The Marriage Pact

by Michelle Richmond

  “You’re the therapist. What would you think if someone came to you with that story? You made out like it was so horrific, but when I picture you in that cage with her, I can’t help thinking that you liked it. That it turned you on.”

  “No,” I protest, but the word doesn’t sound convincing.

  “And I also think it was what she wanted. I think she lured you there, as part of some sick, stupid game, and you played right into it.”

  I feel as if I’m going to vomit. “Alice, she was in pain. It wasn’t a game.”

  “She’s manipulating you, and you can’t even see it. Or maybe you don’t want to see it.”

  “You’re so off base, Alice. What is wrong with you?”

  In the firehouse down the street, the alarm goes off. It’s so loud we both cover our ears. Seconds later, the fire engine rips past, sirens wailing. It passes so closely that the rush of wind shakes the car. Then the engine is gone.

  “When you asked me to marry you, what did you expect?” Alice’s voice is chillingly quiet. “Did you think it was going to be all happy times, flowers and rainbows? Did you think it was going to be all Planet Waves and no Blood on the Tracks? Is that what you thought?”

  “Of course not.”

  “I went to Fernley, I wore that fucking collar. I stood there in front of that judge, I took his lecture, and I accepted his sentence. Do you know why?”

  I’m not sure which is more devastating—the anger in her voice, or the sadness. “Do you know why, Jake? Do you know why I sat there with Dave all of those afternoons? Do you know why I wore that fucking bracelet? Do you know what I was thinking when they dragged me all the way out to the desert? Do you know what I was thinking when they put the chains around my ankles, or when they took all of my clothes, or when they gave me a lice bath, or when that big fucking female guard stripped me down and said she needed to search me?”

  “A strip search? You never told me….”

  Side one of Blood on the Tracks comes to a conclusion. Although I can’t see it and I can’t hear it, I know that Alice is crying. Finally, she says, “I did it for you, Jake. I want this marriage to work. I’m not afraid of commitment. I’m not afraid to do whatever the fuck needs to be done to keep us together. I did it for us.”

  The DJ comes on. He’s talking about the album and Dylan’s fiery relationship with his wife, the magical beginning, “Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands,” the ups, the downs, the passion, and eventually the rumored ending. It was three in the morning, Dylan in the studio with his band, not having been home for days, when his wife appeared out of nowhere, slipping into the darkened booth, standing in the back, and not even the producer was aware of her presence. How she stood there, just watching. Eventually Dylan saw her, and he started playing a song he had written for her earlier that day, strumming the guitar, staring intensely across the room, right into her eyes—singing those words, a brilliant stew of intense devotion, bitter venom, and everything in between. When the song ended, she slipped out the side door and that was it, she was gone.

  “What do you want me to do?” I ask Alice.

  Alice swipes her tears away. It’s strange to see her crying. I think the tears embarrass her.

  “I want you to do exactly what you want to do.”

  “Yes,” I say. “But what would make you the happiest?”

  “I want you to commit to this marriage, Jake. To me. If that means making your peace with The Pact, then that’s what it means. If you are serious about me, about our marriage, then push forward, take the bad with the good. I want to know that you love me, Jake, I want to know that you are with me. I want to know that you are prepared to do whatever it takes.”

  It’s quiet, save for Dylan’s strumming. Alice puts her hand on my thigh. “Is that too much to ask? It’s serious adult shit. Are you ready for that?” She gives a sad little laugh.

  I take her hand in mine. Her fingers are cold, so different from her usual warmth, and it makes me think of how her hands might feel when she’s old. And I know that I want to be with her then. I want to know what her voice sounds like when she’s eighty. I want to know how she looks when her dimples turn to wrinkles, or how she smells when she’s sick, or the look in her eyes when she can’t remember the name of someone she’s always known. I want all of it. Not because I need to possess her, as I once thought, but because I love her. I love her so much.

  I power on my cell and pull up Vivian’s name. Vivian answers on the first ring. “Friend,” she says.

  “Hello, Friend. I’m sorry to bother you so late.”

  “No need. I’m always here for you and Alice.”

