Housebreaking by Dan Pope Page B

years, but moved us up here to take over the employment litigation division—Wait, is this boring?”
    â€œNo,” said Benjamin. It wasn’t boring in the least. He enjoyed hearing her speak and being close to her, and he especially enjoyed knowing she didn’t get along with her husband, which opened up room for him. This woman had occupied a pedestal in his mind for so long, and yet he knew very little about her. “Do you think he’s doing something illegal?”
    â€œGod, no. Not Andrew. He’s too smart for that. But unethical, or borderline unethical—who knows.”
    â€œWell,” said Benjamin, “he’s a lawyer, right?”
    She offered a forced smile—and he winced, telling himself, She’s Wesleyan, Yale, you douche bag. The car lot humor won’t work on her. Up your game! She’s smarter than you and everyone you know—
    â€œAndrew keeps mentioning one of his junior associates, without seeming to realize it. They play tennis together. I’ve heard him calling him and leaving messages—”
    â€œAnd that’s unusual?”
    â€œFor Andrew, yes. Most of the people who work for him, he can’t even remember their names. He’ll socialize with the other partners, but only if it’s necessary. So, I think he’s using this new associate to do his dirty work.”
    â€œI see . . .”
    She turned to him, shrugging. “Sorry, this is boring. I don’t want to talk about Andrew. I’m past that stage.”
    â€œFirst of all,” he said, “you couldn’t bore me if you tried. Second, what stage?”
    This time, her smile seemed genuine. “The complaining stage,” she explained. “Back in Cos Cob, that was the theme at book club, no matter what we read: Let’s complain about our husbands!”
    â€œWhat does that sound like?”
    She affected an exasperated tone—and he remembered what a terrific actress she’d been in high school. “‘He never asks about my day. All he does is talk about work. He leaves dishes in the sink as if I’m the maid. He forgets our anniversary. He forgets the kids’ baseball games. He drinks too much, golfs too much, wants sex too often, or not often enough. His feet smell like rotten cheese.’ That’s the theme and variation. Our stinky, rotten husbands.”
    â€œAnd you’re past that stage?”
    â€œFor the most part. Although it does feel good to vent now and then.”
    He said, “Did anyone ever tell you how terrific you were in Guys and Dolls —as Sarah Brown?”
    â€œI can’t believe you remember that. The character’s name, even.”
    Of course he remembered the character’s name; he’d read the photo caption not so long ago. The yearbook was still open on the desk in his room. “I’m good with names,” he explained. “Trick of the trade.”
    â€œRight. Car salesman.”
    â€œWell, the book club ladies don’t seem so strange. My wife certainly enjoyed venting. But to me, mostly.”
    â€œThat’s not venting. That’s bitching.”
    â€œI suppose so.”
    â€œBut now you’re free, right?”
    â€œSixty days and counting.” He gestured vaguely to the north, toward Granby and the turn-of-the-century Victorian she’d bought and renovated with their savings. “All that stuff she crammed into the house. I’m glad to be free of it.” He felt himself playing the part of the carefree divorcé, but for the most part, he realized, it was true, at least in that moment.
    â€œI envy you,” she said. “But if I got rid of Andrew, who would cut the grass?”
    He laughed. “That’s exactly what my wife said. Who’s going to mow the lawn? Who’s going to shovel the goddamn snow ? ”
    â€œI understand her perfectly.”
    He paused, pleased with the direction of the