Wife 22: A Novel

by Melanie Gideon

  “What does it matter how attractive they are?” I say. “These are women who talk to presidents, prime ministers, and dignitaries.”

  “That was exactly my response,” says Bunny.

  “How’s Nedra?” asks William.

  “I—uh.”

  “You—uh,” he says.

  “Sorry. I’m just tired. She’s wonderful. We had a lot to catch up on.”

  “Really?” he says. “Didn’t you just talk to her yesterday?”

  Stay calm, Alice. Keep it simple. Whatever you do, don’t look up and to the right when you talk to him. That’s a sure sign somebody is lying. And don’t blink. Absolutely no blinking. “Well, yes, on the phone, but we rarely get a chance to talk in person. Without anybody else there. You know how it is,” I say, my eyes boring into his.

  William gives me a bug-eyed look in return. I try and soften my gaze.

  “Nedra’s Alice’s best friend. She’s getting married,” says William.

  “How wonderful! Who’s the lucky man?” asks Bunny.

  “Lucky woman. Her name’s Kate O’Halloran,” I say.

  “Well. All right. Nedra and Kate. I can’t wait to meet them,” says Bunny.

  “Alice is the maid of honor,” says William.

  “Actually, I haven’t quite agreed to that yet.”

  “I can see why. Maid is so medieval. Why not woman? Woman of honor,” asks Bunny.

  I bob my head agreeably. Why the hell not? I’m a woman of honor—at least I used to be, before tonight.

  “Well,” says Jack, looking at his watch. “I’m beat. Let’s hit it, Bunny. It’s nearly one in the morning our time.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, leaping to my feet. “I’m being so rude. Has anybody shown you to your room?”

  I hear the TV blaring from the den and the sound of the kids talking over it.

  “Yes, yes. William already brought our luggage up,” says Bunny. “And, Alice, you must promise to tell us when you become sick of us. Our return tickets are three weeks from now, but like Mark Twain says, visitors and fishes start to stink after …”

  “I’ll never be sick of you,” I say. “You can stay here as long as you like. So you’re between shows?”

  Bunny nods, following Jack up the stairs. “I’ve got a pile of scripts. I’m trying to decide what to do next. I’m hoping you’ll help me. Read through some of them?”

  “I’d be honored. I think I’ll go to bed, too. It’s been a long day,” I say, faking a yawn. I plan to pretend to be asleep when William comes up.

  “I’ll check on the kids,” says William once Bunny and Jack have disappeared into the guest room.

  “Make sure that you tell them to shut off all the lights when they’re done with their show.” I head up the stairs.

  “Alice?”

  “What?”

  “Should I bring you up some tea?”

  I spin around, paranoid. Does he know something? “Why would I want tea? I just spent all evening drinking tea with Nedra.”

  “Oh—right. Sorry, I just thought you might want something warm.”

  “I do want something warm,” I say.

  “You do?” he asks.

  Is that eagerness in his voice? Does he think the something warm I’m talking about is him?

  “My laptop,” I say.

  His face falls.

  I wake at four the next morning and shuffle downstairs, a raggedy mess. I walk into the kitchen only to find Bunny already there. She’s standing at the stove. The kettle is on and two mugs are lined up on the counter.

  She smiles at me. “I had a feeling you might join me.”

  “What are you doing up?”

  “It’s seven for me. The question is, what are you doing up?”

  “I don’t know. I couldn’t sleep.” I hug my ribs.

  “Alice, what is it?”

  I groan. “I’ve done something really bad, Bunny.”

  “How bad?”

  “Bad.”

  “Addicted to painkillers bad?”

  “Bunny! No, of course not!”

  “Then it’s not that bad.”

  I pause. “I think I’ve fallen in love with another man.”

  Bunny slides into a kitchen chair slowly. “Oh.”

  “I told you it was bad.”

  “Are you sure, Alice?”

  “I’m sure. And wait—it gets worse. I’ve never even met him.”

  And so I tell Bunny the entire story. She doesn’t say one word while I’m speaking, but her face tells me everything I need to know. She’s an amazing, responsive audience. Her eyes widen and narrow as I show her the emails and Facebook chats. She murmurs and clucks and coos as I read her my answers to the survey. But mostly what she does is receive me—with every bit of her body.

  “You must be heartbroken,” she finally says when I’m done.

  I sigh. “Yes. But I feel so much more than that. It’s complicated.”

  “It seems simple enough to me. This man, this researcher—he listened to you. He told you exactly what you wanted to hear. I’m sorry to say you’re probably not the first woman he’s done this to.”

  “I know, I know. Wait. Do you really think that? God, I don’t think so. I really don’t. It seemed we had something kind of special, something just between me and—”

  Bunny shakes her head.

