Thousands of factoids about marriage are published yearly. Not surprisingly, many of them don’t stand up to close inspection. The influence of religion and religious organizations on the various studies accounts for a large percentage of the incorrect information. Many of the widely accepted myths about marriage involve the deleterious effects of premarital cohabitation, marrying outside of one’s religion, and premarital sex.
A marriage is 57 percent more likely to fail if the spouses live together before the wedding, I read on the website of a popular women’s magazine. In a tiny footnote, the magazine cites a study conducted by the American Coalition for the Protection of Family Values. Scientific surveys, however, indicate that the cohabitation myth is patently false. Among the couples I’ve seen, those who lived together before marriage seem to be standing on far firmer ground.
One piece of data, though, is fairly consistent across the board, from study to study, regardless of the source: Most married couples report being happiest during their third year of marriage. Alice and I are only a few months into our marriage, and I can’t imagine being any happier. On the flip side, I also can’t imagine the idea of being less happy after our third year.
37
A man and a woman step out of the SUV. Both wear suits. The man is in his mid-to-late thirties, clean-cut, freckles, shorter than the woman. His suit strains at the chest and shoulders, as if he started lifting weights sometime after he went to the tailor. The woman stands beside the driver’s-side door of the Lexus, hands behind her back. “Good morning, I’m Declan,” the man says, approaching us at the bottom of the stairs. Like Kieran, he has an Irish accent. He reaches his hand out to me and I shake it.
“Jake,” I say.
“This must be Alice.”
“Yes,” Alice says, squaring her shoulders.
“This is my friend Diane,” he says. Diane nods. “Would you mind if we come inside?”
I can see the glimmer of defiance in Alice’s smile. “Do we have a choice?”
Diane takes a large black duffel bag from the backseat of the Lexus. Declan follows Alice and me into the living room, while Diane waits in the foyer, black bag at her feet.
“Something to drink?” I ask.
“No thank you,” Declan replies. “Perhaps we could sit for a minute?”
Alice, still in her puffy coat, sits in the blue chair. I stand beside it, my arm around her shoulders.
Declan pulls a folder from his messenger bag and lays some papers on the coffee table in front of Alice. “My understanding is that you received a directive to report to Half Moon Bay Airport. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“She had to appear in Federal Court that morning,” I add. “We expressed our wishes to leave The Pact, and when our request was refused, Alice explained that she wouldn’t be able—”
“I’m sure she had her reasons,” Declan interrupts, “but that’s not really for me or Diane to determine.”
He slides a sheet of paper in front of Alice. “I need you to sign this and date it at the bottom. Take a moment to read it, if you like. It states that you were aware of the directive to appear at the time and location stated.”
“I can read,” Alice says curtly. She scans the few paragraphs, and as she’s about to sign I stop her hand. She looks up at me. “It’s okay, Jake. Let me handle this. Really, that’s all it says.” She signs.
Declan slides a second sheet in front of her. “If I could also ask you to sign this form.”
“What is this?”
“The form indicates your acknowledgment of my identity and the responsibility that Diane and I have to fulfill the requirements of the contract you signed on the date below, witnessed and notarized by Vivian Crandall.”
“And what are those requirements?” I ask.
“It means that your wife needs to come with us this morning.”
“I’ll come too.”
“No. Just Alice.”
“Do I have time to get changed?” Alice asks.
“You’re not actually going?” I protest.
She puts a hand on my arm. “Jake, it’s okay. I want to follow this through. It’s my choice.” Then she looks at Declan. “I’m not signing that, though.”
“You must,” Declan says.
Alice shakes her head. “If you need me to sign that in order for me to go with you, then you’ll have to leave without me.”
Declan glances at Diane, who is listening intently but has yet to speak.
“It’s procedure,” Diane says.
“Well, call someone if you need to.” Alice shrugs. “There’s a limit to what I’ll sign. I’m an attorney, remember?”
