Wife 22: A Novel
Page 4
“Right. Okay. Well, I have a theory. You think if Peter’s gay you’ll never lose him. There’ll be no competition. You’ll always be the most important woman in his life.”
“That’s absurd.”
William shakes his head. “It would be a harder life for him.”
“You sound like a homophobe.”
“I’m not a homophobe, I’m a realist.”
“Look at Nedra and Kate. They’re one of the happiest couples we know. No one discriminates against them and you love Nedra and Kate.”
“Love has nothing to do with not wanting your children to be discriminated against unnecessarily. And Nedra and Kate wouldn’t be happy if they didn’t live in the Bay Area. The Bay Area is not the real world.”
“And being gay is not a choice. Hey, he could be bisexual. I never thought of that. What if he’s bisexual?”
“Great idea. Let’s shoot for that,” says William, leaving my office.
I log on to Facebook once he’s gone and check my news feed, scrolling through the status update chaff.
Shonda Perkins
Likes PX-90.
2 minutes ago
Tita De La Reyes
IKEEEEAAAAA!!!! Hell—somebody ran over my foot with their shopping cart.
5 minutes ago
Tita De La Reyes
IKEEEEAAAAA!!!! Heaven—Swedish meatballs and lingonberries for $3.99.
11 minutes ago
William Buckle
Fall, falling …
1 hour ago
Wait, what? William has a new post and he’s not quoting Winston Churchill or the Dalai Lama? Poor William is one of those Facebook posters who has a hard time thinking of anything original to say. Facebook gives him stage fright. But this post has an undeniably ominous ring to it. Is that what he came to talk to me about? I have to go ask him what he meant, but first I’ll send out a quick post of my own.
Alice Buckle is educating herself.
DELETE
Alice Buckle is stuck on Band-Aids.
DELETE
Alice Buckle blames her chickens.
SHARE
Suddenly my Facebook chat pops up.
Phil Archer What did the poor chickens do?
It’s my father.
Honey, Alice. R u there?
Hi Dad. I’m in a hurry. Have to go find W before he leaves for work. Can we talk tomorrow?
Date tonight.
You have a date?? With who?
I’ll let you know who if there’s a second date.
Oh. Okay. Well, have a great time!
U not worried about me? STD’s 80% increase in people over 70.
Dad prefer not discuss yr sex life.
WHO ELSE DISCUSS SEX LIFE?
Caps means shouting.
WELL AWARE OF THAT. Thank u for check. It arrived early this month. Gd thing. Property taxes overdue. Stay. Talk 2 me.
Next month I can send more $. This month tight. Zoe lost retainer. Again. Did u change to energy efficient bulbs like I told u?
Will today. Promise. What’s new with u?
Peter may b gay.
Not new.
Zoe embarrassed by me.
Not new either.
Endless to-do list. Can’t keep up.
Dad?
Dad?
One day u look back & realize this is the best part of life. Going going going. Always something to do. Someone expecting you to walk in the door.
Oh, Dad. Yr right. I’m sorry.
:)
I’ll call tmr. B careful out there.
Love u
U 2
The smell of toast drifts into my office. I shut off my computer and walk into the kitchen in search of William, but everybody’s gone. The only sign of my family is a stack of dishes piled high in the sink. Fall, falling will have to wait for later.
10
My cell rings. I don’t have to pick it up to know it’s Nedra. We have this weird telepathic telephone thing. I think of Nedra and Nedra calls.
“I just got my hair cut,” she says. “And Kate told me I look like Florence Henderson. And when I asked her who the bloody hell Florence Henderson was she told me I looked like Shirley Jones. A Pakistani Shirley Jones!”
“She said that?” I say, trying not to laugh.
“She certainly did,” huffs Nedra.
“That’s terrible. You’re Indian, not Pakistani.”
I adore Kate. Thirteen years ago, when I met her, I knew within five minutes that she was perfect for Nedra. I hate that line you complete me, but in Kate’s case it was true. She was Nedra’s missing half: an earnest, Brooklyn-born, say-it-like-it-is social worker, the person Nedra could count upon not to sugarcoat things. Everybody needs somebody like that in their life. I, unfortunately, have too many people like that in my life.
“Sweetheart,” I say. “You got a shag?”
“No, it’s not a shag, it’s layered. My neck looks ever so long now.”
Nedra pauses for a moment. “Oh, fuck me,” she says. “It’s a shag and I look like a turkey. And now it seems I’ve grown this little Julia Child hump on the back of my neck. What’s next? A wattle? How did this happen? I don’t know why I let that slut Lisa talk me into this.”
