The Devil's Interval by Linda Peterson Page A

messy house with a soccer schedule and reminder cards from the kids’ dentists magneted to the refrigerator. How and why did we get to this conversation?
    â€œOkay, Maggie,” said Dr. Mephisto. “Your turn.”
    â€œMichael, this is nuts,” I said. “I have absolutely no desire to turn our love life into something dark and dangerous. It’s just…”
    â€œJust what?”
    â€œJust that it feels like one more ritual—way more fun than folding laundry or taking the kids out for pizza after soccer, but not much more surprising.”
    â€œAnd you like the idea of surprises? Like the kind Grace Plummer encountered in that photograph?” he said bitterly.
    â€œNo. I mean, yes, I like the idea of surprises, but not that kind. I think the photo obsesses me because I can’t figure out how something could go that wrong between two people who love each other. And now, even meeting Travis briefly, I believe he did care for Grace. Ipso facto , it can’t have been him. And so,” I was warming to my topic, and thrilled to have steered away from the direction to which kinked-out, voyeuristic Dr. Mephisto had dragged the conversation, “when I look at that photo, I’m looking for some telltale something that will reassure me I’m right—that Travis didn’t kill her. Someone else did.”
    Michael was not so easily dissuaded. “Uh-huh, Ms. Ipso-Dipso, I get that part. But let’s get back to the surprises you’re looking for in our marriage.”
    â€œYes, let’s,” said Dr. Mephisto. I shot her my best “Mom-and-dad-are-talking-and-this-doesn’t-really-concern-you” look that occasionally worked with the kids. She had a hyperalert glint in her eyes that made me think my tactic wasn’t working so well.
    But, while I was figuring out another, more effective way to tell her to back off, something clicked into focus for me, the link between our marriage and my apparently unstoppable impulse to mess around with complex, outside-my-backyard problems. “I think,” I said, “there’s always a surprise in how these things unravel. I mean, that’s what happened with Quentin’s murder. And as painful as all that was, I liked not knowing exactly what was coming next—and then figuring it out.”
    Silence. “And so,” observed Michael, “would it be fair to say you think that looking for these surprises, these unpredictable situations, relieves me—and our marriage—from providing that kind of excitement?”
    I inspected his face. It was carefully blank. “Kinda,” I said.
    â€œSo, you would argue that these adventures are good for our marriage?”
    Well, not exactly, but Michael had led me down some path I couldn’t see my way out of. “ Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita…” I said. “I am so lost right now.”
    Quietly, Dr. Mephisto said, “In the middle of my life’s journey, I found myself in the middle of a dark wood.”
    More silence. “ The Divine Comedy ,” she said. “Is that how you feel, Maggie? As if you’re in a dark wood?”
    I kept my eyes on Michael’s face. “I didn’t,” I said, “until today.”
    â€œWe have to end now,” said Dr. Mephisto.

CHAPTER 6
    B ars aren’t usually hopeful places at 10 in the morning. Sunlight and silence bring wear and grime and smells into sharp, usually unpleasant focus. But a few bars shine when they’re daylit and near-empty. The fancy places in upscale hotels, and well-loved neighborhood joints—they look clean and relatively bright, the bottles glitter in the mirror, the wood of the bar looks polished and loved and smells of lemon. Ivory Gifford’s bar was of the hopeful variety, tucked in among storefront after storefront of affordable Chinese, Thai, and Vietnamese restaurants and coffee places on Clement