The Wife of Reilly

by Jennifer Coburn

  “No problem,” I told him. “But if you think I’m having sex with you on some skanky old subway, you are sorely mistaken.”

  He laughed. “No, I want to show you something I’ve been meaning to get for you for a while, but I want your input first.”

  When we arrived at Tiffany, I nearly burst with joy. “I am absolutely not doing it at Tiffany,” I kidded. “There are cameras all over this place.”

  He smiled. “I’ve been eyeing a ring for you that I saw in L.A. They’ve got it here, but I want to make sure you love it before I get it for you.”

  I love it! I love it! I thought before we opened the doors.

  Two hours later, Matt and I walked out of the store, our fingers interlocked with one another’s. Only one of mine was now sporting a beautiful new engagement ring.

  Snow began to fall. Not the wimpy slush that came down a few weeks ago. Fluffy, gorgeous flakes fell from the sky as Matt and I walked down Fifth Avenue. If I were any happier, I would have floated away like a balloon that a child accidentally let go.

  Chapter 16

  I had two days between Matt’s departure and Reilly’s return and decided I’d try a new approach — speed dating, appropriately enough, at coffee shops. The dinner scene was inefficient for two reasons. It was expensive, and the meal lasted far longer than my interest in these women. Now I planned to give a woman fifteen minutes to impress me or I walked. If I were a guy, I’d be a real prick. Okay, maybe it’s not a gender thing. Labels aside, I was now fully invested in finding Reilly’s new wife, so for better or worse there was no turning back.

  First there was Kendra, who stole the salt and pepper shakers from the restaurant.

  Felicia reeked of pot and was obviously stoned. She ordered two desserts and devoured them without the benefit of silverware.

  Olivia was allergic to my perfume and went on for the entire time about how there should be a ban on fragrances in public places. She was also allergic to commercial detergent, most soaps and the smell of new cars.

  Helene brought a résumé and asked me if I knew anyone who was hiring software programmers. She was Microsoft-certified, she assured me.

  Hetty was a Mets fan who knew absolutely everything about the team, but nothing else.

  Francine was pushing sixty.

  Renee was incredibly important, except no one seemed to know about it, which made her extremely agitated.

  When Reilly returned home, I was able to sneak in a few lunch dates and evening drinks with prospects. One of the women was a fine catch and made the list. The others all had something that disqualified them.

  Sandy found sexual innuendo in everything. “I bet your soup du jour is piping hot,” she told our server.

  Victoria took offense at everything. She snapped at our waiter when he asked if she saved room for dessert. “What do you mean, did I save room? Do I look stuffed to capacity or something?!”

  Laura kept accusing me of checking out other women.

  Celine was a doctor who disapproved of my vegetarianism so much that she felt compelled to check me for anemia by reaching across the table and pulling my lower eyelids down to check the color. This really pissed me off since I’d just paid good money to get them in pristine form.

  Nancy tried to sell me a water filter system and recruit me into her multilevel marketing group.

  Mary never made it a full ten minutes between cell phone calls. “Yeah Mom, I’m here now,” she said during her fourth conversation. “It’s going pretty good, but I haven’t met the guy yet. I’m with his sister right now.” This would have been a logical time to end the call, but Mary kept chatting away with her mother about her day at work, their weekend plans and Aunt Felicity’s hip replacement surgery. Mary even consulted her mother about her menu selections. “Remember when I got that terrible itch from eating grilled fish? Was that salmon or halibut?” She paused for a moment, then continued, “The special tonight is a grilled salmon steak with a caviar sauce.” Pause. “I know it sounds delicious but it’s not worth it if I’m going to have that itch all night.”

  Misty seemed pretty normal until she told me that her best friend was Jesus, and spent the rest of our date trying to save my soul. We actually had to say grace — before coffee.

  Laurie had so many facial piercings that I was too distracted to remember a single word she said.

