The Love Wife

by Gish Jen

  — You can see it all online, she began. On our website.

  But the pictures, she went on to explain, didn’t do justice to the land, which had long been regarded as unbuildable, and which only the community founders had seen as one of the last unspoiled tracts in this region—beautiful and rich with wildlife. It was, in fact, home to a blue heron, and a host of smaller birds. In the summer there were acres of water lilies. Of course, there was the inevitable purple loosestrife, but they had managed to keep it back.

  Gabriela and I nodded our approval.

  Now, happily, Angela went on, the area was protected wetlands. How satisfied the community had been to know that this swamp and others like it would be left pristine, that no one would be allowed to build even what they had—plumbing-free stilt houses, each comprising three units. These had been grandfathered into the new legislation, partly because they had been shown to have so little impact on the land.

  — Really, said Gabriela.

  There was a series of boardwalks, for example, to keep people from trampling anything. They used composting toilets, and bio-degradable everything; and of course, cohousing in general was so much more efficient than the single-family house, which was in truth as great a scourge to the earth as the automobile.

  — How true, I said.

  Angela explained how the community members had meddled with the swamp in only two ways. One being the loosestrife control, the other being the introduction of bats to keep the mosquitoes down. She showed us the community house, where they held yoga and meditation, dances and potlucks and seminars. It was where some people did their homeschooling; where they had seminars on Buddhism; and where they held their annual New Year’s Day lantern ceremony. Beside it lay the community garden—they were committed to living closer to their food sources. In this and in other ways, they took their inspiration from communities in Denmark.

  Gabriela and I nodded, nodded.

  — A lot of people think it’s going to be hard work to live in a community like this, said Angela. They think they’re going to have to be ‘on’ all the time. But actually no one is expected to be on best behavior. No one is expected to be a saint.

  — Really, we said.

  — We are about tolerance, continued Angela. This is a place where people feel comfortable living off-grid.

  Their mailman, it seemed, was a former law-school professor. She herself was dating a PE teacher she had met at a literacy center—a lovely man who could not read when she met him but was now halfway through The Brothers Karamazov.

  — Should I move here? wondered Gabriela as we tromped back the short path to Rain’s house. All along the way were happy trillium—hundreds, thousands of trillium.

  — What about Giorgio?

  — Giorgio, she sighed. Then she winked. — Maybe I’ll move anyway.

  — I’ll move with you, I said. You know what this is? It’s Independence Island.

  — Your Grandma What’s-Her-Name would’ve loved it.

  In the car Gabriela resumed her analysis of Italy and Giorgio.

  — I tell you what I think sometimes, she said. Sometimes I think it’s Tommy I love most of all. Someday I want to have sheep too, and chickens.

  — Too bad you never knew my Grandma Dotie. You could’ve moved back to Wisconsin with her.

  Gabriela laughed.

  — We could have grown ginseng. Gotten into the yogurt boom.

  She was still interested in massage, and aromatherapy. In fact, once she was done with her guidebook and her renovation, she thought she might open a wellness center, with different kinds of yoga. And as soon as that got going, she was going to bring Tommy over.

  — When do you guess that would be?

  I hated to ask, but, well, it was illegal to keep him in our town, I explained. I explained, too, how Carnegie resented him, as did Lan.

  — Lan resents Tommy? Gabriela looked distraught. — I thought the Chinese were so good with animals.

  Should I have told her how Lan threw a pail at his head?

  — Don’t worry, I kept saying. I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again. Don’t worry. Tommy will be fine.

  Still she was upset.

  Later, though, she was back to Giorgio.

  — It’s too bad he’s married, she sighed. He says he’s going to leave her. But in his heart of hearts he thinks a man is entitled to two wives. He thinks it’s only natural.

  — I’m afraid Carnegie thinks that too, I laughed.

  Gabriela shook her head.

  — But where you’re the first wife, I’m the whaddyacall it. The love wife, she said.

