Do This For Me Read online

  Answering the phone. Such a simple act, to set so much in motion. I could have waited, let Renfield pick it up.

  What then? Where would I be?

  Who would I be?

  Impossible to know.

  I hit speakerphone.

  “This is Raney Moore.”

  Silence. A cough. Then:

  “Uh…hi!”

  Not the court clerk.

  “Who is this?”

  “I got through to you!” A nervous laugh. “I wasn’t sure if…okay.” The caller cleared his throat. “My name is Tom.” A pause. “This is Raney Moore? The Raney Moore who’s married to Aaron Moore?”

  It was one of Aaron’s kooky fans. A bug lover. This happened from time to time. I raised my eyebrows. Amanda smiled.

  “That’s me, Tom. What can I do for you?”

  And the voice said, “For starters, you can tell your husband to stop fucking my wife.”

  TWO

  I grabbed the receiver and brought it to my ear. “Excuse me?”

  “Your husband is having an affair with my wife,” the voice said.

  “That’s not true.”

  “I’m sorry, but it is.”

  Amanda was already up, across the room, pulling the door shut behind her. Despite my confusion, I remember thinking, with odd detachment, Good instincts, that’s promising.

  “They work together,” the voice was saying. “She’s his producer. They…”

  What was going on? How had I suddenly found myself in this ludicrous conversation with a total stranger? The voice was needling, querulous. I interrupted.

  “You’ve made a mistake. Aaron wouldn’t…he doesn’t do that.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m sure this is difficult to hear.”

  I should hang up, I thought. Should I call the police?

  “What are you doing, slandering my husband like this?” I demanded. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Tom Nicholson. I’m married to Deirdre Nicholson.”

  My grip tightened on the receiver. She worked with Aaron. He mentioned her from time to time. But so what?

  “My wife and I have been having some problems—”

  “Are you trying to blackmail us? I can assure you that you’ve come to the wrong—”

  “Listen,” said the voice. “Just listen, okay? I’ve had my suspicions for a while. And I’m not proud of myself, but I logged on to Deirdre’s e-mail. I found…letters. From your husband. Lots of letters.”

  I leaned back in my chair. I closed my eyes.

  I felt a sudden, enormous rush of pity.

  This guy, I thought. This poor slob. His marriage is on the rocks, he’s casting about for explanations and he latches on to Aaron. Aaron, who writes lots of e-mails to lots of people. To me, to his publisher, to our children. To his mom. Rambling, chatty, friendly e-mails. It’s what he does. He can’t help it.

  So yes, he was a likely suspect—if you didn’t know him. If you did know him, you’d know this was impossible. Aaron would never cheat. He’s the opposite of a cheater. He’s—

  “He’s in San Francisco,” the voice said. “Doing a reading. Right?”

  I felt a tightness in my chest, sudden and sharp.

  “My wife is with him. He bought her plane ticket. I found a bunch of messages about the trip. They’re a little…well, do you want me to forward them to you?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Okay.”

  “I want to speak with my husband,” I said.

  “You should do that. You should—”

  I hung up.

  THREE

  I released the receiver. I sat back in my chair.

  My eyes rested on the phone.

  The firm is obsessed with technology. We’re constantly replacing cell phones, upgrading software, dispensing tablets and laptops like candy at a parade. But we never switch out the office telephones. I’d had this one for years. It was square, clean, functional. Black and silver, with a green digital display. Three separate lines.

  My wife is with him.

  The keypad was a tidy grid, buttons shiny from use. I looked at the two long columns of speed-dial buttons. I looked at the row of buttons along the bottom: conference, mute, hold, redial.

  I found a bunch of messages about the trip.

  The black cord lay on the desk, snugly curled in on itself like a sleeping animal. I hooked a finger into it and pulled. The coils stretched. The handset shifted in its base. I let go.

  Do you want me to forward them to you?

  I picked up the receiver and dialed Aaron. He answered after two rings.

  “Hey, Rane!” His voice was easy and cheerful. “I’m at the airport, about to go through security. Did you hear from the—”

  “Is it true, Aaron?”

  My voice was even, my breathing calm. I noticed these things from a distance, with mild surprise.

  “What’s that, hon?”

  “Is it true?”

  “Is what true?”

  “Aaron,” I whispered.

  “Raney? I don’t—”

  “I just got a call.” My mouth was dry. “From a man named Tom Nicholson.”

  Silence.

  “Aaron.” I swallowed. “Is. It. True.”

  More silence. It lasted four or five seconds.

  It felt like four or five years.

  “Yes,” he said.

  And the breath left my body.

  Yes. He said yes.

  “Okay,” I said.

  Aaron couldn’t say yes. He wouldn’t.

  But he just did.

  I heard him exhale shakily. “Oh, damn. Damn. Goddammit. It’s true.”

  “Okay,” I said again.

  “Raney? Raney! Please don’t—”

  I hung up.

  FOUR

  I released the receiver.

  Yes.

  I breathed. Maybe I blinked.

  Yes.

