American Wife

by Curtis Sittenfeld

  “I was impressed by him because I could tell he adored you, and you deserve to be adored,” my grandmother said. “Frankly, what you’re describing sounds like much ado about nothing. Go home, put on a pretty dress, some heels, and some lipstick, flirt with him, flatter him, and never forget how insecure men are. It’s because they take themselves far too seriously.”

  In this moment, her instructions felt like a lifeline—so simple, so easily executed. What an immense relief to have someone tell me what to do! Then she said, “Get me some water, will you? They’ve been feeding me spicy chicken, and I don’t care for the taste of it.”

  “Your cup is right here.” I helped her sip again, and when she’d finished, I held up the book I’d brought in my bag. “I have your copy of Anna Karenina. Would you like me to read from it?”

  “That would be lovely.”

  “From the section where she and Vronsky meet, or from the beginning?”

  “When they meet.”

  As I opened the book, I said, “I hope I haven’t made you think badly of Charlie. I’m sure you’re right that I’m blowing things out of proportion.”

  She had already closed her eyes, and she shook her head. “Chapter Eighteen,” I began, and I cleared my throat. “ ‘Vronsky followed the guard to the carriage, and had to stop at the entrance of the compartment to let a lady pass . . . ’ ” When my mother arrived a few minutes later with the balloon, my grandmother had fallen back to sleep.

  ON MY RETURN to Milwaukee, I stopped at a gas station. I’d already paid and was replacing the gas nozzle in the pump when a man’s voice said, “Alice, what a coincidence.”

  I looked up, and just a few feet away, standing by a caron the opposite side of the concrete island, Joe Thayer held up a hand in greeting. He wore a yellow polo shirt tucked into madras shorts, and he looked characteristically handsome, but he also looked like he had recently lost weight he hadn’t needed to lose: His cheekbones were more pronounced, and though he was well over six feet, there was a scrawniness to his shoulders. Not that I looked so hot myself—as my grandmother had observed, I had on my mother’s “frumpy” blouse. Plus, because I hadn’t brought the mousse that I used, my hair was a bit frizzy. I still was a good fifteen minutes from Maronee, and I hadn’t expected to run into anybody I knew.

  “Joe, how are you?” I glanced toward his car and, thinking I saw his son, said, “And is that Ben in the—Oh my goodness, that’s Pancake!” Pancake was a black Lab famous in Halcyon for being able to stand on her hind legs and slow-dance with seventy-two-year-old Walt Thayer, Joe’s father; this routine had never seemed entirely consensual to me, so I had trouble mustering the enthusiasm for it that everyone else demonstrated. “You must be gearing up for Princeton,” I said. “Tell me what ludicrous uniform they have you wearing.” Joe had graduated from Princeton in ’63, five years before Charlie, which meant their major reunions were always on the same schedule.

  Joe shook his head. “I’ll be sitting this one out. Not quite the right time, if you get my meaning.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be missed,” I said.

  “I tell you, Alice, I never thought I’d be a person who got a divorce.”

  “Oh—” I wasn’t sure how to respond. Lamely, I said, “Well, it does happen.”

  “May I be candid?” he said.

  “Of course.”

  “I find myself curious about how much of our family’s trouble is out on the grapevine, if you will. I wouldn’t want people to think—It seems that it’s more commonly the husband leaving the wife in these situations, but that isn’t what happened. I won’t say Carolyn and I haven’t had our problems, but I really was blindsided.”

  I feigned ignorance. “Joe, I’m so sorry. That sounds very difficult.”

  We looked at each other, and the thought crossed my mind that he might cry. He didn’t have tears in his eyes, but it seemed he was holding his chin firm, possibly clenching his teeth. He and I had never spoken anywhere close to this personally. Between Milwaukee and Halcyon, I had been in his presence perhaps a hundred times—after our wedding, Priscilla and Harold had thrown an enormous cocktail party at the country club for all the family friends who hadn’t been invited to the wedding, and I was pretty sure Joe had even been at that—but in eleven years he and I hadn’t talked about anything more provocative than the new roundabout on Solveson Avenue, or the temperature of Lake Michigan.

