A Circle of Wives

by Alice LaPlante

  Samantha Adams: Well, how did you meet John Taylor? You seem to come from such very different worlds.

  MJ Taylor: We met cute, as they say. Six years ago. I had just been laid off in one of those Silicon Valley purges that seem to happen every ten years or so. Downsizing. Or, as our CEO said when he made the announcement, rightsizing. Meaning me, and about forty thousand other people, were wrong. I went out for drinks with my fellow superfluous humans. Unusual, for me, I’m not a drinker. Neither was John, it was something we had in common. That’s what makes our first encounter in a bar so odd. That day I had a beer. And another. And another. One by one my fellow ex-employees left, and eventually I looked around and realized I didn’t know anyone. Surrounded by strangers! I’d drunk enough to become cranky, but I signaled the bartender, and ordered a real drink, in a real drinker’s glass. That’s how I ordered it, “Give me the drink that comes in that glass.” And I pointed. When it came, I gagged, it was so strong, so bitter. And I hate olives. I sent it back. I rejected it as inferior, as I had been rejected that morning. Rightsizing. Rightdrinking. My voice was too loud, and heads turned. Who expects to see an aging hippy, complete with long flowered skirt and beads, at a watering hole for software project managers and semiconductor sales reps? I was surrounded by young men (all young, young, young) in identical uniforms, khaki pants and blue button-down shirts. Very few women, very few of anyone over the age of thirty. The guy sitting next to me at the bar was the exception.

  This man—I guessed his age as midfifties—he reached out across the bar to my rejected drink, picked it up, and took a sip. He made a face. “This is clearly unacceptable,” he said, and smiled at me (an understanding smile). “Wait. Just you see,” he said. “I’ll make you the perfect drink.” He somehow commanded from the bartender the vodka bottle, a handful of lime wedges, a can of cranberry juice, packets of sugar. How did he manage that? He had that way about him. He was clearly used to being in charge, he didn’t even need to raise his voice. If anything, it was the reverse, he was so soft-spoken that you had to lean forward, you had to go to him. And you did so willingly.

  John wasn’t dressed particularly well, a worn pair of jeans, and a T-shirt advertising some sort of golfing charity. It turns out he’d been at a boring function at the hotel next door, had slipped away for a break, decided to come into the bar. And he did exactly what he promised. He made me—us, because we shared it—the absolutely perfect drink, semisweet, with a sharp tangy aftertaste. And I was just gone.

  Samantha Adams: So what did you know, and when did you know it?

  MJ Taylor: Are you recording this? It’s just that you’re not taking any notes.

  Samantha Adams: Oh right. I forgot to tell you. Yes, we are videotaping this. See the camera? Is that okay? Or rather do I have your consent to record this interview?

  MJ Taylor: Of course, that’s okay. I have nothing to hide. Record away . . . What was the question again?

  Samantha Adams: When did you find out about the other wives?

  MJ Taylor: Oh, yes.

  I was completely in the dark until I saw the death announcement in the Mercury News on Sunday. I’m one of the few people on the planet who still gets a newspaper delivered in the morning, one of the few who still enjoys turning the physical pages over coffee. I don’t usually read the death notices (I’m not that old, not yet) but I tend to flip through the various sections methodically. And a particularly large obit caught my eye. The photo alone was a quarter of a page. Then I saw the name. John Taylor.

  I hadn’t known before then, how could I? John had called me Thursday morning, said he had to make one of his trips down to UCLA, there was an emergency case. He suggested I might want to visit friends in Oregon, I’d been talking about doing that for a while. But I decided I’d stay home, catch up with the house, work in the garden.

  Samantha Adams: Did John often take off like that?

  MJ Taylor: Of course, he had his hospital duties. Trips to conferences. His academic appointment down at UCLA. Nothing that struck me as unusual given the professional commitments of a man of his stature. Of course, now I feel like a fool. Bluebeard’s wife, finding the bloody chamber only after her vile husband has been apprehended.

