“Is there a paper trail?” asks Nedra.
“No. Yes. Maybe. Does email count?”
“Of course email counts.”
“I’m taking part in a survey. An anonymous survey. On marriage in the twenty-first century,” I whisper into the phone.
“There’s no such thing as anonymity. Not in the twenty-first century and certainly not online. Why in God’s name are you doing that?”
“I don’t know. I thought it would be a lark?”
“Be serious, Alice.”
“All right. Okay. Fine. I guess I feel like it’s time to take stock.”
“Stock of what?”
“Um-my life. Me and William.”
“What, are you going through some sort of midlife thing?”
“Why does everyone keep asking me that?”
“Answer the question.”
I sigh. “Maybe.”
“This can only lead to heartbreak, Alice.”
“Well, don’t you ever wonder if everything’s okay? I mean not just on the surface, but really, deeply okay?”
“No.”
“Really?”
“Really, Alice. I know everything’s okay. You don’t feel that way about William?”
“It’s just that we’re so distracted. I feel like each of us is a line item on the other’s list that we’re just hurrying to check off. Is that a horrible thing to say?”
“Is it true?”
“Sometimes.”
“Come on, Alice. There’s something else you’re not telling me. What brought all this on?”
I think about explaining to Nedra about my tipping-point year, but honestly, as close as we are, she hasn’t lost a parent and she wouldn’t understand. She and I don’t talk much about my mother. I save that for the Mumble Bumbles, a bereavement support group that I’ve been a member of for the past fifteen years. Even though I haven’t seen them recently, I’m Facebook friends with all of them: Shonda, Tita, and Pat. Yes, I know it’s a funny name. We started off being the Mother Bees, then became the Mumble Bees, then somehow it morphed into the Mumble Bumbles.
“I just wonder sometimes if we can make it through another forty years. Forty years is a long time. Don’t you think that’s worth examining now that we’re nearly twenty years in?” I ask.
“Olivia Newton-John!” shouts Kate in the background. “That’s who I meant to say you looked like. The Let’s Get Physical album!”
“In my experience it’s the unexamined life that is worth living,” says Nedra. “If one wants to live happily ever after, that is-with one’s partner. Darling, I’ve got to go and see if I can do something about this hideous shag. Kate’s coming at me with bobby pins.”
I can hear Kate singing Olivia Newton-John’s “I Honestly Love You” hideously off-key.
“Do me a favor?” says Nedra. “When you see me, do not tell me I look like Rachel from Friends. And I promise we’ll talk about marriage in the nineteenth century later.”
“Twenty-first century.”
“No difference whatsoever. Kisses.”
11
21. I didn’t until I saw that movie about the Hubble telescope in Imax 3-D.
22. Neck.
23. Forearms.
24. Long. That’s the way I would describe him. His legs barely fit under his desk. This was back before business casual was invented and everybody still dressed for work. I wore a pencil skirt and pumps. He wore a pin-stripe suit and a yellow tie. He was fair, but his straight hair was dark, almost black, and it kept falling in his eyes. He looked like a young Sam Shepard: all coiled up and brooding.
I was completely unnerved and trying not to show it. Why hadn’t Henry (Henry is my cousin, the one responsible for landing me the interview; he played in a men’s soccer league with William) warned me he was so cute? I wanted him to see me, I mean really see me, and yes, I knew he was dangerous, i.e. unreadable, i.e. withholding, i.e. TAKEN-there was a picture of him and some gorgeous blond woman on his desk.
I was in the middle of explaining to him why a theater major with a minor in dramaturgy would want a job as a copywriter, which entailed a great deal of skirting around the truth (because it’s a day job and playwrights make no money and I have to do something to support myself while I pursue my ART, and it may as well be writing meaningless copy about dishwashing detergent), when he interrupted me.
“Henry said you got into Brown, but you went to U Mass?”
Damn Henry. I tried to explain. I was giving him my old I’m a U Mass legacy, which was a lie; the truth was U Mass gave me a full ride, Brown gave me half a ride, and there was no way my father could afford even half of Brown’s tuition. But he interrupted me, waving at me to stop, and I felt ashamed. Like I had disappointed him.
He handed me back my résumé, which I tore up on the way out, sure I had blown the interview. The next day there was a message from him on my machine. “You start Monday, Brown.”
12
From: Wife 22 ‹[email protected]›
Subject: Answers
Date: May 10, 5:50 AM
To: researcher101 ‹[email protected]›
Researcher 101,
I hope I’m doing this right. I’m worried that some of my answers may go on for longer than you’d like and perhaps you’d prefer a subject who just sticks to the subject and says yes, no, sometimes, and maybe. But here’s the thing. Nobody has ever asked me these kinds of questions before. These sorts of questions, I mean. Every day I am asked normal questions for a woman my age. Like today when I tried to schedule an appointment at the dermatologist. The first question the receptionist asked was if I had a suspicious mole. Then she told me the first available appointment was in six months and what was the date of my birth? When I told her the year, she asked me if I’d like to have a conversation with the doctor about injectables when I had my moles checked. And if that was the case the doctor could see me next week, and would Thursday do? These are the kinds of questions I am asked, the kinds of questions I would really prefer not to be asked.