  WENDY / We all smell when Mom comes home, I think like soy sauce and sesame oil, because we made dumplings in the kitchen. Dad and Lanlan chopped, me and Lizzy helped fold, and mine all stayed together in one piece, the ones that came apart in the water were Lizzy’s. She says they weren’t, but they were.

  BLONDIE / Thanks to the short hall between the front door and the dining room, they did not see me right away. But I knew how things would happen, in another half moment—how Bailey would sense my presence and yell, Mama! How he would scramble down from his Tripp Trapp chair and come trundling headlong down the hall, calling, Mam! Mam! Mam! I knew how he would feel, solid and gymnastic, as I swung him up onto my hip. I knew how he would grip my waist with his knees, and how he would snuggle his head in toward my neck—how I would feel the small pant of his humid breath under my chin, even as I worked my purse off my shoulder, down onto a chair.

  But for this half moment, for a half moment more, I saw them— Carnegie at the head of the table, in a baseball cap; Lan at its foot, in my seat. She sat the way she stood and walked—regally. Her hair shone.

  All were quiet and absorbed.

  How much more natural this scene than the one that included me. How natural, and how quiet it was—the quiet was almost the worst part. They were eating little snacks, in bowls. No one was eating out of a bag—even Carnegie was eating Chee-tos out of a pair of blue-and-white rice bowls. Carnegie and Lizzy and Wendy had in front of them lidded cups, such as I’d seen in China and Chinatown; Bailey had his sippy cup, which I saw now was also a lidded cup. Everyone was wearing slippers. Lan’s were blue, and perfectly plain.

  The love wife.

  I had seen those slippers many times—she was a slipper wearer. And of course, Carnegie had owned his fuzzy slippers for years. Lizzy, too, had fuzzy slippers, with a cuff; Wendy and Bailey had animal slippers—pandas and lions, respectively. I knew this. But never before had I ever seen them all wear slippers together.

  Lizzy got up to do something, shuffling.

  Lizzy, shuffling!

  They were all working, of course.

  Outside was an afternoon meant for ecstasy. The sun was high and soft—you could already smell the lilacs. The redbuds were out, and the dogwoods in the woods, and our circle of old apple trees was starting. It was time to lie under our trees and gaze up at the ceiling of bloom; had I been home, I would have insisted that everyone go roll down the hill. We would have climbed trees and picked bouquets and woven garlands and had a picnic.

  Instead, everyone had a computer on.

  Carnegie was working on a spreadsheet. Lan, I guessed, was working at a typing program. More surprisingly, Lizzy, it seemed, was writing a paper, while Wendy jabbed at the keyboard—Math Blasters, I guessed. Bailey, seated next to Lan, was playing with a pile of old floppies. Except that our whole beautiful yard languished outside, empty, the scene was sweet.

  Everyone looked happy.

  What was that smell?

  The screens glowed, alive with color. The girls had their sound on. At low volume, it seemed innocuous, like the noise of a pet. Even the tangle of cords seemed a happy tangle, connecting the people as much as the computers. Carnegie, relaxed, had stretched his legs out full-length under the table, while Lan drew her crossed ankles back under her chair. This was apparently to avoid contact with his enormous slippers, which loomed big as snowsho
es. For all her effort, though, their toes did seem to be ruffling the bells of her blue jeans the moment Gabriela and I finally announced our arrival.

  — Oh, hi, said Carnegie, sitting up immediately and drawing his feet back.

  — Mam!

  Bailey scrambled down off his Tripp Trapp chair. The girls looked up.

  — Hi, Mom. Gabbie!

  The girls jumped up to greet Gabriela. Lan stood too, blushing. Carnegie had a sip of tea—since when did he drink tea?—replacing the lid of his cup before saving his work. Then, finally, he pushed his chair back, and stood up. He stretched dramatically, reaching for the ceiling with one hand—almost touching it. His gaze wandered somewhere over my left shoulder. He massaged his neck. Straightened his baseball cap.

  — Mam! Mam! Bailey’s arms were up.

  I swung him onto my hip; he nuzzled while I maneuvered to put my bag down.

  — How’re you doing, cutie? What happened to your hair?