  “I need to confess something.”

  “I know,” Vivian says, “I’m glad you called.” It doesn’t really register, at first, what she’s saying.

  “Actually, a couple of things.”

  “I know,” she says again. “Take a day for yourself. Get your things together. Spend some time with your wife. Can you be at your home on Saturday morning?”

  “Saturday?” I say, looking at Alice. She is staring at me, pleased. She nods. “Why don’t I just meet you at the Half Moon Bay Airport?”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Vivian says. “They would prefer to meet at your house. Good night, Friend.”

  I have a sensation—is it real or imagined?—of someone watching. I look up at the building, the light shining in Alice’s office. Someone is standing in front of the window, hands in his pockets, looking down at us—Vadim.

  63

  I reach for Alice. Of course she’s already gone. In the kitchen, there’s the usual chaos of coffee and empty yogurt containers. But I feel stronger today. Nervous yet strangely calm. Last night, Alice and I made love. I can still smell her on my skin.

  As I shower and dress for my eight o’clock appointment with the Chos, I think about JoAnne. After last night, after everything Alice said, even thinking about JoAnne feels like a betrayal. But how can I not? I replay our conversations in my head. Her fear seemed palpable; I can’t recall even a single false note. In hindsight, I understand that she had given me a few nonverbal signals in the past. That night at the Woodside party, she walked away from me. Was she trying to stop me from asking questions? Or was she trying to protect me from Neil, from The Pact?

  Or was it that she was trying to protect me from myself?

  I think of JoAnne in the glass cage. Her tangled hair. Her bare legs, spreading open. I think of Alice’s accusation—that all of it turned me on. And even as the guilt rushes over me, I get hard. Making love to Alice last night, I was thinking only of Alice. Mostly, I was thinking only of Alice. Yet in the midst of it, the image flashed through my mind, just for an instant: JoAnne, naked and vulnerable in the cage, beneath the spotlight. Her bare skin against the glass. Her arms reaching up to cover her imperfect breasts, then falling to her sides, as if she was daring me to look. Last night, I opened my eyes and stared at Alice’s face, trying to push away the image of JoAnne, even as I was entangled in my wife’s arms.

  “I know you,” Alice said, in a hard, throaty voice that didn’t sound like the Alice of our wedding, the Alice of our home, the Alice of our life. It sounded like Alice from the band, years ago, before I knew her, the voice I’ve heard in the angrier, harsher songs, the ones she must have sung in black eyeliner and torn fishnets, the songs that were equal parts fury and lust. “You want to fuck her,” Alice said. And then she came.

  Yes, there’s that. My complicated, beloved Alice.

  64

  When I get home from work on Friday night, a fire is burning in the fireplace and Alice is almost finished making a complicated dinner.

  “I thought we should do something special,” she says, “for your last supper.” And then she laughs. A genuine, sweet, real laugh. She hasn’t been in such a good mood in months. She hands me a cocktail, Bailey’s on the rocks. “I made your favorite. Sit.”

  The old Alice is back. No mention of last night, no mention of the bizarre thing
she said while we were making love. And I begin to think I imagined it. That my subconscious really is fucking with me on a supremely cruel and unusual level.

  The big dinner, though, the special attention, leave me tense, worried about what tomorrow might bring. Alice tries to reassure me. “It will be fine. It’s your first offense. Okay,” she admits, “maybe not entirely fine. You’re looking at a pretty extensive indictment: Omission of Facts with Partner, Dishonesty with The Pact Apparatus, and Unsanctioned Meetings with Nonspouse Pact Member.”

  “Don’t forget Crime of Interpretation.”

  And that’s all we say about The Pact. After dinner, we head to the back balcony to enjoy the ocean breeze before stepping back inside to our comfortable bed. Sex is long, nice, and somehow feels different. More loving. Although we’ve been married now for quite a while, and we’ve had our share of fun in the bedroom, there is something this time that feels unique, even momentous.

  I can’t describe how I know, but I do: In her own way, and without ambiguity, Alice has finally consummated our marriage.

