Part 2
41
William has been laid off. Not reprimanded, not warned, not demoted, but laid off. In the middle of a recession. In the middle of our lives.
“What did you do?” I shout.
“What do you mean what did I do?”
“To make them lay you off?”
He looks aghast. “Thanks for the sympathy, Alice. I didn’t do anything. It was all about redundancies.”
Yes, the redundancies of you acting out at work. Of you mouthing yourself right out of a job, I think.
“Call Frank Potter. Tell him you’ll work for less. Tell them you’re willing to do anything.”
“I can’t do that, Alice.”
“Pride is a luxury we can’t afford, William.”
“This isn’t about pride. I don’t belong at KKM. It wasn’t a good fit anymore. Maybe this is for the best. Maybe this is the wake-up call I’ve been needing.”
“Are you kidding me? We can’t afford waking up, either.”
“I don’t agree. We can’t afford not to.”
“Have you been reading Eckhart Tolle?” I cry.
“Of course not,” he says. “We specifically made a pact not to live in the moment.”
“We’ve made lots of pacts. Open the window-it’s boiling in here.”
We’re sitting in the car out in the driveway. It’s the only place we can talk privately. He starts the car and rolls down the windows. My Susan Boyle CD comes streaming out of the speakers at a high volume- I dreamed a dream in time gone by.
“Jesus!” says William, shutting it off.
“It’s my car. You’re not allowed to censor my music.”
I turn the CD back on. I dreamed that love would never die. Jesus! I turn it off.
“You’re killing me with that shit,” groans William.
I want to run to my computer and do more budget projections, projections out to 2040, but I know what they’ll reveal-with all of our expenses, including sending both of our fathers checks every month to supplement their paltry Social Security, we have about six months before we are in trouble.
“You’re forty-seven,” I say.
“You’re forty-four,” he says. “What’s your point?”
“My point? My point is-you’re going to have to dye your hair,” I say, looking at his graying temples.
“Why the hell would I dye my hair?”
“Because it’s going to be incredibly hard to find a job. You’re too old. You cost too much. People aren’t going to want to hire you. They’ll hire a twenty-eight-year-old with no kids and no mortgage for half the salary who knows how to use Facebook and Tumblr and Twitter.”
“I have a Facebook page,” he says. “I just don’t live on it.”
“No, you just announce to the world that you got fired on it.”
“Free can be interpreted in many different ways. Look, Alice, I’m sorry you’re scared. But there are times in life that you have to leap. And when you don’t have the courage to leap, well then, eventually somebody comes along and pushes you the fuck out the window.”
“You are reading Eckhart Tolle! What else are you doing behind my back?”
“Nothing,” he says dully.
“So, you’ve been unhappy at work, is that what you’re telling me? What is it that you want to do now? Leave advertising altogether?”
“No. I just need a change.”
“What sort of a change?”
“I want to work on accounts that mean something to me. I want to sell products that I believe in.”
“Well, that sounds lovely. Who wouldn’t want that, but in this economy I’m afraid that’s a pipe dream.”
“It probably is. But who says we shouldn’t go after pipe dreams anymore?”
I begin to cry.
“Please don’t do that. Please don’t cry.”
“Why are you crying?” asks Peter, suddenly appearing at my window.
“Go in the house, Peter. This is a private conversation,” says William.
“Stay,” I say. “He’ll find out soon enough. Your father’s been laid off.”
“Laid off like fired?”
“No, laid off like laid off. There’s a difference,” says William.
“Does that mean you’ll be home more?” asks Peter.
“Yes.”
“Can we tell people?” asks Peter.
“What people?” I say.
“Zoe.”
“Zoe’s not people. She’s family,” I say.
“No, she’s people. We lost her to the people some time ago,” says William. “Look, everything’s going to be okay. I’m going to find another job. Trust me. Get your sister,” he says to Peter. “We’re going out to dinner.”
“We’re celebrating you getting fired?” asks Peter.
“Laid off. And I’d like us to think of this as a beginning, not an end,” says William.
I open my car door. “We’re not going anywhere. The leftovers need to be eaten or they’ll rot.”
That night I can’t sleep. I wake at 3 a.m. and just for kicks decide to weigh myself. Why not? What else do I have to do? 130 pounds-somehow I’ve lost eight pounds! I’m shocked. Women my age don’t just magically lose eight pounds. I haven’t been on a diet, although I am still paying monthly dues for my online Weight Watchers program, which now I really should cancel. And other than my pathetic attempt to run with Caroline, I haven’t done any exercise in weeks. However, other people in my household are exercising like mad. Between Zoe’s 750-sit-ups-a-day regimen and William’s five-mile runs with Caroline, maybe I’m burning calories by osmosis. Or maybe I have cancer of the stomach. Or maybe it’s guilt. That’s it. I’ve been on the Guilt Diet and I haven’t even known it.
What a brilliant idea for a book! Diet books sell millions of copies. I wonder if anybody else has thought of it.
GOOGLE SEARCH “Guilt… Diet”
About 9,850,000 results (.17 seconds)
Gilt Groupe
Luxury designers and fashion brands at up to 70% off…
Working Moms… Guilt
I may feel a tiny twinge of guilt when the maid is washing my sheets and I’m eating an expensed lunch at Flora…
Guilt-Free Sushi
Guilt-free sushi eating may be complicated…
I’m not in the market for discount designer clothes and though I am a working mom, I’ve never felt guilty for having a job, and Zoe doesn’t allow me to eat sushi-well, certain kinds of overfished sushi like the common octopus, which is not a hardship for me-but hurrah!-there’s no Guilt Diet on Google.
“We’re in business!” I relay to Jampo, who is sitting at my feet. I write myself a note to look into the Guilt Diet in more depth once it’s morning, when I’m pretty sure it will reveal itself to be the most ridiculous idea ever, but you never know.
I log on to Facebook and go to William’s wall. He has no new update, which oddly disappoints me. What did I expect him to post?
William Buckle
Wife forced me to listen to Susan Boyle, but I got myself fired so I deserve it.
William Buckle
Wife looks mysteriously skinnier-suspect she’s ingesting tapeworms.
Or more likely something along the lines of-
William Buckle
“The past has no power over the present moment.” Eckhart Tolle
42
43. After that night celebrating William’s Clio, a torturous three weeks went by. Three weeks in which William ignored me. Our lunchtime runs abruptly stopped. If he had to talk to me he avoided eye contact and looked at my forehead, which was deeply unsettling and made me blurt out stupid things like according to our focus groups what people (women) really want to know about toilet paper is that it doesn’t tear while you’re in the middle of using it due to the fact that men wash their hands far less than women and if they do wash them most of the time they don’t use soap. He also reverted to calling me Brown, and so I could only conclude he (like me) was drunk that evening and had absolutely no memory of the knuckle-grazing incident outside the bathroom. Or after sobering up was totally embarrassed having stared at me all night long and was doing everything he could to pretend it never happened.
Meanwhile, he and Helen were inseparable. At least three times a day she flounced into his office and shut the door, and every night she collected him and off they went for Rob Roys at the Copley Hotel, or to attend some fancy event at the Isabella Gardner Museum.
And then, just when I’d accepted an invitation from a friend to be set up on a blind date, I got this email.
From: williamb ‹williamb@peaveypatterson.com›
Subject: Tom Kah Gai
Date: August 4, 10:01 AM
To: alicea ‹alicea@peaveypatterson.com›
As you’ve probably noticed, I’ve been home sick for the past two days. I’m craving Tom Kah Gai. Would you bring me some? Make sure it’s from King and Me, not King of Siam. Once a mouse ran across my feet while eating at King of Siam. Thanks very much. 54 Acorn Street. 2nd Floor. Apt. 203
From: alicea ‹alicea@peaveypatterson.com›
Subject: Re: Tom KHA Gai
Date: August 4, 10:05 AM
To: williamb ‹williamb@peaveypatterson.com›
Bangkok Princess has the best Tom KHA Gai on Beacon Hill. King and Me a far second. I can forward your craving for soup to Helen, who surely said request was meant for.
From: williamb ‹williamb@peaveypatterson.com›
Subject: Re: Tom KHA Gai
Date: August 4, 10:06 AM
To: alicea ‹alicea@peaveypatterson.com›
The request was meant for you.
From: alicea ‹alicea@peaveypatterson.com›
Subject: Re: Tom KHA Gai
Date: August 4, 10:10 AM
To: williamb ‹williamb@peaveypatterson.com›
So let me get this straight. Because you have a craving for Tom Kha Gai, I’m to leave work in the middle of the day, traipse across the bridge, and hand-deliver your soup?