  “You think I’m a fool.”

  “Not a fool, just vulnerable,” says Bunny.

  “I feel so humiliated.”

  Bunny waves my words away. “Humiliation is a choice. Don’t choose it.”

  “I’m angry,” I add.

  “Better. Anger is useful.”

  “At William.”

  “You’re angry at William? What about this Researcher?”

  “No, William. He drove me to this.”

  “Now, that’s not fair, Alice. It just isn’t. Listen. I’m no saint and I’m not sitting here in judgment. There was a time with Jack and me—we went through a rocky patch. We actually separated for a while, when Caroline left for college. Well, look, I don’t need to go into the details, but my point is no marriage is perfect and if it looks perfect, the one thing you can be damn sure of is that it isn’t. But don’t blame this on William. Don’t be so passive. You need to take responsibility for what you’ve done. What you almost did. Whether you end up staying with William is not the point. The point is don’t just let this happen to you.”

  “This?”

  “Life. Not to be morbid, but honestly, Alice, you don’t have enough years left to just fritter away. None of us does. God knows I don’t.” Bunny gets up and puts the kettle back on. The sun has just risen, and the kitchen momentarily fills with an apricot light. “By the way, do you have any idea what a natural storyteller you are? You’ve held me enraptured for the past two hours.”

  “Storyteller?” William walks into the kitchen. He surveys the mugs. The dried up teabags.

  “How long have you two been up,” he asks, “storytelling?”

  “Since four,” says Bunny. “We’ve had a lot of catching up to do.”

  “Fifteen years’ worth,” I say.

  “It was a beautiful sunrise,” says Bunny. “The backyard was the color of a peach. For a moment there, anyway.”

  William peers out the window. “Yes, well, now it’s the color of a Q-tip.”

  “That must be the legendary Bay Area fog everybody always talks about,” says Bunny.

  “Clear one minute, can’t see a thing the next,” says William.

  “Just like marriage,” I say under my breath.

  81

  John Yossarian added Games

  Sorry

  Lucy Pevensie added Activities

  Looking for the lamppost

  Please tell me you had a very good reason for not coming last night, Researcher 101.

  I’m sorry, I really am. I know this sounds clichéd, but something unexpected came up. Something unavoidable.

  Let me guess. Your wife?<
br />
  You could say that.

  Did she find out about us?

  No.

  Did you think she would?

  Yes, I did.

  Why?

  Because I was going to tell her about us after I met with you last night.

  You were? So what happened?

  I can’t say. I wish I could. But I can’t. You’re looking for the lamppost?

  That’s what I said.

  You’re saying you want to go home, then? You want to leave this world. Our world?

  We have a world?

  I’ve been thinking that maybe things worked out for the best. Maybe it was fate that we couldn’t meet.

  It wasn’t that we couldn’t meet. I was there. You stood me up.

  I would have been there if I could, I promise you. But let me ask you something, Wife 22. Didn’t you feel the least bit relieved that I didn’t show?

  No. I felt toyed with. I felt ridiculous. I felt sad. Do you feel relieved?

  Does it help to know I’ve thought about you nearly every minute since?

  And what about your wife? Have you thought about her nearly every minute since, too?

  Please forgive me. The man who doesn’t show is not the man I want to be.

  Who’s the man you want to be?

  Someone other than who I am.

  IRL?

  What?

  In real life?

  Oh. Yes.

  Are you trying?

  Yes.

  Are you succeeding?

  No.

  And would your wife agree with that assessment?

  I’m working very hard not to hurt either one of you.

  I need to ask you a question now and I need you to tell me the truth. Can you do that?

  I’ll do my best.

  Have you done this with other women? Been like this. The way you are with me.

  No, never. You are the first. Stay here. Just a little while longer. Until we figure this out.

  Are you telling me I should stop looking for the lamppost?

  For now, yes.

  82

  “And that, my dear, is material,” says Bunny, nudging me. “I could definitely work that into a scene.”

  Standing under the Tasty Salted Pig Parts sign at Boccalone is a line, at least twenty men long. Down the aisle, standing under the pastel blue Miette sign is another line, at least twenty women long. The men are buying salumi, the women petits fours.

  “Actually, that’s a play unto itself,” she amends.

  “Do you think women are afraid of mortadella?” asks Jack.

  “Intimidated, maybe,” I say.

  “Disgusted more like it,” says Zoe.

  It’s 9:00 on a Saturday morning and the Ferry Building is already packed. Whenever we have out-of-town visitors this is one of the first places we take them. It’s one of San Francisco’s most impressive tourist attractions—a farmers’ market on steroids.

