Art of Deception

“Evelyn, it’s gonna be a hell of a night,” Art says as he plops into one of the big, old, faded-blue easy chairs in the den. “A hell of a night.”

Art, just on the other side of sixty-five, has finally put on his pajamas, bathrobe and slippers after spending more than an hour in his basement workshop trying to patch an old picture frame that Evelyn asked him to fix weeks ago. He had been glad for the task, for he had needed time alone to think. To plan. To come up with an idea. After all, he had something very heavy on his mind which, had Evelyn been more alert, she would have seen on his face the moment he shuffled into the den. 

But she isn’t very alert at the moment. 

Evelyn had arrived in the den of their Berwyn home ten minutes before her husband, wearing her favorite fuzzy bathrobe. By the time Art shuffled in she had already settled comfortably into the duplicate easy chair to the left of her husband’s chair. She always loved those chairs; she and Art had purchased them after they left Philadelphia for the suburbs. That was thirty-five years ago.

Evelyn covers herself with the multicolored afghan that is always there for her. She’s had that afghan for years, and sometimes she even forgets when she got it and where it came from. Doesn’t matter, though. It’s hers, and it’s comfy, and she loves it.

Art gazes at her for an extended moment. 

“Busy day?” he asks. He tries to make it sound compassionate.

“Mmm hmm…” Evelyn responds, almost involuntarily.

“Tired?”

“Mmm…

“Very tired?

“Very…”

“That’s good… That’s good… Know why? Know why it’s good? Because like I just said, it’s gonna be a hell of a night, Evelyn. Wanna know why?”

Although Art looks at Evelyn, he also furtively glances to her right and to her left and above her head and below her chin, in tiny micro-second bursts of time, as if to probe for the right words to use, or perhaps to search for clues to help decipher Evelyn’s micro-reactions to the few words he has already said. Although the plan he had come up with in the basement seemed achievable at the time it went through his mind, Art suddenly realizes it is woefully incomplete.   

“Why?” Evelyn asks. But three seconds or so have already passed since Art asked his last question, and he had nearly forgotten what Evelyn’s ‘Why?’ refers to. 

“What?—oh!—why is it gonna be a hell of a night? I’ll tell you why. It’s gonna be a hell of a night because it’s the perfect time for me to tell you something I’ve been wanting to tell you for twenty years. It’s about time I got it off my chest, and tonight’s the night…” He leans over to her. “You’re sure you’re really tired?”

“Mmm hmm…”

“Really tired but still awake?”

“Mmm… barely…”

Art sees that Evelyn’s eyes, which moments earlier had been half shut, are now three-quarters shut.

“Almost asleep, huh?” 

“Yes...” Evelyn says. 

That’s what he wanted to hear. It’s part of his plan—to tell Evelyn what he needs to get off his chest when she’s so tired that it’s quite possible she’ll never remember. “Okay, then!” he sighs. “Evelyn, I’m just a man… I guess that’s not much of a revelation, huh?... The thing is, I’ve always wanted to be strong… I’ve always wanted to be different… Not weak, or common. Do you know what I mean by common?... Evelyn, do you know what I mean?”

Evelyn doesn’t move. But after a moment her mouth opens—just a fraction of an inch.

“Common…” she mumbles.

“Yes, common,” Art repeats with a bit more exuberance than he had expected. “I didn’t want to be just like thousands of husbands out there, with all the silly human male weaknesses that a lot of men have… For forty-five years I’ve worked so damn hard trying to be what I wanted to be, Evelyn—you know—a good provider, a great contractor, an encouraging father, a loving husband… Have I been? Have I been all those things, Evelyn?... Evelyn?...”

Evelyn’s head moves ever so slightly to the right. Her eyes remain three-quarters shut, maybe even seven-eighths by now, and her mouth hardly moves at all when she responds: “Go to sleep, Art…” It is almost as if she had learned how to be a ventriloquist somewhere within the past two minutes. 

“No,” he says. “I can’t go to sleep yet. I want to know. I need to know. Have I been all those things?”

“Mmm hmm.”

“Good. Because I’ve tried… I’ve tried very hard, Ev, all these years. But twenty ago, the common part came out. The weak part. I guess every man’s got that problem from time to time. I don’t know; I’m only guessing… I was building that Pellicano house up there in Stroudsburg… Remember?... That’s when we were going through those financial problems because of that idiotic lawsuit the year before. Remember? You were so angry because of that damn lawsuit. So was I. And you were also angry because of that silly, stupid fight I had with Brian and Brenda, just after they got married, when I didn’t speak to them for a year… You were miserable, I was miserable. Both of us, miserable… It made me depressed, Evelyn… Depressed and… well, vulnerable, I guess. You remember those horrible days, don’t you, Ev? Twenty long, long years ago. Remember?”

Evelyn sighs deeply, through her nose. A very weak “Mmm hmm” follows. 

“And do you remember Loretta Pellicano? The woman who was building that house up there? In Stroudsburg? That monstrosity she designed? Remember that Pellicano woman?”

“Big…” Evelyn says.

Art looks directly at his wife now.

“Big? You mean the house?” 

“No,” Evelyn responds. She shakes her head so imperceptibly that Art may not even know she’s doing it. 

“Oh—” he chuckles, “you mean her chest, huh? That’s right… Her chest, her hair, her bank account, her apartment in Philly… everything about that woman was big… including—how should I put it—including her come-ons. Her seductive ways. Everyone knew about her, although I was too busy building that damn house of hers to notice… Despicable, now that I think about it—the way she was.”