Lisa, our mutual hairdresser, is not a slut, although she has also steered me in the wrong direction several times. There was an unfortunate burgundy henna phase. And bangs—women with thick hair should never have bangs. Now I keep my hair shoulder-length with a few face-framing layers. On a good day people tell me I look like Anne Hathaway’s older sister. On a bad day, like Anne Hathaway’s mother. Just do what you did last time is the instruction I give to Lisa. I find this philosophy works well in many circumstances: sex, ordering a venti soy latte at Starbucks, and helping Peter/Pedro with his algebra homework. However, it’s no way to live.
“I did something. I’m doing something. Something I shouldn’t be doing,” I confess.
“Is there a paper trail?” asks Nedra.
“No. Yes. Maybe. Does email count?”
“Of course email counts.”
“I’m taking part in a survey. An anonymous survey. On marriage in the twenty-first century,” I whisper into the phone.
“There’s no such thing as anonymity. Not in the twenty-first century and certainly not online. Why in God’s name are you doing that?”
“I don’t know. I thought it would be a lark?”
“Be serious, Alice.”
“All right. Okay. Fine. I guess I feel like it’s time to take stock.”
“Stock of what?”
“Um—my life. Me and William.”
“What, are you going through some sort of midlife thing?”
“Why does everyone keep asking me that?”
“Answer the question.”
I sigh. “Maybe.”
“This can only lead to heartbreak, Alice.”
“Well, don’t you ever wonder if everything’s okay? I mean not just on the surface, but really, deeply okay?”
“No.”
“Really?”
“Really, Alice. I know everything’s okay. You don’t feel that way about William?”
“It’s just that we’re so distracted. I feel like each of us is a line item on the other’s list that we’re just hurrying to check off. Is that a horrible thing to say?”
“Is it true?”
“Sometimes.”
“Come on, Alice. There’s something else you’re not telling me. What brought all this on?”
I think about explaining to Nedra about my tipping-point year, but honestly, as close as we are, she hasn’t lost a parent and she wouldn’t understand. She and I don’t talk much about my mother. I save that for the Mumble Bumbles, a bereavement support group that I’ve been a member of for the past fifteen years. Even though I haven’t seen them recently, I’m Facebook friends with all of them: Shonda, Tita, and Pat. Yes, I know it’s a funny name. We started off being the Mother Bees, then became the Mumble Bee
s, then somehow it morphed into the Mumble Bumbles.
“I just wonder sometimes if we can make it through another forty years. Forty years is a long time. Don’t you think that’s worth examining now that we’re nearly twenty years in?” I ask.
“Olivia Newton-John!” shouts Kate in the background. “That’s who I meant to say you looked like. The Let’s Get Physical album!”
“In my experience it’s the unexamined life that is worth living,” says Nedra. “If one wants to live happily ever after, that is—with one’s partner. Darling, I’ve got to go and see if I can do something about this hideous shag. Kate’s coming at me with bobby pins.”
I can hear Kate singing Olivia Newton-John’s “I Honestly Love You” hideously off-key.
“Do me a favor?” says Nedra. “When you see me, do not tell me I look like Rachel from Friends. And I promise we’ll talk about marriage in the nineteenth century later.”
“Twenty-first century.”
“No difference whatsoever. Kisses.”
11
21. I didn’t until I saw that movie about the Hubble telescope in Imax 3-D.
22. Neck.
23. Forearms.
24. Long. That’s the way I would describe him. His legs barely fit under his desk. This was back before business casual was invented and everybody still dressed for work. I wore a pencil skirt and pumps. He wore a pin-stripe suit and a yellow tie. He was fair, but his straight hair was dark, almost black, and it kept falling in his eyes. He looked like a young Sam Shepard: all coiled up and brooding.
I was completely unnerved and trying not to show it. Why hadn’t Henry (Henry is my cousin, the one responsible for landing me the interview; he played in a men’s soccer league with William) warned me he was so cute? I wanted him to see me, I mean really see me, and yes, I knew he was dangerous, i.e. unreadable, i.e. withholding, i.e. TAKEN—there was a picture of him and some gorgeous blond woman on his desk.
I was in the middle of explaining to him why a theater major with a minor in dramaturgy would want a job as a copywriter, which entailed a great deal of skirting around the truth (because it’s a day job and playwrights make no money and I have to do something to support myself while I pursue my ART, and it may as well be writing meaningless copy about dishwashing detergent), when he interrupted me.
“Henry said you got into Brown, but you went to U Mass?”
