Wife 22: A Novel

by Melanie Gideon

  51. Marion Cotillard (but not in Edith Piaf movie where she shaved her hairline). Halle Berry. Cate Blanchett (especially in Queen Elizabeth movie). Helen Mirren.

  52. Frequently.

  53. I put my key in the lock and opened the door. William was working. He held up his hand. “Don’t move,” he said. He picked up his pad of paper and began to read out loud.

  PEAVEY PATTERSON BRAINSTORMING SESSION

  CLIENT: ALICE A

  CREATIVE: WILLIAM B

  TOPIC: THINGS ALICE SHOULD NEVER WORRY ABOUT

  1. If her hair is too long (only too long if down to ankles and impedes ability to walk)

  2. If she forgot to put on lipstick (doesn’t need lipstick—lips a perfectly lovely shade of raspberry)

  3. If you can see through her dress (Yes)

  4. If she should have worn a slip to work today (No)

  “You ass! I’ve been walking around all day with my underwear showing? Why didn’t anybody tell me?”

  “I just told you.”

  “You should have told me earlier. I’m so embarrassed.”

  “Don’t be. It was the highlight of my day. Come here,” William said.

  “No,” I said, pouting.

  He dramatically swept the table clean of all his papers. Who did he think he was? Mickey Rourke in 9½ Weeks? God, I loved that movie. After I saw it I bought a garter belt and stockings. I wore them for a few days, feeling very sexy, until I experienced a garter malfunction. Have you ever had a stocking suddenly pool around your ankle while you’re in the process of boarding a bus? There is no quicker path to feeling like an old lady.

  “Alice.”

  “What?”

  “Come here now.”

  “I’ve always fantasized about having sex on a table but I’m not sure I’d recommend it,” William said half an hour later.

  “I concur, Mr. B.”

  “What did you think about the pitch?”

  “I’m not sure the client will go for it.”

  “Why not?”

  “The client thinks it’s a bit too on-the-nose. Can we move this into the bedroom now?” In order to lie next to each other on the table, each of us had a leg and an arm dangling off.

  “I’ve changed my mind. I like the table.”

  “Well,” I said. “It’s hard. I’ll give you that.” My hand traveled down his chest to his waist.

  “That’s the nature of a table,” he said, covering my hand with his own, guiding it south.

  “Always have to be in charge, don’t you.”

  He groaned softly when I touched him. “I’ll come up with a new pitch, Ms. A. I promise.”

  “Don’t be stingy. Five new pitches. The client would like some choices.”

  In deference to Helen, not wanting to rub it in her face (this was my idea), we’d decided it was best if our relationship stayed secret at work. Keeping up the masquerade was both thrilling and exhausting. William passed by my cubicle at least ten times a day, and because I could see directly into his office (and whenever I looked, he was looking right back at me) I was in a constant state of arousal. Nights, I came home and collapsed from the effort of having to sublimate my desire all day. Then I sat around and thought about his Levi’s. And how he looked in those Levi’s. And when we did venture out, for a walk in the Public Garden or to a Red Sox game, or to the hinterlands of Allston to hear some alternative band, it was like we’d never done any of those things before. Boston was a new city with him by my side.

  I’m sure we were extremely annoying. Especially to older couples that did not walk down the sidewalk hand in hand, who often didn’t even seem to be speaking, a three-foot distance between them. I was incapable of understanding that their silence might be a comfortable, hard-won silence, a benefit that came from years of being together; I just thought how sad it was they had nothing to say to one another.

  But never mind them. William kissed me deeply on the sidewalk, fed me bites of his pizza, and sometimes when nobody was looking, copped a quick feel. Outside of work we were either arm in arm or hands in each other’s back pockets. I see these couples now, so smug, appearing to need nobody but one another, and it hurts to look at them. It’s hard for me to believe that we were once one of those couples looking at people like us, thinking if you’re so damn unhappy why don’t you just get divorced?

  49

  Lucy Pevensie

  Not a fan of Turkish Delight.

  38 minutes ago

  John Yossarian

  Has a pain in his liver.

  39 minutes ago

  So sorry to hear you’re feeling unwell, Researcher 101.

  Thank you. I’ve been spending a lot of time in the infirmary.

  I assume you’ll still be in the infirmary tomorrow?

  Yes, and the next day and the next and the next until this damn war is over.

  But not so ill that—

  I can’t read your surveys—no. Never that ill.

  Are you saying you like reading my answers, Researcher 101?

  You describe things so colorfully.

  I can’t help it. I was a playwright once.

  You’re still a playwright.

  No, I’m wan, boring, and absurd.

  You’re funny, too.

  I’m quite certain my family would not agree.

