It's About Your Husband

by Lauren Lipton

  “You’re positive? It’s a big step, and we both should be sure.” Teddy sounds more mature than he ever has before. I’m pleasantly surprised at the transformation and hope, for both our sakes, that it will last.

  “I’ve thought it through, and to me it makes sense. I’m hoping you feel the same way.” As for myself, I’m trying to sound measured and rational, even though my heart feels about to burst.

  “I do,” he says. “Yeah. I really do. I did a lot of thinking down in Mexico. I was going to talk to you but was ready to go with whatever you wanted. But that’s kind of what I’ve always done with you, Iris—let you run everything. It’s better that we both came to our own conclusions, and even better that it was the same one.”

  “I agree, Ted.”

  “This is what you want? You’re okay with it?”

  “I think we’re doing the right thing.”

  “All right. In a few weeks you should get the documents. You just have to sign in a few places and get it all notarized, and then the healing can begin, or however you say it. I’ll repay the tax money I owe you, too. With interest.” He pauses. “Why are you laughing? Was it ‘The healing can begin?’ I knew I was sliding into sappy with that one.”

  “No . . .” I giggle. I am laughing from happiness and ner-vousness and sorrow and delight because, in this final decision to separate for good, Teddy and I have just shared the best moment we’ve ever had together.

  I spend the next thirty-six hours in my storage loft, sorting through the last of my moving boxes, making room for mementos I want to keep, by letting go of the things I no longer need to keep. I put my stolen T-shirt collection into boxes, along with shoes and jackets and dresses and shorts and tank tops that suited the old me better than the new. When the boxes are full, I drag them one by one onto the sidewalk. I check from my window a few hours later; everything is gone.

  I find my corkscrew at long last, in the bottom corner of the very last box I unpack.

  One afternoon I spot a “Help Wanted” sign in the window of the newly opened tapas bar. After a talk with the manager I get a job on the lunch shift. I find that waiting tables is more satisfying than I remember. So far I haven’t spilled a single plate on anyone.

  I get a call from my college friend Evie, who says she read in the Los Angeles Times the wedding announcement of a Kevin Asgard and a Lynn somebody, in San Marino. Was this my Kevin Asgard?

  He was never mine, I tell her.

  “That’s so terrible. I thought you two were soul mates. You must be crushed.”

  “I’m not, though. Not at all. Look at it this way, Evie. Kevin found a woman who shares his end-state vision.”

  The first week of October, the phone rings. I’ve got a rare day off from work and am intently focused on The Bold and the Beautiful, so when the caller says, “It’s Sandy!” the name doesn’t mean anything.

  “Hi.” I’m curt, assuming this is Visa or MasterCard saying I’m late again on my minimum payment.

  “Sandy Christmas! Remember? I’m wondering if you’d like to do some freelance moderating for me! For the next three months I’ve got more projects than I can handle! We could start off with you taking over one or two, and if we like working with each other, you can feel free to take as many as you would like! The more the merrier, as far as I’m concerned!”

  The pay is two hundred dollars an hour.

  “Let me think it over and get back to you.” I’m not sure I’m ready to return to marketing. I don’t know if I believe in it anymore. Waiting tables may not pay much, but it’s simple and straightforward and honest.

  “Make that two hundred fifty an hour!”

  “When do I start?”

  The last week of October I visit Vickie at New York Hospital, where she’s given birth two weeks early to a healthy nine-and-a-half-pound baby. I bring white roses and avert my eyes when it’s time for her to breast-feed. She tells me not to worry, she’s already gotten over all pretensions of modesty, thanks to twenty hours of screaming “back labor.” Her face, as she describes the ordeal, glows with happiness.

  “And you and Steve. How is the couples counseling going? What are you going to do?” I ask.

  “Leave him.” Vickie turns an expression close to ecstasy on her newborn—a son, after all, whom she’s named William, after her grandfather. The baby has fallen asleep while nursing, his fist curled around a corner of a pink-and-blue striped flannel blanket. “Actually, I’m going to leave him and take him for everything he’s worth, including the dog. Have you ever heard of Donny ‘the Hammer’ Rosen, the divorce lawyer? He’s ruthless. He, not our therapist, finally got Steve to admit to having affairs—that woman I caught him with was hardly the first—and get himself a blood test for . . . you know.”

