Switchback by Matthew Klein Read Free Book Online Page B

saw on the street (‘saw Betty inside Gristede’s; later, said hello to Nancy Stanton in the parking lot’). Interspersed in the monotonous catalog were startling, mean-spirited observations, which flashed and lit the dreary pagelike lightning on a moonless night. He remembered one passage in particular, about an incident that occurred when they drove to the opera in San Francisco: ‘When the police officer pulled us over, Timothy smiled at him and tried to bribe him. He did it in his usual charming way, so that it hardly seemed like a bribe. It was, of course, typical of him. Why does he feel that he is above all rules, that he can get away with anything, that the laws of the universe do not apply to him? I suppose it gives the people who work for him a kind of comfort – that this man is so clearly in charge, and able to navigate the world without impediment. But, truthfully, it disgusts me.’ She underlined the word ‘disgusts’ twice, hard enough that the pen indented the vellum.
    When he read that passage, he felt dazed. He remembered the incident, when he had managed to extract himself from a speeding fine. It surprised him that he recalled it as a small achievement, as a victory of his panache and calmness under pressure. That his own wife had a different view – a hateful one – was shocking. He closed the diary and replaced it on the shelf. He was careful to replace it exactly as he had found it: the corner askew, out of alignment with the rest of the pile, a yellow sweater arm resting carelessly on the edge of the leather binding.
    How had she figured out that he had read the journal? He was never sure, but somehow, she did. When she arrived home that day, she was surprised to see Timothy in the kitchen. She ascended to the bedroom, but returned a moment later, paprika red, the vein in her forehead bulging. ‘How dare you! This is the most despicable thing you have ever done.’ She spat out the words. Then she added in a low, menacing voice: ‘And I know you have done many despicable things!’
    Timothy refused to admit that he had read the book. She was testing him, wanting him to plead guilty, but he knew that – as angry as she was at that moment – any admission, any hesitation, would make things worse. He was unrelenting: he had no idea why she was accusing him.
    Finally, she shook her head. ‘Typical,’ she said, as if she knew the exact page of the diary he had read. ‘So typical.’
    She stormed off and hardly spoke to him for days. He continued to pretend to be hurt and outraged – how could she falsely accuse him of something so low? – but his protests were wan and thin. He just wanted the incident to blow over.
    It did, eventually. But he never read her diaries again. He was afraid: afraid that she had some kind of secret system for protecting the books, semiotics involving minute hair follicles, or traces of talcum powder, or ultraviolet light. More than that, he was afraid of what he might read, that perhaps the paragraph was just the beginning, the overture in a much grander symphony. Sometimes, he realized, it’s best not to know the truth.
    Now, back in the hotel room in Big Sur, he walked up behind her. Clearly she heard him enter, but made a show of continuing to write in her journal, unhurried, not threatened by his presence. When she had finished her thought, she underlined a word on the page and pressed down an emphatic period. She recapped her pen and closed the book gently. She pushed it a few inches away from herself on the bed. She turned around, finally, and looked at him over her shoulder.
    â€˜How was your massage?’
    â€˜All right,’ he said.
    â€˜Was she beautiful?’
    â€˜Who?’
    â€˜The masseuse.’
    Timothy said: ‘Yes, she was beautiful.’
    Katherine nodded. She had expected as much.
    He sat down on the bed beside her. His weight pressed an indentation into