That Saturday Night (Poker Night)

G'mornin' folks.  Hope you are enjoying the new and improved bloggie.  Danielle has already expressed her enthusiasm!  Super Psyched about all the new features.  To the Max, lol.

Last night was awesome... won't go into deets, but I woke up a very happy lady.  I was so cheerful I set about right away doing laundries!  Then Aaron consented to grabbing breakfast at the place that has my new favorite omelette in the world: Carmelized Onion & Roasted Red Pepper with American Cheese!  YUM.

AND!  Tonight I'm headed into the city for some fun times with my dear friend Julia!  Life feels happy and wonderful right now.  I just folded a warm bunch of clean towels, and isn't it silly how joyful that can make you?

OK.  So I'm posting the start of what will be a several-vignette series about one night in particular in Cedar Falls.  It is the day after the big jaw-dropper, the big mistake, and Jonah's all: "What the fuck???!!!"   (For more see: The Morning after --4 parts--, Viola's Secret, Breakfast, Kitchen Scene, and several more, since it's kind of a pervasive issue... Oh, here's a steamy one:Let's call it foreplay?  IDK, there's some shit that's gunna go down right where it leaves off but I haven't been able to bring myself to finish that yet... And D's advice was to hold off until I'm absolutely ready for that point-of-no-return shit, but the begginning is pretty intruiging I think!)

I'm really digging writing this-- over the next few days you will meet some new characters, which is fun, i hope, and see how this weird night unfolds!  YAY!

So enjoy part one in the series of POKER NIGHT. 

Hey, in case I don't say it enough?  Thanks for reading.  Much love and affection.

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That Saturday night was the longest night Jonah could remember experiencing.  He lay in his bed and didn’t dare close his eyes.  Didn’t dare shift or move in the slightest.  He was tired, but the imperative to stay alert, in control, and aware, kept sleep at bay.

The day had been awkward enough; That sullied imitation of a morning-after breakfast had been followed by a strange parody of Saturday morning routine.  She’d been ever-so-slightly suggestive and flirtatious over breakfast, but now he couldn’t trust himself to be sure whether or not it was her behavior or his own warped interpretation of her actions that made everything seem naughty, risqué, unacceptable.  After they’d eaten she’d offered to clean up so that he could shower.

It was the hottest, hastiest shower he’d ever taken—he wanted it scalding and he not only locked the door but moved the wicker hamper in front of it for an additional barricade.

But she hadn’t come.  Hadn’t tried to breach his privacy.

He couldn’t quite tell, as he wiped down the mirror and cleaned his ears with a cotton swab whether he was relieved or disappointed.

It didn’t quite feel real.  The day was bright and cold outside the window, sunny but dead.  He wished it would have the decency to snow, to cover the world’s too-naked form with a pure white blanket of modesty and grace.  He hated looking at those grayed, bare sticks of branches—the sight of winter absent snow made him feel gloomy and old.

When he’d dressed he set about the grim task of disposing of the evidence.  He decided not to launder any of it, to just throw it all out.  He didn’t know what he’d tell Velvet when she noticed some towels and sheets were missing, but he couldn’t stomach the thought of his wife lying on those sheets again, or using the towels unwittingly. 

He gathered up the towels and wrapped them in the topsheet Viola had discarded on the hardwood floor.  But he couldn’t seem to locate the soiled corner sheet.  He looked under the bed, in the laundry, in the garbage, he looked everywhere he could think of.  It was gone. 

He felt like some manic Poe character.  He threw the bundle he had made away and poured himself a drink.  There was no need to panic.  It was a sheet.  It must be somewhere.  He tried to remember what he’d done with it when he’d been in such a haste to dress.  He drew a blank time after time and no matter how he looked at it he simply couldn’t remember where it might have disappeared to. 

Darkly he wondered if the thought of it would drive him to madness.  If the fact of its existence, somewhere, might impel him to an unbidden confession.  He wondered if he’d be able to hear it beating.  He laughed sourly over his scotch.  He didn’t think it would be a beating heart he heard whenever he thought about that sheet.

He needed to sit down.

