The Wife of Reilly

by Jennifer Coburn

  “I had no idea it was so important to you. I didn’t think you really wanted me there,” he said.

  “Father, the only thing harder than sending you the invitation and admitting that I wanted you there was your telling me you were busy that weekend. You even made some offhand comment about the preteen years being really important for Ashley and you to bond. Do you have any idea how that made me feel? Every time I have opened the door to let you in, you’ve turned away. At least when I shut you out, the choice is mine.”

  I’ve said too much already. Vilma told me never to undress on demand, and yet I am emotionally stark naked right now because Father decided he wanted to have a heart-to-heart. Change topics immediately. The weather. His travel plans. The Juice Weasel if we must.

  “Anyway, so Paige got into Brown, huh? You and Carla must be proud.”

  “I’d be a lot prouder if she stopped hanging around with hoodlums,” he said. “They all look dead to me with that black hair and those pale faces. She’s got a boyfriend who has a pierced tongue and eyebrow, and every time Paige buys a pair of pantyhose, she comes home and immediately starts ripping them to shreds before she’ll wear them.”

  I love you, Paige!!!

  “Lots of kids are into the gothic look these days, Father. It’s not a big deal. Listen, if she got into Brown, she’s obviously got her head screwed on straight. Give the kid a break about her clothes. Believe me, by the time she gets out of Brown, she’ll be into something new. She’ll probably head the campus Young Republicans by her sophomore year.”

  “Then she’s really in for it,” Father said.

  “So where is this music festival that you and Carla are going to in June?”

  Not Italy, not Italy. Anywhere but Italy.

  “Paris,” Father answered.

  Merciful mother of God, I praise thee.

  “Carla wants to spend the entire month touring France. Who knows where we’ll end up, though.” Father walked to the kitchen and poured himself another drink. “Another for you?” he offered.

  “Thanks.”

  “So where’s Reilly off to these days?” Father asked. I hadn’t thought about whether or not I was going to tell him about our separation. I decided I’d give him the bare minimum information. Just as much as he needed to know.

  “Reilly doesn’t live here anymore,” I said.

  He raised his eyebrows, surprised. “Really? Since when? Why did he leave?”

  “Why do you assume he left?” I shot. “Maybe I kicked him out.”

  “You kicked him out? What did he do?”

  “I didn’t kick him out,” I said. “It was a mutual thing. We both decided it would be a good idea for him to move out.” Then for no reason, I simultaneously laughed and cried as I said, “Seeing how I’m getting married to someone else in a few months.”

  “What?!” Father asked, handing me a tissue from his coat pocket. “What are you talking about, marrying someone else? Who else are you marrying?”

  “His name is Matt,” I wiped my eyes. “Matt Reynolds,” I sobbed. “He’s wonderful.”

  “I can tell,” Father joked awkwardly. He sat next to me and put his arm around my back. “Honey, what’s going on?”

  I left out few details in updating Father on my separation from Reilly and engagement to Matt. Of course, underwear tearing and outdoor sexual escapades were things no father wants to hear about, so I replaced them with museum trips and intense discussions about the art of film. I braced myself for a well-deserved observation that I was perhaps even a worse offender than Father. “At least I never told Carla that your mother was dead!” I imagined him saying.

  “It’s a crazy mixed-up thing you get into with affairs, isn’t it?” he said instead. “One minute you’re feeling so lucky because you’re so goddamn happy, then you realize that your happiness is at someone else’s expense.”

  I placed my glass down hard on the table. “I know!” I said, the drink increasing my volume a bit. “It would be so much easier if Reilly was a complete jerk, but he’s such a nice guy.”

  Father smiled knowingly. “Did you sometimes try to pick fights with him to convince yourself you had a rocky marriage?”

  “Oh my God, yes! It was like it wasn’t enough for me to be unhappy, I had to make him the one responsible for making me that way. And every time he failed to be an asshole, I got so mad at him and completely lashed out about nothing.”

  “Your mother and I were on our way out one night and I started in on her about nothing. The woman had done nothing wrong.”