  I said, “Joe, I hope you realize that all families have problems, even in Maronee. You aren’t the only ones. And I think everyone knows there’s only so much we can control even in our own lives.” I suspect it was less what I was saying than the mere fact of my continuing to talk that allowed Joe to pull himself back from the precipice of tears; already, he looked significantly less shaky.

  “I appreciate that.” His gas pump made a clicking noise, and he withdrew the nozzle. Gesturing to his car, he said, “I’m headed to Madison to spend the day with Martha.” This was his younger sister, whom I knew from Halcyon. “I used to really crave free time,” he continued, “and now I have more than I ever could have wanted. The weekends have become just brutal. Be careful what you wish for, I suppose.”

  “Well, you’re welcome at our house anytime. If you’d like to come over and watch the ball game with Charlie, we’d be delighted to have you.” This was probably not a wise offer—would Joe dropping by make Charlie even crankier?—but he seemed so despondent, and I didn’t know what else to say. And really, the fact was that Joe and Charlie had known each other their entire lives; they were more like cousins than friends.

  Joe pointed toward the interior of the gas station and said, “I’d better pay. It was good to see you, Alice. Thanks for listening to a sad sack.”

  I said, “You know, maybe you should go to Reunions. A change of scenery?”

  “I’ll think about it.” He waved. “Give Chas my best.”

  WHEN CHARLIE, ELLA, and I arrived at Priscilla and Harold’s for dinner, the house was alive with Blackwell energy. Our nephews Geoff and Drew were out on the front lawn playing ring toss, and Charlie couldn’t resist stopping to join them, so Ella and I continued inside without him. It was hard to believe that Ella was the last of this generation of Blackwells; the next babies would be the children of her cousins. Harry, who was Ed and Ginger’s oldest son, was now twenty-one and would graduate from Princeton a few days after Charlie’s reunion; Liza, who was John and Nan’s older daughter, was finishing up her junior year at Princeton and would be spending the summer interning at a fashion magazine in Manhattan; and Tommy, Ed and Ginger’s middle son, was finishing his sophomore year but at Dartmouth rather than Princeton, which gave rise to much teasing about Dartmouth’s general inferiority and the lack of activity in “Hangover,” New Hampshire.

  In the front hall, Ella hugged her grandparents, then immediately vanished with her cousin Winnie, presumably to the basement, which was where the cousins who still lived at home convened around a pool table, the older ones sharing various urban legends—after one such dinner, Ella had become briefly fixated on the idea of spontaneous human combustion—and also teaching the younger cousins dirty words. While riding back to our house at Thanksgiving, Ella had proudly announced, “I know what penis balls are.”

  Near the staircase where Charlie and I had married, I exchanged kisses on the cheek with my father-in-law, who said, “Alice, I’m terribly sorry to hear about your grandmother,” and I said, “I’m happy to report she’s much better today.” I leaned in to greet Priscilla, who didn’t so much air-kiss as not kiss at all; she simultaneously brought her chin toward you and angled it off to the side, never even puckering her lips, but I couldn’t take it personally because she did it to everyone. This time, however, as I approached, she gripped my wrist, keeping me close. Against my ear, she murmured, “I’d like a word with you.”

  Harold went off to fix drinks just as Jadey emerged from the dining room carrying a marble tray of food, saying, “Maj, if I were a cheese knife, w
here would I be? Ooh, that scarf looks great, Alice. How’s your grandma?” Jadey had picked out the scarf for me during a shopping expedition a few weeks before; it was from Marshall Field’s and had a turquoise background with gold paisley.

  “Jadey, surely you don’t plan to put out all that cheese at once,” Priscilla said. “You’ll spoil everyone’s appetite.”

  Breezily, Jadey said, “Oh, we’ll save what doesn’t get eaten, and the sirloins look super, so worry not, those’ll be devoured in half a second.” Over the years, Jadey had served as an example of how to behave with Priscilla—to be chipper and oblique, to sidestep questions without necessarily answering them, and to never directly challenge or contradict.

  “My grandmother’s had an amazing turnaround,” I said. “She’s almost her normal self.”

