CHAPTER TWO
SYLVIA
Sylvia opened her eyes in the darkness and reached over to Walter’s side of the bed. It was empty. Had he fallen asleep on the couch again? He’d been drinking too much lately. That night, she noticed him refill his whiskey glass three times after dinner. He hadn’t been in a talking mood; instead, he’d sat, stoically staring out of the window to the bay, rubbing his finger around the top of the glass. Eventually she left him with the bottle and went upstairs to bed. And two nights earlier, with the new couple, she’d watched him swill six Manhattans over the course of a few hours. Lloyd and Milly must have noticed.
She didn’t care so much if he wanted to go out with the guys and have his fun now and again, which he’d done the week prior and the week before that—he always regretted the headaches that followed after a night of excess—but she did wonder if he was slipping into his old habits. They were the Johnsons, for goodness’ sake; she didn’t want people to talk. And she worried about his heart. The doctor said he had to take it easy, consider giving up smoking and booze, something they both knew he’d never do, but he definitely shouldn’t be careless about his health. They had too much to look forward to.
She slipped out of bed, wrapped her silk robe around her, and tiptoed downstairs. She’d lure him back to bed, she decided. He’d beenworking so hard lately they’d barely had any chance to be romantic, and she was hoping to make up for lost time. She felt her way downstairs in the darkness, but her eyes adjusted and she made out his silhouette sitting at the kitchen counter.
“Walter?” she said. “What are you doing down here all alone?”
He grumbled, and she realized she had no idea what time it was. She walked up behind him and wrapped her arms around her husband’s chest, pressing her breasts against him with more than a hint of suggestion. But he didn’t turn and pull her toward him, as he usually would. This wasn’t like him. One touch of skin, even just a glimpse, and he was usually raring to go.
Feeling an unusual sting of rejection, she tried a different approach, squeezing herself between the counter and him. She took his hands and slipped them into her robe, wrapping them around her body.
“Want a little pick-me-up?” she asked as she landed his hands on her rear.
“Ah,” he screeched. “Damn it, Sylvia. Leave me alone, would you?”
“Walter, what is wrong with you?” She was getting angry now. Rejection was one thing, but blatant irritation with her was another. She moved out of his way to turn on the light. They both squinted at its harsh glow, and when he raised his hand to shield his eyes, she saw it immediately—the swollen purple pinky finger on his left hand, crooked and bending outward at a horribly unnatural angle.
She gasped. “My God, what happened?” She reached out to touch the mangled finger but he pulled it away. She searched his red, bloodshot eyes, noting his ashen skin and silver-streaked hair sticking up in all directions.
“I haven’t slept,” he said.
“But what happened to your finger?”
“An accident.”
“What kind of accident? Did you fall?” She rushed to the icebox and pulled out a box of frozen peas, and when she turned back to him, she realized he was still in last night’s clothes. “Did you go out last nightafter I went to bed?” She placed the peas on the counter in front of him. “You need to see someone; it looks broken.”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine.”
He pushed his chair back with a screech, and when he stood abruptly the chair fell back and hit the ground with a loud crash. “I told you,” he growled loud enough to wake Judith, “it was an accident, that’s all. I don’t have to explain my every goddamned move to you.”
Sylvia stepped back. He’d never raised his voice to her, ever. It was so jarring, she felt as if she’d been slapped, and she didn’t dare move. After a long moment, Walter walked away, stumbling a little as he made his way toward the stairs. When she heard the bedroom door close, she forced herself to right the chair, then she sat in it and didn’t move until the sun came up.
She jumped when she heard a knock at the door, and she stared at the entranceway. Who could possibly be calling on them at 7AMon a Friday morning? Another knock. Nerves already on edge, she marched to the door, irritated at the interruption, and swung it open.
“Yes?” she said, and as soon as she saw Milly standing there awkwardly in a pale-green sweater and what barely passed as a white tennis skirt, she remembered they’d made a date to walk to the club together and play tennis.
“Oh, did I get the day wrong?” Milly asked.
Sylvia had no makeup on and probably looked pale and distraught.
“No, no not at all,” Sylvia said. “I just need two minutes.…” It felt wrong not to invite her in, but she couldn’t risk her seeing Walter this way if he reemerged. The Johnsons were the fun couple, the happy couple, the couple everyone wanted to be around, the couple everyone wanted to be. Angry and arguing was not on the menu, and this whole encounter left her sick and unsteady. “Just wait, right there.” She had no choice but to close the door in Milly’s face, and she raced upstairs to change.