  My final date before Christmas was with Deana, or as she liked to be called, “Dot Com Gal.” She was a twentysomething who looked like she could really use some cocaine to bring her down from the naturally frenetic state she was already in. Her job was “extreme” and “intense,” Deana said. “My dot-com leverages existing investments in back-end legacy resources with front-end user-driven dynamic interfaces to create catalytic synergism accelerating broadband and wireless compatibility for enhanced productivity and growth.”

  Huh?

  * * *

  On Christmas Day, Reilly and I took the train out to Father’s house for his big celebration. The best part of the holiday party was that there would be upward of thirty people there between Ashley’s and Whitney’s husbands and children, Carla’s parents and the aunts, uncles and cousins I only see at Father’s family gatherings.

  Father’s home is an expansive tribute to chain hotel lobbies. Each room is tasteful but pedestrian with rich, sand-like beige carpet and oversized white couches, leather recliners and glass tables. On the walls are landscape paintings that look like they were leftovers at an auction. At the top of the stairs is a painted portrait of Carla and the three girls with Father standing behind them.

  Carla is a thin woman with light brown hair with streaks of blond, brown eyes and a waspy nose that is angular at the snout. She looks like the quintessential aging sorority girl. Ashley and Whitney look like younger, blonder versions of Carla. I like Paige the best because I know that her shaggy gothic black hair and torn lace stockings must bug the shit out of Father and Carla.

  At dinner Ashley announced that she was pregnant with her third baby. Whitney landed her dream job. Paige was accepted for early admission to Brown University. And Father had just retired to start his “second honeymoon” with Carla. Wine glasses were raised and toasts to the success of the Malones were thrown around lavishly.

  “Have you got any big news, Prudence?” Father asked as an afterthought.

  Just leaving my husband and searching for my replacement. Proud?

  I announced that I brought gifts for everyone and wondered when we would open them.

  “Oh Prudence, we open gifts on Christmas Eve,” Carla said. “Everyone has exchanged gifts already. Do you mind if we wait until tomorrow to open your presents so we don’t interrupt the flow of the party?”

  “Of course not,” I answered blandly. We wouldn’t want to interrupt the precious flow of the party, would we?

  After dinner I went upstairs to Father’s office and sat at his desk. His office was dark. Brown desk. Brown carpet. Brown leather executive chair. The only thing that wasn’t brown was the thick beige drapes, and they were drawn to keep out any sunlight.

  I looked at his walls and was surprised to see a photo of myself hanging next to his other three daughters. In the frame was a Father’s Day card I had made when I was about seven or eight years old. I laughed as I read that I’d given Father three dollars and ten cents as a gift.

  “I still have the bank you made too somewhere,” Father said as he stood at his office door.

  “Oh, sorry. I didn’t see you there,” I said.

  “It’s okay. How come you’re not downstairs with the rest of the family?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. Just wanted to check out your office, I guess.”

  Father held the opened gift that I brought for him. “Very nice,” he said. “Exactly like the original.” Last summer I’d found myself in a pawn shop when Chad decided he had to buy an electric guitar, and discovered a silver watch on a chain that looked remarkably like one that Father was given as a college graduation gift.
It was Grandpa’s, and apparently belonged to his father before him. I remember when he lost the watch, Father drove himself crazy looking for it. I can still see him on his knees pointing my camp flashlight under the sofa cushions and behind the beds. For weeks he retraced every step he took since his last contact with the watch. He finally resigned that it was probably stolen by the cleaning woman, a babysitter or the plumber.

  He smiled and kissed my forehead. “It was a very sweet gesture.”

  “Not a big deal.”

  “I’m going to go downstairs and show everyone what my little girl gave me for Christmas,” he said.

  “Please don’t do that,” I begged.

  “Why not?”

  “Come on,” I said. “Don’t make such a big deal out of this. I don’t want a whole production. Besides, I wouldn’t want to upset Carla’s flow.”

  He pursed his lips and turned to go downstairs to show everyone the watch. “No, I mean it, Father,” I said. “Please don’t do this. I’m serious. I got the watch for you because I thought you’d like it, not for you to thump your chest with it and show your family how very okay everything is between us.”