From: williamb ‹williamb@peaveypatterson.com›
Subject: Re: Tom KHA Gai
Date: August 4, 10:11 AM
To: alicea ‹alicea@peaveypatterson.com›
Yes.
From: alicea ‹alicea@peaveypatterson.com›
Subject: Re: Tom KHA Gai
Date: August 4, 11:23 AM
To: williamb ‹williamb@peaveypatterson.com›
Why would I do that?
He didn’t answer and he didn’t have to. Why was very clear to both of us.
Forty-five minutes later, I knocked on his door.
“Come on in,” he called out.
I nudged the door open with my foot, clutching a paper bag filled with two plastic containers of Tom Yung Goong. He was sitting on his couch, hair wet, barefoot, wearing a white T-shirt and jeans. I’d never seen him in anything but a suit or running shorts, and in casual attire he looked younger and somehow cockier. Had he showered for me?
“I have a fever,” he said.
“Yes, and I have Tom.”
“Tom?”
“Tom Yung Goong.”
“Tom Kha Gai couldn’t make it?”
“Stop complaining. It’s a Thai soup that begins with Tom that I walked over half a mile to bring you. Where are your utensils?” I asked.
I brushed past him on the way to the kitchen and suddenly he grabbed my arm and pulled me down on the couch next to him. Startled (he seemed just as startled), we both looked intently forward as if we were attending a lecture.
“I don’t want to get sick,” I said.
“I’ve broken it off with Helen,” he said.
He moved his leg slightly and our knees bumped together. Was that intentional? Then he moved his thigh so it was pressing up against mine. Yes, it was.
“It doesn’t look like you’ve broken it off,” I said. “She’s practically been living in your office.”
“We’ve been negotiating the terms of our breakup.”
“What terms?”
“She didn’t want to break up. I did.”
“We can’t do this,” I said, by which I meant press your thigh harder against mine.
“Why?”
“You’re my boss.”
“And-”
“And there’s a power differential.”
He laughed. “Right. A power differential-between us. You’re such a weak, submissive little creature. Tiptoeing around the office.”
“Oh, Jesus.”
“Tell me to stop and I’ll stop.”
“Stop.”
He put his hand on my thigh and a shiver went through me.
“Alice.”
“Don’t screw with me. Don’t say my name unless you mean it. What happened to Brown?”
“That was to keep me safe.”
“Safe?”
“Safely away from you. You, Alice. Goddammit. You.”
Then he turned and leaned in to kiss me and I could feel his fever and I thought no no no no no until I thought yes, you son-of-a-bitch, yes.
It was at that precise moment that the door opened and Helen walked in carrying a plastic bag of takeout from the King of Siam; apparently she hadn’t gotten the message about the restaurant’s rodent problem. I was so surprised, I gave a little shriek and jumped to the other side of the couch.
Helen looked just as surprised.
“You son-of-a-bitch,” she said.
I was confused. Had I called William a son-of-a-bitch out loud? Had she heard me?
“Is she talking about me?” I asked.
“No, she’s talking about me,” said William, rising to his feet.
“Your assistant said you were sick. I brought you Pad Thai,” said Helen, her face contorted with anger.
“You told me you had broken up,” I said to William.
“He told me you had broken up,” I said to Helen.
“Yesterday!” yelled Helen. “Not even twenty-four hours ago.”
“Look-Helen,” said William.
“You slut,” said Helen.
“Is she talking about me?” I asked.
“Yes, now she’s talking about you,” sighed William.
I’d never been called a slut before.
“That’s not very nice, Helen,” he said.
“I’m so sorry, Helen,” I said.
“Shut up. You went after him like a dog in heat.”
“I told you it was an accident. Neither one of us was looking for this,” said William.
“That’s supposed to make me feel better? We were practically engaged,” shouted Helen. “There’s a code between women. You don’t steal another woman’s man, you whore,” she hissed at me.
“I think I’d better go,” I said.
“You’re making a big mistake, William,” said Helen. “You think she’s so strong, so sure of herself. But that won’t last. It’s all an act. She’ll hit one bad patch and she’ll run away. She’ll disappear.”
I had no idea what Helen was talking about. Running away and disappearing was something drug addicts or people going through midlife crises did-not twenty-three-year-old women. But later I would look back on this moment and realize Helen’s words were eerily prescient.
“Please come sit down,” said William. “Let’s talk.”
Helen’s eyes filled with tears. William walked to Helen, put his arm around her shoulder, and led her to the couch. Come back tonight, he mouthed to me.
I quietly slipped out the door.
44. Plucking eyebrows. Flossing teeth. Picking things out of teeth. Paying bills. Talking about money. Talking about sex. Talking about your kid having sex.
45. Grief.
46. Of course I do. Doesn’t everybody? You want particulars, I know. Okay, that I changed the sheets (when really I’ve just changed the pillowcases). That I wasn’t the one who put the nice knives in the dishwasher instead of hand-washing them and by the way, I don’t need anybody to tell me the nice knives are the knives with black handles-I’m not a dolt, just somebody who’s in a hurry. That I’m not hungry for dinner (if I’m not hungry it’s because I ate an entire package of Keebler Fudge Stripes an hour before everybody came home). That it took me five nights to finish that bottle of wine (then why are there two bottles in the recycling bin?). That somebody must have sideswiped my side mirror when I parked at Lucky’s-those inconsiderate jerks-it did not happen when I was backing out of the garage. But no, not the obvious one. We’ve never had a problem there.
43
John Yossarian added his profile picture
You bear a striking resemblance to a yeti, Researcher 101.
Why thank you, Wife 22. I was hoping you’d say that.
However, it looks like you have a very un-yeti-like ear hanging from your head.
That’s not an ear.
Actually, it’s more like a bunny ear.
Actually, it’s a hat.
I’m revising my opinion. You bear a striking resemblance to Donnie Darko. Has anybody ever told you that?
This is precisely why I didn’t post a photo in the first place.
Can we talk about the orange pants?
No, we may not.
Okay, let’s talk about #45. I can’t stop thinking about it. This was a tough one.
Tell me more.
Well, at first I thought it would be easy. The answer would be grief, of course. But upon further reflection, I’m wondering if stasis isn’t the correct answer.
You might be interested to know that subjects often answer in much the same way you did, first stating the obvious and then struggling to come up with something more nuanced. Why stasis?
Because in some ways stasis is a cousin of grief, but rather than dying all at once, you die a tiny bit every day.
Hello?
I’m here. Just thinking. That makes sense to me, especially given your answer to #3- once a week-and to #28-once a year.
You’ve memorized my answers?
Of course not, I have your file here in front of me. Would you like me to go ahead and change your answer to stasis?
Yes, please change my answer. It’s more truthful, unlike your profile photo.
I don’t know about that. In my experience, the truth is frequently blurry.
Wife 22?
Sorry-my son’s calling me. GTG.
44
Alice Buckle
Sick boy.
1 minute ago
Caroline Kilborn
Arches hurt. 35 mile week!!
2 minutes ago
Phil Archer
Wishes his daughter would SLOW DOWN and text him once in awhile.
4 minutes ago
John F. Kennedy Middle School
Also keep in mind that what fit last year might be indecent this year due to exponential physical growth.
3 hours ago
John F. Kennedy Middle School
Parents: please make sure your child’s private parts and undergarments aren’t visible when leaving the house. This is your responsibility.
4 hours ago
William Buckle
“The dangers in life are infinite and among them is safety.”-Goethe
One day ago
Some of my best memories as a kid are of being sick. I’d go from the bed to the couch, my pillow in hand. My mother would cover me with an afghan. First I’d watch back-to-back episodes of Love, American Style, then The Lucy Show, then Mary Tyler Moore, and finally The Price Is Right. For lunch my mother would bring me toast with butter, ginger ale with no bubbles, and cold apple slices. In between shows I’d throw up in a pail my mother conveniently put beside the couch in case I couldn’t make it to the bathroom.
Thanks to modern medicine, a flu now usually passes in twenty-four hours, so when Peter wakes with a fever it’s like I’ve been granted a snow day. Just as we’re snuggling in on the couch, William wanders into the living room in his sweats.
“I don’t feel so good, either,” he says.
I sigh. “You can’t be sick, Pedro’s sick.”
“Which is probably why I’m sick.”
“Maybe you gave it to me,” says Peter.
I put my hand on Peter’s forehead. “You’re burning up.”
William grabs my other hand and puts it on his forehead.
“Ninety-nine degrees. One hundred, tops,” I say.