  After a while (one minute? ten? an hour?), I realized I was in pain.

  I investigated.

  I was clenching my muscles. All of them.

  I relaxed. I moved my toes inside my shoes. I tapped the arm of my chair with one finger. Everything appeared to be in order.

  It’s true.

  The clock read 11:04.

  Now, that was surprising. That, I marveled at.

  It had only been seven minutes!

  Your husband. My wife. Affair.

  How sure I had been that those words didn’t apply to me. Couldn’t apply to me. Until I heard them, seven minutes earlier (seven minutes!), they had never, in almost sixteen years, crossed my mind.

  Affairs? Sure, they happen. To colleagues. Neighbors. To Sarah and Tad. Not to us.

  So, no. I wouldn’t have believed it, couldn’t have believed it. Not even after the voice said

  San Francisco

  bought her plane ticket

  I didn’t believe it. Until Aaron said

  Yes.

  My breath left me again. I felt hollow, sucked dry. If you opened me up, you would have found a vast black bottomless void.

  I looked around. How strange that my office was still standing. That the entire building hadn’t exploded, or quietly collapsed into dust. Even though my life was gone.

  I pushed back my chair and stretched out on the floor. I screwed my eyes shut. Into my frantic mind came a memory of a yoga class Sarah had nagged me into taking the year before. Hey, I thought. This is a yoga pose. I’m exercising right now. Inadvertently, but still.

  Random thoughts, bouncing uncontrollably around my head. I stood up. Paced to the window. Paced back.

  “This isn’t happening,” I said. “This can’t be happening.”

  Aaron. My ho
me and safety. My sweet loving caring funny everything. All morning, as I’d tried to suppress my anxiety, he’d been in the background, supporting me. He was everything to me.

  But apparently, I wasn’t everything to him.

  I sank into my chair. “Breathe.” I put my head between my knees. “Breathe.” Blood throbbed in my ears. Images flared across my mind. Aaron, in bed. A shadowy form beside him. He turns to her. They begin—

  “No. No no no no no nononononono.” I felt tears ignite behind my eyes and push forward, hungry for air.

  That’s what did it, what made me pull myself together. Crying at work? Not going to happen.

  I took a deep breath. I smoothed back my hair and adjusted my collar. Placed my hands flat on the desk.

  The clock read 11:12.

  I thought, Hey hon.

  Then I thought, It’s the middle of the night here, and I can’t sleep.

  The clock read 11:13.

  I thought, Can you tell how much I miss you?

  Then I thought, I can’t wait to see you.

  The clock read 11:14.

  I thought, Love, Aaron.

  And I completely lost my mind.

  Rage exploded inside me. It filled me to the fingertips and the roots of my hair. It screamed and shook. Pounded its fists against my rib cage. Shed tears and spat venom.

  I bent my head and gripped the edge of the desk. Fury tore at every other emotion I’d felt in the last few minutes. The fear, confusion and heartbreak. The hopelessness and disbelief. My anger was bigger than all that. It incinerated everything in its path.

  It burned and burned.

  After a long time, it quieted, receding to a little ember pulsing in my chest.

  I straightened up. Smoothed my hair again.

  I was calm. No. More than calm. I felt purified. Focused. Powerful.

  Love, Aaron. The final words of every e-mail he’d ever sent me—even the shortest ones. The words scrawled at the bottom of the notes he used to slip into my lunch every day, back when we were struggling to pay off our student loans and save for a house. The words that ended the message he’d sent me a few hours ago, shortly after he’d violated his wedding vows.

  Love, Aaron. Love Aaron.

  I loved Aaron. What did Aaron love?

  I pulled a legal pad toward me and made a list of the things my husband held dear.

  (a) family

  (b) scientific credibility

  (c) public persona

  (d) social—

  My phone rang. I hit speakerphone. “This is Raney Moore.”

  A reedy voice said, “Good morning, counselor. This is Dale Ferguson from Judge Cleary’s chambers.”

  “Hello, Dale.”

  “Hello. Per my e-mail on Friday, I’m calling to inform you of the judgment in 15-CIV-9121, Ramona Whelan et al. v. Gaia Café, Inc. Judge Cleary has found in favor of the plaintiffs on all counts of the complaint.”

  The plaintiffs. That was us.

  All counts. That meant we won.

  We won everything.

  “Okay,” I said.

  “The judge will be filing his findings of fact and conclusions of law this afternoon. I’ll e-mail you a copy.”

  “Thank you, Dale.” I hung up.

  Where was I?

  (d) social connectedness

  (e) the comforts of home

  The clock read 11:26. I pressed the intercom button.

  “Yerp?”

  “Would you come in here, please?”

  My eyes rested on the family photograph on my desk. The four of us were stretched out on a blanket, ocean and sky behind us. Aaron, then me, then Maisie, then Kate. All squashed together, all laughing. Because instead of summer sunshine we had pouring rain and lashing winds. We were freezing to death in our swimsuits. Still, we had so much fun that day.

  I opened a drawer and removed a pair of scissors.

