The Mor Road

by Jennifer AlLee

  I exit the car, sling my purse over my shoulder, and plaster on a big smile as I walk up the porch stairs.

  "Was he here?" The question pushes past all my good intentions and posturing. I'm pathetic.

  Jade looks up at me and nods. "Yes, he was."

  I bite my lip and look at where the boxes used to be. I can't stop myself. "Did he . . . was she . . ."

  From the expression on Jade's face, I think she's trying to decide whether to slap some sense into me or hug me. Thankfully, she does neither. "No. He was alone." Her mouth twists to the side. "And I made him do all the work. Didn't help him load a single thing."

  "Good for you."

  "Yoo-hoo!" A bright voice calls from the end of the driveway. Shading my eyes, I see my retired next-door neighbor waving as she nears the porch.

  Forcing a smile, I wave back. "Hi, Mrs. Hernandez. How are you?"

  "I'm well. But how are you, dear?" Her voice is earnest, and I immediately know she saw Tony pick up his things today. "I saw the boxes this morning, and I said to myself, I certainly hope they're not moving away. Such a nice young couple."

  "No, we're not moving. At least, I'm not." Is this how it's going to be from now on? Fumbling for the right words to answer well-meaning questions? "Tony's moving. We're getting a divorce."

  There's no reproach in her eyes. No judgment. Only genuine sadness. "I'm so sorry to hear that. I'll leave you alone, then. But if you need anything, anything at all, dear, you let me know." She gives my arm a gentle pat, then walks back down my driveway and up her own.

  "That's it," I say, squeezing the back of my neck with one hand. "Now the whole neighborhood will hear about it."

  Jade cranes her neck, watching as Mrs. Hernandez shuffles down the sidewalk, up her walkway, and into her own house. "You think she's going to gossip about you?"

  "No, not gossip. But people talk." Mrs. Hernandez is one of the nicest women I know. She's also the very definition of a social butterfly. I imagine at her next Red Hat Society outing, or over coffee with friends, someone will say how sad it is that people can't seem to stay married anymore, and she'll mention the nice couple who lives next door. She won't share my story to be malicious. She may even ask people to pray for me. But the word will spread just the same.

  Jade stands up and I notice a large, brown envelope wedged between the side of the rocker and the seat cushion. Happy to change the subject, I point at it. "What's that?"

  Her eyes follow my finger. "Oh, man. I forgot about that." She plucks it up with two fingers and holds it out to me. "I really wish I wasn't the one giving you this."

  "What is it?" The question is unnecessary. There's no doubt what's in the envelope, and I don't want to take it yet. I just look at it hanging in midair between us.

  Jade's head flops to the side. "He didn't tell me, but I think it's pretty obvious. What else could it be?"

  Indeed. It can only be one thing. Divorce papers.

  Natalie Marino, thank you for playing the Marriage Game. Sorry you didn't win, but here's your consolation prize.

  I take the envelope, pull up the flap, and look inside without bothering to remove the contents. Enough of the first few lines are visible that I confirm they are indeed divorce papers.

  "He didn't waste any time, did he?"

  "Neither did I." Clearly, Jade is done talking about Tony. "I found you a divorce attorney of your own."

  "You did?"

  "Yes. And she comes highly recommended."

  "By whom?" Jade is twenty-two years old. Her parents have been married for almost thirty years. I doubt she runs into many divorce attorneys in her day-to-day comings and goings.

  She looks at me like I'm mental. "Uh, by my best friend's mom. And by her sister. And her sister's best friend. And—"

  I hold up my hand. I get it. She knows a family whose relationship issues have probably paid for this lawyer's summer home. "What do you know about her? The attorney, I mean."

  Jade crooks her finger, motioning for me to follow. As we walk into the house, she keeps talking. "Her name is Wendy Willows."

  "Sounds like a stripper."

  Jade glares at me over her shoulder.

  "Sorry. Gut reaction. Humor as a defense mechanism, you know." We've made it to the living room where I collapse onto the couch. "Continue."