  65

  On Saturday morning, I walk down to Nibs on the corner and order a bag of scones—lemon chocolate chip for me, orange ginger for Alice, and two random ones for our visitors. I figure it can’t hurt. I grab a large hot chocolate and a newspaper. Alice was still asleep when I left home, so I sit down and try to calm my nerves. I open the newspaper and start to read. One minute becomes ten, then fifteen, then twenty. I am dreading going home and facing whatever comes next. What if I were to fold my newspaper up, grab my hot chocolate, walk out the door, and head east—away from our house, away from The Pact, away from our future?

  Instead, I head home. I turn the corner, expecting to see the black Lexus SUV in the driveway, but it’s empty. Inside, I put on a pot of coffee for Alice. When the smell doesn’t wake her, I strip and climb into bed next to her. Without a word, her body slowly forms to the contour of mine. Her lips touch the back of my neck. Her warm breath feels so good on my skin. I have made the right choice, I decide. I drift off to sleep in her arms.

  Later, the house smells of bacon. I wander into the kitchen in my boxer briefs to discover Alice at the stove in her underwear and old Sex Pistols T-shirt, transferring bacon from her grandmother’s cast-iron pan to a plate lined with paper towels.

  “You should have some protein; you might need it.” Buried deep in her tone, I sense an odd giddiness. Although she would likely deny it, Alice seems to find some pleasure in my predicament.

  “I brought you a scone,” I say.

  She points to a plate full of crumbs. “I already ate it. But I’m still hungry.”

  We both eat ravenously. Under the table, Alice touches my foot with her own.

  “I guess we better both put on some pants and brush our teeth,” she says. But as I’m getting my clothes out of the closet, she drags me to bed. I don’t know what’s gotten into Alice. All I can figure is that she’s turned on by my willingness to put myself through the rigors of The Pact. Eventually, with both of us showered and dressed, the kitchen clean, and my belongings organized, we wind up on the couch. Alice with her guitar on one end, and me, nervous, on the other end.

  Alice, fiddling with the guitar strings, begins playing Johnny Cash’s “Folsom Prison Blues.” I close my eyes and lean my head back. I hear the ping of Alice’s email somewhere in the house.

  Seconds later, her phone rings on the coffee table. She ignores it. The violence of the song she sings unnerves me.

  Her phone rings again.

  “Aren’t you going to answer?”

  “It can wait.”

  She works her way into an old favorite by the Mendoza Line. “Anyway,” she sings with a wry smile, “I was never interested in your heart and soul. I just wanted to see you, and make love on parole.”

  Again, the phone rings. “The office?” I ask. She shakes her head. She plays for a minute longer, a nice instrumental, and then the phone rings once more.

  She groans, sets down her guitar. “Hello?”

  Someone on the other end of the line is speaking fast and loud.

  “Are you sure? Can you send it to me? I haven’t looked at my email today. Are you at your desk? I’ll call you back.” Alice hangs up the phone. She doesn’t say anything. Instead, she jumps up, hurries into our bedroom, and returns with her laptop.

  “Putting out fires?” I ask.

  She doesn’t answer. She clicks through a bunch of buttons, her eyes on the screen. “Shit,” she says. “Fucking shit.” As she turns the laptop toward me, I hear a car pull up in the driveway. And then, the rattle of our garage door opening. How did they get the clicker? I glance out the window. The big black SUV is nosing into the garage. With Alice’s car blocking the way, they can get the SUV only halfway in.

  “Read it,” Alice whispers urgently.

  A car door slams.

  I grab the laptop. It’s an article from an alternative newspaper in Portland. “NorCal Couple Still Missing, 107 Volunteers Search South Coast Beaches.”

  Footsteps on the front stairs. A rap on the door.

  I scan the article quickly.

  Eliot and Aileen Levine’s Saab 9-2x was found in the parking lot near Stanton Beach 100 days ago. Friends described the couple as happy and loving, avid hikers and bikers, with a passion for the ocean.

  The knock at the door grows more insistent. Bang bang bang.

  “One second!” Alice yells, though she isn’t moving. She’s watching me, eyes filled with terror.

