wasn’t his fault? What wasn’t Katie supposed to know?
I wanted to burst into that room, grab them both, and demand answers. But my legs wouldn’t move. I just stood there in the dark hallway of my own house and felt like a stranger in it.
I got back to the bedroom before Susan did, climbed into bed, and pulled the blanket up to my chin. My hands were shaking. Those words kept replaying in my head: “It’s not your fault. Katie isn’t ready to know. I’m sorry.”
What did it mean? What secret were they hiding? And where exactly did I fit into all this, besides being the one who “must not find out”? Susan came back ten minutes later, slipped into bed quietly, and settled onto her side.
I lay with my back to her, jaw clenched so hard it hurt. I wanted to turn around and ask her straight out: what are you doing in there? What are you talking about? But I didn’t.
Why not? Because I was afraid of the answer. Whatever it was. In the morning I got up feeling wrecked, head pounding, no sleep to speak of.
Susan was in the kitchen making oatmeal. She always said it was good for a man my age. Usually I grumbled and ate it anyway.
That morning I sat down and said, “Susan, we need to talk.” She turned from the stove and raised an eyebrow. “About what?”
“About you and Mike.” I saw the color drain from her face. She pressed her lips together and looked away. “What exactly do you mean?”
“You go into his room every night. You think I haven’t noticed?” There was a long pause. She set the pot down, came over, and sat across from me.
She looked at me for a long moment, studying my face, then sighed. “Victor, Mike is going through a hard time. He needs support.” “What kind of support happens in the middle of the night?”
“He can’t sleep. He gets overwhelmed. I can’t just leave him like that.” “And me?” I said, my voice rising despite myself. “I’m your husband. I’m not sleeping either.”
“I’m lying there wondering why my wife is sneaking off to another man’s room.” “Victor!” she snapped. “How can you even say that?”
“Mike is our daughter’s husband. He’s family.” “Then explain what’s going on with him. Why the secrecy? Why not tell me?”
She went quiet. Stared down at the table. Picked at the edge of a napkin. I waited.
Finally she looked up. “I can’t tell you. I’m sorry. It’s… it’s not my secret to tell. I promised him.”
That did it. I slammed my fist on the table hard enough to rattle the bowls. “You promised him? What about what you promised me when we got married?”
“To be honest with me. To stand with me. Not with somebody else.” “Victor, lower your voice. Mike will hear.” “Good. Let him hear. Let him come out here and explain himself.”
But Mike didn’t come out. The house stayed quiet. He was probably sitting in his room listening to every word. I looked at Susan, and she looked back at me, and there was a wall between us I’d never felt before.
For the first time in 38 years, I didn’t understand my wife. She felt like a stranger. “Fine,” I said, standing up slowly. “If you won’t tell me, I’ll find out myself.”
I left the kitchen, got dressed, and walked out of the house. Just walked out. Let the front door slam behind me. Took the sidewalk past the mailbox and down the street.
It was November. Cold wind cutting through my jacket. I kept walking through our subdivision, past strip malls and bus stops and people going about their business, and not one of them knew an old man’s life was coming apart at the seams.
I walked and thought and replayed everything. Maybe I’d missed something. Maybe there had been signs. Mike and Katie had been married three years.
The wedding was small. Maybe thirty people. Mike had seemed like a decent young man then—polite, quiet, hardworking. Katie glowed the whole day…