  “Except for not being Carla,” I interrupted.

  “You got it,” he resumed somewhat solemnly. “Your mother was so reasonable. She kept trying to resolve whatever ridiculous issue I’d brought up as such a huge problem, and the poor thing had no idea that the only real issue between us was my cheating on her and feeling guilty about it. She was trying to solve a problem that had nothing to do with what the problem really was.”

  “Let me guess,” I laughed. “This all made you feel like an even bigger jerk, so then you got nasty?”

  “Did she tell you that?” Father asked.

  I shook my head. “I just did the same thing to Reilly.”

  “I don’t know why that is,” he said softly. “You’d think at that point, I’d have some awareness of what I was doing and give the poor woman a break. But instead, her patience made me so angry I could have stormed out of the house.”

  “Which is, of course, what you really wanted to do anyway,” I added.

  Father sighed. “I put your mother through a lot with that whole ordeal. If I could do things over again…” he tapered off. “Then there was you,” he said.

  “You were mad at me too?” I fluttered.

  “No, no, of course I wasn’t angry at you,” he assured me, patting my head awkwardly. It was the first time we’d sat this close for more than a few seconds in a very long time. Father didn’t know what to do with himself. Touch me? Keep his hands on his lap? I decided to let him figure it out on his own. It wasn’t as though I had any answers either. “I was never angry with you, Prudence, but it was so hard seeing you every day when you had no idea what a creep I was being. You know, we were buddies back then. You thought I was a pretty cool guy.”

  “You were,” I said.

  “Yeah, except for the fact that I was running around with an intern in the city and telling your mother I was working late when I was actually, well, you know. I never missed any of your events, though, Prudence. I was always proud of myself for making sure I was always home for those.”

  When I laughed, he assumed it was bitterly, but I was actually remembering the time he showed up late for our Sunday school Christmas show. Just as one of the four-foot wise men proclaimed, “The Messiah has arrived!” the church door burst open, letting in the brightest rectangle of light I’d ever seen. I immediately recognized the silhouette as Father’s as he walked down the center aisle of the church while the entire audience burst into laughter. He soon realized two hundred parents and all the kids on stage were laughing at him, though he had no idea why. He stopped and took a bow, which made the audience laugh even harder. Four hundred-year-old Miss Clies stood up and shushed everyone. “Mr. Malone, I will thank you to sit down promptly and cease your disruptive behavior!” I cannot tell you what a status symbol it was among the ten-year-old set to have a dad who got scolded by the Catechism teacher. “You certainly know how to make an entrance,” Mom smiled as she leaned in to kiss him.

  “Your dad is cool,” said a prepubescent Willie Fitzgerald. The Father who showed up was always charming and charismatic, which made his absence so much starker to me.

  The Father in my SoHo loft apologized. “I know, as soon as I started saying that, I realized how ridiculous a statement that was. I know I missed three years of your life. A thousand bedtimes,” he said.

  Plus another ninety-five, I did not say.

  I was silent for a moment as I savored his words. It was the f
irst time he actually said them instead of simply defending himself. Desperate for more, I pressed. “Did you? I mean, did you miss them? I know I missed those years, but I never thought you did.”

  “Well I did, Prudence,” he said cupping his hands over mine. “And I’ll regret it forever.”

  “So what the hell are we going to do today anyway?” I said, noticing it was dusk already.

  “I don’t know, but it better involve walking, ’cause I am not getting into my car right now.”

  “Father, I thought you could hold your liquor,” I teased.

  “Hold my liquor, nothing. I got a parking spot just four blocks from here. I’m not moving.”

  We never left the loft that evening. Father and I returned to lighter subjects like the NASDAQ and which of our friends got in on killer IPOs. Hours passed by with idle chatter that never scratched beneath the surface we had uncovered earlier.

  When Lin delivered our Chinese food, he looked at me with disgust, as though I were running a one-woman brothel. “Do you two know each other?” Father asked.

  “He sort of bonded with Matt,” I told him.

