Starting from Happy

by Patricia Marx

  368.

  How about a break from these people with their needs and their desires and their Sturm und the other word and their yakkety-yak?

  369.

  Patty’s really sorry. She was thinking of characters in another book. A musical interlude is in order.

  370.

  Despite chaplette 367, Wally slept soundly.

  371.

  “And loudly,” thought Imogene.

  372.

  Maybe he did and maybe he didn’t. Patty was not there.

  Patty has a life to live, you know.

  373.

  Sort of.

  374.

  Imogene watched Wally breathe for a good long while, and finally she thought about this person lying an arm’s length away in her bed. She thought: “Is that a cowlick? Does he really have a cowlick? If yes, no bed will ever be big enough.”

  375.

  Imogene had the bed to herself the next night, and there was palpable emptiness in the closets, cabinets, and commode, too. That morning, at a punishing hour, Wally had said goodbye, off to go camping with a group of his chums. He was to be gone for thirty-six hours, but had packed enough stuff to supply himself into eternity. “Why aren’t you worried I’ll be eaten by a mountain lion?” Wally asked Imogene, his voice breaking.

  Imogene yawned. “Isn’t it bears that eat people?” she said.

  376.

  On Day #2, Imogene had a nettlesome thought: Why had Wally put a jacket and a tie into his duffel? Camping trips could turn apocalyptic, but they rarely require business attire.

  377.

  Boy Scouts motto: Be Prepared!

  378.

  Ready for the ritornello of Ron de Jean? Imogene’s dishwasher was broken, and who else could fix it? Ron de Jean knew as much about servicing a float switch as Robespierre did about half-court basketball. Neither could hold a candle to Wally, who was a man who knew his water inlet valves. Wally, however, was in the woods. Que sera.

  “Thanks for thinking of me,” said Ron de Jean when he walked through the door, his arms outstretched. The foot model Ron de Jean had a crush on had recently crushed his heart.

  “I was thinking of myself,” Imogene said.

  Ron de Jean took it the nondishwasher way.

  379.

  “The rule about home repair,” said Ron de Jean, backing away from the leaky machine, “is first do no harm.”

  380.

  With that, he and Imogene withdrew to the living room, where they were on the verge of retiring to the bedroom when Ron de Jean’s daughter called to say that Lauren’s mother forgot to pick them up from skating so could he please hurry and get them.

  381.

  It was not an auspicious moment as moments go.

  382.

  In retrospect, Imogene was filled with rue, but she was not sure what the rue was on account of.

  383.

  “It is definitely not just like old times,” Imogene thought.

  It never is, is what Patty says.

  384.

  When Wally returned home, Imogene was in the middle of a lively phone call—about the effect of globalization on Indonesian polyester. Imogene held up a finger, signaling she would be off in a finger’s amount of time.

  385.

  But she wasn’t.

  386.

  As moments go, it was long. The conversation drifted to a spirited one about pancake recipes. “You don’t like me,” said Wally after Imogene hung up. “You feel everything I do is wrong, and you are wondering, what are you doing spending your life with me.”

  387.

  A moment of silence now for Ron de Jean, who died on the squash court reaching for what turned out to be a deadly shot. In lieu of condolences, please send contributions to the Hastings-on-Hudson Save the Receipts Foundation.

  388.

  Imogene had never been prouder to “know” Ron de Jean, for there is no more fabulous celebrity than the dead person at a funeral. Until everybody goes home.

  During a eulogy in which it was claimed Ron de Jean had been a bon vivant, husband and father extraordinaire, shoulder to cry on, modern dance aficionado, connoisseur of marmalade, humanitarian, and minor saint, Imogene received a text message saying that Donald Charm from Saks Fifth Avenue had approved her proposal and would be buying one thousand units of Featherware underclothing. Saks wanted an exclusive on Lethal, Imogene’s teen line! And Barely Lethal, her preteen line!

  Imogene was too happy to be sad.

  389.

  Isn’t life something!

  390.

  When you’re not dead.

  391.

  The next day, upon Imogene’s suggestion, she and Wally decided they should buy an apartment together. They had their eyes on a classic six that they were sure would go for a song because of the blood. Also, the wallpaper in the second bathroom was bowling-themed.

  392.

  Some people like packing.

  393.

  Some people like unpacking.

  394.

  Imogene didn’t particularly like either packing or unpacking, but she was more fastidious than Wally, so here she was, trying to organize their new place. Mountains and mesas, caves and lava streams of labeled cardboard boxes remained unexplored, let alone unconquered. Imogene surveyed the terrain of the master bedroom, trying to imagine future habitation.

  395.

  Imogene knew exactly where she would have put the outlets if they weren’t already where they spitefully were.