  “He’s clean?”

  “Thank God. He’s fine, so that means I am, and most important, the baby is. I would have killed him if he’d done anything to harm this child. Donny’s going to go for way beyond the maximum child support and alimony, and I’ll keep the apartment. Between us, Iris, I’d have made do with much less. My life was bourgeois and meaningless, anyway. Naturally I’d still need a huge closet.” She laughs. “Which reminds me. I bought you a present.”

  “You did?”

  “A whole lot of presents. Val put up her entire wardrobe of vintage clothing for sale on eBay, and I bought it. She felt those black things were all wrong for an endodontist’s wife, but I thought you might enjoy having them. If nothing else, we can have fun watching Val’s face when you show up at the wedding in her backless Helmut Lang dress with the peekaboo zippers, and then you can sell the pieces yourself. The collection’s worth a small fortune.” A shadow crosses her face. “Please tell me you don’t think I’m being patronizing.”

  I hope my expression makes clear how I do feel. “I have only one thing to say.”

  She looks worried.

  “Isn’t Val’s wedding at the Greenwich Country Club? Wouldn’t the zipper dress be inappropriate?”

  Her face relaxes back into a smile. “Terribly! But you’ll be with me, and I’ll be wearing the Courreges minidress. That is, if you’ll let me borrow it.”

  In the end, of course, Vickie is her sister’s postpartum maid of honor and wears a perfectly presentable pink silk suit, with absorbent pads in her nursing bra underneath, to Val’s wedding. Val floats among her 350 guests in a custom-made, hand-beaded Reem Acra gown. For our dates, Vickie brings William, and I bring Simon. As we pay our respects in the receiving line, Simon studies Val’s makeup, leans over to me, and whispers, “Bobbi Brown Number Four.”

  I wear my dress from Rubicon, though it makes me sad to put it on. I’ve been coming to terms slowly with Steve’s no longer being part of my life, and the idea that it will, eventually, stop hurting to think about him. I’ve had his phone number blocked so that even if he does call me, I won’t be tempted to pick up. Still, I need to pay back the debt I owe him, the debt that every day weighs heavy on my conscience.

  In November I return home from two moderating sessions in New Jersey to find a FedEx envelope on the table in the foyer. It’s to me, return address Teddy’s lawyer.

  It’s final.

  It’s official.

  I’m divorced.

  I feel fine.

  When I pull out the paperwork, another, smaller envelope falls out. I go into my apartment, settle into my armchair, and open it. Inside are two pieces of paper. One is a handwritten note. “Thank you for everything,” it says. “Here’s the money I owe you, with interest.”

  The second piece of paper is a check from Teddy: two thousand dollars. I’m touched at the gift, and I turn the check over in my hands, looking at the blank lines on the reverse waiting for my signature. I turn to the front again and read my former husband’s name, Ted Killingwirth, and the address of the house that used to be ours but is his now to take care of.

  And then I see I’ve made a mistake.

  The check isn’t for two thousand dollars.
r />   It’s for twenty thousand dollars.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Miraculously, it doesn’t bounce. Even more miraculously, when I fall to the floor in shock, I manage not to give myself a concussion.

  Okay, I don’t fall to the floor. I do turn right around, shut the door behind me without bothering to lock the dead bolt, and sprint three blocks to the bank, where I squeak in just under closing. I could deposit the check through the ATM, but I want to see that thing go directly into human hands. I endorse it and slip it to the teller through the little space in the Plexiglas barrier, and consider asking her to pinch me.

  It isn’t a dream. The money clears ten days later, and after I put half of it in savings for future “times like this,” I spend one satisfying evening paying off my credit card balances in full, in front of the television. Then I open a bottle of wine, pour some into my lone wineglass, and, all by myself, make a toast.