“If Dad’s sick does this mean we have to watch the cooking channel?” asks Peter.
“First one sick gets the clicker,” I say.
“I’m too sick to watch anyway,” says William. “I have vertigo. Wonder if it’s an inner-ear thing. I’m going to take a nap. Wake me when Barefoot Contessa comes on.”
I have a vision of the way the days will soon be passing. William sitting on the couch. Me thinking up reasons to leave the house without him, which all have something to do with lady parts. In desperate need of sanitary pads. Going for a Pap smear. Attending a lecture on bio-identical hormones.
“Could you bring me some toast in about half an hour?” William calls out as he’s walking up the stairs.
“Would you like some orange juice, too?” I yell, feeling guilty.
“That would be very nice,” comes the disembodied voice.
The Sixth Sense is one of my absolute favorite movies. I don’t like horror movies, but I do love psychological thrillers. I am a big fan of the twist. Unfortunately, until this very moment there was nobody in my household who was willing to watch them with me. So when Peter was in fourth grade and reading the Captain Underpants series for the eleventh time I started a mother-son short-story club, which was really in my mind a mother-groom-your-son-to-watch-creepy-thrillers-with-you club. First I had him read Shirley Jackson’s “The Lottery.”
“ ‘The Lottery’ is about small-town politics,” I explained to William.
“It’s also about a mother getting stoned to death in front of her children,” said William.
“Let’s let Peter decide,” I said. “Reading is such a subjective experience.”
Peter read the last line of the story aloud-“and then they were upon her”-shrugged, and went back to The Big, Bad Battle of Bionic Booger Boy. That’s when I knew he had real potential. In fifth grade I had him read Ursula Le Guin’s “The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas” and in sixth, Flannery O’Connor’s “A Good Man Is Hard to Find.” With each short story he grew a thicker skin and now, in the spring of his twelfth year, my son is finally ready for The Sixth Sense!
I begin downloading the movie from Netflix.
“You’ll love it. The kid is so creepy. And there’s this unbelievable twist at the end,” I say.
“It’s not a horror movie, right?”
“No, it’s what’s called a psychological thriller,” I tell him.
Half an hour later I say, “Isn’t that cool? He sees dead people.”
“I’m not sure I like this movie,” says Peter.
“Wait-it gets even better,” I tell him.
Forty-five minutes later Peter asks, “Why is that boy missing the back of his head?”
Twenty minutes later he says, “The mother is poisoning her daughter by putting floor wax into her soup. You told me this wasn’t a horror movie.”
“It isn’t. I promise. Besides, you read ‘A Good Man Is Hard to Find.’ The misfit murders the family one by one. That was much worse than this.”
“That’s different. It’s a short story. There are no visuals or scary soundtracks. I don’t want to watch this anymore,” he says.
“You’ve made it this far. You have to watch the rest. Besides, you haven’t seen the twist yet. The twist redeems everything.”
Fifteen minutes later, after the big twist is revealed (with much clapping of my hands and exclamations of “Isn’t that incredible, do you get it? You don’t get it-let me explain it to you. I see dead people? Bruce Willis is actually dead and has been dead the entire time!”).
Peter says, “I can’t believe you forced me to watch that movie. I should report you.”
“To who?”
“To whom. Dad.”
It’s a very bad beginning to my mother-son short-story book club.
“I’m going to sleep on the couch,” says William that night. “I may be contagious. I don’t want you to get it.”
“That’s very considerate of you,” I say.
William coughs. Coughs again. “Could be a cold, but could be something more.”
“Better to be safe,” I say.
“Which one are you reading?” he asks, pointing to the stack of books on my bedside table.
“All of them.”
“At once?”
I nod. “They’re my Ambien. I can’t afford to become a sleep-eater.”
I read one page of one book and fall asleep. I’m awakened a few hours later by Peter shaking my shoulder.
“Can I sleep in your bed? I’m scared,” he snuffles.
I switch on the light. “I see alive people,” I whisper.
“That’s not funny.” He’s near tears.
“Oh, sweetheart. I’m sorry.” I flip back the covers on William’s side of the bed, feeling surprisingly sad that he isn’t there. “Climb in.”
45
John Yossarian changed his profile picture
John Yossarian added Relationship Status
It’s Complicated
John Yossarian added Interests
Piña Coladas
You’re still being blurry, Researcher 101.
I thought you’d be pleased. I’m filling in my profile.
It’s complicated is a given in any relationship.
Facebook only gives you so many options. I had to choose one, Wife 22.
If you could write your own Relationship Status, what would it be? I suggest you answer this question without thinking about it too much. I’ve found this kind of rapid-fire response results in the most honest answers.
Married, questioning, hopeful.
I knew you were married! And I believe all of those adjectives fall under the category It’s Complicated.
If you could write your own Relationship Status, what would it be?
Married. Questioning.
Not hopeful?
Well, that’s the strange thing. I am hopeful. But I’m not sure the hope is directed toward my husband. For the moment, anyway.
What’s it directed toward?
I don’t know. It’s sort of a free-floating hope.
Ah-free-floating hope.
You’re not going to lecture me about redirecting my hope toward my husband?
Hope isn’t something you can redirect. It lands where it lands.
True. But it’s nice you feel hopeful about your marriage.
I didn’t say that, exactly.
What did you say?
I’m not sure.
What did you mean?
I meant that I’m hoping to have hope. Sometime in the future.
So you don’t have it now?
It’s a little up in the air.
I see. Up in the air like you in your profile photo?
I hope we can have more of these conversations.
I thought you didn’t like chatting.
I like chatting with you. And I’m getting used to it. My thoughts come faster, but at a price.
What’s that?
With speed comes disinhibition: i.e. see first sentence in previous comment.
And that worries you.
Well, yes.
With speed comes truth, as well.
A certain sort of truth.
You have a need to be very precise, don’t you, Researcher 101?
That is a researcher’s nature.
I don’t like to think of you as being a fan of sickly sweet frozen drinks.
A lost opportunity for you, Wife 22.
46
“Is that Jude?” I ask.
“Where?”
“In the hair products aisle?”
“I doubt it,” says Zoe. “He doesn’t pay any attention to his hair. It’s part of his singer-songwriter vibe.”
Zoe and I are in Rite-Aid. Zoe needs pontoons and I’m trying to find this perfume I wore when I was a teenager. There’s a flirtatious undertone to my Researcher 101 chats that’s making me feel twenty years younger. I’ve been fantasizing about what he looks like. So far he’s a cross between a young Tommy Lee Jones and Colin Firth-in other words, a weathered, slightly banged-up, profane Colin Firth.
“Excuse me,” I say to a clerk who’s restocking a shelf. “Do you carry a perfume called Love’s Musky Jasmine?”
“We have Love’s Baby Soft,” she says. “Aisle seven.”
“No, I’m not looking for Baby Soft. I want Musky Jasmine.”
She shrugs. “We have Circus Fantasy.”
“What kind of an idiot would name a perfume Circus Fantasy?” asks Zoe. “Who would want to smell like peanuts and horse poop?”
“Britney Spears,” says the clerk.
“You shouldn’t wear that synthetic stuff anyway, Mom. It’s selfish. Air pollution. What about people with MCS? Have you given any thought to them?” says Zoe.
“I like that synthetic stuff, it reminds me of when I was in high school, but apparently they don’t make it anymore,” I say. “What’s MCS?”
“Multiple chemical sensitivity.”
I roll my eyes at Zoe.
“What? It’s a real affliction,” says Zoe.
“How about Gee Your Hair Smells Terrific?” I ask the clerk. “Do you carry that?”
When did tampons get so expensive? It’s a good thing I have a coupon. I look at the fine print and squint, then hand it to Zoe. “I can’t read this. How many boxes do we have to buy?”
“Four.”
“There were only two boxes on the shelf,” I say to the clerk when we get to the counter. “But your coupon is for four.”
“Then you need four,” he says.
“But I just told you there were only two.”
“Mom, it’s okay. Just get the two,” whispers Zoe. “There’s a line.”
“It’s two dollars off a box. It’s not okay. We’re using the coupon. We are a coupon-using family now.”
To the clerk I say, “Can I get a rain check?”
The clerk snaps his gum and then gets on the loudspeaker. “I need a rain-check coupon,” he says. “Tampax.” He picks up a box of tampons and studies it. “Are there sizes on these things? Where does it say it? Oh-okay. There it is. ‘Tampax, super plus. Four boxes,’ ” he announces to the entire store.
“Two,” I whisper.
Zoe groans with embarrassment. I turn around and see Jude a few people back. It was him. He holds up his hand sheepishly and waves.
