My first clue should have been the infestation of gold-em-
bossed, cream-linen envelopes from various law firms.
Thirty-three of them I counted in our mailbox on that
otherwise ordinary Friday evening. Each one addressed to
my husband, Blake Essex.
My second hint should have been the way Blake swept them
out of sight, nonchalantly shrugging them off when I asked
about them.
"Who knows?" he said. "If I had the money they spend on
postage for the worthless junk mail I get, I'd be a
wealthy man."
That was enough for me. I mean, he was right. We did get
an excessive amount of junk mail. Just never from
attorneys. Still, it was Friday night and all I wanted was
a gin and tonic — not a fight. I'd had enough stress at
work that week. The wonderful world of marketing can take
its toll.
I shoved all thoughts of the unopened lawyer letters to
the back shelf in my mind — the place where I stored
nagging doubts and discrepancies that didn't quite add up
but couldn't be explained — and mixed us a drink.
We went on with our Friday-night ritual as we had for the
past eighteen years, politely working together to get
dinner, cleaning up afterward, watching a DVD, performing
our bedtime routine, giving each other a peck on the lips,
and falling asleep, back to back, on our separate sides of
the big, king-size bed.
Standard MO for an old married couple.
That's what I used to tell myself.
But now that I think about it, the letters weren't my
first clue. By the time they arrived, it was as if the
universe was at its wits end and had resorted to slapping
me up the side of the head and shouting, Open your eyes,
you blind idiot. Can't you see the truth?
Even so, I didn't put two and two together until the next
day when my sister, Rita, and I were on our way to Saint
Petersburg to catch Le Cycle des Nymphéas — Monet's water
lilies — exhibit at the Museum of Fine Arts.
Rita was driving and I was reading the newspaper, skimming
each page diligently to make sure the competition didn't
somehow get a leg up on the retirement company I do
marketing and advertising for, scoring free press in the
paper. I'd finished with the main section and moved on to
the local and state when I spied mug shots of two men that
gave me pause.
One man looked like Blake.
I did a double take and realized the name under the photo
was Essex. The other was of a basketball coach at one of
the high schools.
Every little inkling lurking in the murky shadows of my
subconscious jumped to attention and my worst fears were
confirmed — right there for all of central Florida to read
in twelve-point type.
My husband had been arrested for lewd and lascivious
behavior after being caught in a sex act with — another
man?
The high-school basketball coach.
Thursday, they were caught in a secluded park in Seminole
County. According to the paper, it's a place frequented by
people — especially men — who are looking to exchange
sexual favors. The coach had been arrested there before,
but the school had no knowledge of his run-in with the law.
That's why the story was in the newspaper.
For everyone to read — "Oh my God! Oh my God!" I was
shrieking. I couldn't stop myself. "Rita, pull over. I'm
going to be sick."
She swerved a little bit. "What's the matter?" She glanced
at me, then back at the road as if she didn't know what to
do.
"Just pull over. Hurry!"
She veered off onto the interstate's shoulder, and I
tossed the paper in her lap as I stumbled from the car in
the nick of time before upchucking my bagel.
The next thing I knew, Rita's hand was on my back and she
was handing me a bottle of water.
"Here, rinse your mouth."
I took it without looking at her and did just that.
"Did you read it?" I asked.
"Enough to get the gist."
I turned to face her. Hot tears of anger and humiliation
and disbelief brimmed and spilled. "Oh my God! What am I
going to do? What am I going to say to him? To everyone
who knows us? How could he let me find out like this?" I
realized I was screaming because the words scalded my
throat and I started choking.
Rita took my quaking arm and led me in the direction of
the car. But I shook out of her grasp and stumbled back a
few steps.
"How could he do this? I hate him! How could he do this?"
I landed hard on my rump in the sparse grass, in the midst
of the sharp-edged rocks and sand, sobbing with my head in
my hands. In the periphery of my mind I heard my sister
urging me to get in the car, then I heard the crunch of
tires pulling off the side of the road.
I looked up and saw a cop. Rita confirmed that, yes, I was
okay. I'd just suffered a shock after receiving some bad
news and needed some fresh air.
