Twisted

wrong way and then, bang, it could be a problem. I told her I didn’t want her to go.”
    Sid had sipped his beer, cautiously eyeing his friend. “Listen, Denny, you just can’t tell your wife you’re not going to let her do something. That’s bad form, man.”
    “I know, I know. I didn’t go that far. Just kind of said I didn’t want her to. And she got all upset. Why’d she have to go? Why was it so important?”
    “Duh . . . ’cause she’s a senior marketing manager and she needed to go on the trip?” Sid asked sarcastically.
    “Except she doesn’t cover the West Coast.”
    “My company has its conferences all over the country, Den. So does yours. Has nothing to do with territory . . . You thought she was going to meet somebody? A lover or something?”
    “I guess. Yeah, that’s what I was worried about.”
    “Get real.”
    “I called the hotel every night. Couple times she was out until eleven or so.”
    Sid had rolled his eyes. “What, she’s got a curfew? It was a business trip, for Christ’s sake. When you’re away, how late do you stay out?”
    “That’s different.”
    “Oh, yeah, right. Different. So why do you think she’s cheating on you?”
    Dennis had said, “Just a feeling, I guess. I mean, I don’t know why she would. Look at me. I’m only forty-five. I’m in great shape—check out this gut. Solid as a board. Not a single gray hair. I bring home a good paycheck. I take her out to dinner, movies. . . .”
    “Look, all I know is, I cut Doris some slack. She’s my wife and I trust her. Do the same with Mary.”
    “You don’t understand,” Dennis had responded sullenly. “I can’t explain it.”
    “What I understand,” Sid had laughed, “is that Mary volunteers for the Homeless Coalition, she’s on the church board, she puts together parties like Martha Stewart and she still works a full-time job. She’s a saint.”
    “Saints can sin too,” Dennis had snapped.
    Sid had whispered, “Look, you’re so worried about it, check up on her. Keep track of where she’s going, how long she’s away. Go through her receipts. Look for the little things.”
    “The little things,” Dennis repeated. He smiled. He liked that.
    “I tell you, buddy, you’re going to feel like an idiot. She’s not cheating on you.”

    But the irony was that Sid’s advice didn’t clear Mary at all—not in her husband’s mind. No, he found some little things: the trips home from work that took longer than they should have, the funny tone during phone calls, the wine on her breath. . . . All of which fueled his obsession to find out the truth.
    And now, tonight, a snowy evening two weeks before Christmas, Dennis found a big thing.
    It was five-thirty. Mary was still at work and would be late tonight because, she claimed, she had some Christmas shopping to do. Which was fine with him, honey, take all the time you want, because Dennis was ransacking their bedroom. He was searching for something that had been gnawing at him all day.
    That morning just before he’d left for work, Dennis had slipped off his shoes and walked quietly past the bedroom where Mary was getting dressed. Dennis peered into the room and saw her take a small red object out of her briefcase and quickly hide it in the bottom drawer of her dresser. He’d waited a moment then stepped into the bedroom. “How’s mytie?” he asked loudly. She’d jumped and spun around. “You scared me,” she said. But she’d recovered fast. She’d smiled and didn’t glance at either the open briefcase or the dresser.
    “Looks fine to me,” she’d said, adjusting the knot, and turned back to the closet to finish dressing.
    Dennis had left for his office. He did a little work but spent most of the day brooding, thinking about the red object in the bottom of the dresser. It didn’t help that his boss told him there was a client meeting in Boston next week, would Dennis be able to attend it? It reminded him of Mary’s trip to San Francisco and left him thinking that maybe her trip had been optional too. She probably hadn’t had to go at all. Dennis left the office early and returned home, ran upstairs and ripped open the dresser drawer.
    Whatever she’d hidden was gone.
    Had she taken it with her? Had she given it to a lover as a Christmas present?
    But, no, she hadn’t taken it; after a half hour of prowling through every conceivable hiding place in the room he found what he’d seen. It was a red Christmas