  Samantha Adams: So you hadn’t seen him for three days when you read the obituary?

  MJ Taylor: Right. For two days he’d been dead, and I didn’t know, hadn’t felt it. I should have known; I have certain gifts in that direction, I could tell you stories. But no. I had thought it odd John didn’t call, didn’t return my calls to his cell phone since Friday. That was unusual. But not completely unprecedented, either. He was a bit of a free spirit, John. It was one of the things I loved about him.

  Samantha Adams: What was your reaction when you read the obituary?

  MJ Taylor: My first thought was, what a good-looking man! The handsomeness of the man in the photo caught my eye, not the fact that it was John. A young man sitting at a piano, his fine fingers poised to play what you knew from his smiling face would be a happy song. I remember thinking, how sad, this attractive man dead, then I saw the name, went back to the photo, and recognized John.

  Samantha Adams: And that was how you found out about Deborah?

  MJ Taylor: Yes. A beloved wife. Of course, they have to say that, but it still hit me, hard. And three grown children! I thought of John’s lack of warmth (hostility even) to my boys, which I attributed to his never having had a child himself. How wrong I was. My life blew up, then, sitting at my kitchen table. Just shattered.

  10

  Excerpt from Transcript

  Police interview conducted

  by telephone with Helen Richter,

  May 19, 2013

  [Preliminary introductions, explanations of processes and procedures]

  Samantha Adams: Can you hear me okay? Sometimes our phone connections at the station house aren’t so great.

  Helen Richter: Yes, I can hear you fine. Can you hear me?

  Samantha Adams: Yes. And I’m supposed to inform you that I will be taping this telephone conversation. Is that all right?

  Helen Richter: No problem.

  Samantha Adams: Okay. I don’t want to take up more of your busy day than necessary, so let’s just jump into it. I guess my first question is how did John Taylor get away with it? I mean, having three wives? How could you not have suspected something?

  Helen Richter: Isn’t that the question. The question everyone wants answered. How did he get away with it? [pause] It’s the elephant in the room at work. Some people manage to restrain themselves from asking. Most don’t. They seem to forget you’re one of the “its” being referred to. Meaning wives. And people have an almost clinical curiosity about the logistics. I suppose I can’t blame them. What did he tell you when he went away for long periods of time? Did he keep separate credit cards, bank accounts for each wife? Did he ever show up wearing something you didn’t recognize, or smelling of a strange scent? You wouldn’t believe the things people you barely know will come straight out and ask.

  Samantha Adams: So, did he do any of those things? You have to admit, they’re the kinds of questions that immediately spring to mind.

  Helen Richter: I still don’t know the answers myself; he did such a masterful job. Not of coming up with clever responses so much as erecting a kind of force field against them ever getting asked.

  Samantha Adams: It must be hard.

  Helen Richter: [pause] It is. [pause] You know, if your husband has an affair with another woman, you get a certain amount of sympathy. You see, there’s an acceptable social protocol for consoling the wives of middle-aged men who wander. But if your husband has another wife . . . well, we don’t exactly have a boilerplate for that. And people are lost without their boilerplate. They mostly lose control of their mouths. Ask a lot of stupid questions. And the most stinging of all is, How could you not have known?

  Samantha Adams: How did you find out?

  Helen Richter: By his death. The news article in t
he Stanford Daily. Survived by wife Deborah, and three children, Cynthia, Charles, and Evan. Devoted wife, I should say. Or was that the obituary? In any case, a wife that was not me. Not that I would ever describe myself as devoted—that has the connotation of blind, adoring worship. That wasn’t what John felt for me. Or what I felt for John. No.

  I didn’t know he had children, either. That had been one of the conditions for our marriage. No children. No discussion. No regrets.

  Samantha Adams: Tell me more about your marriage.

  Helen Richter: It was very short and very sweet. We had just six months together, barely made it out of the honeymoon stage. Then again, it was a commuter marriage. With me in Los Angeles, him in Palo Alto. I had my job, and he had his. I liked LA, he liked Northern California. And we liked each other. So we agreed, we would have a long-distance relationship. He came down twice a month for three or four days at a time.

