Page 108 of Don't Tell Me How to Die

“Jesus H. Christ, Maggie. You’re cheating on him.”

I nodded.

“And he caught you.”

“He hasn’t confronted me, but I can’t think of any other reason why he’d try to poison me.”

“And I thought I knew everything about you.”

“You know everything else. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but I was selfish, and stupid, and I wasn’t exactly proud of myself.”

“And I’m guessing you also didn’t tell me because I know the guy,” Johnny said.

Another nod.

“You want to tell me now?” he said.

I stared down at the box of donuts, unable to look at him.

Johnny put two fingers under my chin and gently tilted my head till our eyes met.

“Someone is trying to murder you, Maggie, and it sounds like they came pretty close to pulling it off this afternoon. The more I know, the more I can help. But if you’re too ashamed to tell me who you’re sleeping with, then you just might wind up dying of embarrassment.”

“He’s a cop,” I said. “In Heartstone.”

“Which one?” he said.

“The chief,” I said, my voice cracking. “Chief Vanderbergen.”

Johnny slowly let his fingers slip away from my chin.

“Vanderbergen?” he snapped. “You mean Van, the golden boy who popped your cherry, swore he’d love you forever, joined the Marines, knocked up some girl in Korea, then dumped your ass over the phone?”

I didn’t answer. It was the old Johnny talking, the one who would get abusive when he was angry. It had been years since I’d seen that side of him, but my confession had unleashed the demons. I let him vent.

“Are you out of your mind, Maggie? You’ve got the world by the balls, and you’re throwing away your marriage, your career, and your reputation for your asshole high school boyfriend.”

He gripped the steering wheel and unleashed a volley of f-bombs. Then he snapped around and looked at me, his eyes filled with heartbreak and disgust.

“I don’t know how you could even work with that scumbag cop, much less fuck him. No wonder your husband wants to kill you.”

SIXTY-SIX

I’m not a crier, but within the space of a few hours I felt like I’d lost my husband and my closest confidant. And for the second time in a few hours, I started bawling. First with Dr. Brubaker, and now in a Dunkin’ Donuts parking lot in the West Bronx.

I wanted to be back in Esther’s cozy Upper East Side apartment, crying my eyes out, confessing everything, telling her how stupid I’d been, and waiting for her tough love and sharp tongue to give me hope that I could stop self-sabotaging and start fresh.

Johnny let me cry, scream, curse, and pound my hands on the dashboard. A few minutes into my breakdown he opened the car door, said, “Don’t go anywhere,” and went back into the donut store.

A few minutes after that he came back with a fistful of Dunkin’ Donuts napkins. “Here,” he said, handing them to me. “You’re getting snot all over my goddam leather seats. Marisol will kill us both if she sees this.”

I couldn’t help myself. The sobs turned into peals of laughter. Johnny could do that to me.

“That’s better,” he said. “It’s a lot easier for me to apologize to you when you’re laughing than when you’re batshit hysterical. Sorry about the husband-killing-you crack.”

“Well, I’m sorry for keeping my affair with Van a secret, but I knew you’d hate me for it.”

“Maggie, you know me. I could never hate you for being a sex-crazed hellcat. It’s part of your charm. But now that I know, I’m curious. How the hell did you wind up going back to this guy after all he did to you?”