The Disaster Man

It was his accent, I suppose, that made the whole thing bearable. That smooth British accent - born in Wimbledon, he had said - was so smooth, so proper it took the edge off everything he told me. The local radio station should hire him, I thought, to read out weather warnings and school closures; the mere sound of his voice would calm people, let them know there was nothing to worry about, this was all normal.

We sat at the marble counter, drinking ginger ale. He had been sober thirteen years, he'd said. I needed a drink, but stayed myself. The television was on in the living room, the sound low; I had been watching when he'd come to the door. Between us was a manila folder, closed. I'd seen what was inside, what he'd come here to show me: photographs. His wife. My husband. I was not, perhaps, as surprised as he was, but matters of degree are irrelevant in these matters.

"We married in Wales," he was saying, his words rich and tonal, like having the BBC on in the background. "We took the boat to Ireland for our honeymoon." I said nothing. I didn't want to elaborate to this man the history of my marriage. I nodded, the ice in my glass clinked.

No children, he said. Catherine - his wife - had had three miscarriages and so they had stopped trying. Involuntarily, my eyes went to picture on the fridge: me, James, our son Matthew at the Wisconsin Dells two summers ago. Hearing him say the word "miscarriage", again I had the auditory fantasy of waking up and turning on the radio to hear his voice, this Robert Huntington, telling me of some awful terrorist attack somewhere, some disaster striking on the other side of the world.

"What happens now?" I finally asked.

"Now?"

"Yes. Are you going to divorce?"

He hung his head and stared into the mica flecks of the counter top. Should I have not said the d-word? Was it too soon?

"How long have you known?" I asked.

He looked up and past me. "The private investigator gave me the photographs this afternoon. I decided I should come and speak with you."

"But you must have suspected?"

"Did you?"

Did I? He'd shown up on my doorstep an hour ago, at seven-thirty on a Friday evening, in a charcoal suit and burgundy tie, a Burberry scarf and a manila folder in his hands. I thought he was running for town council.

"James worked a lot," I answered. "He was always travelling, or late at the office."

He glanced up, smiled, and downed the last of his ginger ale.

Catherine and Robert Huntington. On the doorstep, he'd said we had met, at a holiday party. I didn't remember him, but Catherine's name rang a bell. I let out a long sigh and flipped open the folder. The black and white photographs were lying face down; I turned one over.

James and Catherine, embracing, kissing, in a parking lot.

"This is like something from a movie," I near-laughed. Robert nodded into his glass.

I got up and refilled our glasses.

"What are we going to do now?" he asked as I set his before him. A calm, soft yet strong voice. Tell me about the earthquake in Peru, I wanted to say, about the bombing in Cairo.

For the briefest second, I thought of kissing Robert Huntington, of how it would feel, how it would make him feel.

"Do you still love her?"

"Very much."

"Are you angry with her?"

He looked up at me now, his eyes red-rimmed and watery. He opened his mouth to answer and then shut it again. I stood and went to him, embraced him as he sobbed against me.

Over his shoulder, on the television, I saw footage of a plane crash. I wanted him to turn around, to watch with me, to narrate what we were seeing. To walk me through this unfolding nightmare.