  Samantha Adams: You never came north, to visit him in Palo Alto?

  Helen Richter: No, never. It didn’t come up, was never an issue. You have to keep in mind, we were both very busy. When you choose a medical career, you accept a lifestyle most people would find intolerable. The long working hours, mostly on your feet. The fatigue, both physical and emotional. I’m a pediatric oncologist at the UCLA Children’s Hospital. I see fifty to sixty children every week, all very sick. No month passes without at least one, usually more, of my young patients dying. At any given time, our department is running four or five drug trials that I need to stay on top of. And when I’m not actually at work, I’m reading the latest journal articles, and trying to catch up with my dictations, my own writing.

  Samantha Adams: Didn’t you miss him when you weren’t together?

  Helen Richter: Obviously. On some level. But what you don’t seem to get—what no one seems to get—is that I didn’t have much room in my life for more than John was willing or able to give me. Until I met him I expected to remain single, and very happily so. He didn’t fill a void; there was no emptiness in my life. I even felt uncomfortable at first, shoehorning him in. Yet I wanted it, wanted him. Surprised myself by the urgency of the wanting.

  Samantha Adams: Whose idea was it to get married?

  Helen Richter: John was the one who demanded marriage. I resisted—especially since no children would be involved. I saw little need to formalize the relationship. He was insistent, even told me that without marriage he didn’t feel our . . . liaison . . . could continue. We completed the paperwork and one Friday morning went down to the courthouse and did the deed.

  Samantha Adams: Strange. I mean, why?

  Helen Richter: Yes. He could have had an affair with me; I’d have been no wiser. I’m not the suspicious kind. The marriage certificate was important to him. The day of the ceremony, we went back to my condo and drank wine and sat on the sofa. Just sat, not touching. He asked me, “Do you feel any different?” I had to admit I didn’t, although I was certainly very happy, was deeply happy. John said he felt like a great weight had been lifted off his shoulders. “I feel so free,” he said. An odd thing to say, once you know the facts. Shouldering yet more responsibility, and complicating his life with more intrigue and lies. So free. What was he thinking?

  Samantha Adams: After the wedding, what happened?

  Helen Richter: Little changed. He moved some clothes and personal effects into my condo. We redid our wills. Otherwise, we carried on as before. We made no announcement. I informed my small circle of friends, and that was that. I don’t think most people at the medical center where I taught and where John was an adjunct knew. Although they might have realized we were attached in some way.

  But all this is making our relationship sound . . . uncaring. Tepid. It wasn’t. I’m not good at talking about such things. I’m a very private person. Insular, even. So this is hard. I will say that what happened after the marriage was official took me by surprise. I hadn’t foreseen how much it would matter. I hadn’t anticipated the absolute happiness. And what could arguably be called passion. Yes, physical. Yet also more than that. Before, I knew what we had between us was good. I knew we had a reasonable shot at making each other happy. But I hadn’t anticipated bliss. I’d never before encountered ecstasy.

  Samantha Adams: [long pause] Strong words.

  Helen Richter: Yes. Still, inadequate for describing how I felt about John Taylor.

  11

  Excerpt from Transcript

  Police interview with Deborah Taylor,

  May 20, 2013

  [Preliminary introductions, explanations of police processes and procedures, notification that the session would be videotaped]

  Samantha Adams: So did you know that your husband had taken two other wives?

  Deborah Taylor: Of course I knew. How could I not? I made it all possible. Did you think John capable of scheming on this level with any degree of success? Nonsense.

  Samantha Adams: Why on earth would you help him?

  Deborah Taylor: Simple. To keep him.

  Samantha Adams: [pause] I’m sorry?

  Deborah Taylor: It was the only way.

  Samantha Adams: Can you explain that, please?