After the clerk has tallied up our purchase and given me a rain-check coupon, Zoe practically sprints out of the store.
“I bet your mother never did anything like that to you,” she hisses, walking five feet in front of me. “Cheap plastic bags. They’re practically see-through. Everybody knows exactly what you’ve bought.”
“Nobody is even looking,” I say as we reach the car, thinking how I would give anything to have had my mother around to humiliate me by buying too many boxes of tampons at the drugstore when I was Zoe’s age.
“Hi, Zo,” says Jude, catching up with us.
Zoe ignores him. Jude’s face falls and I feel sorry for him.
“It’s a bad time, Jude,” I say.
“Unlock the car,” says Zoe.
“I heard about your father’s job,” says Jude. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”
I’m going to kill Nedra. I made her swear she wouldn’t tell anybody but Kate about William getting laid off.
“We’re in a hurry, Jude. Zoe and I are going to lunch,” I say, tossing my bag into the backseat.
“Oh-nice,” says Jude. “Kind of a mother-daughter thing.”
“Yup, a mother-daughter thing,” I say, climbing into the car. Even though the daughter wants nothing to do with the mother.
Once I get into my seat, I adjust my rearview mirror and watch Jude walking back to the drugstore. His shoulder blades jut poignantly through his T-shirt. He’s always been bony. He looks like a six-foot-tall boy. Oh, Jude.
“I’m not hungry,” says daughter.
“You’ll be hungry when we get there,” says mother.
“We can’t afford to eat out,” says daughter. “We are a coupon-using family.”
“Yes, let’s just go home and eat crackers,” says mother. “Or bread crumbs.”
Ten minutes later we’re sitting in a booth at the Rockridge Diner.
“Does it bother you? Jude acting like nothing ever happened. Following you around. Can I have a sip of your tea?” I ask.
Zoe hands me her mug. “Don’t blow on it. I hate when you blow on my tea when it’s already cool. You don’t get to have an opinion on me and Jude.”
“Hair gel and tweezers.”
“What?”
“That’s what was in his bag.”
Zoe snorts.
“Grilled ham and cheese and PB and J,” says the waitress, putting down our plates, smiling at Zoe. “Never too old for a good PB and J. You want a glass of milk, too, honey?”
Zoe looks up at the waitress, who looks to be in her mid-sixties. We’ve been coming to the Rockridge Diner forever, and she always waits on us. She’s seen Zoe at every stage of her life: milk-drugged infant, french-fry-smashing toddler, Lego-building preschooler, Harry Potter-reading fifth grader, dour adolescent, and now thrift-shop-attired teenager.
“That would be really nice, Evie,” says Zoe.
“Sure,” says the waitress, touching her on the shoulder.
“You know her name?” I ask, once Evie has disappeared behind the counter.
“She’s been waiting on us for years.”
“Yes, but she’s never told us her name.”
“You never asked her.” Zoe’s eyes suddenly fill with tears.
“You’re crying, Zoe. Why are you crying? Over Jude? That’s ridiculous.”
“Shut up, Mom.”
“That’s one. You get one shut-up a month and that’s it. You’ve used it up. I can’t believe you’re crying over that boy. In fact, I’m furious you’re crying over him. He hurt you,” I say.
“You know what, Mom,” she snaps. “You think you know everything about me. I know you think you do, but you know what? You don’t.”
My phone chimes. Is it a new message from Researcher 101? I try and mask the hopeful look on my face.
Zoe shakes her head. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” I say, reaching into my bag and grabbing the phone. I glance at the screen quickly. It’s a Facebook notification alerting me that I’ve been tagged in a photo. Oh, goodie. I’m probably wearing a djellaba.
“Sorry.” I shut my phone off.
“You’re so jumpy,” says Zoe. “It’s like you’re hiding something.” She stares plaintively at my phone.
“Well, I’m not, but why shouldn’t I be? I’m allowed to have a private life. I’m sure you’ve got secrets, too,” I say, looking plaintively at her sandwich. Two bites, maybe three-that’s what I’m betting she’ll eat.
“Yes, but I’m fifteen. I should have secrets.”
“Of course you’re allowed to have secrets, Zoe. But not everything has to be a secret. You can still confide in me, you know.”
“You shouldn’t have secrets,” says Zoe. “You’re way too old. That’s disgusting.”
I sigh. I’m not going to get anything out of her.
“Here’s your milk,” says Evie, returning to the table.
“Thanks, Evie,” whispers Zoe, her eyes still moist.
“Is everything okay?” Evie asks.
Zoe shoots a dirty look across the table at me.
“Evie, I owe you an apology. I never asked you your name. I should have. It’s a terribly rude thing that I never did and I’m really, really sorry.”
“Are you saying you’d like a glass of milk, too, sweetheart?” she asks me gently.
I look down into my plate. “Yes, please.”
47
John Yossarian added Favorite Quotations
Omit needless words.-E. B. White
Just saying hello, Researcher 101.
Hello.
Lunchtime-grilled ham and cheese.
Grilled ham & cheese. Never use “and” when an ampersand will do. 2nd Favorite Quotation: Omit adverbial dialogue tags.-Researcher 101
Sunny here, she said sunnily.
Cloudy here.
I’m a bad mother.
No you aren’t.
I’m a tired mother.
Understandable.
I’m a tired wife.
And I’m a tired husband.
You are?
Sometimes, he said, disinhibitingly.
“Omit invented words.” -Wife 22
48
47. Ages: 19-27: Three plus days a week (the plus being active sex life, actually a bit of a slut). Ages 28-35: Two minus days a week (the minus being pregnancy, infants, no sleep=no libido). Ages 36-40: Seven plus days a week (the plus being desperate, the big 4-0 looming, making an effort to have active sex life so don’t feel like sex life is over). Ages: 41-44: One minus days a month (the minus being when asked by doctor say five days a week, even doctor not fooled, she says five days a week doing what? Chair dancing?).
48. This is an utterly annoying question-pass!!!
49. Shah Jahan and Mumtaz Mahal, Abigail and John Adams, Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward.
50. Ben Harper. Ed Harris (I have a thing for bald men with beautifully shaped heads). Christopher Plummer.
51. Marion Cotillard (but not in Edith Piaf movie where she shaved her hairline). Halle Berry. Cate Blanchett (especially in Queen Elizabeth movie). Helen Mirren.
52. Frequently.
53. I put my key in the lock and opened the door. William was working. He held up his hand. “Don’t move,” he said. He picked up his pad of paper and began to read out loud.
PEAVEY PATTERSON BRAINSTORMING SESSION
CLIENT: ALICE A
CREATIVE: WILLIAM B
TOPIC: THINGS ALICE SHOULD NEVER WORRY ABOUT
1. If her hair is too long (only too long if down to ankles and impedes ability to walk)
2. If she forgot to put on lipstick (doesn’t need lipstick-lips a perfectly lovely shade of raspberry)
3. If you can see through her dress (Yes)
4. If she should have worn a slip to work today (No)
“You ass! I’ve been walking around all day with my underwear showing? Why didn’t anybody tell me?”
“I just told you.”
“You should have told me earlier. I’m so embarrassed.”
“Don’t be. It was the highlight of my day. Come here,” William said.
“No,” I said, pouting.
He dramatically swept the table clean of all his papers. Who did he think he was? Mickey Rourke in 9½ Weeks? God, I loved that movie. After I saw it I bought a garter belt and stockings. I wore them for a few days, feeling very sexy, until I experienced a garter malfunction. Have you ever had a stocking suddenly pool around your ankle while you’re in the process of boarding a bus? There is no quicker path to feeling like an old lady.
“Alice.”
“What?”
“Come here now.”
“I’ve always fantasized about having sex on a table but I’m not sure I’d recommend it,” William said half an hour later.
“I concur, Mr. B.”
“What did you think about the pitch?”
“I’m not sure the client will go for it.”
“Why not?”
“The client thinks it’s a bit too on-the-nose. Can we move this into the bedroom now?” In order to lie next to each other on the table, each of us had a leg and an arm dangling off.
“I’ve changed my mind. I like the table.”
“Well,” I said. “It’s hard. I’ll give you that.” My hand traveled down his chest to his waist.
“That’s the nature of a table,” he said, covering my hand with his own, guiding it south.
“Always have to be in charge, don’t you.”
He groaned softly when I touched him. “I’ll come up with a new pitch, Ms. A. I promise.”
“Don’t be stingy. Five new pitches. The client would like some choices.”