I think back to the original documents we signed, and despite what she said this morning on the beach, I wish with all my heart she’d been as cautious then as she is now.
“Fine.” Diane’s face is unreadable. “There’s a list of procedures we need to follow. We’ll go through them after you change.”
“I would suggest,” Declan adds, “you wear something comfortable and loose-fitting.”
Alice gets up and goes back to the bedroom to change out of her damp beach clothes. I want to follow her, but I don’t want to leave these two alone in my living room. There’s no telling what they’d hide where.
“How long will she be gone?”
Declan shrugs. “I can’t say for certain.”
“Where are you taking her? Can I visit?”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” Diane says.
“Can she at least call me?”
“Yes, of course.” Declan smiles, as if to prove he is the most reasonable person in the world. “She’ll get two phone calls per day.”
“Seriously,” I insist. “How long will she be gone? And what do you plan to do with her?”
Declan tugs at the shoulders of his tight suit jacket. I get the feeling I’m asking questions he shouldn’t answer. “Look, I really don’t know.”
Diane takes a cellphone from her pocket. “I’ll be outside.” She steps out the front door and closes it behind her.
“Between us,” Declan tells me, “if I had to guess, first time, newly married, new to the program, I’d say seventy-two hours max. Probably less. As for what, it’s reeducation.”
“Some sort of class, you mean?”
“Probably more a one-on-one situation.”
I picture another counselor like Dave, albeit more intense.
“But I don’t know,” Declan adds, “and I can’t say, and we didn’t have this discussion.”
I can hear Alice frantically going through drawers in our bedroom. “And what if she refuses to go?”
“Dude,” Declan replies quietly, “don’t even go there. Here’s how it’s going to work: Your wife is going to get dressed, she and I are going to go through the procedures, we’re going to prepare her for travel, and then Alice, Diane, and I will get into the truck and leave. How that happens is up to your wife. She has a long ride ahead, and there’s really no need to make it any more unpleasant than it has to be. Understand?”
“No. I don’t understand.” I hear the anger coursing through my words.
Declan frowns. “You both seem like friendly, practical people. I have a very small amount of flexibility here, so let me use it to make things as comfortable as they can be.”
Diane, as if on cue, comes back inside, and Alice emerges from the bedroom. She’s wearing a big sweater over leggings, and black sneakers. She’s carrying her weekend travel bag, a plain canvas tote with her monogram on the front. I can see some socks and jeans sticking out of the top, along with her makeup bag. She seems oddly resolute, only a little bit nervous. “I can bring my phone and wallet?”
Declan nods. Diane walks over with a Ziploc bag, a label, and a Sharpie. She holds the open bag in front of Alice, who drops her phone and wallet into the bag. Diane seals the bag, affixes the label over the top, initials it. She hands it to Declan, who also initials.
“No
jewelry,” Diane says.
Alice removes the necklace I gave her for Christmas, the one with the black pearl pendant. She’s worn it every day since I gave it to her. I hold on to her hand, unwilling to let go. I’m pretty sure I’m more nervous than she is. She leans in to kiss me and whispers, “It will be fine. Please don’t worry.” Then she looks at Declan, her eyes a challenge. “Shall we go?”
He gives her a slightly pained look. “I wish it were that easy.”
Diane puts the duffel bag on the table. “I just need to conduct a quick search, to make sure you don’t have anything on you.”
“Seriously?” I ask.
“Ma’am, can I have you stand over here and put your hands against the wall?”
Alice gives me a wry smile, as if this is all some kind of game, nothing to be concerned about. “Yes, ma’am,” she says to Diane lightly.
“Is this necessary?” I demand.
“Just part of the procedure.” Declan refuses to meet my eyes. “We don’t want anyone harming themselves on our watch.”
As Diane pats Alice down, Declan turns to me. “To be honest, it’s not always this calm. When people disregard a directive, sometimes it means they’re not quite prepared to go with us. Understandably, the procedures were designed with that in mind.”
