Walking (3 A.M., #117)

It’s the fourth mention of all the great deals at Costco by my mother-in-law that causes me to excuse myself and sneak out the back for a walk. Usually I can tolerate Janice, but not tonight. Tonight her voice is like nails on a chalkboard and the touch of her hand on my shoulder makes me bristle. I need to get out of here, and knowing she is adamant about being in bed by nine, I don’t plan on returning until close to ten. Who cares if it is only 7:30? There is a coffee shop a few miles from here that stays open late. I’ll have a cup then call Jared to come and get me. On second thought, I’ll have to call Mya, our daughter, because she won’t give me a lecture on how impolite it is to just disappear when we have company, regardless of what happened today.
As I descend the deck stairs I have to stretch my left leg out to clear the gap between the fourth and first step, and am further irritated that Jared has yet to cut the boards to replace them. Of course he has been a little busy lately.
As I make my way to the gate, Logan, our German Shepherd, trots up to greet me. He expects to be invited along, but even though I usually enjoy his company tonight I just want to be alone.
The air is crisp, and I’m tempted to go back for my sweater, but the chance of running into Jared or Janice in the kitchen propels me forward. As my feet hit the hard pavement there is the faint crunch of sediment that has chipped away from the parts of the asphalt that were recently repaved. The smell of fresh cut grass permeates the air reminding me that it is only Wednesday, the day most of the neighborhood residents have their gardeners come.
We moved to this neighborhood because it was the only one left in town where all the houses weren’t built to look the same. I start to remember the day, three years ago, when we drove around looking for a place to call home. By the third cookie cutter cul-de-sac Jared started to sing, “Little boxes on the hillside, little boxes made of ticky tacky!”—the beginnings of the theme song for the Showtime hit Weeds. I thought that by escaping the “little boxes all the same” we’d also escape the problems that ended most marriages. I was wrong.
The road starts to incline and I feel a pull in the back of my thighs as they strain to meet the challenge. I walk Logan everyday, usually in flip-flops and only long enough for him to do his business. It’s been awhile since I’ve really exercised and I start to wonder if I’ll even make it to the coffee shop. My right hand glides up to my left hip and moves across my midsection, around to my back, down my butt, and then falls defeated back down to my side. I’ve really let myself go. No wonder this happened.
My thoughts are interrupted by the hum of the streetlights as they flicker to life in succession, one after the other like dominos. I think back on the events of the day, also falling like dominos, the letter the last of a long line of disappointments.
It had been placed under the windshield wiper of my car. At first I thought it was a ticket, but there was my employee-parking pass hanging from my rearview mirror, so then I thought it must be a flyer or an ad. But as I got closer I saw my name written in cursive—Laurie—the loops of the “L” exaggerated and a long tail extending off the “e”. Maybe a note from Syl saying she wasn’t going to make yoga. But she usually prints in all caps…
My foot inadvertently kicks a rock and it skitters a good distance down the street before coming to a halt against the curb. Her curb. The flag on the mailbox is up and I open the door to see what is being sent off. The gas and electric bill, the gym payment, and a letter to her sister sealed in a pale pink envelope, which I rip open wondering if I’ll find more then what was left in the letter to me.
It wasn’t so much a letter as it was a note. Two simple sentences—Jared and I have been having an affair. He plans to leave you.—and her name at the bottom in that same, careful cursive. There was also a photograph enclosed in case I was hesitant to believe her confession. The two of them wrapped around each other on a lawn chair by a pool.
The letter to her sister details her excitement over the truth being revealed. She worries Jared will be mad that she’s exposed them, but knows it will be worth it in the end. “He was going to do it, really he was, but I just couldn’t wait any longer because… well, I haven’t even told him yet, but I will have before this gets to you, so what the heck—I’m pregnant!”
My knees buckle at those last two words. I stuff the mail back into the box and slam shut the door. My legs propel me forward, but not in the direction of the coffee shop. I was never really headed there anyway, I knew that. I march up the walk, which is littered with grass clippings, and ring the bell. I hear someone descend the stairs, then the drag of the chain against the door as it’s being unfitted from the lock. Finally the door opens tentatively, and there she is.
“Laurie, hi. I’ve been—“
Before she can finish, I punch her square in the face. Then I turn and head for home. My watch says 8:05. Janice will still be awake, but I feel more up to talking with her. She can’t very well go to bed before hearing the news that she’s going to be a grandma…

The Letter in the Desk (4 A.M., #176)

Daisy was taking a long time to come downstairs. He'd told her to pack lightly, that they could always buy the things she needed when they got to Charleston. They had decided to run away together. Daisy needed to get away from this place, from Tom, from the awful memory of hitting that Myrtle woman with the car.
He waits on Daisy's side of the solid mahogany Derby partners desk in the sitting room, tracing the intricately carved daisy designs of the drawer pulls. Glancing through the sliding doors towards the stairwell, Gatsby slides open the top drawer. There he finds a carefully organized array of office supplies-- paperclips, pushpins, and fasteners all settled into origami folded paper boxes; pens and pencils lined up carefully in a row; floral stationary with Daisy Buchanan embossed in gold cursive along the top. He takes out a piece, folds it in half again and again until it is small enough to slide into the inside front pocket of his lapel. He's about to close the drawer when he notices a stray envelope laying upside down in the bottom right hand corner of the drawer. When he turns it over, he sees his name written in a shaky hand-- Jay.
It is because Daisy is always so careful in her penmanship, and because it is taking so long for her to pack a bag and come downstairs, that Gatsby feels a twist in his stomach. Again, he glances out toward the stairwell, then frantically opens the envelope already sure of what he'll find...
My Dearest Jay-
I don't know how to go about explaining this to you in a way that will make any sense. After all that has happened, you're going to think I'm crazy for wanting to stay with Tom-- and I very well might be. But the truth that has always been is that he is the man I love. We've both made mistakes, mine maybe the worst of them all, but during that time you were away fighting the war, Tom and I fell in love and that love shaped us into the people we were meant to be. Granted, we are both our worst selves right now, but I believe it was the pressure of living up to the expectations placed on us--by family, friends, society, each other and ourselves-- that we began to grow apart. While I admit to having feelings for you, they aren't the kind of feelings that you have for me. I'm drawn to the parts of you that remind me of my Tom before he grew cold and distant. You hung on my every word, romanced me, made me feel as if I was the only girl in the room-- just the way he did in those early years of our relationship. I needed that, and so I let you in. But when you talked, I heard Tom's voice. When you touched me, it was Tom's soft hands I felt on my skin. It was his sweet breath I felt on my ear, then my neck, my lips. It was Tom I tasted.
I'm getting carried away. I don't mean to hurt you. I only hope you can understand. I'm staying, Jay. My home-- my heart-- is here.
Love,
Daisy
Gatsby's hands shook. He crumpled the letter and left it with the envelope on the desk. When he was able to catch his breath, the wind having been knocked out of him by an unexpected blow to the gut, he stood up slowly and headed towards the door. He stopped at the bottom of the stairwell, contemplated taking the steps two at a time up to the room she shared with Tom and banging down the door, taking her violently into his arms and kissing her roughly on the mouth.Instead, he turned, walked out the door and headed back to his house intending to clear his head with a swim.