In deference to Helen, not wanting to rub it in her face (this was my idea), we’d decided it was best if our relationship stayed secret at work. Keeping up the masquerade was both thrilling and exhausting. William passed by my cubicle at least ten times a day, and because I could see directly into his office (and whenever I looked, he was looking right back at me) I was in a constant state of arousal. Nights, I came home and collapsed from the effort of having to sublimate my desire all day. Then I sat around and thought about his Levi’s. And how he looked in those Levi’s. And when we did venture out, for a walk in the Public Garden or to a Red Sox game, or to the hinterlands of Allston to hear some alternative band, it was like we’d never done any of those things before. Boston was a new city with him by my side.
I’m sure we were extremely annoying. Especially to older couples that did not walk down the sidewalk hand in hand, who often didn’t even seem to be speaking, a three-foot distance between them. I was incapable of understanding that their silence might be a comfortable, hard-won silence, a benefit that came from years of being together; I just thought how sad it was they had nothing to say to one another.
But never mind them. William kissed me deeply on the sidewalk, fed me bites of his pizza, and sometimes when nobody was looking, copped a quick feel. Outside of work we were either arm in arm or hands in each other’s back pockets. I see these couples now, so smug, appearing to need nobody but one another, and it hurts to look at them. It’s hard for me to believe that we were once one of those couples looking at people like us, thinking if you’re so damn unhappy why don’t you just get divorced?
49
Lucy Pevensie
Not a fan of Turkish Delight.
38 minutes ago
John Yossarian
Has a pain in his liver.
39 minutes ago
So sorry to hear you’re feeling unwell, Researcher 101.
Thank you. I’ve been spending a lot of time in the infirmary.
I assume you’ll still be in the infirmary tomorrow?
Yes, and the next day and the next and the next until this damn war is over.
But not so ill that-
I can’t read your surveys-no. Never that ill.
Are you saying you like reading my answers, Researcher 101?
You describe things so colorfully.
I can’t help it. I was a playwright once.
You’re still a playwright.
No, I’m wan, boring, and absurd.
You’re funny, too.
I’m quite certain my family would not agree.
Regarding #49. I’m curious. Have you ever been to the Taj Mahal?
I was there just last week. Courtesy of Google Earth. Have you ever been?
No, but it’s on my list.
What else is on your list-and please don’t say seeing the Mona Lisa at the Louvre.
Tying a cherry stem with my tongue.
Suggest you set the bar a little higher.
Standing atop an iceberg.
Higher.
Saving somebody’s marriage.
Too high. Good luck on that.
So listen, I have to press you a bit further on your refusal to answer #48.Resistance of this sort usually indicates we’ve touched upon a hot-button topic.
You sound like the Borg.
I would guess your aversion has something to do with the way the question was posed?
Honestly I can’t remember how it was posed.
It was posed in an entirely clichéd way.
Now I remember.
You’re insulted by a question that has been so clearly designed for the masses. To be lumped into a group is an affront for you.
Now you sound like an astrologer. Or a human resources manager.
Perhaps I can ask #48 in a way that you might find more palatable.
Go right ahead, Researcher 101.
Describe the last time you felt cared for by your husband.
Come to think of it, I prefer the original question.
50
Alice Buckle
Bloated
24 minutes ago
Daniel Barbedian Linda Barbedian
You do realize posting on Facebook is not the same as texting, Mom.
34 minutes ago
Bobby Barbedian Daniel Barbedian
Check no longer in the mail. Tell Mom.
42 minutes ago
Linda Barbedian Daniel Barbedian
Check in the mail. Don’t tell Dad.
48 minutes ago
Bobby Barbedian Daniel Barbedian
Tired of funding your social life. Get a job.
1 hour ago
William Buckle
Ina Garten-really? Golden raisins in classic gingerbread?
Yesterday
“I saw a mouse yesterday,” says Caroline, unpacking vegetables from a canvas bag. “It ran under the fridge. I don’t want to freak you out but that makes two this week, Alice. Maybe you should get a cat.”
“We don’t need a cat. We have Zoe. She’s an expert mouse catcher,” I say.
“Too bad she’s still in school all day,” says William.
“Well, maybe you can fill in for her,” I say. “I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”
“This rainbow chard looks amazing!” says Caroline.
“Except for those little bugs,” I say. “Are those mites?”
William paws through the chard. “That’s dirt, Alice, not mites.”
William and Caroline are just back from an early-morning trip to the farmers’ market.
“Was the bluegrass band there?” I ask him.
“No, but there was somebody playing ‘It Had to Be You’ on a suitcase.”
“It’s pretty,” I say, fingering the yellow and magenta stalks, “but it seems like the color would leech out once you cook it.”
“Maybe we should put it in a salad,” suggests Caroline.
William snaps his fingers. “I’ve got it. Let’s do Lidia’s strangozzi with chard and almond sauce. Ina’s gingerbread will be perfect for dessert.”
“I vote for salad,” I say, because if I am forced to eat another heavy meal I will strangozzi William. He’s found a new hobby, or should I say reignited an old passion-cooking. Every night for the past week, we’ve sat down to elaborate meals that William and his sous-chef, yet-to-be-employed Caroline, have dreamed up. I’m not sure what I feel about this. A part of me is relieved to not have to shop, plan meals, and cook, but another part of me feels uprooted at the sudden shift in William’s and my roles.
“I hope we have durum semolina,” says William.
“Lidia uses half durum, half white flour,” says Caroline.
Neither of them notices when I leave the kitchen to get ready for work.
There are only three weeks left before school ends, and these are the most stressful weeks of the year for me. I’m mounting six different plays-one for every grade. Yes, each play is only twenty minutes long, but believe me, that twenty-minute performance takes weeks of casting, staging, designing sets, and rehearsal.
When I walk into the classroom that morning, Carisa Norman is waiting for me. She begins crying as soon as she sees me. I know why she’s crying-it’s because I made her a goose. The third-grade play this semester is Charlotte’s Web. I look at her tear-stained face and wonder why didn’t I give her the role of Charlotte. She would have been perfect for it. Instead I made her one of three geese, and unfortunately geese have no lines. To make up for this, I told the geese they could honk whenever they wanted to. Trust themselves. They’d know when the honking moment was right. This was a mistake, because the honking moment turned out to be every moment of the play.
“Carisa, what’s wrong, sweetheart? Why aren’t you at recess?”
She hands me a plastic baggie. It looks like it’s filled with oregano. I open the bag and sniff-it’s marijuana.
“Carisa, where did you find this!”
Carisa shakes her head, distraught.
“Carisa, sweetheart, you have to tell me,” I say, trying to hide the fact that I’m horrified. Kids are smoking pot in elementary school? Are they dealing, too?
“You’re not going to get in trouble.”
“My parents,” she says.
“This belongs to your parents?” I ask.
I think her mother is on the board of the Parents’ Association. Oh, this is not good.
She nods. “Will you give it to the police? That’s what you’re supposed to do if you’re a kid and find drugs.”
“And how do you know that?”
“CSI Miami,” she says solemnly.
“Carisa, I want you to go enjoy recess and don’t give this another thought. I’ll take care of it.”
She throws her arms around me. Her barrette is about to fall off. I re-clip it, pulling the hair back from her eyes.
“Shut the worry switch off, okay?” This is something I used to say to my kids before they went to bed. When did I stop doing this? Maybe I should reinstitute the ritual. I wish somebody would switch off my worry.
In between classes I fight with myself over the proper course of action. I should take the pot directly to the principal and tell her exactly what happened-that sweet Carisa Norman narced on her parents. But if I do, there’s a possibility the principal might call the police. I don’t want that, of course, but doing nothing is not an option either, given Carisa’s emotionally labile state. If there’s one thing I know about third-graders, it’s that most of them are incapable of hiding anything-eventually they will confess. Carisa can’t take back what she knows.
At lunch, I lock the classroom door and Google “medical marijuana” on my laptop. Maybe the Normans have a medical marijuana card. But if they did, surely the marijuana would be dispensed in a prescription bottle-not a ziplock baggie. Maybe I could ask a professional how they typically dispense their wares. I click on Find a Dispensary Near You and am about to choose between Foggy Daze and the Green Cross when my cell rings.
“Can you do me a favor and pick Jude up from school today? This bloody deposition is running late,” says Nedra.
“Nedra-perfect timing. Remember you said that thing about not informing on kids to their parents when we went to How to Keep Your Kids from Turning into Meth Addicts night at school? That I should learn to keep my mouth shut?”
“It depends on the circumstances. Is it about sex?” says Nedra.
“Yes, I’ll pick up Jude and no, it’s not about sex.”
“STDs?”
“No.”
“General all-around sluttiness?”