Damn Henry. I tried to explain. I was giving him my old I’m a U Mass legacy, which was a lie; the truth was U Mass gave me a full ride, Brown gave me half a ride, and there was no way my father could afford even half of Brown’s tuition. But he interrupted me, waving at me to stop, and I felt ashamed. Like I had disappointed him.
He handed me back my résumé, which I tore up on the way out, sure I had blown the interview. The next day there was a message from him on my machine. “You start Monday, Brown.”
12
From: Wife 22
Subject: Answers
Date: May 10, 5:50 AM
To: researcher101
Researcher 101,
I hope I’m doing this right. I’m worried that some of my answers may go on for longer than you’d like and perhaps you’d prefer a subject who just sticks to the subject and says yes, no, sometimes, and maybe. But here’s the thing. Nobody has ever asked me these kinds of questions before. These sorts of questions, I mean. Every day I am asked normal questions for a woman my age. Like today when I tried to schedule an appointment at the dermatologist. The first question the receptionist asked was if I had a suspicious mole. Then she told me the first available appointment was in six months and what was the date of my birth? When I told her the year, she asked me if I’d like to have a conversation with the doctor about injectables when I had my moles checked. And if that was the case the doctor could see me next week, and would Thursday do? These are the kinds of questions I am asked, the kinds of questions I would really prefer not to be asked.
I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m enjoying participating in the survey.
All the best,
Wife 22
From: researcher101
Subject: Re: Answers
Date: May 10, 9:46 AM
To: Wife 22
Wife 22,
I assume you’re referring to question #24—as far as your worry that you’re giving too lengthy an answer? It was like reading a little scene, actually, with all the dialogue. Was that intentional?
Sincerely,
Researcher 101
From: Wife 22
Subject: Re: Answers
Date: May 10, 10:45 AM
To: researcher101
Researcher 101,
I’m not so sure it was intentional, more like force of habit. I used to be a playwright. I’m afraid I naturally think in scenes. I hope that’s all right.
Wife 22
From: researcher101
Subject: Re: Answers
Date: May 10, 11:01 AM
To: Wife 22
Wife 22,
There’s no right way or wrong way to answer, just as long as you’re answering truthfully. To be honest, I found your #24 to be quite engaging.
Best,
Researcher 101
13
Julie Staggs
Marcy—big girl bed!
32 minutes ago
Pat Guardia
Spending the afternoon with my father. Red Sox. Ahhhh.
46 minutes ago
William Buckle
Fell.
1 hour ago
Fell? Now I’m officially worried. I’m about to text William when I hear the unmistakable sound of the motorcycle being gunned in the driveway. I log off Facebook quickly. The kids are still at school, William has a client dinner, so I jump to the obvious conclusion.
“We’re being robbed,” I whisper to Nedra on the phone. “Someone’s stealing the motorcycle!”
Nedra sighs. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“How sure?”
This is not the first time Nedra has received such a call from me.
Once, a few years ago when I was doing laundry down in the basement, the wind blew the front door open and it slammed into the wall with a bang. In my defense, it sounded like a gunshot. I was positive I was about to be robbed while I was musing about whether a load of whites really needed fabric softener. Robberies weren’t that unusual in our neighborhood. It’s a reality Oaklanders live with, along with earthquakes and $5-a-pound heirloom tomatoes.
Panicked, I stupidly shouted, “I’m calling my lawyer!”
Nobody answered, so I added, “And I have nunchakus!”
I had bought a pair for Peter, who had recently signed up to take tae kwon do, which unbeknownst to me he would be quitting two weeks hence because he didn’t realize it was a contact sport. What did he think the nunchakus were for? Oh—he meant tai chi, not tae kwon do. It wasn’t his fault so many of the martial arts begin with the same sound.
Still no reply. “Nunchakus are two sticks connected by a chain that people use to hurt each other. By whirling them around. Very fast!” I shouted.
Not a sound from upstairs. Not a footfall, not even a creak from the hardwood floor. Had I imagined the bang? I called Nedra on my cell and made her stay on the line with me for the next half hour, until the wind flung the door shut and I realized what an idiot I had been.
“I swear. It’s not a false alarm this time,” I tell her.
Nedra is like an ER doc. The scarier the situation, the calmer and more levelheaded she becomes.
“Are you safe?”
“I’m in the house. The doors are locked.”
“Where is the robber?”
“Out on the driveway.”
&nb
sp; “So why are you talking to me? Call 9-1-1!”
“This is Oakland. It’ll take the cops forty-five minutes to get here.”