  “Oh, thank God,” Jadey said. “Not that Chas and Ella aren’t welcome at our house any time—I swear, having other people around makes us behave slightly better—but what a relief for you. Now, Maj, as for the cheese knives . . . ”

  “Second drawer to the right of the oven,” Priscilla said, and I was surprised at how quickly she’d conceded. Then she said, “Jadey, I was under the impression you were watching your figure.” She smiled. “I’d think these sorts of hors d’oeuvres would be very tempting.” Nan and Ginger had entered the hall from the living room by this point, distracting somewhat from the unpleasantness of Priscilla’s remark. Nan said, “Oh, Alice, we’ve been praying for your grandmother,” and Jadey said, “No, she’s on the mend,” and Ginger said, “I love your scarf, Alice. Maj, tell us what we can do to help.”

  “You can get those barbarian sons of yours to quit tearing up my lawn.” Priscilla laughed throatily. “At this rate, my foxgloves and irises won’t live to see June.”

  A brief silence ensued, and Ginger said, “I’m sure the boys are ready to come in anyway.” As she scurried out the front door, Jadey rolled her eyes at me before returning to the kitchen.

  Priscilla said to Nan, “I’ll steal Alice for a moment, if you don’t mind.”

  I followed my mother-in-law to a little alcove on the far side of the powder room beneath the front staircase. Standing in the hall, I’d caught sight of Charlie’s brothers congregated in the living room, and I’d thought that, recent tensions be damned, an evening of family boisterousness might be just the thing for both Charlie and me.

  In the alcove, Priscilla said, “You had no business taking Ruby to the Marcus Center.”

  I blinked. What had I imagined Priscilla wanted to talk to me about? The strife among her sons, perhaps? Or something far more banal: that she needed me to fill the bird feeders while she and Harold were in Washington.

  “It was extremely inappropriate,” she was saying, and her voice was neither loud nor excited; it was merely frosty. “My household help is my concern.”

  “I didn’t—” I hesitated. “I didn’t realize it would offend you. I certainly didn’t mean for it to.” I would stop short of telling her I was sorry, I thought, because I wasn’t. Miss Ruby was an adult, and so was I—both of us had the right to attend a play with whomever we pleased.

  “You must imagine you’re providing some sort of cultural edification for her, is that it?”

  “Priscilla, it was a spur-of-the-moment invitation. I had no ulterior motive.”

  “Ruby has been in our employ for over forty-five years, and we’ve taken superb care of her during that time. Do you think she’d stay with us decade after decade if we hadn’t? There are a number of things I’m quite sure you don’t know about her, including that Harold and I helped her leave an unscrupulous husband. Is that something you were aware of?” Priscilla was almost six feet tall, but as she’d spoken, she’d leaned down so that mere inches separated our faces. I became aware of the fine lines around her lips, her mauve lipstick, her teeth, which, this close up, were smaller and a bit browner than I remembered; in addition, her crooked upper-left canine was prominent.

  I opened my mouth to speak, but it was hard to know what to say.

  “In the future, I’ll thank you for not interfering,” Priscilla said. “Have I made myself clear?”

  “I hope you won’t scold Miss Ruby,” I said. “The outing was definitely my idea, not hers.” Then—I couldn’t help it—I added, “But with all due respect, I guess I still don’t understand what you object to.”

  “Oh, Alice.” Priscilla took a step back, chuckling. “I’m embarrassed for you that you’d have to ask.”

  I HAD A glass of wine before dinner, and for the meal, I managed to sit between Harold, benign as always, and John, who, despite the friction with Charlie, had never said an unkind word to me. As usual, Priscilla had designated seat assignments, but she’d essentially ignored me after our conversation behind the staircase. By dessert, my surprise over our exchange had subsided, and I was able to relax into the table’s banter; at the outset, Priscilla had placed a moratorium on any discussion of Blackwell Meats, a wise move on her part. As we finished our butterhorn cookies and vanilla ice cream, Arthur, who, like most people present, seemed to have had quite a bit to drink, was giving Ed grief for his recent cosponsorship of a congressional bill with Judith Pigliozzi, a Democratic representative from northern California who was best known for her support of a failed medical marijuana bill. “Next thing you know, Eddie and Judith’ll be smoking reefer in the Capitol,” Arthur crowed, and Ginger, Ed’s wife, said, “You know, some studies indicate that marijuana can be very helpful for migraine sufferers”—meek, mirthless Ginger, herself a migraine sufferer, said this, and it was so out of character that everyone exploded with laughter. “So that’s how you can stand being married to Ed,” Charlie said. “We always wondered.” At the same time, John said, “Nothing like a hit of Mary Jane in the afternoon, eh, Ging?” Ginger was protesting, saying, “I didn’t mean that I’ve tried it, no, it’s just something I read about—” and Arthur and Charlie were miming inhaling joints. “Truly, I’ve never smoked marijuana,” Ginger said, and she seemed very flustered. “It was in a magazine article.”

