driver honks his horn, but Kennedy isn’t focused on that. She’s tapping her left hand on the steering wheel, counting the seconds until her husband comes on.
He gets on about three minutes later.
“Kennedy? What’s wrong?”
Michael hears his wife crying. “Baby? Talk to me!”
Kennedy blurts out, “My job received an e-mail with nude photos of me and that woman from Belize. Oh, Michael!”
“WHAT?” he yells in amazement. “An e-mail? From whom?” Michael closes the door to his office and takes a seat, calling up his work e-mail.
“I don’t know from whom. All I know is that it went to the entire fucking association!”
Michael’s e-mail is clean, as far as he can tell. No new messages. He breathes a sigh of relief.
“The pictures are of you and which girl?” he asks.
“The woman we met in Belize four years ago.”
“Jesus.” Michael’s mind is racing. He’s wondering who sent the photos. They’ve had zero contact with the woman. At least, he hasn’t had any contact with her.
“And you haven’t contacted her or her you?” he asks, immediately regretting the question.
“NO, Michael. I would have told you if there had been contact. You know that.”
“Okay. Let me think.”
He can’t even recall her name. Why would anyone send nude pictures to his wife’s job? Suddenly Michael remembers the e-mail that was waiting for him when they returned Sunday night. He feels his veins go ice cold.
“Where are you?” he asks.
“Heading home. Jackson told me to leave. . . .”
“Oh fuck.”
Kennedy is suddenly racked with sobs. Her wailing comes through the phone loud and clear.
“Baby, I’m sorry. Please don’t cry. We’ll figure this out.”
“Figure this out?” Kennedy retorts, wiping her face with the back of her hand, her makeup cascading down in rivers. It’s the least of her worries right now. “My fucking career is over, you get that?”
Michael swallows hard and shakes his head. Before he can respond, his wife’s voice is loud and cold. “I need you to meet me at home.” A second later she adds, “Now, Michael.”
Michael knows this is not a request.
He powers off his computer and heads for the door.
When Michael walks in the front door, Kennedy is waiting for him in the kitchen. She’s appears regal, standing in her pinstripe brown suit with her back to the island, a mug of hot tea in her hand, its wispy curling steam wafting upward. Michael kisses her perfunctorily, observes her unfocused, blank stare.
“We’re going to figure this out,” he says, rubbing her shoulder.
For a few seconds she is silent, as if she hasn’t heard him. Then her gaze rises to his as she asks, “Have you checked your e-mail?”
“Yeah. Nothing in mine. I was going to check AOL now.” Michael swallows hard and downshifts his gaze. The action does not go unnoticed.
“But?” Kennedy is staring at him.
“Nothing.”
“Michael. What?”
Should he have said something on Sunday about the hateful e-mail?
In retrospect, yes. But at the time, not saying anything seemed like the prudent thing to do.
He raises his stare to meet her own.
“I got an e-mail on Sunday from someone I don’t know. Something about ‘You and that bitch fucked me over.’ I deleted it.”
Kennedy takes a moment to process what has been said.
“It said what?”
“I don’t recall the exact words. Here—let’s see if it’s still in the trash.”
Michael walks into the den, followed closely by Kennedy. He sits, logs in to the desktop and clicks on the AOL icon. Moments later he’s staring at his in-box. No new messages other than spam. Michael opens the trash folder and finds the offending message.
No subject header. Sender: [email protected].
FUCKERS. YOU AND THAT BITCH WILL REGRET FUCKING ME OVER.
Kennedy leans toward the screen for a moment before straightening up.
“And you didn’t feel the need to share this with me . . . why?”
She is seething.
“Ken, I didn’t see
He gets on about three minutes later.
“Kennedy? What’s wrong?”
Michael hears his wife crying. “Baby? Talk to me!”
Kennedy blurts out, “My job received an e-mail with nude photos of me and that woman from Belize. Oh, Michael!”
“WHAT?” he yells in amazement. “An e-mail? From whom?” Michael closes the door to his office and takes a seat, calling up his work e-mail.
“I don’t know from whom. All I know is that it went to the entire fucking association!”
Michael’s e-mail is clean, as far as he can tell. No new messages. He breathes a sigh of relief.
“The pictures are of you and which girl?” he asks.
“The woman we met in Belize four years ago.”
“Jesus.” Michael’s mind is racing. He’s wondering who sent the photos. They’ve had zero contact with the woman. At least, he hasn’t had any contact with her.
“And you haven’t contacted her or her you?” he asks, immediately regretting the question.
“NO, Michael. I would have told you if there had been contact. You know that.”
“Okay. Let me think.”
He can’t even recall her name. Why would anyone send nude pictures to his wife’s job? Suddenly Michael remembers the e-mail that was waiting for him when they returned Sunday night. He feels his veins go ice cold.
“Where are you?” he asks.
“Heading home. Jackson told me to leave. . . .”
“Oh fuck.”
Kennedy is suddenly racked with sobs. Her wailing comes through the phone loud and clear.
“Baby, I’m sorry. Please don’t cry. We’ll figure this out.”
“Figure this out?” Kennedy retorts, wiping her face with the back of her hand, her makeup cascading down in rivers. It’s the least of her worries right now. “My fucking career is over, you get that?”
Michael swallows hard and shakes his head. Before he can respond, his wife’s voice is loud and cold. “I need you to meet me at home.” A second later she adds, “Now, Michael.”
Michael knows this is not a request.
He powers off his computer and heads for the door.
When Michael walks in the front door, Kennedy is waiting for him in the kitchen. She’s appears regal, standing in her pinstripe brown suit with her back to the island, a mug of hot tea in her hand, its wispy curling steam wafting upward. Michael kisses her perfunctorily, observes her unfocused, blank stare.
“We’re going to figure this out,” he says, rubbing her shoulder.
For a few seconds she is silent, as if she hasn’t heard him. Then her gaze rises to his as she asks, “Have you checked your e-mail?”
“Yeah. Nothing in mine. I was going to check AOL now.” Michael swallows hard and downshifts his gaze. The action does not go unnoticed.
“But?” Kennedy is staring at him.
“Nothing.”
“Michael. What?”
Should he have said something on Sunday about the hateful e-mail?
In retrospect, yes. But at the time, not saying anything seemed like the prudent thing to do.
He raises his stare to meet her own.
“I got an e-mail on Sunday from someone I don’t know. Something about ‘You and that bitch fucked me over.’ I deleted it.”
Kennedy takes a moment to process what has been said.
“It said what?”
“I don’t recall the exact words. Here—let’s see if it’s still in the trash.”
Michael walks into the den, followed closely by Kennedy. He sits, logs in to the desktop and clicks on the AOL icon. Moments later he’s staring at his in-box. No new messages other than spam. Michael opens the trash folder and finds the offending message.
No subject header. Sender: [email protected].
FUCKERS. YOU AND THAT BITCH WILL REGRET FUCKING ME OVER.
Kennedy leans toward the screen for a moment before straightening up.
“And you didn’t feel the need to share this with me . . . why?”
She is seething.
“Ken, I didn’t see
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