  While it was not unusual for the couple to go on long ocean kayak trips, they had not mentioned to family or friends an intention to travel from their Northern California home to the Oregon coast.

  Bang bang bang. A voice from the porch: “Jake, you need to open the door.”

  “Coming!” Alice calls.

  In fact, credit card records indicate the couple had spent the previous evening at a hotel near Hopland, California, and had reserved plane tickets for a trip to Mexico during the days after their disappearance.

  I close the computer and hit the power button. JoAnne had the details wrong. It was Eliot and Aileen, not Eli and Elaine. Stanton Beach, not Stinson Beach. That’s why Vadim didn’t find it sooner. “Shit. What are we going to do?”

  I can hear the doorknob jiggling. Alice reaches forward and puts her arms around my neck. “God, Jake, I’m so scared. You were right. How could I be so naïve?”

  We hear footsteps on the side stairs.

  “We have to do something!” she urges, grabbing my hand and yanking me up from the couch.

  More jiggling of the doorknob, and then it’s all a moot point anyway, because the front door swings open. Alice whispers in my ear, “Just act normal.” I give her a quick squeeze of the hand.

  It’s the pair who took Alice to Fernley. Just as Declan comes through the front door, Diane comes in through the kitchen.

  “I didn’t really expect to be in this home ever again,” Declan says.

  Alice and I stand side by side, holding hands. “Was it really necessary to pick the lock?” I ask, trying to sound in control.

  “I didn’t pick it,” Declan answers. “I just jiggled it a little. You might want to invest in a new doorknob.”

  Diane comes to stand in front of us as Declan walks through the house, looking into each room, checking to make sure that it is just me and Alice. When he rejoins us, I see he’s taken my phone from the bedroom. Alice reaches for her phone on the coffee table, but he’s faster. Declan puts both phones on the mantel, out of our reach.

  “What are you doing?” As I step toward him, I feel Alice’s body tighten.

  “Don’t worry. You’ll get them back.”

  Alice lets go of my hand. “I’ll get you some coffee,” she says, her voice amazingly even.

  “No thank you,” Declan says. “Why don’t we all have a seat?”

  Alice and I sit side by side on the sofa. Declan takes the chair. Diane goes to stand by the front door.
Alice reaches for my hand.

  “Look…,” I begin, although I have no idea what I’m going to say. I’m hit with the dizzying realization that, at this moment, I have no cards to play.

  Declan shifts in his chair, and his jacket pulls slightly to the side. That’s when I see the gun tucked into a holster beneath his jacket. I feel nauseous.

  Alice grips my hand so tight it hurts. I know she’s trying to send me some private message, but I have no idea what it is.

  “I’m ready to go,” I say.

  I have one goal at this moment: get Declan and Diane out of our home, away from Alice. I’ll do whatever they ask.

  “Do you remember how this works?” Declan asks.

  “Of course,” I say. I try to sound nonchalant, fearless, although I’m terrified.

  “Hands on the wall, feet back, legs spread.” Alice won’t let go of my hand. I turn and look at her. “Sweetheart,” I say, unwrapping her hand from mine, then brushing my fingers against her cheek. “I’ll be fine.”

  Then I do as he asks.

  As I’m standing there, hands to the wall, Declan kicks my legs farther apart. I remember that day at Fernley, when someone kicked my legs out from under me, and I realize with sickening clarity that it was Declan. As I begin to fall, he catches me and slams me back against the wall.

  “Don’t!” Alice cries.

  “Resisting will only make it worse,” Diane says.

  Declan’s hands move roughly up and down my body. Every instinct tells me to fight, but he has a gun. Diane no doubt has one too. I have to get them out of here, keep Alice safe.

  “Why wasn’t he sent a directive?” Alice asks desperately. “He would’ve shown up at the airport. There’s no need for force. He’s agreed to comply with everything.”

  Declan’s hands continue probing my body, and I get the feeling he’s enjoying this too much—his control, my vulnerability. “Good question,” he says. “I was wondering the same thing. Jake, did you piss someone off?”