All I could think was, Oh God, if the cop runs my name,
he'll know I'm married to Blake. Then it dawned on me that
this was how it would be for the rest of my life. Look,
there's Anna-belle Essex. She was married to Blake Essex,
that guy caught having sex with another man.
I put my head on my knees until I felt a shadow block out
the sun. I looked up and the cop loomed over me.
"You okay, lady? You need me to call an ambulance or
something?"
I wiped a sand-gritty hand over my face and shook my
head. "I — I'm fine."
"Then get back in your car and move on. It's not safe to
loiter on the side of the highway like this."
For a split second I contemplated that perhaps getting
flattened by a large truck was preferable to getting in
Rita's car and driving back to my ruined life. But then
good sense rallied and I realized I'd rather be alive to
torture Blake.
He'd have hell to pay for this.
I intended to collect in full.
Having your dirty laundry aired in the newspaper feels
like standing in the middle of a busy street stark naked.
No, it's more like standing in the middle of a busy
intersection and not realizing the world is looking at you
standing there stark naked until it's too late and — oops,
the joke's on you.
Oh, look — I'm naked.
I'm standing here like a fool. With that newspaper
article, the whole of me was reduced to what was printed
on page B-1 of the Sentinel"s Local and State section.
Gee, all that and my name wasn't even mentioned.
It didn't have to be. Blake's mug shot and name spoke for
both of us.
I'd been oblivious to the gawks Saturday morning as I
walked down the driveway to my sister's car to begin our
drive to Saint Pete; blissfully unaware that the reason
Joe Phillips next door stopped mowing his lawn and stared
at me wasn't because he thought I looked hot in my new
pink sweater that showed just a hint of décolletage. He
didn't speak; didn't wave. He just stood and gaped at me
across the stretch of Saint Augustine grass with a
bewildered look on his face.
Ha! And I thought he was ogling my cleavage.
Later, when I realized the truth — Well, you can
understand why coming to terms with Blake's betrayal would
be even harder knowing I had to face people who'd read all
about it in the newspaper.
Even before I knew, others were devouring the juicy
details with perverse excitement because they actually
knew the guy who got caught with his pants down in the
park.
Oh, and his poor wife. Didn't she know her husband was
gay? But they have a kid. Maybe it was one of "those
kinds" of marriages…? What do they call it? A marriage of
convenience?
How was I going to explain this to our son, Ben? He'd be
wrecked.
Wait a minute. I didn't have to explain anything. I was
not the guilty party, despite the guilt-by-association
factor.
Or stupidity by association.
I had to stop blaming myself, thinking this wouldn't have
happened if I'd been a better wife; a little thinner; more
in touch with his needs….
More of a woman.
Or at least enough of a woman to keep my man from turning
gay.
Rita and I drove to Saint Pete, but we never made it to
the Monet exhibit. Good thing because I didn't want to
forever associate Monet's water-lily paintings with
Blake's coming out of the closet.
Instead of going to the museum, we walked on the beach. We
must have walked for miles, me in my low-cut pink sweater
that didn't seem so sexy anymore, and my sister with her
sandals in her hand and her white pants rolled to the knee.
She let me talk. "Ri, you weren't surprised when you heard
about Blake, were you?"
She shrugged, pushed a wisp of short blond hair out of her
eyes.
"Rita? Are you saying you knew all along?"
She opened her mouth to speak, but closed it on a sigh,
and shrugged again. "Come on, Anna. He was just a little
too…" She dragged out the word as if stalling for time.
Finally with a look of resignation she said, "He was a
little too in touch with his feminine side. I mean, either
that or you'd snagged every woman's dream man."
Snagged him? Was that what I did?
Blake and I never had a sweep-you-off-your-feet courtship.
We met our senior year of college and dated for about two
months before I got pregnant.
No snagging intended. I was as surprised as he was. I was
prepared to raise the child on my own. He was the one who
insisted he wanted to be a family.
Rita snapped her fingers. "Oh, I read something the other
day where someone said something about a man who was 'just
gay enough." Rita made air quotes with her
fingers. "That's how I always thought of Blake."
I must have made a face because she grimaced. "Sorry. I
probably shouldn't have said that."
Afterward, we mostly walked in silence.