“No.”
“Plagiarism?”
“No.”
“Drugs?”
“Yes.”
“Hard drugs?”
“Is pot classified as a hard drug?”
“What happened,” sighs Nedra. “Is it Zoe or Peter?”
“Neither-it’s a third-grader. She narced on her parents, and my question is should I narc on her narc back to her parents?”
Nedra pauses. “Well, my advice is still no, stay out of it. But trust your intuition, darling. You’ve got good instincts.”
Nedra’s wrong about that. My instincts are like my memory-they both started fizzling out after forty or so years.
Please go to voice mail, please go to voice mail, please go to voice mail.
“Hello.”
“Oh, hi. Hiiiiii. Is this Mrs. Norman?”
“This is she.”
I ramble. “How are you? Hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time. Sounds like you’re in the car. Hope the traffic isn’t bad. But jeez, it’s always bad. This is the Bay Area after all. But a small price to pay for all this abundance, right?”
“Who is this?”
“Oh-sorry! This is Alice Buckle, Carisa’s drama teacher?”
“Yes.”
I’ve been teaching drama long enough to know when I’m talking to a mother who’s nursing a grudge over me casting her child as a goose in the third-grade play.
“Ah, well, it seems we have a situation.”
“Oh-is Carisa having a problem learning her lines?”
See?
“So listen. Carisa came into school quite upset today.”
“Uh-huh.”
The brusqueness of her voice throws me off. “You allow her to watch CSI Miami?” I ask.
Oh, God, Alice.
“Is that why you’re calling me? She has an older brother. I can’t possibly be expected to screen everything Carisa sees.”
“That’s not why I’m calling. Carisa brought in a baggie full of pot. Your pot.”
Silence. More silence. Did she hear what I said? Has she put me on mute? Is she crying?
“Mrs. Norman?”
“That’s simply out of the question. My daughter did not bring in a bag of pot.”
“Yes, well, I understand this is a delicate situation, but she did bring in a bag of pot because I’m holding it in my hands right now.”
“Impossible,” she says.
This is the grown woman’s version of putting her hands over her ears and humming so she doesn’t have to hear what you’re saying.
“Are you saying I’m lying?”
“I’m saying you must be mistaken.”
“You know, I’m doing you a favor. I could lose my job over this. I could have brought this to the principal. But I didn’t because of Carisa. And the fact that you might have some medical condition for which you have a medical marijuana card.”
“A medical condition?”
Doesn’t she understand I’m trying to give her an out?
“Yes-plenty of people use marijuana for medical reasons; it’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Minor things, like anxiety or depression.”
“I am neither anxious nor depressed, Ms. Buckle, and I appreciate your concern-but if you insist on continuing to harass me I’ll have to do something about it.”
Mrs. Norman hangs up.
After work I drive to McDonald’s and throw the baggie full of pot into the Dumpster behind the restaurant. Then I drive away like a fugitive, by which I mean obsessively looking into my rearview mirror and driving twenty miles an hour in a forty-mile-an-hour zone, praying there wasn’t a video camera in the McDonald’s parking lot. Why is everybody so rude? Why won’t we help each other? And when was the last time I felt truly cared for by my husband?
51
KED3 (Kentwood Elementary Third Grade Drama Parents’ Forum) Digest #129
KED3ParentsForum@yahoogroups.com
Messages in this digest (5)
1. Was it fair of Alice Buckle to give the geese no lines? Weigh in, people! Posted by: Queenbeebeebee
2. RE: Was it fair of Alice Buckle to give the geese no lines? Look, I know this will likely be an unpopular position, but I’m just going to come right out and say it. It’s not realistic to think that every kid in the play will have a line. It’s just not possible. Not with thirty kids in the class. Some years your kids will get lucky and get a good role. And some years they won’t. It all balances out in the end. Posted by: Farmymommy
3. RE: Was it fair of Alice Buckle to give the geese no lines? No! It’s not fair. And it doesn’t all balance out. Alice Buckle is a hypocrite! Do you think she ever cast her children as geese? I think not and I can prove it. I have all the school play programs dating back ten years. Her daughter Zoe was Mrs. Squash, Narrator #1, Lion Tamer with Arm in Cast and Lazy Bee. Her son Peter was Fractious Elf, Slightly Overweight Troll, Bovine Buffoon (everybody wanted that role) and Walnut. Alice Buckle has just gotten lazy. How hard can it be to make sure each child has at least one line? Perhaps Mrs. Buckle has been teaching drama for too long. Perhaps she should think of retiring. Posted by: Helicopmama
4. RE: Was it fair of Alice Buckle to give the geese no lines? I have to agree with Helicopmama. Something is very off with Mrs. Buckle. Shouldn’t she be keeping track of each class? The plays they’ve done and the roles each kid has performed over the years? That way she could make sure everything was equitable. If your child had a one-line role last year, well, then this year they should have a lead. And if they have no lines-well, don’t even get me started. That is simply unacceptable. My daughter is heartbroken. Heartbroken. Posted by: Storminnormandy
5. RE: Was it fair of Alice Buckle to give the geese no lines? May I make an observation? I’m pretty sure that how many lines your child has in his or her third-grade play will have no bearing on his future. Absolutely none. And if, in fact, I’m wrong, and it does, I would ask you this: consider the possibility that a small role might be a good thing. Perhaps those children who had only one-line roles (or perhaps, no lines at all) will end up with higher self-esteem. Why? Because they will have learned from an early age to deal with disappointment and to make the best of a situation and to not quit or throw a tantrum when something doesn’t go their way. There are plenty of things going on in this world right now that are worthy of being heartbroken over. The third-grade play is not one of them. Posted by: Davidmametlurve182
52
54. “Hi, Mama,” she shouted cheerfully, when we pulled up to the curb. It was nearly midnight, and William and I were picking her up from the last dance of the school year.
She stuck her head in my window and giggled. “Can we give Jew a ride home?”
“Who?” I said.
“Jew!”
“Jude,” interpreted William. “Goddammit, she’s wasted.”
William quickly rolled the car windows up, just seconds before she threw up on the passenger-seat door.
“Got your phone?” asked William.
We knew this moment would come, we had discussed our plan, and now we sprung into action. I bolted out of the car, my iPhone in hand, and started taking photos. I got some classic shots. Zoe, leaning against the car door, her fleur-de-lys crinoline splattered in vomit. Zoe, climbing into the backseat, shoeless, her sweaty hair stuck to the back of her neck. Zoe on the drive home, her head lolling on the seat; her mouth wide open. And the saddest one: her father carrying her into the house.
We had gotten this advice from friends. When she got wasted-and she would get wasted, it wasn’t a matter of if, but when-we should document the whole thing because she’d be too drunk to remember any of the details.
It may sound hard core but it worked. The next morning when we showed her the photos she was so horrified that, to the best of my knowledge, she hasn’t ever gotten drunk again.
55. I had William all wrong. He wasn’t some blue-blood, entitled, silver-spoon, Ivy League elitist. Everything he had he’d worked his ass off for, including a full scholarship to Yale.
“Beer?” his father, Hal, said to me, holding the refrigerator door open.
“Would you like Bud Light, Bud Light, or Bud Light?” asked William.
“I’ll take a Bud Light,” I said.
“I like her,” said Hal. “The last one drank water. No ice.” Hal gave me a huge grin. “Helen. She didn’t stand a chance once you came into the picture, right, slim? You don’t mind if I call you slim?”
“Only if you called Helen that, too.”
“Helen was not slim. Zaftig, maybe.”
I was in love with Hal already.
“I see where William gets his charm.”
“William is lots of things,” said Hal. “Driven, ambitious, smart, arrogant, but charming he is not.”
“I’m working on that,” I said.
“What are you making for dinner?” asked Hal.
“Beef stroganoff,” said William, unpacking the bag of groceries we’d brought.
“My favorite,” said Hal. “I’m sorry Fiona couldn’t make it.”
“Don’t apologize for Mom. It’s not your fault,” said William.
“She wanted to come,” said Hal.
“Right,” said William.
William’s parents divorced when he was ten and his mother, Fiona, very quickly remarried a man with two other children. Hal and Fiona had a split custody agreement at first, but by the time William was twelve he was living with his dad full-time. William and Fiona weren’t close and he saw her infrequently, on holidays and special occasions. Another surprise. Both of us un-mothered.
56. I saved you an egg.
57. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of that.
53
John Yossarian changed his profile picture
So cute, Researcher 101! What’s her name?
I’m sorry but I can’t divulge that information.
Okay. Can you divulge what you like most about her?