  “To survival.” I raise my glass. “Survival,” I echo, and take a sip. It tastes wonderful. Even all by myself.

  On TV a commercial is playing. In it, a smiling career woman applies New Ultra Placid Extra to her underarms, grabs her briefcase, and steps confidently out of her house, tossing her hair as she goes.

  “Go after it, girl!” my former husband says.

  After that, there are only two items left on my emotional to-do list, and one of them, I admit, I haven’t worked up the nerve for. That’s to speak with my mother. Since the day of the ill-fated meet-and-greet I’ve picked up the phone a dozen times but have always backed out at the last minute. I finally conclude that I’m not quite ready for a full conversation, and give myself permission to start smaller.

  TO: Joy

  FROM: Iris Hedge

  SUBJ: Long time

  True to form, I start and discard this one about a dozen times, too. I want to tell her I finally understand that life isn’t black-and-white, that people can do bad things and maybe learn from them and change, and that I’ve spent too long blaming her for the problems in my life without understanding the problems she might have had in hers. For now, such a sweeping declaration is more than I can handle. A short note, however, is not.

  TO: Joy

  FROM: Iris Hedge

  SUBJ: Long time

  Dear Joy:

  I’m sorry I didn’t get to see you while you were here. I tried to stop by your hotel room but I’m not sure you saw me, and then I got overwhelmed and left.

  I just want you to know that everything is fine.

  Your daughter,

  Iris

  I hit “Send,” and then call Rubicon and ask for Ilona.

  She seems thrilled to hear from me. “I thought you moved back to California!”

  I changed my mind, I tell her. And I wanted to make sure she was working today, because I have a favor to ask.

  “Iris, it’s just wonderful you decided to stay in New York. Name your favor. I’m happy to help.”

  “I’d like you to pass something along to Steve. I’m sure he’s told you he and I . . . I mean, you see him every once in a while. Don’t you? He still comes in occasionally?”

  Ilona laughs. “Occasionally. You could say so.”

  I hate that my breath catches at the thought of Steve bringing other women to the shop and loaning them money, too.

  “You should know, my dear, that he was taken by you the first day he met you. He talked about you—a cute, peculiar girl who ran over him in the park. He said he’d felt an instant connection and wished he had asked for your phone number. When he kept on crossing paths with you after that, he said it was as if fate were bringing you together. I don’t think he would have done any of this if he hadn’t thought you were the one he couldn’t let get away. And of course he didn’t realize you had engineered everything.”

  My turn to laugh, or at least try to.

  “I’m sorry, Iris. Excuse me for one moment.” I hear her cup her hand over the receiver and say to a customer, “The black, definitely. You do know black is the new black?” Then, to me, “Please forgive me. You were saying?”

  “I won’t keep you. I’ll come by quickly and drop this off. Would half an hour from now be all right?”

  “Hmm. Better make it an hour.”

  “All right. And thanks.”

  “Anything I can do to help,” Ilona answers.

  I dress up for Rubicon. Partly it’s vanity, not wanting to feel dowdy yet again next to the beautiful Ilona. But it’s also that I’ve become accustomed to looking the part. I may not have been born and raised in New York City, but that doesn’t mean I have to broadcast it.

  I love my new fall wardrobe. Yes, fall. It’s official, with the leaves in Central Park “at peak”—in full autumn color. I’ve long since put away my summer-weight Rubicon dress, skirt, and blouse, and though I am wearing the pants from my pantsuit, I’ve dipped into my treasure trove of vintage Val-wear for a nubby tweed Chanel jacket—over which, after pulling it out of the carton, I nearly fainted—and a scarf of an unidentified fur just moth-eaten enough to drive home the point that I’m not trying too hard. I know this because when I ran the outfit past Simon, he’s the one who suggested the scarf.

  Then he added, “Hang in there, lambie. Any day now, this’ll all be second nature to you.”