  She sits in a deep-red, wingback chair. When Tony and I found it in a thrift store years ago, it was threadbare, but it worked for our first apartment. After it got too ratty, we made a slipcover for it out of a bed sheet. When we bought this house, the chair stayed in the garage until I had it reupholstered and presented it to Tony as an anniversary present. Huh. I wonder if he looked for it amid the stack of his possessions on the porch. It never crossed my mind until now that he might have wanted it.

  Too bad if he did. Let him find his own chair.

  The coffee table is strewn with papers. Jade picks one up off the top. "Ms. Willows is a highly regarded lawyer. And not just by my friend's mom. I Googled her, checked her background and her references. She's known for being ethical and doing extremely well by her clients."

  "Is she Christian?"

  "I didn't ask. But she's ethical. That's the most important thing. I'd hate to find you a Christian lawyer with an ethics problem. And I'm sure there are a few of those out there."

  Excellent point. And I'm sure she's right. Just because someone calls himself a Christian doesn't mean he acts like one. Not if husbands are any indication.

  "Besides, if she's not a Christian, you can always witness to her. Consider it a bonus."

  A bonus for whom? Right now, I don't feel like I could lead anyone to salvation from sunburn, let alone eternal salvation. "I'm sure Ms. Willows will do a fine job. Go ahead and make me an appointment with her."

  "I already did."

  Jade digs her phone out of her pocket and starts tapping on the screen. "It's set for Thursday at 9:30 a.m." Her eyes scrunch tighter and tighter as they follow her finger up and down the phone screen. Then she stops and mutters, "Uh-oh."

  I hate uh-oh. "What?"

  "You've got a speaking engagement tonight."

  Uh-oh.

  7

  Usually, I take all day to prepare for a speaking event. I'll pray for the people I'm going to speak to. I'll ask God to give me the right words to say. I'll go over my notes, even if I know my topic backward and forward, which I usually do. And I'll start getting dressed and made up at least two hours before it's time to leave, because I know I'll change my mind about what to wear more than once.

  Those are all the things I do. Now, for all the things I don't do: I don't eat any rich or heavy foods; I don't skimp on sleep the night before; and above all else, I don't engage in any highstress activities prior to the event.

  I am in such trouble today.

  It's three in the afternoon when Jade finds the forgotten notation: Mt. Olive Marriage & Family Conference, 6:00 p.m.

  Jade jumps to her feet. "Don't panic. There's plenty of time."

  "Plenty of time?" My voice squeals like rubber-soled shoes on a linoleum floor. "It starts in three hours." Jade's got me by the arm now and is dragging me across the room and up the stairs. "I need to shower, and get dressed, and—" I stop dead in my tracks. "What town is it in?"

  Jade puts on a big smile, like she's about to tell me something fabulous. "Santa Monica."

  "Santa Monica? That's at least an hour's drive. More if the traffic's bad."

  "Piece of cake," she says as she tugs on my arm again.

  Who's she kidding? This is Southern California. The traffic's always bad. I follow her, muttering the whole way. "I'm never going to make it. How did this happen? How could I forget?"

  "You've had a lot on your mind the last few days." We're in the bathroom now. Jade leans into the shower and turns on the water. "I should have remembered though. I can't believe I slipped up like that."

  I'm in a daze. "You're right. You should have remembered. Why didn't you?"

  Sh
e gives me an are-you-serious? look, then wiggles her fingers under the faucet, testing the water temperature. "You can fire me later. Right now, I'm going to get you to your event." Hands on my shoulders, she speaks directly toward my nose. "I want you to take the quickest shower ever. No dawdling."

  She leaves the bathroom and pulls the door shut behind her. I immediately hear the sound of plastic hangers squeaking across the closet bar and clunking together as she rummages around. I continue standing there, frozen by the immensity of the task at hand, until she calls through the door. "Are you in the shower?"

  I jump like a little girl who's been caught playing with her mother's makeup. Fast as I can, I strip off my clothes, step gingerly beneath the spray of water, and then call out my answer. "Yes!"