“Big…”

“Yes, big… Who the hell knows why she came on to me? It’s not like she needed me to give her a discount on the construction, for Christ’s sake. She had more money than God, that woman. But before I knew it… before I knew what was happening… Evelyn, do you know what I’m getting at here?... Ev?... I was weak and miserable, and this big, blonde, rich lady suddenly fawned all over me for God knows what reason… Maybe she was happy that I pulled off a few miracles by getting all those damn municipal variances to build that house—that monstrosity… Or maybe she was really touched that I made up for all those snow days by staying up there those two weeks in that crappy little motel, just so that I could work on the house whenever there was a break in the weather. Remember?”

“Snow…”

“Yes, snow! Lots of snow… That was part of the problem, Ev. You see? I was gone so much from home because of the damn snowstorms. Not to put any blame on you whatsoever, Evelyn, but you did insist that I stay up there in that motel so that I wouldn’t have to drive back and forth in that weather… And that Pellicano woman was up there… and the variances… and the work… and the misery and depression, both mine and yours… I don’t know… I don’t know how it happened, Evelyn, but it’s bothered me for twenty years. It’s been a heavy weight on my mind like… like… like I don’t know what, Ev.… Ev—are you still listening?”

“Snowstorms…”

“Exactly. Snowstorms.” Art says. “In fact,” Art continues, “that’s probably what started the whole damn thing in the first place. One time she saw me up there at the worksite and she said I was—now don’t laugh—she said I was adorable. Me—adorable! Can you believe it? And then we started talking, and she started to call me Artie—I hate that name, Artie—and one thing led to another... Do you know why she said I was adorable? Because during the second snowstorm, when I stayed up there the second time, I wore that crazy Goofy hat with the floppy ears because I couldn’t find my regular hat here in the house. Remember that silly hat? I think Brian and Brenda bought it for you from Disney World when they came back from their honeymoon.”

Evelyn’s head-shaking is so slight as to be almost invisible. 

“No,” she sighs. 

“No? It wasn’t Brian and Brenda who gave you that hat?”

“Whitford,” she says.

“Beg your pardon?”

Evelyn is quiet. Motionless. 

“Ev, did you say Whitford? That Irish guy three houses down? What about him?”

“Goofy.”

“Goofy? What about Goofy?... Wait a minute—are you talking about the widower with the white hair? That Whitford?... What about him?”

“The hat.” 

Although it still seems as if Evelyn has somehow learned ventriloquism, Art does see her mouth move a tiny bit this time after the final t in the word hat.  

“The hat?” Art asked. “The Goofy hat?... Hold on—didn’t Whitford work at Disney World before he retired?... You mean he gave you that hat?”

“Mmm hmm…”

“Well, I’ll be a… I didn’t think he even knew who the hell we were… He didn’t give you anything else, did he?”

“Pinocchio,” Evelyn mouths; the multi-syllable, consonant-heavy word forces her lips to move more than they had in the last several minutes.

“Pinocchio? What do you mean Pinocchio?” Art’s mouth moves much more than his wife’s when he repeats the name. “The movie ‘Pinocchio’—the videocassette? He gave us the videocassette of ‘Pinocchio’ that you gave to Brian and Brenda for the baby? Anything else?... ‘Snow White,’ maybe?”

“Mmm hmm.”

“You’re kidding, right?

“Uh uh.”

“What about all those Disney World sweatshirts? Those too?” Art’s voice gets a little harsher, louder, and shakier with every statement.

“Mmm hmm,” Evelyn says as serenely as ever.

“ When?” Art asks.

“Stroudsburg,” Evelyn responds. 

“When I stayed up there at the worksite? At the motel? Jesus, Ev, I was only gone for a few days each time! The first time only two days! Are you nuts? Are you out of your mind? That Whitford is a lunatic. Who the hell lives in Florida and moves to Pennsylvania to retire, anyway? Normal people do it the other way around. You shouldn’t have let that idiot in the house, Evelyn… How many times was he here?... Ev?… Evelyn?”

“Hmm?..” Her brow furrows faintly. 

“When was he here?” Art bawls, quietly yet anxiously. “During the first snowstorm?... Was he just checking to see if everything was okay in the house?... Evelyn?... How long did he stay?... Did you give him dinner, too?... Did you have drinks?...”

Evelyn’s face doesn’t change at all.

“Did he… did he stat over?... Evelyn?”

Evelyn repositions herself on the easy chair. 

“I’m tired,” she whines.

“Evelyn!”

“Need to sleep…”

Art pops out of the chair. He angles his tired torso to look at his wife. 

“Evelyn!” he bellows, “I was only gone a few days, for Christ’s sake. Each time only a few days at that lousy motel. There were snowstorms… She was a very strong-willed woman. She didn’t want me to drive home, and neither did you. Are you gonna tell me what happened or not?”

Evelyn looks entirely composed in her easy chair. Art puts his hand on his hips, realizes how silly a position that is, folds his arms, and feels silly that way too. So he lets his arms drop to his sides. 

“Ev?”

Evelyn remains quiet. Her eyes are now completely shut. 

“Christ Almighty, Evelyn…. How can I ever… Jesus, Ev. I just don’t know what to… I don’t know what I….” Art, lost and confused, turns away from his wife and heads toward the opening between the den and the hallway that leads to their bedroom. “I’m going to sleep. I don’t want to talk about it.” He stops on the threshold and turns back. “I can see it’s gonna be one hell of a night,” he grumbles. “One hell of a goddamn night…”