  So absorbing had been the slippers that I had almost missed Bailey’s bangs, which featured a big jagged gap.

  — He cut by himself, said Lan.

  — What was he doing with a pair of scissors?

  Nobody answered.

  — Mam! Mam! said Bailey proudly.

  — Good for you, I said automatically. But next time how about letting Mom do it, okay?

  I put him down.

  — Mam!

  He pulled me by the hand, putting his whole body weight into the effort.

  — Pay me! Pay me! he said, meaning ‘play with me.’

  I drew him to me and kissed him; he pouted, knowing what that meant.

  — Lizzy, I said.

  And for once, she obediently took charge of her brother, who—still pouting—allowed this substitution. Surprising us all.

  I ordered Wendy to follow them; she, too, for once, listened.

  We four adults then just stood there, awkwardly. Like a group moderately acquainted but trying to recall how. Finally Gabriela, her hand on the back of a chair, began to stretch her hamstrings. Her legs were tan but freckly.

  My thumb itched.

  — You can work some more, if you like, I told Carnegie and Lan. I’m going to roll down the hill with the children.

  CARNEGIE / Blondie did not in fact leave then as promised, but rather stood there menacingly, with her thumb in a wad and her hair gone flat.

  — I rolled around with them yesterday, I said.

  — Was it fun? asked Gabriela.

  — Maybe I go see the children outside, said Lan.

  — Of course, said Blondie. Don’t forget your umbrella.

  — Ah, said Gabriela, stretching some more. — That’s tight.

  Blondie opened a window.

  BLONDIE / — There’s nothing the matter with hard work, said Carnegie.

  — Did someone say there was something the matter with work? I said.

  — I was brought up to believe in work, said Carnegie. It’s my religion.

  — And why shouldn’t you be a workaholic if you want to, it’s a free country, said Gabriela, switching legs.

  Carnegie sat down, turning his cap around backward.

  — Thank you, and don’t forget your goat, he said. If you leave him any longer, we’re going to eat him.

  He began typing an e-mail.

  13

  Blondie Quits

  BLONDIE / I should have put my foot down then and there. But what was their offense, exactly? Sharing a table? Getting along? How was I excluded from their chumminess except in my own mind?

  — No one has done anything, said Carnegie. You’re too possessive.

  — This is not in your mind, said Gabriela. You have to do something.

  But based on what? What proof did I have?

  Said Gabriela: — This isn’t a court case. You have to trust your gut.

  I could hear my mother, though, too. In this family, we give others the benefit of the doubt.

  And so, for a while yet, I hesitated.

  By late May, the girls were disappearing most nights after supper to go hang out with Lan. Theoretically she wasn’t even on duty. But she insisted she didn’t mind, and the girls begged. Carnegie pointed out, too, that this could only go on for a few weeks. Would it not naturally end with the end of Lan’s intersession?

  — Think how very much worse it could be, he said. Given that adolescents will hang out. The girls could be hanging with our own Dreaded Dreadlocks.

  ‘Dreaded Dreadlocks’ was Russell.

  — You’re right, I said.

  A form of agreement, Carnegie would say later. Did I agree for Carnegie to disappear too?

  — Got to go save my job, he’d say after the dishes. Should you suspect me of chatting on the Internet, you’re wrong.

  Or: — I’m actually in dire circumstances, you know. Dire, dire circumstances.

  — Well then, go save yourself, I’d laugh. Got your bailer?

  Honestly, I didn’t know whether to be worried for him or not.

  In any case, it was a treat to have forty-five to fifty-five minutes of precious one-on-one with Bailey before his bedtime. We made breadsticks and block towers; we played ring-around-the-rosy and airplane. We read books; we banged on the piano. Then there was floor time; I tried to spend at least fifteen minutes a day doing whatever Bailey wanted to do, following his lead.

  For a good ten days I did not check to see what the girls were up to over there at Lan’s.

  But one night Bailey and I put some peanut butter banana crisp in the oven. Bailey had loved shmushing the bananas. I had loved helping shmush, and using up some brown bananas besides. What wonderful things Bailey had done! Threatening to touch the oven, but then pulling his hand back and saying ssss. And sitting on the potty by himself—not really doing anything, just trying it out with the door closed.