  396.

  Later, as Imogene contemplated the linen closet, Wally breezed in, home from work early and brandishing a bottle of champagne. Imogene hoped he’d gotten a raise, but she did not ask. “Im, I have some really great news.” Maybe he’d succeeded in synthesizing that protein. Wasn’t that what he was trying to do? Or was it an enzyme? But aren’t enzymes proteins? Either way it was good news.

  397.

  For proteins.

  398.

  “I’m going to have a baby!” said Wally with widened eyes. “I can’t not have progeny, can I?”

  “Whose?” said Imogene, her attention on the wash-cloths. “Can you reach that shelf up there?” Imogene said.

  “Yours,” said Wally. “You think I’m kidding. I’m not kidding.”

  “Ha ha ha ha,” said Imogene.

  399.

  Wally could reach the shelf.

  400.

  “Fine,” said Imogene. Who wasn’t kidding now? Imogene tried to concentrate on the bedding. If she were not shrewd about arranging the sheets and towels—put the pillowcases on the second shelf instead of on the third shelf?—it would be wrong forever. Nobody reorders their linen closet. She considered her choices. Was that impending doom she sensed?

  401.

  “I’m having a baby with you,” said Wally. “So you better get used to it. You’re going to have a lot of diaper changing to do because I have a lot to do at work.” Wally smiled, even though, as he said, he was not kidding.

  Wally did not open the champagne bottle.

  402.

  One and all were taken by surprise when Wally and Imogene parted ways. What had happened? Rumors simmered, then burbled, then percolated, then splashed all over town.

  403.

  It was an insuperable mess.

  404.

  They said Wally had knocked up his Pakistani girlfriend, that Imogene had been doing it with her office assistant, Harriet, that Wally had had it with Imogene’s not marrying him, that Imogene couldn’t take Wally’s leaving his keys in the porcelain bowl anymore, that Wally didn’t care enough about Saks Fifth Avenue, that Imogene didn’t care an iota about turtles, that Wally had found incriminating receipts in Imogene’s pocket, that Imogene caught Wally taking laundry out of the dryer when the clothes had yet to dry thoroughly, that Wally felt Imogene harassed him about the clutter on his desk, that Imogene didn’t like the way Wally pronounced the word harass, that Wally insisted on turning their dining alcove into a craf
ts center, that Imogene reclaimed the top drawer in the bureau, that Wally wanted to move to Buenos Aires, that Imogene was afraid of flying and refused to budge, that Wally had become a late-life gambler, that Imogene had obsessive-compulsive disorder, that Wally had been thrown in jail for selling the anesthetic ketamine, that things took a terrible turn for the worse when Wally found out that Imogene had changed her middle initial, that Imogene could never trust Wally after he’d confessed to jaywalking, that Wally was off his rocker and Imogene was a nutbird or was it the other way around, that it was the money thing, that moving from one domicile to another frequently results in turbulence (the Real Estate Theory of Divorce), that Wally and Imogene had religious differences though neither was religious, that they couldn’t agree about what temperature to set the thermostat on, that they quarreled over the last slice of pizza until teeth were gnashed and tears were shed, that they walked at different velocities, that they were sick of each other’s family, friends, and table manners, that they had different tastes in chewing gum and salad dressing, that they bickered bitterly about the best name for a dog though neither especially wanted a dog, and yes, the kid thing was broached. They said, well, it was one of those things, not meant to be, for the best, you win a few, you lose a few, no use crying over spilt milk, that’s the way the cookie crumbles, tomorrow’s another day.

  405.

  To Imogene, they said: So sorry, how are you holding up, call me anytime, nothing lasts, you did what you had to do, I would have done the same thing, there’s no such thing as wrong, you’re better off, it’s not about you, give it time, what an asshole, men! I know a guy.

  406.

  Imogene scrubbed the ceilings in the apartment, and not just once.

  407.

  Imogene’s friends were concerned. “You don’t seem yourself,” Harriet said to Imogene. The two were stapling satin flutter panties to mannequins.

  “Who do I seem like?” said Imogene, looking fixedly at her assistant. Harriet froze.

  “Medusa,” thought Harriet. “Or Martin Balsam?” Did she mean Martin Buber?*

  408.

  Imogene did not believe in God, a fortunate thing because if His Tremendousness existed, Imogene was sure she’d be in big trouble. Imogene did, however, believe that if something bad happened to her, then something good would follow. As a kid, hadn’t she always been allowed to stay home from school and watch TV when she was sick? The system owed her, and the system had to pay up. As Imo-gene listened to Donald Charm’s message asking her to call back right away, her heart fluttered.

  409.

