My Father's Wives by Mike Greenberg

make me wonder what else she could pull off, as Helen had said, if she put her mind to it.
    Then another hand was on my shoulder and I recognized it from the touch. Claire always comes from behind me, gently laying her fingers on my neck. I closed my eyes and focused on her hand against my skin. Was it still trembling? Was it still clammy?
    “I thought I was going to lose it completely in the car,” she said.
    I turned to face her. She was Claire again. I mean, really her. Not the stranger who was so anxious before, with trembling hands and damp palms. This was my wife. The woman who could keep anything a secret from me but promised she never would.
    “Thank you,” I said. “This is great.”
    She frowned. “You don’t look happy.”
    “Just a little overwhelmed.”
    She leaned close and kissed me on the lips. Hers weren’t dry anymore. “Enjoy,” she said. “Everyone is here because they love you.”
    Then she turned to greet another guest, I think a teacher from school. I caught Angelo’s eye and he walked over, holding a filled glass in his hand. “You look like you need another one of these,” he said.
    I smiled. “My friend,” I said, “you have no idea.”

 
     
    WHEN I WOKE UP the sun was shining.
    I was sure I had set the alarm but clearly Claire had turned it off, in fact yanked the plug out of the wall; the digits were flashing midnight. She would never have done that if she hadn’t spoken to Bruce about it. It was a statement, from them both, that I needed the rest. Neither of them knew just how right they were, or why.
    In my closet, I pulled my iPhone out of my jacket, which was hung sloppily on the door. Ninety-four e-mails. Those would have to wait. I typed a quick note to Bruce. Slow start today. Hoops a little later than usual . Then I went into the bathroom and switched on the radio by the sink. It was tuned to the news station for weather reports and headlines, but I didn’t want those. I clicked from AM to FM in search of music and found an old Motown tune I like, even though I always get most of the words wrong.
    I was in the shower singing Motown, clearing shampoo from my eyes, when I saw her: Claire, outside the shower door, naked. I could barely see for the steam that fogged the glass, but I recognized thelook. Claire doesn’t often initiate but when she does it is usually pretty creative, like this, much better than what I do, which is grab or grope her at the least realistic times, like when the kids are playing in the kitchen or company is expected in ten minutes or her parents have just visited. Now she was outside the shower, naked, and all I needed to do was open the door.
    But I could not.
    I could spend a lot of time trying to explain the reasons I could not and probably still not fully understand them all myself, but in the end that didn’t make much difference. Sometimes you only need to know one thing for absolute certain and right then I did: No matter what, I could not open that door.
    So I had a dilemma. If I rebuffed an offer this brazen it would make a statement I wasn’t sure I was ready to make; I was not prepared to have Claire think I never wanted her to do this again. I didn’t know where this day was leading, but if Claire was going to continue to be my wife I wanted her to be naked and smiling outside the shower as often as possible. What I needed was a way to push this moment off until I could further figure things out. So, I did the only thing I could think of. I opened the shower door, stuck my head out, made my face as miserable as I could, and said in a sickly voice: “Honey, I was throwing up half the night!” And just like that, it was done. I had broken the most important promise I ever made.
    Meanwhile the look on Claire’s face changed immediately, and just as quickly she was gone. If there is one thing my wife cannot handle it is vomit. One time Phoebe contracted a stomach virus and Claire nearly moved out of the house. Like the dutiful