  — Dtuck! he cried from behind the door. Dtuck!

  — Sstuck, I said to him, amazed and amused, as I pushed on the door. Gently, giving him time to back up as the door swung in.

  — Sstuck.

  Later, though—destabilized, it seemed, by his own new tricks—he threw a wooden spoon across the room.

  In an effort to distract him I gathered him up into my arms, and carried him outside. This worked; he quieted, burrowing against me. It wouldn’t be much longer before I wouldn’t be carrying him at all, I knew—how much heavier he was than the girls at his age. Also he clung less, leaving me to support more of his weight. And I was older—creakier. Still I lugged him astride my hip.

  He lifted his head wonderingly. — Go? he asked.

  — Where are we going? We’re going to Lan’s apartment, to visit the girls. Doesn’t that sound like fun?

  He kicked his feet.

  We went to go say hello to Tommy first. Why was his water pail empty? Anyway, I filled it while Bailey petted the goat, whom he loved; we used to feel we had to protect him from Tommy but, honestly, he got along better with Tommy than anyone else in the family did. Also I closed the toolshed door, so squirrels wouldn’t get at the birdseed.

  Up the spiral steps; Lan’s door was open. Still I knocked as we entered, calling, Hello!—my heart thumping from the climb.

  Lan was in the kitchen, at her computer. The girls were doing their homework in front of the TV.

  — Hello, Lan. Hello, girls.

  — Hello, said Lan.

  — Hmm, said Wendy.

  — Hmm, said Lizzy.

  The TV was just inside the door, across from the kitchen. It sat right on the floor, the VCR beside it; the girls were splayed on their stomachs on the carpet, not more than two feet away from the screen. Though some parts of Lan’s apartment were lit, the girls appeared to be reading by the light of the TV screen. Their faces flickered with the reflected colors—pale blue, pale yellow, streak red.

  I set Bailey on his feet, then crouched down to shut off the TV. The girls’ faces went suddenly dark, their eyes suddenly bright—gleaming now with reflected light from th
e kitchen.

  Bailey started crying.

  — Dee vee! Dee vee! he demanded.

  He glared, solid with fury, his two feet planted for a moment in a stance that reminded me of my father. Then he began to stomp and bawl like the toddler that he was; I picked him back up.

  — Lan, I said. Do you let Bailey watch TV?

  Lan stood to answer, peering over the top of her computer. Her hair was in pigtails.

  — Only once a great great while.

  — I told you no TV for Bailey.

  — Just once or twice.

  He thrashed in my arms—the tantrum I had avoided in the house was upon us.

  — Dee vee! he demanded, outrage in his cry. — Dee vee!

  I switched on a floor lamp. The girls blinked—caught, it seemed, in the circle of yellow light. They were still lying on their stomachs. They had been banging their feet together in the air when I entered; now they toed the mauve carpet. Wendy wore her panda slippers; Lizzy was barefoot. I jostled Bailey, leaning back away from him, trying to pin his legs so he couldn’t kick. Lizzy had drawn doodles all down the margins of her math sheet. She was, what’s more, doing her problems in fluorescent marker.

  Not the best approach, perhaps, for someone who despite a gift for math had managed to get a C in trigonometry last semester.

  Bailey was kicking me now—hard, he had gotten strong. Lowering him to the floor, I knelt beside him.

  — Lan, I said, my hand on Bailey’s tummy. — Homework comes first in this house.

  — Of course, she agreed, crossing the room. — That is why, even though they are watch TV, I say better do homework.

  — Lan. The girls can’t work with the TV on.

  — Of course not. That’s why I tell them shut TV off. But you know, they love TV on. They say that way they work better.

  I knew this argument. Lizzy claimed TV relaxed her and helped her focus. She claimed she wouldn’t have gotten that C in math if I’d let her watch TV while she did her homework.

  — Lizzy, I said. Honestly. Do you honestly think this the best strategy? With finals coming up?