  Just under five minutes later, I stand on the bath mat with a towel wrapped tightly around me. Water drips from my hair, running in rivulets down my bare shoulders, as my teeth chatter. There are two staccato raps on the door, then it opens and Jade's head pops through. "Good. You're out."

  Without waiting for an answer, she walks in, grabs a dry towel from the rack, and starts rubbing it over my hair. "I put your clothes out for you on the bed," she says.

  "You did? Don't I have anything to say about it?"

  "Believe me, right now, you don't need choices."

  Good point. Jade's much more stylish than I am anyway. I'm sure whatever she picked out will be fine. The most important thing is to get to this event on time. After that, I can go on autopilot and it should be smooth sailing the rest of the way.

  Jade gets me to the church on time, but just barely. She pulls up to the back entrance and tells me to go in ahead. As she drives away to find a parking spot, I feel a moment of panic, akin to an unwanted kitten dropped on a stranger's doorstep. But panic quickly turns to damage control when a woman dressed in a long, brown, cotton dress swoops out of the building and runs up to me.

  "Mrs. Marino?" Her eyes are hopeful, but at my nodded agreement, they turn stony and reproachful. "You're late."

  Words catch in my throat. "I . . . I'm supposed to speak at six."

  "That's right, which means I have two minutes to get you inside, put on your mic, and make sure you're ready." The corners of her mouth pull down severely. "You are ready, aren't you?"

  "Absolutely." Not.

  She pulls me inside and we go through a zigzag of corridors to what I assume is the church office. A bearded man with headphones ringing his neck descends on me as soon as I'm through the door.

  "You've used one of these before, right?" He clips a tiny microphone to my lapel, then looks toward my waist, micpack in hand.

  I nod and take the pack from him. "Let me take care of that." I clip it to the waistband of my pants, far enough back so it's hidden by my jacket. Performing this simple act, something I've done countless times before, provides an oddly calming effect. Maybe I can survive this night, after all.

  "Thanks." The man gives me an encouraging smile, then adds, "Nice blouse. Great color."

  Before I have a chance to respond, the woman in the brown dress has me by the arm again. "It's time." She leads me across the room. "Good luck," she says. With a final pat on my shoulder, she goes up a small set of stairs, opens a door, and stands back. Now I can hear what's being spoken through the sound system.

  " . . . like to introduce tonight's main speaker. She's a nationally acclaimed author and an expert on marriage and family relations. Please welcome Mrs. Natalie Marino."

  I have time for one quick prayer. Lord, get me through this. Then I plaster on a smile, climb the stairs, and walk out onto the platform. I give a hearty handshake to the man who introduced me, turn to the crowd in the sanctuary, and keep that smile plastered on my face, even as women turn to whisper to one another. The applause sputters a bit, and I make a horrific discovery.

  I am the only woman in the room wearing slacks.

  Well, that's not exactly true. Jade—who stands behind the last row of pews and mouths the words I'm sorry—is also wearing pants. Jeans, to be exact.

  At least my slacks are extremely nice. They're black crepe and part of a tailored, two-piece set that I wear with a hot pink silk shell. I've been told the color is a perfect complement to my skin tone and hair. Which would be great, if it weren't the brightest color in the room. No wonder the soundman noticed it.

  Turns out, the ladies of Mt. Olive Congregational adhere strictly to the Scriptures about modesty. And hair length. And keeping your head covered. Without thinking, my hand goes to the top of my naked head and ruffles the layers of my short, sassy hairstyle.

  This isn't the first time I've spoken to a group with dress and grooming standards different from my own. Normally, it's no problem. They don't expect me to mirror them, but I try to be sensitive. If I'd had time to think about tonight, I would have chosen a simple dress in a muted tone, and I probably would have covered my hair with a hat or a head scarf. I certainly wouldn't have worn the brightest, silkiest top I own, acting like I don't care about their traditions.

  I feel like an idiot.

  "Thank you." The words fall away as soon as they leave my mouth, and I realize I didn't turn on the microphone. I flip a switch on the pack on my hip and repeat myself. "Thank you!" This time, my greeting blasts through the room. I smile and motion for everyone to sit down.