I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m enjoying participating in the survey.
All the best,
Wife 22
From: researcher101 ‹[email protected]›
Subject: Re: Answers
Date: May 10, 9:46 AM
To: Wife 22 ‹[email protected]›
Wife 22,
I assume you’re referring to question #24-as far as your worry that you’re giving too lengthy an answer? It was like reading a little scene, actually, with all the dialogue. Was that intentional?
Sincerely,
Researcher 101
From: Wife 22 ‹[email protected]›
Subject: Re: Answers
Date: May 10, 10:45 AM
To: researcher101 ‹[email protected]›
Researcher 101,
I’m not so sure it was intentional, more like force of habit. I used to be a playwright. I’m afraid I naturally think in scenes. I hope that’s all right.
Wife 22
From: researcher101 ‹[email protected]›
Subject: Re: Answers
Date: May 10, 11:01 AM
To: Wife 22 ‹[email protected]›
Wife 22,
There’s no right way or wrong way to answer, just as long as you’re answering truthfully. To be honest, I found your #24 to be quite engaging.
Best,
Researcher 101
13
Julie Staggs
Marcy-big girl bed!
32 minutes ago
Pat Guardia
Spending the afternoon with my father. Red Sox. Ahhhh.
46 minutes ago
William Buckle
Fell.
1 hour ago
Fell? Now I’m officially worried. I’m about to text William when I hear the unmistakable sound of the motorcycle being gunned in the driveway.
I log off Facebook quickly. The kids are still at school, William has a client dinner, so I jump to the obvious conclusion.
“We’re being robbed,” I whisper to Nedra on the phone. “Someone’s stealing the motorcycle!”
Nedra sighs. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“How sure?”
This is not the first time Nedra has received such a call from me.
Once, a few years ago when I was doing laundry down in the basement, the wind blew the front door open and it slammed into the wall with a bang. In my defense, it sounded like a gunshot. I was positive I was about to be robbed while I was musing about whether a load of whites really needed fabric softener. Robberies weren’t that unusual in our neighborhood. It’s a reality Oaklanders live with, along with earthquakes and $5-a-pound heirloom tomatoes.
Panicked, I stupidly shouted, “I’m calling my lawyer!”
Nobody answered, so I added, “And I have nunchakus!”
I had bought a pair for Peter, who had recently signed up to take tae kwon do, which unbeknownst to me he would be quitting two weeks hence because he didn’t realize it was a contact sport. What did he think the nunchakus were for? Oh-he meant tai chi, not tae kwon do. It wasn’t his fault so many of the martial arts begin with the same sound.
Still no reply. “Nunchakus are two sticks connected by a chain that people use to hurt each other. By whirling them around. Very fast!” I shouted.
Not a sound from upstairs. Not a footfall, not even a creak from the hardwood floor. Had I imagined the bang? I called Nedra on my cell and made her stay on the line with me for the next half hour, until the wind flung the door shut and I realized what an idiot I had been.
“I swear. It’s not a false alarm this time,” I tell her.
Nedra is like an ER doc. The scarier the situation, the calmer and more levelheaded she becomes.
“Are you safe?”
“I’m in the house. The doors are locked.”
“Where is the robber?”
“Out on the driveway.”
“So why are you talking to me? Call 9-1-1!”
“This is Oakland. It’ll take the cops forty-five minutes to get here.”
Nedra pauses. “Not if you tell them somebody’s been shot.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Trust me, they’ll be there in five minutes.”
“How do you know that?”
“There’s a reason I get paid 425 bucks an hour.”
I don’t call 9-1-1-I’m a very bad liar, especially when it comes to lying about somebody I love bleeding out-instead I crawl on my hands and knees to the front window and peer out the crack in the curtains, my cell in my hand. My plan is to snap a photo of the perp and email it to the Oakland police. But the perp turns out to be my husband, who peels out of the driveway before I can get to my feet.
He doesn’t return until 10:00 that evening, at which point he walks through the front door weaving. Clearly he’s been drinking.
“I’ve been demoted,” he says, collapsing onto the couch. “I’ve got a new job title. Want to know what it is?”
I think of his recent Facebook posts, Fall, falling, fell: he sensed this was coming and didn’t tell me.
“Ideator.” William looks at me expressionlessly.
“Ideator? What? Is that even a word? Maybe they changed everybody’s titles. Maybe Ideator means creative director.”
He picks up the remote and turns on the TV. “No. It means asshole who feeds ideas to the creative director.”
“William, shut off the TV. Are you sure? And why aren’t you more upset? Maybe you’re mistaken.”
William presses the mute button. “The new creative director was my ideator until yesterday. Yes, I’m sure. And what good does it do to be upset?”
“So you can do something about it!”
“There’s nothing to do. It’s decided. It’s done. Do we have any Scotch? The good stuff. Single malt?” William looks completely shut down, his face vacant.
“I can’t believe it! How could they do this to you after all these years?”
“The Band-Aid account. Conflict of interest. I believe in fresh air, Neosporin, and scabs, not sealing up boo-boos.”