  I find an envelope and slip into it a check for payment in full of Steve’s loan—the entire sum, not just the “balance” left over after I supposedly worked part of it off. I also include interest, at the same rate my Visa card charges. My little inner voice, sounding suspiciously like my dear great-aunt Zinnia, chides me that a proper lady would also include a brief note thanking Steve for his generosity and apologizing for the delay in repayment. I plead extenuating circumstances and seal the envelope with just the money. Just before I’m about to leave I check my e-mail.

  TO: Iris Hedge

  FROM: Joy

  SUBJ: RE: Long time

  Dearest Daughter:

  I did see you at my meet-and-greet. I went to find you and was disappointed that you’d left.

  I am glad you are on the path to wellness after your split from Teddy. Leaving your father was an important step in my spiritual awakening, but it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. It took me a long time to feel whole. Remember, Iris, that life is a journey. Keep your heart open and you will love again.

  Please keep in touch.

  Love,

  Joy

  P.S. To help light your way I am sending you an awareness candle.

  It’s a start.

  I step out onto the street. The sky has gone black, and a chilly gray wind spins dead leaves into sidewalk cyclones. Maybe when I get back home I’ll light a Presto Log and re-inaugurate my fireplace. I pick up the pace to Rubicon’s front door, where the doorman, seeing my face, nods and lets me in. Two wealthy-looking women on the sidewalk give me what seem to be envious glances. “She’s on the list,” one of them says before the heavy barrier shuts behind me.

  Ilona, busy with a customer at the register, gives me a small smile and mouths, Wait. No problem; I’m content to browse. I am so relieved to be putting this debt behind me—the last thing keeping me from closing the door on my former life—I almost feel like rewarding myself with new clothes. Simon did say I’d need a heavy coat. I admire a stylishly cut parka, which the store is showing accessorized with suede boots and a cloche. I’m not really going to spend money today. But Sandy Christmas seems pleased with my work and has scheduled me to help her on two more projects. Meanwhile, Carmen Riggio, happy on maternity leave, called last week to say she’s considering not returning to Hayes Heeley, and that if she doesn’t, Michelle will be looking for someone to take her place. “If nothing else,” Carmen said, “you can bet Val won’t want to commute from Darien for much longer.” My chances of being fully employed again, in the near future even, seem to be looking up.

  Ilona sends her customer out of the shop with a hug and a promise to have her purchases delivered by this evening. She waves me over t
o the register.

  I walk over and lean against the counter. “I have a question for you, Ilona. Something has been bothering me about this place.”

  “Ask me anything.”

  “Why does Rubicon have a list? It seems so elitist and snobby that only certain people are allowed in.”

  Ilona leans close and whispers. “Want to know a secret? It’s not that hard to get on the list. See Hugo over there?” She indicates the doorman. “Hugo has a photographic memory. The first time you come to the store and knock on the door, he won’t let you in. But if you come back a day, week, or even months later, Hugo will recognize you and happily open the door. See? It just takes a little persistence.”

  “Then why not just let anyone in? What’s the point?”

  Ilona laughs. “It’s the world’s greatest marketing gimmick. If we let anyone in, we’d be just another boutique in New York. Haven’t you ever noticed that the more you can’t have something, the more you want it?”

  “I’ve noticed,” I admit, blushing.

  “Now,” she says. “What can I do for you? I saw you loving that parka.”

  “I promise someday soon to come back here and clean the place out. For now, would you mind please passing this along?” I pull the envelope from my purse.

  Ilona doesn’t take it. She claps her hands to her cheeks cartoonishly. “Silly me! I have something for you in the back. Let me go get it, and then I’ll take that.”

  She vanishes into the back room. As she steps in, Chantal, the salesgirl who took care of Rocky, emerges. She’s holding a tray with a glass of champagne. “Nice to have you back.” Chantal holds out the tray. “For you. Management insists.”

  “That’s sweet, but I’m only here for a moment.”

  The door swings open, and Ilona steps back through. Her eyes are sparkling. In her hand is a glass of champagne.

  “Weren’t you listening, Iris? Management insists.”

  The voice doesn’t belong to Ilona. It belongs to Clare, who follows behind her, also holding a glass.