Him. The way he touches his cold nose to my hand at six every morning. Just once. Then sits at attention by the side of the bed waiting patiently for me to wake.
So sweet-what else?
Well, right now he’s pushing his snout under my arm as I attempt to chat with yousdfsfd. Sorry. He gets jealous when I’m on the computer.
You’re very lucky. He sounds like a dream dog.
Oh, he is.
I do not have a dream dog. In fact, our dog is so ill behaved my husband wants to give him away.
It can’t be that bad.
He peed on my husband’s pillow. I’m afraid to have guests come over.
You should do some training.
Training is not the issue.
Of your husband.
Ha!
I’m not kidding. Loving an animal doesn’t come naturally to everybody. Some people have to be taught.
I don’t agree. You shouldn’t have to teach love.
Spoken by somebody to whom love comes easily.
What makes you say that, Researcher 101?
I can read between the lines.
The lines of my answers?
Yes.
Well, I’m not sure love comes easily, but I will say it is my default setting.
I’ve got to go. I’ll be emailing the next survey in a few days.
Wait-before you leave I wanted to ask you. Is everything okay? This is the first time you’ve been on Facebook in days.
Nothing’s wrong, just busy.
I was worried you might be angry.
This is what I hate about communicating online. There’s no way to judge tone.
So you’re not angry.
Why would I be angry?
I thought I might have offended you in some way.
By doing what?
Not answering your revised #48.
You’re allowed to take a pass on any question.
So I haven’t offended you?
You’ve done nothing to offend me-quite the opposite, actually-that’s the problem.
54
Shonda Perkins
PX90 30 days in!!
12 minutes ago
William Buckle
Dog. Yours for free. Must like being bitten.
One day ago
William Buckle
Recent Activity
William Buckle and Helen Davies are now friends
Two days ago
“Mail,” announces Peter, dropping an AARP magazine on my desk. He peers over my shoulder. “What’s with all the Dad postings? And who’s Helen Davies?”
“Somebody we used to work with.”
“Did she friend you, too?”
No, Helen Davies, Helen of Troy, did not friend me, too. She only friended my husband. Or he friended her. Does it matter who friended whom? Yes, it probably does.
I glare at the silver-haired couple on the cover of the AARP magazine. Damn it! I do not want to take advantage of a special offer for cataract drops, nor do I care to consider my line of sight above the steering wheel because I am NOT fifty and I won’t be fifty for another six years. Why do they keep sending me copies of their magazine? I thought I had taken care of this. Just last month I called AARP to explain that the Alice Buckle who recently turned fifty lived in Charleston, South Carolina, in a lovely old house with a huge wraparound porch. “And how did I know this?” they asked. “Because I Google Earthed her,” I told them. “Google Earth Alice Buckle in Oakland, California, and you will find a woman standing in her driveway hurling an AARP magazine back at her mailman.”
Old girlfriends resurfacing. Getting retirement magazines before your time. This is not a good way to start off my Saturday. I Google Monkey Yoga. There’s a class in twenty minutes. If I hurry I can make it.
“And-shavasana, everybody.”
Finally, corpse pose! My favorite part of yoga. I roll over onto my back. Usually by the end of the class I’m nearly asleep. Not today. Even my fingertips are pulsing with energy. I should be running with Caroline-not doing sun salutations.
“Eyes shut,” says the teacher, walking around the room.
I stare up at the ceiling.
“Empty your mind.”
What the hell is happening to me?
“For those of you that want a mantra, try Ong So Hung.”
How can she say that with a straight face?
“This means ‘Creator, I am Thou.’ ”
I don’t need a mantra. I have a mantra that I’ve been repeating obsessively for the past twenty-four hours. You’ve done nothing to offend me-quite the opposite, actually-that’s the problem.
“Alice, try to stop fidgeting,” the teacher whispers, stopping at my mat. I close my eyes. She squats and puts the palm of her hand on my solar plexus.
That’s the problem? Let’s tease that sentence apart for the fiftieth time. The problem is I don’t offend him. The problem is he wishes I would offend him. The problem is he wishes I would offend him because I’m doing the opposite. What’s the opposite of offend? To please. To give pleasure. The problem is I’m giving him pleasure. Too much pleasure. Oh, God.
“Breathe, Alice, breathe.”
My eyes snap open.
I’m in the dressing room, changing out of my yoga gear, when a naked woman walks by on her way to the shower. Nudity is not something I’m comfortable with. Of course I might feel differently if I had a fabulous body like this woman, perfectly groomed, manicured, pedicured, her pubic hair completely waxed off.
I stare for a moment-I can’t help it; I’ve never seen an actual live woman with a Brazilian. Is this what men like? Is this what gives them pleasure?
After my yoga class, Nedra and I meet for lunch. Just as she’s biting into her burrito I ask, “Do you wax down there?”
Nedra puts down her burrito and sighs.
“Of course it’s fine if you don’t. There might be different pubic-hair rules for lesbians.”
“I wax, darling,” says Nedra.
“How much?”
“All of it.”
“You’ve been getting Brazilians?” I cry. “And you didn’t tell me I should be getting them, too?”
“Technically, it’s called a Hollywood if you take everything off. You want the number of the place I go? Ask for Hilary. She’s the best and she’s quick; it barely hurts. Now can we talk about something else? Perhaps a topic more suitable for daylight?”
“Okay. What’s an antonym for ‘offend’?”
Nedra stares at me suspiciously. “Have you lost weight?”
“Why, do I look like I have?”
“Your face is skinnier. Are you working out?”
“I’m working too much to work out. School ends in two weeks. I’m juggling six plays.”
“Well, you look good,” says Nedra. “And you’re not wearing fleece for once. I can actually see your body. I like the tank-and-cardi look. It suits you. You have a very sexy neck, Alice.”
“A sexy neck?” I think of Researcher 101. I think I should show Nedra Lucy Pevensie’s Facebook page.
Nedra picks up her cellphone. “I’m going to call Hilary and make you an appointment because I know you’ll never do it.” She punches in the number, has a quick conversation, utters a thank you darling, and snaps her cell shut. “She had a cancellation. She can take you in an hour. My treat.”
“Nedra said you’re quick. And painless.”
“I do my best. Have you considered vajazzling? Or vatooing?” asks Hilary.
Does this woman really expect me to have a conversation about vajazzes when she’s about to apply hot wax to my vatoo?
Hilary stirs the pot of wax with a tongue depressor. “Let’s take a look, shall we?” She lifts the paper thong and tsks. “Someone hasn’t been keeping up with their waxing.”
“It’s been a while,” I say.
“How long?”
“Forty-four years.”
Hilary’s eyes widen. “Wow-a waxing virgin. We don’t get too many of those. Never even had the bikini line waxed?”
“Well, I keep things tidy. I shave.”
“Doesn’t count. Why don’t we start with a Brazilian with a two-inch strip? More of an American, really. We’ll ease you into it.”
“No-I want a Hollywood. That’s what everybody does these days, right?”
“A lot of younger people do. But most women your age tend to just neaten things up.”
“I want it all off,” I say.
“All right,” says Hilary.
She folds one side of the paper thong back and I close my eyes. The hot wax drips onto my skin. I tense up, expecting it to burn, but surprisingly it feels good. This isn’t so bad. Hilary lays down a cloth strip and smooths it.
“I’m going to count to three,” she says.
I grab her wrist, suddenly panicked. “I’m not ready.”
She looks at me calmly.
“No, please. Okay, wait, wait, just give me a sec-I’m almost ready.”
“One,” she says and rips off the strip.
I shriek. “What happened to ‘two’?”
“It’s better to be surprised,” she says, surveying the area, frowning. “You don’t use retinol products, do you?”
On my vatoo, no.
“The first time is the worst. Each time it will be easier.” She hands me a mirror.
“I don’t need to see,” I say, tears springing to my eyes. “Just finish it.”
“Are you sure?” she asks. “Do you want to take a break?”
“No,” I practically shout.
She raises her eyebrows at me.
“I’m sorry. What I meant to say is please keep going before I lose my nerve, and I’ll do my very best not to cry.”
“It’s all right if you do. You wouldn’t be the first,” she says.
I waltz out of Hilary’s shop with a half-off coupon for my next wax and an aftercare admonition (DO NOT take any Dead Sea salt baths for at least twenty-four hours-no problem there, Hilary) and a sexy little secret that nobody knows but me. I smile at other women I pass on the street, feeling like I’ve joined the tribe of impeccably groomed women, women who are taking care of business down there. I feel so lighthearted (and relieved I don’t have to endure that pain for another month) that I stop at Green Light Books to look at magazines, something I rarely do because I’m always in such a hurry.