  Deborah Taylor: John started his . . . wandering . . . precisely eight years ago. Cynthia, our youngest daughter, had just left for her freshman year at Berkeley. There we were, John and I, alone together in the house for the first time in nearly twenty-five years. Our days consisted primarily of long silences punctuated by bursts of temper. It made clear what both of us had suspected. The marriage was dead.

  Shortly after, John took up with a nurse at the hospital. He tried to do it surreptitiously. As if I couldn’t tell from Day One. I confronted him. We discussed it, openly. We didn’t argue about it. But I was adamant. He could see his nurse. Have his sordid little affair. But no divorce. Never would I agree. If he tried I would fight it, take everything he had, would do my best to ensure the children never spoke to him again. I don’t think I’d have had much luck making that latter threat come true. The children—well, at least Cynthia and Evan—worship John. Charles is more difficult to read.

  It was the threat of taking away the children’s affections, rather than the money, that got to John. He felt his own betrayal of me more than I did, couldn’t believe that others wouldn’t judge him as harshly as he was judging himself. John didn’t have much confidence in his ability to command affection from people. Ironic, when he was one of the most beloved of men. Truly. Ask around at his clinic. He had warmth, a vulnerability even, that was tremendously endearing if you were susceptible in that way. I wasn’t. Not anymore, at least.

  I monitored the situation with the nurse. As I suspected, it soon turned serious. John would never be satisfied with a casual affair. He would always need more. I put an end to it. I don’t want to go into the details now. Suffice it to say I scared her off. My tactics may have been heavy-handed, but they worked. John was in despair. “I must have love,” he said. “If you won’t love me, I need to find someone who will.”

  I didn’t mind him having cheap flings. “You may indulge yourself if you like,” I told him. “But nothing that threatens our marriage, nothing that prevents you from coming home every night to me.” But he didn’t want fleeting affairs. He wanted the real thing. And I wanted to continue being Mrs. John Taylor. Younger women may mock me, may think me lacking in character, or ambition, or dignity—I know my daughter would—but that’s the way I was raised.

  We were at an impasse.

  This lasted for a year. To say we were both unhappy would be an understatement. I had always run a harmonious household, needed things to be regulated, to run smoothly. And they weren’t anymore. John was drinking, he was depressed, we were having real fights for the first time.

  Late one night after a particularly bad fight we worked out a deal. He could have a serious relationship. He could seek love. He could even get married again, if he found someone he loved who loved him back. But whoever she was, she was not to know about me. She w
as not to have entrée into his public, professional life—he had to choose an outsider to our world. I was Mrs. John Taylor. And he had to be home by 5:30 every morning, to shower, dress, and eat breakfast in our house before going to work, before making his rounds. His car would be parked in our driveway as our neighbors roused themselves and left for work. How he managed that was his business.

  It took him a year before all the variables lined up right for him. He met that MJ creature in some Silicon Valley bar, and courted her. With my permission. Eventually they had some hippy wedding, but legitimate as far as she knew. I continued to organize his life. I controlled the household, paid the bills, and kept his calendar. I kept him straight. I even booked his flights down to LA when he found someone there, too.

  Samantha Adams: So you were an accomplice to a crime. Bigamy. Or whatever it is when three wives are involved. Didn’t that bother you?

  Deborah Taylor: Why, are you going to charge me?

  Samantha Adams: [Silence]

  Deborah Taylor: I thought not. Well, to get back to your question, why would bigamy bother me? If anything, it made me feel safer. The bigger the deception on his part, the more inexcusable his crimes against these other women—and, not incidentally, the law of the land—the less chance he would be able to come clean and make an honest man of himself. He would most definitely be hoist with his own petard if he tried. I had rigged the situation admirably. It would have worked. Even after he died, under normal circumstances I would have been able to negotiate deals with MJ and Helen to keep everything quiet. I would be John Taylor’s widow, just as I had been his wife. And in return I would make sure they didn’t suffer financially.

  It was perfect until you prevented me from burying my husband. By the way, if anyone finds out that coffin was empty, I’ll be the laughingstock of the town.