Femme Fatale and other stories

she cannot bear being away from her daughter. Yet she has chosen to be away from her daughter. No, she doesn’t understand it herself.
    “I know we have no formal arrangement—” Karl continues.
    “Yet.”
    “But you didn’t ask me if you could have Annabelle this weekend.”
    “I don’t have to,” Gwen says, putting bread in the toaster, getting out the cinnamon sugar that Annabelle likes. It comes in a plastic yellow sifter shaped like a bear, a relic of Gwen’s childhood. Her own did not survive, but she bought this one at an antique store, laughing at herself for paying seven dollars for a piece of plastic that used to cost less than two—and was filled with cinnamon sugar.
    “If you are serious about this—”
    “I am serious. Serious as a heart attack, as they say in your world. But then, my world doesn’t have metaphors or similes about what matters because, as you so often remind me, nothing matters in my world.”
    “I never—”
    “Always,” she says. She is aware that she is interrupting him, aware that she is enjoying it a little too much. “You
always
let me know how trivial my life is. Not in words. Through your lack of words, your lack of questions, your inability to feign interest. By your silence, you let me know every day that what I do and who I am is of absolutely no interest to you.”
    Annabelle has returned and is standing in the doorway, regarding them. She is bright, exceptionally bright, although no child could be expected to compete with the brainiac powers of Karl Flores. Still, she is probably aware of more than they want her to be. Gwen hopes those dark circles aren’t from lying awake, worrying. When she first started out testing the idea of leaving Karl, trying it on in front of her friends, as she might have asked them about a particularly bold fashion choice or luxury purchase, the litany of questions had been consistent:
Did he cheat? Is he abusive? Is he an addict? Has he lied to you about important things?
When Gwen said no, everyone said: “You should stay together for Annabelle’s sake.” Karl said the same thing. No one understands that she could leave for Annabelle’s sake. She likes to think her mother would have, if she had lived. But if her mother had lived, would Gwen have chosen the men she has chosen? Certainly, she never would have married Stephen. Ironically, her mother’s death probably drove her into that doomed, ridiculous marriage.
    “You’ll be late, Daddy,” Annabelle says. Ah, she wants to defuse the bomb, ticking away, separate them now so they might choose to be together later. So that Gwen might choose. Karl has made it clear that he has no desire to divorce her. But not because he loves her, only because he can’t stand to lose at anything.
    “Will the film crew be there today?” Gwen asks, taking in her husband’s suit, one of his nicest, and the bright blue shirt that flatters his dark complexion.
    “Only for—I’m not sure what you call them. No interviews, but walking, sitting in meetings. Establishing shots? Something like that. I wish I hadn’t said yes.”
    Under her breath: “But you always do.”
    “What?”
    “Never mind.” She turns back to the task of fixing Annabelle’s breakfast, as if it requires great concentration to butter toast and sprinkle it with cinnamon and sugar, pour a glass of juice. But it works. When she looks up, he’s gone.
    Friends have pointed out to Gwen that it is hypocritical of her to complain about the constant media demands on her husband, given that she was a journalist who met him on assignment. She knew of him, of course. Dr. Karl Flores had been famous for a long time, more than fifteen years, when they met. He became famous for performing heart surgery on infants, working with tiny instruments of his own design, precious things that appeared to be plundered from a doll’s hospital.
    Plenty of surgeons do what Karl does, with just as good results. But few have Karl’s charisma, and no matter how the world changes, some aspect of his life always seems to be in sync with the zeitgeist. Gwen met him when he was in handsome-surgeon mode. Never married, he was the subject of much gossip. But the ordinary truth was that he worked too much and had no taste for a playboy lifestyle because it would have undercut his good-guy image, which he enjoyed mightily. His self-knowledge on this topic was his saving grace. “I like the attention,” he told Gwen on their third interview,