  “It makes you yearn for a different kind of life, doesn’t it?” says William as we wander outside onto the wharf, strolling past bundles of gleaming red radishes and perfectly stacked pyramids of leeks. He snaps photos of the vegetables with his iPhone. He can’t help himself. He’s addicted to food porn.

  “What kind of a life is that?” I ask.

  “One where you wear your hair in braids,” pipes up Peter, referring to the pink-cheeked girl working the Two Girls and a Plow booth. “Like your apron,” he says to her.

  “Muslin,” says the girl. “Holds its shape better than cotton. Twenty-five bucks.”

  “When you’re under thirty, aprons are sexy,” says Bunny. “Over thirty you tend to look like one of the Merry Wives of Windsor. Caroline, would you like one? My treat?”

  “Tempting, seeing that I only have four good apron-wearing years left. But I’ll pass.”

  “That’s a good girl,” says William. “Real cooks aren’t afraid of stains.”

  Bunny and Jack stroll just ahead of us, holding hands. Watching the two of them together is difficult: they’re so openly affectionate. My husband and I walk on opposite sides of the aisle. It occurs to me we’ve become one of those couples I wrote about in the survey. The ones who have nothing to say to each other. William has a grim, closed look on his face. I turn my back to him and open my Facebook App on my phone. John Yossarian is online.

  Do you ever see other couples and feel envious, Researcher 101?

  In what way?

  That they’re so close.

  Sometimes.

  So what do you do?

  When?

  When that happens?

  I look away. I’m an expert compartmentalizer.

  William calls to me from across the aisle. “Should we buy some corn for tonight?”

  “Okay.”

  “Do you want to pick it out?”

  “No, you go right ahead.”

  William drifts over to the Full Belly Farm booth. He looks forlorn. His job search isn’t going well. Every week that passes wears him down a little more. I hate to see him like this. Despite the fact that his hijinks were a contributing factor toward his being laid off, they’re not the only reason. What happened to William is happening to so many of our friends: they’re being replaced by younger, cheaper models. I feel for him. I really do. I duck behind a towering display of beeswax hand creams.

  Could it be as easy as holding his hand, Researcher 101?

  Could what be?

  Connecting with my husband.

  I don’t think so.

  I haven’t done that in a long time.

  Maybe you should.

  You want me to hold my husband’s hand?

  “Is a dozen enough?” William shouts.

  “That’s perfect, honey,” I answer.

  I never call him honey. “Honey” is for Bunny and Jack’s benefit.

  Bunny turns around, smiles, and nods at me approvingly.

  Uh—not really.

  Why not?

  He doesn’t deserve it.

  Oh, God.

  “What?” Bunny mouths when she sees my startled face.

  Suddenly I feel protective of William. What does Researcher 101 know about what William deserves?

  That was mean. I don’t think I can do this anymore, Researcher 101.

  I understand.

  You do?

  I was thinking the same thing.

  Wait. He’s going to give up that easily? He’s giving me such mixed messages. Or maybe I’m giving him mixed messages.

  “Do you have a five, Alice?” asks William. I look across the aisle. His face has suddenly gone the color of milk. I think about Jack and his heart. I think I should start buying baby aspirin and forcing William to take it.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, approaching the stall.

  “Of course. I’m fine,” says William, looking completely un-fine.

  I glance at the corn. “Those are puny ears. Better make it another half dozen.”

  “Will you help me?” he says.

  “What’s wrong?”

  He shakes his head. “I feel dizzy.”

  He really does look sick. I take his hand. His fingers lace automatically through mine. We make our way over to a bench and sit there quietly for a few minutes. Peter and Caroline are sampling almonds. Zoe is sniffing a bottle of lavender oil. Bunny and Jack are standing in line at Rose Pistola to buy one of their famous egg sandwiches.

  “Do you want an egg sandwich?” I ask. “I’ll go get you one. Maybe your blood sugar is low.”

  “My blood sugar is fine. I miss this,” he says.

  He looks straight ahead. His thigh touches mine ever so slightly. We sit stiffly next to each other like strangers. I’m reminded of the time I brought soup to his apartment on Beacon Hill. The first time he kissed me.

  “You miss what?”

  “Us.”

  Seriously? He’s picking today, the day after I sneaked out to have an assignation with another man, to tell me that he misses us? Emotionally, Wil
liam always arrives at the table just as the plates are being cleared. It’s infuriating.

  “I’ve got to find a bathroom,” I say.

  “Wait. Did you hear what I said?”

  “I heard.”

  “And all you have to say is you have to go to the bathroom?”

  “Sorry—it’s an emergency.” I run into the Ferry Building, find a seat at Peet’s, and pull out my phone.