  “Who?”

  “Matt, Matt. Your future son-in-law, Matt.”

  “Ah yes, Matt,” he recalled. “So tell me about him. He’s got to be a pretty special guy. What’s he like?”

  “Absolutely charming,” I smiled. “He just, God, he just fills me up, you know?”

  I knew Father’s smile was half for me finding real happiness with Matt. But it was clear that the other half was for him making his way into my home that day. Normally I’d want to snatch this from him like a toddler unwilling to share a favorite toy. This day I felt that just maybe his victory could possibly be mine too.

  “Prudence, I’m glad we had the day together,” Father said as he got up to put his coat on.

  “You’re not okay to drive,” I said, noticing his difficulty getting out of the chair. Can I make you a cup of coffee?” I offered.

  “Oh, I’m fine, but I will take you up on the coffee,” he said.

  Pouring his coffee, I told him I was sorry that we never got out of the house to do anything that day.

  “I wouldn’t put it that way. I haven’t had an entire afternoon with my little girl in twenty-five years. All in all, I’d say it was a pretty good day for me.”

  “How do you take your coffee, Father?”

  “With cream and sugar,” he answered.

  “Low-fat milk and Equal?” I offered.

  “That’s fine.”

  Chapter 23

  As soon as I sat down at my desk the next morning, Lara announced that Father was on the phone for me. Perhaps he forgot his scarf, I thought, but knew deep down I was kidding myself. Father did not do moderation. It was either abandonment or suffocation with him.

  “Father,” I said with a cool friendliness.

  “Prudence,” he said like a man who’d just watched the Lou Gehrig story on ESPN. “I had to call and tell you how much yesterday meant to me.”

  “This isn’t necessary,” I said.

  “Being with you yesterday made me realize exactly what I was missing without you in my life, and I’m so happy we’re turning things around between us,” he said. “What do you say we get together again next weekend?”

  Father reminded me of the federal agents who kick down doors and raid the homes of suspected drug dealers. I opened the door just a crack, and now this psycho was kicking it in, storming around, rampaging through my closets, clinging his back to my walls warning imaginary accomplices that he’s armed. “Father’s Bureau of Interrogation,” I imaged him shouting as he turned my sock drawer upside down. “I want to know everything about your life, Prudence. Forgive me now or I’ll shoot.”

  “Thank you for the offer,” I said, trying to find a comfortable place between cold and conciliatory. “I’m heading out of town Thursday and won’t be back until next Monday night, so I won’t be able to see you.”

  “Oh, okay. Where are you going?”

  “Los Angeles,” I said.

  “To see Mike?”

  “Matt. Listen, I have to get a week’s worth of work done by Wednesday, so I’ve really got to run. Thanks for the call.”

  “Call me when you get back?” Father asked. “Maybe we can catch a movie or something together, okay?”

  “Okay,” I promised with a non-committal note.

  On Wednesday evening Jennifer, Chad and Sophie invited me to what they called a send-off dinner. It was more like a meeting of the New York Boosters’ spirit committee. I knew they were desperate when they suggested eating at the Apple Core, the city’s newest tourist hot spot. Like the Hard Rock Café was for music, the Core was a museum of Manhattan memorabilia. The walls were plastered with subway maps, Broadway show posters and framed remnants from Ground Zero. Waitresses dressed like Lady Liberty, Rockettes and meter maids. In the center of the room we sat in was a Checker Cab with the top cut off and life-size wax figures of Rudy Giuliani and Hillary Clinton. He drove; she held the map and pointed in the opposite direction Rudy was heading. On the menu were cheesily named items like Empire Steak Salad, Oysters Rockefeller Center, Yankee Doodle Strudel and Big Apple Pie. It was so overdone Manhattan, it just screamed Ohio.

  Chad started by casually tossing out that he’d recently read that Manhattan had more art per square mile than any other city in the world. Subtle.

  “Is that so?” said Sophie. “I heard that the San Andreas Fault — which runs right through downtown L.A., by the way — is due for a major, and I mean major, earthquake within the next five years. The whole city is going to snap right off and fall into the sea, you know.”