  Regarding #49. I’m curious. Have you ever been to the Taj Mahal?

  I was there just last week. Courtesy of Google Earth. Have you ever been?

  No, but it’s on my list.

  What else is on your list—and please don’t say seeing the Mona Lisa at the Louvre.

  Tying a cherry stem with my tongue.

  Suggest you set the bar a little higher.

  Standing atop an iceberg.

  Higher.

  Saving somebody’s marriage.

  Too high. Good luck on that.

  So listen, I have to press you a bit further on your refusal to answer #48.Resistance of this sort usually indicates we’ve touched upon a hot-button topic.

  You sound like the Borg.

  I would guess your aversion has something to do with the way the question was posed?

  Honestly I can’t remember how it was posed.

  It was posed in an entirely clichéd way.

  Now I remember.

  You’re insulted by a question that has been so clearly designed for the masses. To be lumped into a group is an affront for you.

  Now you sound like an astrologer. Or a human resources manager.

  Perhaps I can ask #48 in a way that you might find more palatable.

  Go right ahead, Researcher 101.

  Describe the last time you felt cared for by your husband.

  Come to think of it, I prefer the original question.

  50

  Alice Buckle

  Bloated

  24 minutes ago

  Daniel Barbedian Linda Barbedian

  You do realize posting on Facebook is not the same as texting, Mom.

  34 minutes ago

  Bobby Barbedian Daniel Barbedian

  Check no longer in the mail. Tell Mom.

  42 minutes ago

  Linda Barbedian Daniel Barbedian

  Check in the mail. Don’t tell Dad.

  48 minutes ago

  Bobby Barbedian Daniel Barbedian

  Tired of funding your social life. Get a job.

  1 hour ago

  William Buckle

  Ina Garten—really? Golden raisins in classic gingerbread?

  Yesterday

  “I saw a mouse yesterday,” says Caroline, unpacking vegetables from a canvas bag. “It ran under the fridge. I don’t want to freak you out but that makes two this week, Alice. Maybe you should get a cat.”

  “We don’t need a cat. We have Zoe. She’s an expert mouse catcher,” I say.

  “Too bad she’s still in school all day,” says William.

  “Well, maybe you can fill in for her,” I say. “I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”

&
nbsp; “This rainbow chard looks amazing!” says Caroline.

  “Except for those little bugs,” I say. “Are those mites?”

  William paws through the chard. “That’s dirt, Alice, not mites.”

  William and Caroline are just back from an early-morning trip to the farmers’ market.

  “Was the bluegrass band there?” I ask him.

  “No, but there was somebody playing ‘It Had to Be You’ on a suitcase.”

  “It’s pretty,” I say, fingering the yellow and magenta stalks, “but it seems like the color would leech out once you cook it.”

  “Maybe we should put it in a salad,” suggests Caroline.

  William snaps his fingers. “I’ve got it. Let’s do Lidia’s strangozzi with chard and almond sauce. Ina’s gingerbread will be perfect for dessert.”

  “I vote for salad,” I say, because if I am forced to eat another heavy meal I will strangozzi William. He’s found a new hobby, or should I say reignited an old passion—cooking. Every night for the past week, we’ve sat down to elaborate meals that William and his sous-chef, yet-to-be-employed Caroline, have dreamed up. I’m not sure what I feel about this. A part of me is relieved to not have to shop, plan meals, and cook, but another part of me feels uprooted at the sudden shift in William’s and my roles.

  “I hope we have durum semolina,” says William.

  “Lidia uses half durum, half white flour,” says Caroline.

  Neither of them notices when I leave the kitchen to get ready for work.

  There are only three weeks left before school ends, and these are the most stressful weeks of the year for me. I’m mounting six different plays—one for every grade. Yes, each play is only twenty minutes long, but believe me, that twenty-minute performance takes weeks of casting, staging, designing sets, and rehearsal.

  When I walk into the classroom that morning, Carisa Norman is waiting for me. She begins crying as soon as she sees me. I know why she’s crying—it’s because I made her a goose. The third-grade play this semester is Charlotte’s Web. I look at her tear-stained face and wonder why didn’t I give her the role of Charlotte. She would have been perfect for it. Instead I made her one of three geese, and unfortunately geese have no lines. To make up for this, I told the geese they could honk whenever they wanted to. Trust themselves. They’d know when the honking moment was right. This was a mistake, because the honking moment turned out to be every moment of the play.

  “Carisa, what’s wrong, sweetheart? Why aren’t you at recess?”

  She hands me a plastic baggie. It looks like it’s filled with oregano. I open the bag and sniff—it’s marijuana.

  “Carisa, where did you find this!”

  Carisa shakes her head, distraught.

