Ghost Wife : Part 9

Skylight Confessions
by Alice Hoffman

(Page 9 of 12)

George had the blondest hair Arlyn had ever seen and brown eyes. His family had lived in town for two hundred years; everybody knew him. For a while, he had left window washing to start a pet store, but he was too kindhearted. He gave away birdseed and hamster food at half price, he was bad at figures, and the business had failed. Reopening the pet store was his dream, but George had a practical nature. He did what needed to be done. He was a man who fulfilled his responsibilities, and his brother had asked him to come back to the family business. That was why he was up on her roof the day Arlie met him, working at a job he hated, although Arlyn secretly believed it was fate that had put him there. Her true fate, the one that had gotten misplaced on the night John Moody got lost, the future she was meant to have, and did have now, at least for a few hours a week.

When Arlyn went to the dry cleaner or to the post office, when she went anywhere at all, she felt like standing up and shouting, I'm in love with George Snow. Everyone most likely would have cheered - George was well thought of. Good for you! they would have said. Excellent fellow. Much better than that son of a bitch you're with. Now you can right what's wrong in your life!

She couldn't stay away from George. When they made love in the back of his truck, or at his house on Pennyroyal Lane, Arlyn couldn't help wondering if he was one of those Connecticut people in her father's stories who had unexpected powers. But she knew that such people always waited until the last moment, until the ship was going down or the building was burning, before they revealed themselves and flew away. Whether or not they could bring anyone with them was impossible to know until that dire moment when there was no other choice but flight.

Although Arlie had never imagined herself to be the sort of woman who had an affair, lying was easier than she'd thought it would be. She would say she was going to the market, the post office, a neighbor's, the library. Simple, really. She brought along a clothes brush so none of George's collie's long hair would stick to her slacks or her skirts and give her away. Not that John was looking for evidence of her betrayals; most of the time, he wasn't looking at her at all. Whenever Arlyn thought about George, while she fixed eggs for Sam's breakfast or raked leaves, she did not smile, not unless she was certain she was alone. Then she laughed out loud. For the first time in a long time, she felt lucky.

The only one who knew about them was Steven Snow, George's older brother, and then only by accident. Steven had stumbled upon them in bed, as he shouted out, "Hey, Geo. You're supposed to be working at the Moodys', get your lazy ass out of bed." Steven had stopped in the doorway as they pulled apart from each other. He saw her red hair, her white shoulders, his younger brother moving the sheet to hide her.

They dressed and came into the kitchen, where Steven was having a cup of instant coffee. It had been three months since the day she'd first seen George on the roof. By now they were too much in love to be embarrassed.

"Big mistake," Steven said to his brother. And then, without meeting Arlyn's eyes, he added, "For both of you."

They didn't care. No one ever had to know, except for Steven, who didn't talk much to anyone and was a quiet, trustworthy man. They went on with their secret life, the life Arlie had once imagined as she had stood out on her porch. They did crazy things as time wore on. Did they think they were invisible? That no one would figure it out? They went swimming naked in the pond behind the dairy farm. They made love in the Moodys' house, in Arlyn and John's very own bed, with all that glass around so that anyone might see, the birds traveling overhead, the telephone repairman, anyone at all. After a while, Arlyn forgot to hide how happy she was. She sang as she raked; she whistled as she went down the aisles in the market looking for asparagus and pears.

And then one morning as she walked back from the school-bus stop, Arlyn happened to meet up with Cynthia, who was out for a run. Arlie had taken to avoiding her former friend. If she'd ever really been a friend. That was questionable now. All those glances between Cynthia and John. A woman with her own secrets had no business with an untrustworthy ally. Arlie hid in the bathroom if Cynthia dropped by. If Cynthia phoned, Arlie made excuses, often ridiculous - she had a splinter in her foot, she was dizzy from the heat, she had lost her voice and had to squawk out her apologies. As for those Friday get-togethers, there was no reason to sit through those farces anymore. In fact, Arlyn arranged for Sam to take recorder lessons on Fridays; hours in the waiting room at the music school listening to the cacophony of student musicians was preferable to seeing Cynthia.

"What do you know - you're still alive," Cynthia said when they met up on the road.

"I've been so busy." Arlyn sounded false, even to herself. She looked down the lane. She wished she could start running, past the Glass Slipper, all the way to George's, a place where she could be herself, if only for a little while. She was shivering, though it was a warm day. She didn't like Cynthia's expression.

"I'll bet you've been busy." Cynthia laughed. "Guess what a little birdie told me about you? In fact, all the little birdies are talking about it."

Arlie disliked Cynthia more than she would have thought possible. Everything about Cynthia was repellent: her tan, her white T-shirt, the blue running shorts, her dark hair pulled back into a ponytail.

"I guess you're not the good girl you pretend to be," Cynthia went on. "Even if we're not friends anymore, I didn't think I'd be the last to know."

"You're clearly mistaken." Arlie could feel something inside her quicken. A panic, a flutter, a lie.

"Am I? Everyone's seen George Snow's truck parked at your house. You're lucky I haven't told John."

Copyright © 2007 by Alice Hoffman

About the Author

Alice Hoffman was born in New York City on March 16, 1952 and grew up on Long Island. After graduating from high school in 1969, she attended Adelphi University, from which she received a BA, and then was a Mirrellees Fellowship at the Stanford University Creative Writing Center, which she attended in 1973 and 74, receiving an MA in creative writing.