“You told them that?”
He rolls his eyes. “Yes, Alice, that’s exactly what I told them. There’s a cut in pay.” William gives me a grim smile. “A rather substantial cut in pay.”
I’m panicked, but I try not to change the expression on my face. I need to buoy him up.
“It’s happening to everybody, sweetheart,” I say.
“Do we have any port?”
“Everybody our age.”
“That’s extremely comforting, Alice. Grey Goose?”
“How old is the new CD?”
“I don’t know. Twenty-nine? Thirty?”
I gasp. “Did he say anything to you?”
“She. It’s Kelly Cho. She said she was really looking forward to working with me.”
“Kelly?”
“Don’t be so shocked. She’s very good. Brilliant, actually. Pot? Weed? Aren’t the kids smoking yet? Jesus, they’re late-bloomers.”
“God, William, I’m so sorry,” I say. “This is incredibly unfair.” I turn to give him a hug.
He holds up his hand. “Don’t,” he says. “Just leave me alone. I don’t want to be touched right now.”
I move away from him on the couch, trying not to take it personally. This is typical William. When he’s hurt he becomes even more detached; he makes himself into the proverbial island. I’m the complete opposite. When I’m in pain I want everybody I love on the island with me, sitting around the fire, getting drunk on coconut milk, banging out a plan.
“Jesus, Alice, don’t look at me that way. You can’t expect me to take care of you right now. Let me just have my feelings.”
“No one’s asking you to not have your feelings.” I stand up. “I heard you in the driveway, you know. Starting the motorcycle. I thought we were being robbed.”
I hear the accusatory tone in my voice and hate myself. This happens all the time. William’s detachment makes me desperate for connection, which makes me say desperate things, which makes him more detached.
“I’m going to bed,” I say, trying not to sound wounded.
A look of relief spreads across William’s face. “I’ll be up in a while.” Then he closes his eyes, blocking me out.
14
I’m not proud of what I do next, but consider it the act of a slightly OCD woman who did budget projections too far into the future and discovered that within one year (at William’s reduced salary and what little my job brought in) we’d be tapping into our savings and the kids’ college funds. Within two years, our retirement fund and any chance of our children going to college would be nil. We’d have to move back to Brockton and live with my father.
I see no alternative but to call Kelly Cho and beg for William’s job back.
“Kelly, hello, this is Alice Buckle. How are you?” I sing into the phone, in my best feel-good, composed drama-teacher voice.
“Alice,” Kelly says awkwardly, separating my name into three syllables: Al. Liss. S. She’s shocked I’m calling. “I’m fine, how are you?”
“I’m fine. How are you?” I chirp back, my calm drama-teacher voice dropping away. Oh, God.
“What can I do for you? Are you looking for William? I think he stepped out for lunch,” she says.
“Actually, I was looking for you. I was hoping we could speak frankly about what happened. William’s demotion.”
“Oh-okay. But didn’t he fill you in?”
“Yes, he did, but, well-I was hoping there’s some way we can reverse this thing. Not take away your promotion-that’s not what I’m talking about. Of course not, that wouldn’t be fair. But maybe there’s a way we can make this more of a horizontal move for William.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“Could you maybe put in a
good word for him? Just ask around?”
“Ask who?”
“Look, William has been at KKM for more than ten years.”
“I’m aware of that. This is really hard. For me too, but I don’t think-”
“Jesus, Kelly, it’s only Band-Aids.”
“Band-Aids?”
“The account?”
Kelly is silent for a moment. “Alice, it wasn’t Band-Aids. It was Cialis.”
“Cialis. Erectile dysfunction Cialis?”
Kelly coughed softly. “That’s the one.”
“Well, what happened?”
“You need to ask him.”
“I’m asking you. Please, Kelly.”
“I really shouldn’t.”
“Please.”
“I don’t feel okay about-”
“Kelly. Don’t make me ask again.”
She gives a big sigh. “He lost it.”
“Lost it?”
“During the focus group. Alice, I’ve been wondering if there’s something going on at home because honestly, he just hasn’t been himself lately. Well, you saw it yourself. How strangely he acted at the FiG launch. For the past couple of months he’s been off. Anxious. Short-tempered. Distracted. Like work is the last place on earth he wants to be. Everybody has noticed, not just me. He’d been talked to. He’d been warned. And then this thing with the focus group. It was on video, Alice. The entire team saw it. Frank Potter saw it.”
“But he’s on the creative side, not strategic. Why was he even running a focus group?”
“Because he insisted. He wanted to be in on the research.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s probably better if you don’t.”
“Send me the video,” I say.
“That’s not a good idea.”
“Kelly, I’m begging you.”
“Oh, Christ. Hold on a sec. Let me think.”
Kelly is silent.
I count to twenty and say, “Still thinking?”
“Fine, Alice,” says Kelly. “But you have to swear not to tell anybody I sent it to you. Look, I’m really sorry. I respect William. He’s been a mentor to me. I wasn’t campaigning for his job. I feel horrible about this. Do you believe me? Please believe me.”
Wife 22 Page 4