  “When one door closes, another opens, or something like that,” Imogene thought. She hoped the something wasn’t a tenth-story window.

  410.

  “Excuse the dotted Swiss,” said Donald Charm, clearing an area on his sofa so that Imogene had a place to sit. The office was chockablock with ladies’ attire and artwork featuring bulldogs. “Care for a biscuit?” said Donald Charm, holding out a large cookie jar shaped like a canine.

  Imogene declined.

  411.

  Imogene was not crazy.

  412.

  But how could Imogene not be gladdened? According to Donald Charm, the low-cut Coquette in mauve was a runaway bestseller at Saks.

  413.

  “This is it!” Imogene thought.

  414.

  “This is the Moment,” Imogene thought.

  415.

  “That said,” said Mr. Charm, sticking a straight pin into a mini stuffed pooch, “I do not feel, after mulling it over, that Saks Fifth Avenue and Featherware make for a good fit.” He cleared his throat and continued. “At this moment.”

  416.

  Without so much as a stitch of mulling, Imogene took the contract in her hands and emended it into confetti.

  417.

  Just when things could get no worse, seven years went by. With age, Imogene’s hair had turned redder. Wally still had the heart of a teenager. Probably pancreas, too.

  418.

  They ran into each other at the top of the Eiffel Tower. Isn’t that funny, living in the same greater metropolitan area, and then meeting there? After all these years?

  419.

  Imogene was in town on a fashion shoot, and Wally had wanted to show the triplets La Ville Lumière, which, as he made them well aware, means the light city, not the city of lights. Wally’s wife, Viva Leland, was a stay-at-home dentist.

  To an observer, it looked as if Imogene and Wally were happy to intersect, but looks can be deceiving.

  420.

  “Are you still making soufflés?” Wally asked Imogene.

  “Éclairs,” said Imogene. “And oui.”

  421.

  FINIS

  422.

  This is not the first time our book has screeched to a halt. Smart money might have it that it will not be the last. That’s life for you. Everything ends, usually not soon enough and often with a criminal and civil lawsuit. But this is not life, and neither was that. Besides, everyone knows there is never an end of anything, just an ever-moving middle.

  While you are attempting to reckon with the irreconcilability of this paradox (you know, the endless end), let us return to the ever-moving middle of ours. Specifically, let us return to the goings-on in chaplette 391.

  423.

  So when were we?

  424.

  5:03.

  425.

  5:03?

  Excuse me.

  The cookies are burning!

  426.

  Wallace Gilfeather-Yez, Jr., was pulled into the world after a horrendous thirty-nine-hour war. When Imogene held the newborn, she looked into his eyes and said, “Will I ever forgive you?”

  427.

  During visiting hours, Imogene fingered the hook-and-eye samples and pantaloon prototypes from her overnight bag as she briefed her assistant, Harriet, about various bookkeeping tasks that would be of no interest to anyone else. Imogene said goodbye to Harriet, thanking her for the Kanga-Rocka-Roo, though she would have preferred a Vespa in Excalibur Gray. The baby slept like a baby.

  428.

  Another thing Wally Jr. did like a baby was scream. Imo-gene thought to call the fire department. Imogene’s maternity leave lasted a little less than five minutes. Wally (Sr.), being Wally, gladly took two weeks off from work until Rosie from the nanny agency could take over.

  429.

  Time being time, Wallace Gilfeather-Yez, Jr., turned three. “What is your favorite animal?” his father said. “Is a dwarf an animal?” young Wally asked, and when he was told that it was not, he paused to reflect. “Then a cow,” he said. Not far away, in the kitchen pantry, a puppy with a bow around its neck barked.

  430.

  A puppy, a toddler.

  431.

  Imogene insisted, no second baby. That thing they had, it was a baby, wasn’t it?

  432.

  LinLin Gilfeather-Yez was born in Nanchang in the Jiangxi province of China. When Wally and Imogene introduced the baby to Wally Jr.—or Bounce, as the little boy was now called—he bit her on the neck.

  433.

  LinLin Gilfeather-Yez’s first word was ow!

  434.

  This was her third word, too.

  435.

  And seventh.

  436.

  It was a fine start.

  437.

  As he did every night, Wally tiptoed into LinLin’s room to ascertain that the child had not been kidnapped, murdered, or replaced with a Parchesi token, candlestick, round of Brie, or can of bug spray. On this night, however, just as Wally was exiting, LinLin startled Wally by opening her eyes wide and uttering her first word that was not an expression of pain.

  Verging on the berserk, Wally scooped LinLin up and rushed her down the hall to Imogene, who was having a messy time dying fabric in the bathroom. “Say it again for Mommy,” said Wally. “Come on, baby.”