  Renfield appeared. “What’s with the please? You having a religious experience or something?”

  “I need you to do a few things for me.” I removed the back of the picture frame.

  She licked her thumb and turned to a fresh page of her steno pad. “Shoot.”

  “First, find Stephen and tell him that Judge Cleary ruled in our favor on all counts.”

  “Oh my Gawd! Congratulations!”

  “Thank you. Ask him to tell the rest of the team, and to call Ramona and give her the news.” Ramona was our lead plaintiff. “He should also ask the communications department to prepare a press release. I’d like to review it before it goes out.”

  Renfield put her fists on her hips. “Why aren’t you more excited?”

  I glanced up from the photograph. “Why aren’t you writing this down?”

  “All right, all right.” She started scribbling again. “Jeez.”

  “Second, call Darryl and ask him to come up here immediately.”

  “Which Darryl?”

  “Darryl from Litigation Support.”

  “Doggie Darryl,” she muttered, writing. I removed the photograph from the frame.

  “Third, print me a copy of that spreadsheet you created last year—the one with all my personal account numbers and passwords. Fourth, go on the Internet and find the top three nonprofit organizations devoted to denying the existence of climate change.”

  Renfield’s thick eyebrows twitched, but she kept writing. I made my first incision, guiding the scissors carefully to separate Aaron’s sandy foot from mine.

  “Fifth, go into my e-mail and find Aaron’s flight information.” I rotated the photograph. “Sixth, find a highly rated, non-sleazy Westchester realtor who can meet me at the house this afternoon.” Snip—off with his thigh.

  “What’re you doing to that picture?”

  “Seventh, get me a list of the top five divorce lawyers in the city.”

  “What?”

  I was in a tricky spot, angling the scissors around the brim of Aaron’s baseball cap. “Divorce lawyers. Ask other secretaries. Check the Law Journal’s best-of issue. Schedule consultations with whomever you find. My Wednesday afternoon is wide open.”

  Silence. I looked up. She was glaring at me.

  “Quit joking,” she said.

  “I’m not joking.”

  I made a final cut. Aaron fluttered away, landing facedown on the blotter. I aligned my wastebasket with the edge of the desk and swept him into it.

  “What the hell’s the matter with you?” Renfield demanded. “First you act like you don’t care about winning that stupid case, now you’re—”

  “He broke my heart,” I said.

  She inhaled, her enormous nostrils flaring. I centered the three of us against the glass. I replaced the back of the frame. I returned the photo to its spot on the desk.

  “The guy,” she said. “The guy who wouldn’t leave his name.”

  “He’s the woman’s husband.”

  She stepped back, shaking her head. “It’s gotta be a mistake.”

  “It’s not.”

  “Aaron wouldn’t…he’s not like that.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “But—”

  I dropped the scissors into the drawer and slammed it shut. She flinched. Something deep inside the desk rattled and fell.

  “I love you,” I said. “And you know I love you. But if you ask me another question, if you say another word, if you do anything other than leave this office and immediately begin doing what I’ve asked you to do, I will fire you.”

  I waited. She studied her steno pad. She bit her lip.

  “Please go,” I whispered.

  At last, she did.

  The phone rang. It was Aaron. I called after her, “He goes straight to voice mail!”

/>   I took a deep breath and surveyed my office. My sanctuary. Of course it hadn’t crumbled and collapsed. Nothing had changed. I had simply been laboring under—what was Marty’s phrase? An informational asymmetry. About my husband. About my life.

  Now, that asymmetry had been corrected. I was in control again.

  And I knew exactly what to do.

  Two paralegals appeared in the doorway. The boy was tall and lanky, his loud tie a protest against the firm’s conservative dress code. The girl was tiny, with a neat ponytail, a brown corduroy skirt and canary-yellow shoes. She said, “We have a binder for you?”

  I leaned back in my chair, regarding them. “Why do paralegals always travel in twos?”

  The boy paralegal hesitated. “Is this a riddle?”

  My cell phone rang. Aaron. I switched it off. “That’s a three-inch binder you’ve got there,” I said. “It’s a one-person job. Why does it take two paralegals?”

  They glanced at each other.

  “Because we’re afraid of you,” the girl admitted.

  I pointed at the sofa. “Stick around. I could use your help.”

  Renfield returned. “Here’s your spreadsheet. I found his travel information, too.”

  “Good. Cancel his flight.” She left. The phone rang four times, then stopped. I skimmed the spreadsheet, striking half a dozen entries—my phone, the girls’ phones, my credit cards. I came around the desk and passed a page to each paralegal.

  “You have your phones with you?” They nodded. “Excellent. This list contains my family’s complete financial and administrative information. Credit cards, utilities, insurance, et cetera. It includes all relevant customer service numbers, account numbers and access codes. Whatever hasn’t been crossed out needs to be canceled right away. Work your way down the list. You’ll have to impersonate me or my husband at times—you have my permission to do so.”

  “Why?” the boy paralegal asked.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I mean, like,” he faltered under my stare, “why are we doing this?”

  “Do you need a reason?”