Porsche. He ate a paleo diet and drank red wine without constraint. He was generous but also ambitious, with his sights set upon a seat in the state legislature.
And he was having an affair with Charlotte Kramer.
We tend to think we know why people have affairs. Their marriage is bad, but they can’t leave because of the kids. They have sexual needs that aren’t being filled. They’re victims of seduction, their self-control overcome by human desires. None of these were true for Charlotte.
Charlotte Kramer was two people. She was the Smith graduate with a degree in literature. She was the former assistant editor of Connecticut magazine and now the stay-at-home mother to two lovely children, the wife of Tom Kramer, whose family were scholars and teachers. She was the member of the Fairview Country Club who was known for her impeccable manners and extensive vocabulary. She had built her house carefully, and it was a good, moral, and admired house.
No one knew the other Charlotte Kramer, the girl who’d slept with her mother’s husband and was forced to leave home. No one knew that her relatives were uneducated alcoholics who lived hard and died young. She was the girl who took off her clothes every night for a man nearly twice her age who smelled of cigarettes and poor hygiene. No one knew any of this—except for Bob Sullivan. Charlotte had put that girl in a cage. But over time, that girl had started to rattle the bars until she could no longer be ignored. Bob Sullivan was Charlotte’s way of recognizing her, of keeping her calm in her imprisonment. It was her way of being whole as she lived half a life as Charlotte Kramer of Fairview.
When I’m with Bob, I’m that girl again. That dirty girl who gets turned on by bad things. Bob is a good man, but we’re both married, so what we’re doing is bad. I don’t know how to explain it. I have worked very hard to live a “right” life. Do you know what I mean? To not think the bad thoughts and stop myself from having the bad behavior. But it’s always there, this craving. Like a closet smoker, you know? Someone who’s mostly quit and who would sooner die than have the world know she smokes, but then she sneaks one precious cigarette a day. Just one. And that’s enough to satisfy the craving. Bob is my one cigarette.
You may judge Charlotte Kramer for her one cigarette. For having secret cravings that she cannot control. For not telling the whole truth. For not letting her husband know his whole wife. And for your judging of Charlotte Kramer, I shall have to judge you a hypocrite.
No one, not one of us, shows the whole self to any one person. And if you think you have, then ask yourself these questions: Have you ever pretended to like something awful your wife cooked? Or told your daughter she looked pretty in an ugly dress? Have you made love to your husband and faked a sigh as your thoughts ran elsewhere—to your grocery list, perhaps? Or praised the mediocre work of a colleague? Have you ever told someone everything would be all right when it wouldn’t be? I know you have. White lies, black lies, a million lies a million times every day, everywhere, by every one of us. We are all hiding something from someone.
This may cause you to feel disheartened. Maybe it will make you pause when your wife tells you she believes you’ll get that promotion, or your husband assures you that you are well liked on the PTA. The truth is, you will never know the truth, and if you did know, you would probably be fighting to save your marriage. I may appear a renegade. A miscreant. But no relationship can survive the naked truth, the whole truth. No. Once a couple have confessed their true feelings to each other, whether in private or in couples therapy or even to friends with big mouths, the game is over. Don’t you see? Don’t you know this in your heart of hearts? We love people for who they are and how they make us feel. We can usually tolerate their faults and even keep them to ourselves. But once we see any reflection of ourselves in their eyes that is not the one we want to see, that we need to see to feel good, the backbone of the love is broken.
Tom was never given a chance. No reflection Charlotte saw in his eyes could ever be trusted, because he knew only the one Charlotte who had been revealed to him. Bob Sullivan, and only Bob Sullivan, knew them both.
Charlotte and Bob met during the day in the small pool house at the very edge of the Kramers’ yard. There was a dirt road that was used by the pool company and mostly concealed by trees. Even in the winter, it was possible for Bob to park and not be seen from the road. The yard was fenced. They had been very careful. They both had a lot to lose.
Jenny sat on the bed that night her mother made rosemary chicken, unable to stand herself for one more minute. She heard her mother leave to pick up Lucas. She heard them come home. She tried to wait for her parents to go to bed, but they had another one of their “talks” that would not end. She went to the stash of pills she had collected from the bathrooms of her friends’ parents, and took a small white one. Those were always Xanax or lorazepam or Valium. She didn’t know them by these terms, but I recognized them from the description she gave, both of their physical appearance and the effect they had on her when she took them. Twenty minutes later, she was asleep.
The next morning she went to school on the bus. Her mother waved good-bye. She went to homeroom and Chemistry and History. At lunch, she started to walk home.
I have said that Bob Sullivan was running for the state legislature. This is why his wife, Fran, hired the investigator to follow him and collect evidence. I have found that people know when something is not right. Even if the intimacy has already disappeared from the marriage, the other changes are simply too difficult to conceal. Happiness, in particular, does not like to hide in the shadows. In Bob’s case, it was simply that his wife knew him too well.
That afternoon, after Jenny had walked home, Charlotte met Bob in the pool house. It was not a large structure—a twelve-by-twelve changing area with an attached bathroom. There was a sofa and tile floor, sliding doors with shades, and some shelves for towels and sunscreen and various pool things. And a small, sound-activated recording device installed by Fran Sullivan’s investigator.
This is what it recorded:
[door closing, shades rattling, female voice laughing playfully]
“Shhh, come here, gorgeous.”
[kissing sounds, heavy breathing]
“How much time do you have?”
“Half an hour, so take off your clothes and get on the floor.”
[more laughter, sighs, sound of clothing being removed]
“You want my mouth today, don’t you? You want me to lick you?”
“Yes.”
[female sighs, male moans]
“If you were my wife, I would eat you for dinner every night.”
[female sighs, arousal]
“Wait, stop….” [female voice, worried]
“What?” [male voice, alarmed]
“The bathroom door … It’s closed, but under the door … I think the light’s on.” [female voice, whispering]
[rustling, then silence]
[loud female scream]
“Oh dear Lord! Dear Lord!” [male voice, terrified]
[female screams]
“Help her! My baby! My baby girl!”
“Is she alive? Oh shit! Shit!”
“Grab a towel! Wrap her wrists, tight!”
“My baby!”
“Wrap them! Pull! Tight! Oh dear Lord! There’s so much blood—”
“I feel a pulse! Jenny! Jenny, can you hear me! Hand me those towels! Oh dear Lord, dear Lord, dear Lord!”
“Jenny!” [desperate female voice]
“Call 911! Jenny! Jenny, wake up!” [male voice]
“Where’s my phone!” [female voice, shuffling]
“On the floor! Go!” [male voice]
[footsteps,