Epilogue
What could she tell
Byron? What could she tell anyone?
Nothing, she decided.
She should never have
gone in the first place. I just want to go
back to my life.
Patricia knew she
would never take it for granted again.
The highway breezed
by. It seemed like she was driving away from the night, leaving its
secrets well behind, which suited her just fine. This early there
was scarcely any rush hour, even when she was all the way back to
D.C. The smog and the ugly monolithic buildings and potholed roads
couldn’t have made her happier to see. She’d figure out something
to tell Byron later, something feasible to explain Judy’s death,
and the rest of it. She didn’t want to lie, but with this?
The truth wouldn’t
do.
I’m going to forget about everything right now, she
promised herself. The resolution made her feel rejuvenated, and a
monumental burden disappeared. When she parked the Cadillac in
front of the condo, she felt giddy.
She walked quietly up
the steps, and was careful to keep the keys from jingling when she
unlocked the door and came in. The instant she stepped inside, she
truly felt that she was home. She was back where she
belonged.
She traipsed in,
hoping Byron was still asleep. I’ll slide into
bed next to him and let him find me there when he wakes up.
It would be the best surprise. She’d be right there in bed next to
him, two days earlier than he expected.
She kicked off her
sandals. She looked around the living room—dim in morning light—and
actually had tears in her eyes, she was so happy. Byron’s
pretentious art prints on the wall delighted her now. The feel of
the carpet beneath her bare feet titillated her. Even the air
smelled comforting.
She began to unbutton
her blouse when she entered the bedroom.
Her hand
fell.
Her heart almost
stopped.
Patricia stood there
for a long time, looking at the bed.
Indeed, Byron was
still asleep, and he would definitely be surprised to find that his
loving wife had returned two days earlier than he
expected.
You bastard, she thought.
A woman lay in bed
next to Byron. She looked young, early twenties, half of her
skinny, naked body crooked out from under the sheets. A small, pert
breast stuck out too, and she had some silly tattoo on her thigh.
And as she lay all cuddled up nice and cozy next to Byron, she was
snoring.
Patricia’s mind
essentially switched off. There was no tirade, no lamp throwing, no
profanity-laden shouts. There was nothing like that at all. Instead
Patricia walked back out to the car, opened the door, and got
in.
She didn’t drive
anywhere. Had she had more presence of mind, she would’ve driven
either to a friend’s or a divorce lawyer’s. But she didn’t even put
the key in the ignition.
She didn’t know how
much time passed when she finally said aloud to herself, “What am I
going to do? My husband is upstairs right now—in my bed—sleeping
with another woman. What am I going to do?”
The answer sat next
to her on the front seat.
The clay
pot.
The
sacrament.
The Squatters had
left it in the woods with her. But there was still a small amount
left inside.
Patricia looked up at
her bedroom window.
I’m going to go to the drugstore now, buy some paper, and
buy an envelope. Then I’m going to go to the post office and buy a
stamp.
And then mail a letter.