  “D’you know Fortune just ranked L.A. the worst city for accountants?” Jennifer added.

  “You guys, I am not moving,” I assured them. “You saw how much Matt liked New York. I’m just going for a visit, and when we discuss where to live, I’ll be able to honestly say that I gave Los Angeles a fair chance, but that New York is the only place for me.”

  “To New York.” Jennifer raised her wine glass for a toast. “Best goddamn city on the planet.”

  “The only goddamn city on the planet,” said Chad as we clinked our glasses.

  “Seriously, Prudence, we’re not losing you, are we?” Jennifer asked.

  “Never,” I assured them. “But we’re so losing this place. Can we get out of here immediately?” Frank Sinatra blasted in the background as a table of plump people who arrived on a chartered bus wrapped their arms around each other and swayed one beat ahead of the music. “It’s up to you, New York…” — why everyone insists on outdoing each other for the final “New York” is beyond me — “Neeew Yaaaaaaawk,” a man with a Phantom of the Opera t-shirt bellowed for the crescendo. The crowd laughed hysterically at his manufactured accent.

  “Let’s stay,” urged Sophie. “This is just too adorable to pass up.” I heard the familiar piano keys of Billy Joel and knew what song was coming next.

  Chad asked what Matt and I planned to do in Los Angeles during my visit. “I just need to spend some time with him and the rest will take care of itself,” I said. “I want to play house.”

  “Didn’t he say something about skiing?” Jen asked.

  “Prudence skiing?” laughed Chad.

  I smiled. “I’m trying new things. Who knows, it could be fun. Like this.”

  * * *

  I didn’t sleep for more than an hour that night. Anxious to see Matt, I was afraid I wouldn’t hear the alarm clock in the morning and would miss my flight. Never mind the fact that my plane didn’t take off until one in the afternoon. I still didn’t want to take the chance. Instead I unpacked and repacked my suitcase three times after three false alarms. First I thought I forgot my black suede square-toe pumps, but they were snuggled beside my sneakers. Then I thought I forgot my yin-and-yang half t-shirt. It was rolled up peacefully next to my burgundy raw silk sweater. And at about five in the morning, I sat up in bed in a panic thinking that I f
orgot to pack the jeans that the nice folks at Levi and Strauss made just for me. I have never had a pair of pants look as perfect on me as these did. But why shouldn’t they? After a half-hour of measuring every curve of my ass and legs, a tongue-pierced clerk punched some numbers into a computer and, two weeks later, mailed me a pair of Prudence Malone Edition 501s.

  Finally I gave up on trying to go to sleep and turned on the television midway through an episode of The Jeffersons. Then I watched The Mary Tyler Moore Show, then Rhoda, then Phyllis. I fell asleep on the couch just a few minutes before the alarm went off.

  “Okay, it’s okay, I’m awake,” I said to no one. I brought my suitcase downstairs and left it in the entryway to the building while I grabbed a cup of coffee across the street, then stood at the curb to hail a cab. My senses were so heightened that the feeling of the banister gliding against my palm as I descended the stairs was almost arousing. The thought that every step I took brought me closer to Matt was nothing short of pure and undiluted exhilaration.

  Adrenaline was winning the battle over fatigue. The crisp morning air made me feel like one of those women in the old Jean Naté ads who tossed lavish amounts of the after-bath splash all over herself. I looked at other people on the street heading toward the subway station or buying their newspapers, and saw the stark contrast in how we were greeting the new day. It was just another day for them. I was like one of those goofy coma patients who wakes up after fifteen years and runs wild through the streets shouting at the sky, “A cloud, a cloud! God bless the world, there’s a beautiful puffy cloud in the bright blue sky!”

  Other people were sipping coffee. I was having a spiritual experience with the wondrous ground beans of Columbia. If I had seen Juan Valdez and his donkey, I would have grabbed his face and kissed him with such passion I might have accidentally bit his lips.