  “My family? Prudence, they’re your family too.”

  “Next year I’m bringing you a fruitcake. Let it go.” I wanted to snatch the watch from his hand and shatter the glass with the heel of my shoe. A meaningful gift that I gave him quietly was not enough for Father. It had to be turned into a goddamn pageant of reconciliation.

  He stood leaning against his desk and rested his chin into his fist. He looked like The Thinker dressed and upright. “Do you really feel you’re not part of the family?”

  I laughed slightly, just enough to let him know I thought the question was ridiculous. “No, Father,” I said slowly, imitating a moron. “I don’t feel like part of the family, and gee I wonder why.”

  “But you are, Prudence. Look how your picture and Father’s Day letter is hanging here on my wall.”

  “Please, Father,” I rolled my eyes. “You mounted a deer head at your cabin, and I hardly think you love the deer.”

  “But I do love you, Prudence. Don’t you know that?”

  “Is that my gift this year, Father? A bullshit proclamation wrapped in pseudo sincerity? Gee whiz, it’s pretty, but not my size.”

  He sank into his chair and sighed. “Can you give it a rest, just for today?” He ran his fingers up and down the chain of the watch I gave him, and checked the back to see if perhaps the inscription was the same as his grandfather’s. It wasn’t. I already read it and it was given to a guy named Mario from his wife Adinna for their silver anniversary. “Prudence, I love you, and I’d like for us to have a relationship, but I can’t take your constant sniping at me,” he began. “I know I made very serious mistakes dealing with you and the whole Carla thing, but that was twenty-five years ago. There are serial killers that are out on parole after that long, but you still won’t forgive me. Why is that?”

  “I don’t know,” I answered. “I wish I had an answer for you, but I don’t.”

  “Well, every man has his limits, Prudence,” Father said.

  “Meaning what?” I snapped.

  “Meaning that every man has his limits.”

  This is why I loathe Father. Just as I was beginning to ask myself if I could forgive him, he throws a not-so-veiled threat at me. “Great, threaten me,” I snorted. “If I don’t do what you want in the time frame you want, you’re going to lose patience and stop trying. Has anyone ever told you that you’re a complete fucking control freak?!”

  “Yeah, you.”

  “Well, I was right,” I shot back. “So what’s the deal? How long have I got before your limited-time offer for being my father runs out? What’s my window before you ditch me again?”

  He shouted, “It’s been twenty-five years, Prudence! It’s time to forgive me.”

  “Or what?!” I shouted. He closed the door to his office so the others wouldn’t hear our argument. “What?! What happens if I don’t forgive you? You don’t even have to answer that because you already told me. ‘Every man has his limits,’ ” I imitated. “I know what happens. You give up. You disappear. You know what? I’m ready for you this time. Go right the fuck ahead. Leave. Write me off. Bring it on.”

  He moved in to hug me, but I shook him off. “Prudence, maybe we could go to my therapist together and work on this,” he suggested. “Maybe we need help moving on.”

  “You may be ready for me to forgive you, but I’m not. I don’t know if I’ll ever be. Frankly, I’m not sure if I want to ‘move on.’ God, do you know how cheesy this New Age therapy lingo sounds, anyway? I don’t want to feel and heal. I don’t want to meditate, levitate, burn incense or chant with you, and my inner child thinks you’re a dirty, sleazy fuck hound. How’s that? What do you think your therapist would think of that?!”

  He smiled with tears in his eyes. “I think she’d love it.”

  “Well, then she’s as crazy as you. Maybe the two of you should have an affair if you’re not already,” I said.

  Father hugged me again, and this time I let him, but very conspicuously let my arms dangle at my sides. “When you’re ready to work on this, let me know,” he said, as if it were I who had the problem. As if he pitied me. “I really hope that someday we can resolve our issues and move on. It would mean the world to me, and I think it would be helpful for you too. If I haven’t made myself clear already, I’m sorry. No excuses. I really am sorry. Thank you for the watch, Prudence, and Merry Christmas.” He opened the door, told me he was going to put on a pot of coffee and offered me a cup.