  “Alice, you ever smoked up?” Arthur asked, and Jadey said, “Don’t put her on the spot,” and Arthur said, “Then let’s go around the table. Dad, it’s safe to assume you’re a no?”

  Harold, with a weary smile on his face, shook his head. By this point, all the kids were back in the basement, and I gave thanks that Ella wasn’t present; I wasn’t in the mood to explain pot.

  “We already have Ginger proclaiming her innocence,” Arthur said. “Me, hell, yes. Nan?”

  Nan wrinkled her nose. “I don’t know if I like this game,” she said, and Arthur said, “I’ll take that as another yes. Ed?”

  “I was too old,” Ed said. “You have to remember that by the summer of love, I was already an associate at Holubasch and Whistler.”

  Arthur continued around the table. “Maj, I’m thinking no, but you’re a sly one, so you want to confirm or deny?”

  “Absolutely not,” Priscilla said.

  Arthur pointed at Charlie. “Chas, for you, the only mystery is, did you buy or sell more?”

  Charlie grinned. “Hey, we all have to be good at something.”

  “You never dealt drugs, did you?” I said, and John said lightly, “Alice, don’t ask questions you don’t want to hear the answers to.”

  “Jadey, I know you’re a yes, because I was there,” Arthur said, and Jadey protested, “I was a teenager! That doesn’t count!”

  “If you were a teenager, then you must be almost twenty-five by now.” Arthur smirked at his wife. (Were they really not having sex? They were so playful, or maybe there was more hostility in this exchange than I recognized.)

  “John?” Arthur said.

  “I gave it a whirl, sure, but it never did a heck of a lot for me.”

  “And now back to fair Alice.” Arthur was across the table from me, between Ginger and Nan. “You’re kind of the dark horse here. Chas, you want to place a bet on your better half?”


  Charlie narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing me, and finally said, “Put me down for yes. Lindy’s got more of an adventurous streak than you’d think.”

  I blushed—the comment seemed to have sexual undertones—and Arthur said, “Moment of truth, Alice.”

  “Just once,” I said. “I think I’m in the same category as John, where it didn’t do much for me.” I thought of sitting in my grandmother’s bedroom in the summer of 1968 with her and Dena Janaszewski, and then I thought of my grandmother in the hospital, and I did a mental finger-crossing that her condition would continue to improve.

  “Alice, clearly, you didn’t give it a chance,” Arthur said. “Where’s your stick-to-itiveness?” He was grinning the Blackwell grin, and he said to Charlie, “Why is your wife such a quitter?”

  “Is it wrong that this conversation is starting to make me crave a joint?” Jadey said. “And I swear it’s been about two decades.”

  Arthur raised his eyebrows at Charlie. “Chas, are you thinking what I’m thinking? But who do we know that—?”

  Charlie tilted his head right, toward the swinging door that led to the kitchen. He said, “How about Leroy?” Dread seized me. Leroy was Miss Ruby’s son, older than Yvonne. I had never met him, but I knew he’d had a few run-ins with the law.

  “Brilliant!” Arthur reached over and lifted the small white porcelain bell Priscilla rang whenever she wanted to summon Miss Ruby. Right away, Priscilla snatched it back, and I was greatly relieved. “You will not implicate Ruby in your high jinks,” she said.

  “Don’t try to tell me Big Leroy Sutton wouldn’t know where in this city to find good herb,” Arthur said, and John said, “Oh, I think he’s well beyond that. Herb is child’s play for a guy like him.” (Did it occur to them Miss Ruby might be able to hear every word they were saying? It seemed not.)