That’s when Viola found him.  He was sitting in the den, scotch in hand, a faraway look in his eyes.

“What happened?”  She asked and slowed her buoyant step.

He looked over distractedly.  Her voice sent a peculiar shiver down his spine.  “Hmm?  Oh.”  He saw the puddle of shattered mirror she was carefully walking toward.  “Be careful!” he said sharply.  She was wearing only socks.  She stopped and looked at him.  It had been a very fatherly voice and she appeared what? Confused? Turned on?  He took a breath and a long sip of scotch. 

“I broke the mirror.”  He said unnecessarily.

She looked back down at the pieces again.  “How come?”  She asked, her voice small.

“How? Or Why?”  He answered, stalling.  He sounded like the teacher he was.

“Why.”  She repeated, a note of irritation flicking across the word.

“I was angry.” 

She looked at him.  She was excited.  He wanted to disappear, to cease existing.  What the hell was he going to do? Because that thrill that flashed in her eyes did something entirely unwholesome to him. 

“Why?”  She asked, breathy.

He was reminded forcibly of when she’d been learning to talk and had repeated that same question morning, noon and night about anything and everything.  ‘Why?’ did she need to nap.  ‘Why?’ was there a bird in a tree.  ‘Why’ was there a cat in a hat and a fox in a box, and he closed his eyes.  He felt the effects of an ice cold shower wash over him and was grateful.  Yes.  She was his daughter.  His fucking daughter.

Suddenly scotch seemed like a poor decision.  His stomach revolted and he felt ill again.  He forced three or four deep breaths before he felt calm enough, settled enough to open his mouth without fear of vomiting.  He kept his eyes closed.

“Your brother was here this morning.”  He didn’t even want to think about it.  Another loose end that needed to be dealt with.

“Does he know?”  Jonah wasn’t exactly sure he could tell whether or not she sounded concerned or something else.

“He heard the shower.”  Jonah said, finally able to open his eyes.  The nausea had passed for the moment.  “He suspects I’m having an affair.”

Viola stared at him.  “Did he—“

“He thinks you’re upstate with your mother and sisters.”  Jonah finished.

Viola moved away from the mirror and came to sit on the floor at his feet.  She folded her legs under herself gracefully and rested her head against his knee.  He didn’t move.

“What are you going to tell him?”  He hated the sweet innocent sound of her voice.

“He intends to blackmail me.”  Jonah said.  “I intend to tell him enough of the truth to convince him he was mistaken.”

“That it was me in the shower.”

Jonah didn’t speak.  The warmth and weight of her head against his leg drew most of his focus.  It was a pose she often took when they were in the den.  It was an habitual spot for her, had been since she was a little girl and he’d sit in his chair reading the newspaper.  He’d be there, enjoying his weekend paper and coffee and she would insist upon playing at his feet.  She’d set up her coloring books or her dolls all around the foot of the chair.  Countless times he’d indulged her well after he’d finished both the paper and the coffee because his foot would be serving as some doll’s pillow or some action figure’s mountain top.  When she’d gotten a bit older she’d still gravitated to the spot but she’d bring a book or a crossword puzzle and ask him for help with words she couldn’t grasp, or excitedly tell him about the exploits of the characters in her novel.  When she’d entered her teenage years she’d settled there less often, but still often enough for it to feel like routine.  Only recently books and puzzles and crayons had been replaced by handheld games or a cell phone.

Now he buried his face in one trembling hand and willed himself not to touch her, not to reach over and stroke her cleanly scented hair or run a finger gently over her soft cheek.  He was grateful that one hand held his scotch glass and he kept the other hand wrapped around his face.  He couldn’t trust himself.

“Are you going to tell Mom?”

He took a breath.  It was a question his girl had asked him time and time again over the years, when she’d done something wrong, been caught, been in trouble.  He always gave the same answer.  He would always look at her, a kind but firm expression on his face, and explain to her that he told her mother everything.  She’d often tear-up and beg him not to tell, plead with him to keep it their secret.  But he was unswerving.  He’d tell her that he loved her, but that he had to be honest with his wife because they were partners.  He’d kiss her on the forehead, give her a big bear hug, and assure her that honesty was best and that everything would be alright.