  I took a moment to consider his offer. “Okay, coffee I can do. One condition —leave the watch here.”

  He placed it in his desk drawer and held the door open for me.

  Chapter 17

  I had trouble falling asleep on Christmas night despite a double-bag cup of Sleepytime. Reilly said I should give Father a chance to be a part of my life, and for a moment I wondered if he were right. Reilly didn’t realize how many chances I had already given Father, and how each time he had let me down. He’s been singing this same old tune since I left for college, but when it comes time to do more than talk about how much he wants a relationship, Trenton Malone disappears. I can’t even call it disappearing because that might suggest he was even there in the first place.

  I officially gave up after my graduation from Wharton. I figured after eighteen years in school and nearly $100,000 in student loans, it was time I learned that talk isn’t just cheap; it’s free. I gave Father a chance. Several chances. I never swore him off altogether. After Wharton, I just gave up. If he ever demonstrated a real commitment to reconnecting, I’d reconsider, I told myself. Turns out, it’s never been an issue.

  Jennifer’s father died when she was in college, and when she tells stories about him, I can’t even begin to relate to what she’s talking about. Clearly the ladle of paternal love doles out more generous portions for some than it does others. Jennifer says that when she was six years old at summer camp, she went on a hunger strike and demanded that her father return from England, where he was teaching for a semester at the London School of Economics. And you know what? He did. He arranged for a four-day weekend and immediately got on a plane to see her.

  Jen says that when she was eight, she absolutely begged her father to let her ride alone on the Spook-o-Rama at Coney Island. He did. The seventies dad, Jennifer’s father wanted to respectfully consider the request, then let his daughter make her own decisions. Anything short of dire consequences be damned. Maybe she is ready for the Spook-o-Rama, I imagined Jennifer’s father asking philosophically as eight-year-old Jennifer was already buying her ticket. The answer then, as it always was with Jennifer and her father, was yes. She boarded the railed red carriage and waved with bravado, bows and all. Mostly she was thrilled that she got her way. Jennifer giggles when she tells this story the same way she must have that day.

  A few minutes later, through the gl
ass window, Jennifer’s father saw her screaming. “All I saw were ten nappy little braids standing straight up and this bitty face taken over by pure mouth,” Jennifer imitated her father. He bolted. Ran straight in to chase Jennifer’s buggy. They had to shut down the ride while the old man who operated the ride yelled that Jennifer’s father came within inches of electrocuting himself on the ride rail system. He didn’t even stop to consider the consequences. All he thought about was getting his daughter.

  I’ve heard stories even greater, like the mother who lifted a car that had fallen on her son. When interviewed later on the news, she too was surprised by her ability to lift her car. Just didn’t think about it, she said.

  A father like Jennifer’s was about as real to me as the mythical horsemen with wings and bow.

  Sometimes Jennifer complains that her father may have loved her too much, though. He set the bar so high that other men seem inattentive. She was ill-prepared for the realities of dating, thanks to her father convincing her she really was the most special girl in the whole world. Jennifer follows the generally accepted principle of posthumous press — minimal grievances about the dead person. Which is good. It’s tough to feel sorry for a woman suffering from “Daddy was too great” syndrome. Until I remember that Jennifer has now spent half of her lifetime without him.

  I confess that sometimes I wonder if I might be too hard on Father for his approach to reconciling with me. He lives by words, not a lot of action. His world is one of contract negotiations, conference calls and meetings. Paper. Voices. Information. Expertise. It’s not as though Father were out in the fields tilling soil for a living. He wasn’t a member of the bricklayers union. I don’t think he even changed his own motor oil. Was it fair to expect Trenton Malone to deliver a thousand-pound boulder to my feet as a token of his sincerity? My requirements were not this dramatic, though. I just wanted something real that I could wrap my hands around and say, yes, I feel this. This is for real; okay, I trust you now.