Alice has her back to me, her hands against the wall. It seems incredibly surreal. Diane reaches into the duffel bag and removes chain restraints. She clicks each side around Alice’s ankles. Alice doesn’t move.
“Really.” I step toward my wife. “This has gone too far.”
Declan pushes me back. “This is why people never ignore the directives. It’s an effective deterrent.”
“Ma’am,” Diane instructs, “can you turn around and extend your arms in front of you.” Alice does as she is told. Diane pulls something made of canvas, buckles, and chains out of the bag. Alice seems to realize what it is before I do. Her face goes ashen.
Diane slides the straitjacket onto her outstretched arms.
“I won’t let you do this!” I say, lunging toward Declan. Declan’s forearm hits my throat, his left leg pivots, and I’m on the floor, Declan standing over me. I’m struggling to catch my breath, stunned; it all happened so quickly.
“Leave him alone!” Alice shouts, helpless.
“We’ll do this the easy way, right?” Declan says to me.
I try to speak but can’t, so I nod instead. Declan pulls me back to my feet. It is only then that I realize that he is at least forty pounds heavier than I am.
Diane looks at Declan. “Headgear?”
“Headgear?” Alice blurts out. The terror in her voice is heartbreaking.
“Can you promise me that there will be no yelling?” Declan asks her. “I want a quiet ride.”
“Yes, yes, of course.”
He considers that a moment, then nods.
As Diane pulls a strap through Alice’s legs and begins to fasten it in the back, Alice asks, “Do we have to go out the front door? I don’t want the neighbors to see me like this. Can we leave through the garage?”
Declan glances at Diane. “I don’t see why not,” he says.
I lead the three of them through the kitchen and down the back stairs. I press the opener, and the garage door creeps up. Declan unlocks the SUV and opens the back door. I keep telling myself this is a bad dream. This isn’t really happening.
Diane nudges Alice past me. Alice hesitates, then she turns back to me. For a second, I fear she’s going to try to run. “I love you,” she says, kissing me. She looks into my eyes. “Don’t call the police, Jake. Promise me.”
I pull her into a tight hug, panicked. “Let’s go,” Declan commands. When I don’t move, he seizes my forearm in his large hands. In an instant, I’m back on my knees, a sharp pain piercing through my shoulder.
Diane helps Alice work her way awkwardly into the backseat. When she is in place, Diane pulls the seatbelt down and snaps her in. I struggle to my feet. My heart is pounding. Declan hands me a card. There’s a phone number on it, nothing more. “In case of emergency, contact this number.” He locks eyes with mine. “Only in an emergency. Understood? Keep your cell with you, she’ll call. It’s not as bad as it looks.”
Declan and Diane climb into the SUV and pull out of the driveway. I wave at the blacked-out back window, though it’s unclear if Alice can see me.
38
The house feels quiet and empty. I don’t know what to do with myself. I watch television, pace the hallway, read the news, and pour a bowl of cereal that I’m too distraught to eat, all while watching my phone, willing it to ring. I want to call the police. Why did she make me promise not to? I try to imagine what she was thinking, and I think I understand: a big news story of a kidnapping, television cameras, all the sordid speculation about our private lives. That would crush her.
I stay up late. The phone doesn’t ring. I wonder where Alice is, how far they have traveled. As the SUV drove up the street, I noticed that it had an out-of-state license plate. I couldn’t make out the state name, only the colors and design. Online, I pull up pictures of the plates for all fifty states. I conclude the car was from Nevada.
By midnight, still no call. I bring the phone with me to the bedroom and lay it down beside my pillow. I check repeatedly to make sure the volume is turned up. I try to sleep but can’t. Eventually, I pull my laptop out, power it up, and begin searching the Internet. I type in “The Pact,” but all I find are references to a film and its sequel. I’ve done this search before, with similar results. Further down, there’s a popular novel with the same title. I search “marriage cult” but find nothing. I search a whole bunch of different words combined with Nevada, nothing. I search Vivian Crandall and find her on LinkedIn, but her profile is set to private. If I log in to view it, she’ll know I was there. There are a few references to Vivian on other websites, evidence of an okay career that hasn’t gotten her too much attention—nothing that even hints of her membership in The Pact. I search for JoAnne and it’s even stranger. There’s a yearbook photo from junior year at UCLA on Classmates.com, but that’s it. How does that happen? How can a person be nearly invisible online? I search the address for the house in Hillsborough from the last party, as well as the address in Woodside from the upcoming party. According to Zillow, both houses are worth millions. No shit.