He slid his hand down his face heavily until it held his jaw.  “No.” he answered.

She turned to look at him, her large violet eyes wide.  This was too big.  This was too awful.  This would have to remain a secret.  Their secret.  He felt something wither inside him, shrink and perish.  He was the worst kind of man.  He was a coward and an adulterer and—he refused to even think about what else.

She moved then, very slowly, very carefully, never taking her eyes from his.  She moved up toward him.  She was going to kiss him.

“I need to clean up that mess.”  He said, his voice sterner than he felt.

She paused, halfway toward him.  For a shadow of a moment she looked dismayed, but then she smiled.  And moved aside so he could get up.  That look she wore made him nervous.

He took a long moment before moving.  But she let him stand and move away from the chair without incident.  He’d been half-expecting to have to deflect her hands, dodge her advances, but it wasn’t necessary.  Again he wasn’t clear on whether or not that was slightly disappointing. 

She offered to help and got a small broom and dustpan, a brown paper bag and wet paper towels when he asked. 

Then he went for a jog.  He needed to get out of that house, away from her. 

He got dressed for a winter run and paused by the front door.  He was sure his sins were so awful that they’d be manifest on his person.  He checked himself in the hall mirror several times before finally bracing himself for the bitter air and the curious eyes of the neighbors.  With every step he was certain there’d be someone who’d know, some soul who would be able to see his scarlet letter.  But nothing happened.  Not even dogs barked at him in any unusual way.  He got a wave from the mailman, a polite nod from Mrs. Archer who was out walking the family Golden, and a friendly beep from Mr. and Mrs. Eisen who were on their way to Temple.

How could he commit such a heinous act and be allowed to carry on as if it had never happened?  The injustice of it sucked the air from his lungs and he was forced to pull off the sidewalk for a few minutes.  He gasped and sputtered and tried to force air into his lungs but the air was too cold, too sharp and he couldn’t draw more than a few tight breaths at a time.  Leaning there against a peeling papery birch tree, clutching his chest and hoping he didn’t black-out, he was temporarily elated.  Maybe there was a God after all and he, Jonah, was being smote for his unforgiveable sin.

But, after a moment or two, the tightness eased, air once again passed his trachea and he drew breath.  He lived.  He persisted.  Jonah vowed to stop donating to church charities.

He stayed out for more than an hour and sorely wished he could have stayed longer. But the bitter cold, a sore ankle and searing thoughts began to take their toll.  There’s only so long a man can be alone with himself, ask himself the same fruitless questions, replay the same scenarios in his mind before he can’t take another minute.  He decided to shower and collect himself in the guest house.  He wanted to delay that inevitable moment when he saw her again.

The Delaney’s guesthouse was an adorable cottage set a good distance back from the main house.  It had been Velvet’s pet project when the last of the girls entered kindergarten and she found herself in desperate need of a project to push away that empty-nest feeling.  Jonah knew in the spring the little european-style cottage would be crawling with fat pink roses and ensconced in story-book beds of wildflowers.  The Cottage and the surrounding gardens had been photographed for some home & garden magazine a few summers back.  It really was charming, he supposed, and the inside was perfect too.

It was cozy, but not close.  It had a classic aesthetic but maintained a simple modern elegance.  It had all the top-of-the-line amenities and felt exactly how a vacation retreat should feel.  The colors were soothing but not boring.  The décor was pleasing but not distracting.  It was a model home.

Jonah closed the door behind him and tossed the icy spare key he’d just retrieved from under one of those hollow rocks onto the entryway table.  It was quiet and serene and though the heat was only on minimally he already felt warmer just being out of the biting wind.

He didn’t bother turning on any lights, the natural daylight from the windows was enough. 

Careful not to disturb the pristine cottage he slipped his sneakers off where he stood, not wanting to track mud or dead leaves past the entry.  He peeled off his socks for good measure too and left them with the shoes.  Not for the first time he found himself thinking that he’d have been more than happy spending the rest of his life in this modest place with Velvet.  It was the kind of life he’d imagined for them when they’d met and fallen in love.