  “Carisa, sweetheart, you have to tell me,” I say, trying to hide the fact that I’m horrified. Kids are smoking pot in elementary school? Are they dealing, too?

  “You’re not going to get in trouble.”

  “My parents,” she says.

  “This belongs to your parents?” I ask.

  I think her mother is on the board of the Parents’ Association. Oh, this is not good.

  She nods. “Will you give it to the police? That’s what you’re supposed to do if you’re a kid and find drugs.”

  “And how do you know that?”

  “CSI Miami,” she says solemnly.

  “Carisa, I want you to go enjoy recess and don’t give this another thought. I’ll take care of it.”

  She throws her arms around me. Her barrette is about to fall off. I re-clip it, pulling the hair back from her eyes.

  “Shut the worry switch off, okay?” This is something I used to say to my kids before they went to bed. When did I stop doing this? Maybe I should reinstitute the ritual. I wish somebody would switch off my worry.

  In between classes I fight with myself over the proper course of action. I should take the pot directly to the principal and tell her exactly what happened—that sweet Carisa Norman narced on her parents. But if I do, there’s a possibility the principal might call the police. I don’t want that, of course, but doing nothing is not an option either, given Carisa’s emotionally labile state. If there’s one thing I know about third-graders, it’s that most of them are incapable of hiding anything—eventually they will confess. Carisa can’t take back what she knows.

  At lunch, I lock the classroom door and Google “medical marijuana” on my laptop. Maybe the Normans have a medical marijuana card. But if they did, surely the marijuana would be dispensed in a prescription bottle—not a ziplock baggie. Maybe I could ask a professional how they typically dispense their wares. I click on Find a Dispensary Near You and am about to choose between Foggy Daze and the Green Cross when my cell rings.

  “Can you do me a favor and pick Jude up from school today? This bloody deposition is running late,” says Nedra.

  “Nedra—perfect timing. Remember you said that thing about not informing on kids to their parents when we went to How to Keep Your Kids from Turning into Meth Addicts night at school? That I should learn to keep my mouth shut?”

  “It depends on the circumstances. Is it about sex?” says Nedra.

  “Yes, I’ll pick up Jude and no, it’s not about sex.”

  “STDs?”

  “No.”

  “General all-around sluttiness?”

  “No.”

  “Plagiarism?”

  “No.”

  “Drugs?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hard drugs?”

  “Is pot classified as a hard drug?”

  “What happened,” sighs Nedra. “Is it Zoe or Peter?”

  “Neither—it’s a third-grader. She narced on her parents, and my question is should I narc on her narc back to her parents?”

  Nedra pauses. “Well, my advice is still no, stay out of it. But trust your intuition, darling. You’ve got good instincts.”

  Nedra’s wrong about that. My instincts are like my memory—they both started fizzling out after forty or so years.

  Please go to voice mail, please go to voice mail, please go to voice mail.

  “Hello.”

  “Oh, hi. Hiiiiii. Is this Mrs. Norman?”

  “This is she.”

  I ramble. “How are you? Hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time. Sounds like you’re in the car. Hope the traffic isn’t bad. But jeez, it’s always bad. This is the Bay Area after all. But a small price to pay for all this abundance, right?”

  “Who is this?”

  “Oh—sorry! This is Alice Buckle, Carisa’s drama teacher?”

  “Yes.”

  I’ve been teaching drama long enough to know when I’m talking to a mother who’s nursing a grudge over me casting her child as a goose in the third-grade play.

  “Ah, well, it seems we have a situation.”

  “Oh—is Carisa having a problem learning her lines?”

  See?

  “So listen. Carisa came into school quite upset today.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  The brusqueness of her voice throws me off. “You allow her to watch CSI Miami?” I ask.

  Oh, God, Alice.

  “Is that why you’re calling me? She has an older brother. I can’t possibly be expected to screen everything Carisa sees.”

  “That’s not why I’m calling. Carisa brought in a baggie full of pot. Your pot.”

  Silence. More silence. Did she hear what I said? Has she put me on mute? Is she crying?

  “Mrs. Norman?”

  “That’s simply out of the question. My daughter did not bring in a bag of pot.”

  “Yes, well, I understand this is a delicate situation, but she did bring in a bag of pot because I’m holding it in my hands right now.”

  “Impossible,” she says.

  This is the grown woman’s version of putting her hands over her ears and humming so she doesn’t have to hear what you’re saying.

  “Are you saying I’m lying?”

  “I’m saying you
must be mistaken.”

  “You know, I’m doing you a favor. I could lose my job over this. I could have brought this to the principal. But I didn’t because of Carisa. And the fact that you might have some medical condition for which you have a medical marijuana card.”