  An opposing movement in the rear of the sanctuary catches my eye. A young woman with dark streaks of burgundy dyeing her blond hair is headed toward the back door. She reminds me a bit of my sister, Lindsay, except that Lindsay wouldn't waste her time in a church. Especially a church that had invited me as a speaker. There's a sad twinge in the pit of my stomach as the door swings shut behind the woman. I don't know if it's because she made me think of my sister, whom I haven't seen in years, or because she was a kindred spirit in her appreciation of color, but I wish she hadn't gone.

  Once the audience is seated, I launch into my talk. Thankfully, I've spoken on the topic of marriage so many times, it's like turning on a faucet: I open my mouth and the words pour out. My initial misgivings about how this group would receive me were way off the mark. They listen intently, laugh at my jokes, and take notes of key points. Eventually, I'm comfortable enough to venture out from behind the safety of the podium. If my slacks and bright shirt continue to give them pause, they certainly don't show it.

  This is turning out to be a good evening, after all. We've all learned something about judging others by appearances or doctrine. I feel I've made great strides in the area of interfaith relationships.

  "And now," I say with a big smile, "I'll open it up to questions. Is there anything you want to know?"

  In the back, Jade stands up and shakes her head, her eyes wide as Frisbees. She obviously thinks the Q&A is a bad idea. But it's too late to take it back now.

  I point at the first person I notice with her hand raised. "Yes?"

  A woman in a dark blue dress stands up. "I have four children, and I feel like I'm always doing things for them. Sometimes, I think my husband feels . . . left out." She smiles shyly, a blush coloring her cheeks. "How can I take care of the house and the kids and still see to his needs?"

  A fire ignites in my gut. As the woman sits down, I think of the answer I'd like to give her: how can you see to his needs? Well, sometimes you can't. Because sometimes he needs someone younger and more fertile than you are, and there's nothing you can do about it. You won't even see it coming.

  But I can't say that. Instead, I walk back behind the podium and lean on it for strength. "I find that organization is a key factor in a happy marriage and a happy family." I talk about calendars and schedules, a place for everything and everything in its place, and the wonders of Post-it Notes. There's truth to my words, but it's dry and boring, and not at all what these women came to hear. They want to know something that's going to make a difference in their lives. They want to know how to hold onto the spark they experienced when they were dating. They want to know that when they leave here t
onight, the man they left at home will still be there, waiting for them. And that he'll be there the next night, and the next.

  They want hope and romance. I'm giving them the kind of tips you'd give an office manager.

  I take a deep breath and force on my smile again. "But the most important thing you can do is tell him you love him." Murmurs of agreement and nodding heads encourage me to continue. "No matter how crazy life gets, you must keep the lines of communication open with your spouse. Ask him about his day. Go for a walk and hold hands. Pray together. If your hearts are knit together, everything else will fall into place."

  What a pretty sentiment. I even sound like I believe it.

  More hands wave in the air, but before I can pick one out, a woman in the third row stands up. "Is it true that your husband filed for divorce yesterday?"

  The room becomes so quiet that for a moment, I fear I've gone deaf. Then the buzzing starts in my ears. I don't know what to say, so I do the worst thing possible and ask, "Excuse me?"

  She's more than happy to repeat herself. "Did your husband file for divorce yesterday?"

  How does she even know to ask that question? I take a close look at her. At first glance, I thought she was wearing a long, black dress, but now I see it's a long, black tunic over black leggings. From the waist up, she could almost pass for one of the Mt. Olive ladies, if not for the digital microrecorder she holds in her manicured, blood-red taloned fingers.

  She's a reporter.

  "I'm sorry, but how—"

  "How did I know? All divorce cases are part of the public record." She glances at the women around her. "So I guess I don't really need to ask you if he filed for divorce. We know he did. The real question is why?"

  "That's none of your business." I look to Jade for help. She's talking to two men and pointing. They leave her and walk down the center aisle toward the reporter.