Next, I read about Orla, going back to several pages Alice bookmarked after our first meeting with Vivian. There are hundreds of articles related to her work, a few dozen pictures. Apparently, she was a very respected barrister. There are articles from The Guardian, opinion pieces for and against her during her run for political office. Then nothing. I pull up Google Maps and zoom in on Rathlin, the Irish island Vivian mentioned. The map is grainy, low-resolution, Google’s way of telling us that the island has no real significance. I scan the shoreline, looking for homes or villages; fog and clouds cover most of it. Wikipedia says the island receives more than three hundred days of rain annually.
I keep checking my email to see if Alice has tried to contact me. Nothing. How long do I wait to hear from her? And then what do I do? Calling the number Declan gave me “strictly for emergencies” seems like a bad idea. I keep remembering what Alice said: “I want to follow this through. It’s my choice.”
I leave text messages on Alice’s phone, but my messaging app indicates that they remain unread. I imagine her phone in the plastic bag in a small box, in a large warehouse filled with hundreds of other small boxes, all of the boxes filled with phones, all of the phones ringing and pinging until the batteries die.
At a quarter to six the next morning, my phone bleats, and I wake up in a panic. But it’s a wrong number.
I get up and shower. While I’m dressing, the phone rings again. It’s an unknown number. Hands shaking, I hit Answer.
“Alice?” I say.
A recorded voice intones, “You are receiving a phone call from an inmate at a correctional facility in the state of Nevada. To accept the charges
please say ‘I accept’ at the tone.”
Inmate? The tone sounds. “I accept.”
There is a beep, then another recording. “The following telephone conversation may be monitored. All calls are limited to three minutes.”
Another beep. The call connects.
“Jake?”
“Alice? God, I’m so glad to hear your voice! Are you okay?”
“Everything’s fine.”
“Where are you?”
“Nevada.”
“Yes, but where exactly?”
“Middle of nowhere. We drove 80, and then we took an exit in the desert, and we just kept driving on this dirt road until we arrived at this place. I tried to pay attention to the mile markers, but I lost track. It’s way the fuck out in the middle of nowhere—no civilization except a gas station several miles from here. It’s all concrete and barbed wire. Two huge fences. Declan said it’s a prison The Pact bought from the state.”
“Shit. Who are these people?”
“Really,” she says, “I’m okay. Don’t worry.”
If she were in a panic, I’d hear it in her voice, I’m certain of it. But there is no panic. She sounds tired, impossibly distant. Not her usual supremely confident self, maybe, but not frightened either. Or if she is frightened, she’s doing a superb job of hiding it.
“Don’t freak out, Jake, but they’ve got me in a jail cell. It’s a huge place, but there aren’t that many people here, at least not that I’ve seen. There are forty cells in my section—I counted on my way in—but I think I’m the only one here. It’s so quiet. The bed is tiny, but the mattress is decent. I must’ve slept for ten hours. This morning, I woke up when someone slid a metal tray through my door—chorizo and an omelet. Delicious. Really good coffee too, and cream.”
There’s a sharp beep and the recording about the call being monitored repeats itself.
“Have you met any other—” I search for the right word, and am startled by the word that comes to me. “Any other prisoners?”
“Sort of. They picked up someone else in Reno. He was in bad shape. I’m glad we were more accommodating; the headgear looked miserable. He sweated profusely the whole way here, but he couldn’t say anything because they had him gagged.”
The Marriage Pact Page 14