He pushed the image of his young bride to the back of his mind.  It caused him too much pain to think about her now.  He hadn’t the faintest idea how he would face her when she returned home tomorrow evening.  But he would have to.  He would have to act as though nothing had happened.  He wondered if he could make himself believe it.

With a frustrated sigh he headed toward the linen closet and withdrew a fluffy white towel and then headed into the bathroom.  During this shower he took the time to very thoroughly scrub and sanitize himself.  He’d rushed it before, in the quick, scalding shower upstairs.  Now he was careful, deliberate, methodical.  He looked down at himself and tried to imagine how this body had been capable of the depravity of the previous evening.

Flashes, images of carnal acts stole through his mind and he braced his palms against the dewy tiled walls and let the numbing heat of the water rain over the back of his neck.  The events of the previous evening were still blessedly hazy, far-away and only clear in small, graphic patches, but they were enough to weaken his knees.  He hoped he wouldn’t be able to remember much more, because if he did it might kill him.

He leaned his head back and took the full force of the water pressure on his face.  Maybe he could drown himself.

When he finally toweled off he resumed the business of asking himself a series of questions that he would repeat day after day from then on.  It started with ‘How did this happen?’  followed by ‘could I have prevented it?’, then something akin to ‘did I do something, anything to provoke it?’ this was a haunting one.  An uncomfortable one.

Jonah would spend hours upon hours thinking back, analyzing little moments, trying to see the unseeable.  Had he led her on?  Had he flirted with her?  Had he sent her any signals at all that could be construed as inappropriate?  And this led to more uncomfortable questions, such as, had he ever unwittingly sent such signals to his other daughters?  The thought always made him cold and clammy and faintly ill.

And the string of ponderings would inevitably lead him to one final question: would it happen again?

He adamantly refused to believe it could happen again.  He promised himself it would not happen again.  He didn’t want it.  He mustn’t want it.  And he would have to make her understand.  Make her see it clearly.

She’d taken choice away from him, robbed him of his senses and willpower and his ability to control himself.  He wouldn’t let that happen again.

But he had a sinking suspicion that the days and weeks and years ahead would not be easy to navigate.  Would be difficult almost beyond bearing.  His body was confused now, his mind broken.  He was no longer the man he should be, the husband he should be, the father. 

He padded down the hall to one of the three modest bedrooms and crossed to a handsome dark-wood art-deco dresser.  He and Velvet kept a few changes of clothes in there.  They often liked to have date-nights and would come back to the guest house after dinner and drinks, to continue the illusion of the date, to have privacy and a place where they could be Velvet and Jonah instead of Mom and Dad.

He dressed slowly.  He was beginning to understand that he would be alone with his daughter for the rest of the day and overnight as well.  Given the circumstances he doubted she could be convinced to visit friends or go for a sleepover somewhere.  The way she’d behaved at breakfast and then in the den told him she was likely to try again. 

Maybe he’d better talk with her.  Explain how it had to be.

He grimaced.  He didn’t yet trust himself to talk more about it.  He’d tried to make it clear that morning but she’d misinterpreted, told him “nobody has to know”, like she was his mistress, and he’d clammed up, been unable to do what he ought to have done.

He needed to find something to keep him occupied.

Slowly he pulled an old pair of jeans out of his drawer along with a comfortable blue pinstripe button down and set them on top of the dresser.  He needed other people around.  He shouldn’t be alone with her.  But the thought of other people made his skin crawl.  The way he’d been around Grey… he might give himself away at any moment, so heavy was the guilt.

He pulled open one of the smaller top drawers and withdrew a pair of boxer briefs.  He needed to keep her at arm’s length without appearing to shun or reject her.

He didn’t want to hurt her.

He ran a restless hand through his rapidly drying hair and tried hard to focus.  To stop seeing her big eyes staring innocently up at him.

He didn’t know where she was but she felt omnipresent now, he felt like those big purple eyes were always watching him, so he didn’t dare take the towel off; he slipped the boxers up under the damp terry-cloth  like he used to do at boyscout camp. 

And then he smiled, relief spreading through his limbs.  He had an idea.