Michelle Williams is on the cover of Vogue. Apparently, according to Vogue, MiWi is the new it-girl. There’s a two-page spread of MiWi’s Night on the Town in Austin. Here’s the lovely MiWi taking a dip at Barton Springs. Here she is sitting at the bar at Fado, drinking a Green Flash Le Freak. And here she is an hour later trying on the skinniest, hottest jeans at Luxe Apothetique. Wasn’t Michelle the it-girl two years ago, too? Do they recycle it-girls? That doesn’t seem fair. Shouldn’t they give other it-girls like me a chance?
IT-GIRL ALICE BUCKLE’S NIGHT OUT FROM ANSWERING THE PHONE TO PARKING, TO SINGING HORRIBLY OFF KEY IN THE CAR. FOUR HOURS WITH ALBU ON A FRIDAY NIGHT
6:01 P.M.: Answering her cellphone (something she will later regret)
“Yes, of course I want to go to a movie about a beautiful French woman who owns a banana plantation in the Congo who is eventually macheted to death by the men she used to employ,” says Alice Buckle, a forty-four-year-old mother and wife who unfortunately still doesn’t have a bikini body even though she’s lost eight pounds recently (the truth is, 130 pounds at forty-four looks very different from 130 pounds at twenty-four). “I’m looking forward to having a man with extremely long legs knee my chair for the entire show,” says Alice.
6:45 P.M.: AlBu spotted hyperventilating
It-girl Alice Buckle circles around and around the mall parking lot looking for a spot, muttering “get the hell out of my way, cow,” to all the people who are also circling around the mall parking lot looking for a spot. “What the hell, I’ll just park illegally,” cries Alice. “It could be worse,” she laughs gaily, as she runs to the theater. “This could be opening night for Toy Story 8.”
6:55 P.M: AlBu in enormous line at ticket counter
“It’s opening night for Toy Story 8,” reports Alice Buckle.
7:20 P.M.: It-Girl Alice Buckle crawling over a bunch of old people in her not-ready-for-bikini body to get to the seat her best friend, Nedra, saved for her
“You just missed the best part-where the son was conscripted into the Hutu army,” says Nedra.
7:25 P.M.: AlBu fast asleep
9:32 P.M.: AlBu spotted pulling into neighbor’s driveway mistaking it for her own
AlBu’s night vision is impaired. Her mood darkens, worrying about early-onset macular degeneration. Mood improves after listening to “Dance with Me” by Orleans in the car. “This reminds me so much of high school,” she cries, then she really begins to cry. “It’s so unfair. How come French women look so good without makeup? Maybe if every woman in America stopped wearing makeup we’d all look good, too. After a few months, that is.”
10:51 P.M.: AlBu goes to bed without washing off her makeup
“It was a magical night, but I won’t lie. Being an it-girl is exhausting,” admits Alice as she crawls into bed. “Roll over, darling, you’re snoring,” she says, tapping her husband on the shoulder, who promptly licks her on the face. “Jampo!” Alice cries, gathering up her tiny dog in her arms. “I thought you were William!” It’s hard to be angry at the dog for kicking her husband out of bed when he’s so cute and spirited to boot. The two snuggle up together and in a few hours, Alice wakes to find the nice present Jampo has left on her husband’s pillow.
“Excuse me, but are you planning on buying that magazine?” interrupts a young saleswoman.
“Oh-sorry.” I close the Vogue, smoothing out the cover. “Why, do you want to look at it?”
She points to a handwritten sign. “You’re not allowed to read the magazines. We try and keep them pristine for people who are actually buying them.”
“Really? Then how are you supposed to know if you want to buy them?”
“Look on the cover. The cover tells you everything that’s inside.” She gives me a dirty look.
I put the magazine back on the rack. “This is exactly why magazines are dying,” I say.
That night, while the kids are cleaning up after dinner, I announce to William that something about cookies is wrong with my computer and will he please come help me. This is a lie. I’m perfectly capable of getting rid of my own cookies.
“Peter can help you,” he says.
“It’s easy, Mom. All you do is go to preferences and-”
“I’ve already tried that,” I interrupt. “It’s more complicated. William, I need you to take a look.”
I follow him into my office and shut the door.
“It’s no big deal,” he says, walking to my desk. “You click on the apple, then go-”
I unbutton my jeans and slip them off.
“To preferences,” he finishes.
“William,” I say, stepping out of my panties.
He turns around and stares at me and says nothing.
“Ta-da.”
He has a strange look on his face. I can’t tell if he’s appalled or turned on.
“I did this for you,” I say.
“You did not,” he says.
“Who else would I do it for?”
What was I thinking? This is completely backfiring. Isn’t sudden bikini-line grooming one of the sure signs that your spouse is cheating on you? I’m not cheating, but I am flirting with a man who is not my husband who has just admitted I bring him pleasure, which has brought me pleasure, which has resulted in a sudden surge in my libido, which has led to the first bikini wax of my life. Does that count? Is it possible he knows?
William makes a strange sound in the back of his throat. “You did it for you. Admit it.”
I begin to shake. The tiniest little bit.
“Come here, Alice.”
I hesitate.
“Now,” he whispers.
We proceed to have the hottest sex we’ve had in months.
55
58. Planet of the Apes.
59. Not much. Well, hardly ever. I don’t really see the point. We have to live with each other, so what’s the use and honestly, who’s got the energy? We used to, in the early years. Our biggest argument happened before we were even married, and it was over me wanting to invite Helen to the wedding. I told him it would be a nice conciliatory gesture-she probably wouldn’t come, but inviting her was the right thing to do, especially since we were inviting almost all of our colleagues from Peavey Patterson. When he told me he had no intention of inviting a woman who called me a whore (and who seemed to hate him vehemently) to his wedding, I reminded him that technically I was the other woman when she called me that name, and could we blame her for hating us? Wasn’t it time to forgive and forget? After I said that, he told me I could afford to be generous because I’d won. Well, that so infuriated me that I took off my engagement ring and threw it out the window.
Now, this wasn’t a ring from Zales, this was my mother’s engagement ring that had been in her family for years, brought over by her mother from Ireland. It wasn’t worth much-it was one small diamond flanked by two tiny emeralds. What was priceless about the ring was its history and the fact that my father had given it to William to give to me. There was an engraving inside the band. Something terribly sweet, probably bordering on saccharine, that I can’t recall. All I can remember is the word “heart.”
The problem was we were in the car when I threw the ring out of the window. We had just left my father’s house and were driving past the park in Brockton when William made the comment about me having won. I just wanted to scare him. I hurled the ring out the window into the park and we proceeded to speed by, both of us in shock. We drove back and tried to pinpoint the spot where I had thrown it, but even though we searched through the grass methodically we couldn’t find it. I was devastated. Each of us secretly blamed the other. He blamed me, of course, for throwing the ring. I blamed him for being so coldhearted. The loss of the ring deeply unsettled both of us. Losing, or in my case, throwing away, something so priceless before we had even started our lives together-was this a bad omen?
I couldn’t bear to tell my father the truth, so we lied and told him our apartment was robbed and the ring stolen. We even planned what to say if he asked why I hadn’t been wearing it at the time. I took it off because I was giving myself a facial and didn’t want to get the green gunk caught in the delicate filigree setting, which I would then have to root out with a toothpick or a dental probe. I have since learned that when lying, it’s best not to offer up any details. It’s the details that do you in.
60. “Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta.”
61. Long, tapered fingers. Big palms. Cuticles that never needed to be pushed back. Chet Baker on the tape player. He was cutting peppers for the salad. I looked at those hands and thought, I am going to have this man’s children.
62. What would you do if you ever stopped communicating? I wrote “That would NEVER EVER happen. William and I talk about everything. That won’t be our problem.” And no, it does not hold true today.
63. In the backyard of my cousin Henry’s apartment in the North End, which overlooked Boston Harbor. It was in the evening. The air smelled of the sea and garlic. Our wedding bands were simple and plain, which felt right after the engagement ring debacle. If my father was upset about the ring, he didn’t say anything. In fact, he said very little that night, he was so overcome with emotion. Every five minutes or so before the ceremony started he would clasp my shoulders vigorously and nod. When it was time to give me away, he walked me to the arbor, lifted my veil, and kissed me on the cheek. “Off you go, honey,” he said, and that’s when I began to cry. I proceeded to cry through the entire ceremony, which understandably threw William off. “It’s all right,” he kept mouthing to me while the priest did his part. “I know,” I kept mouthing back to him. I wasn’t crying because I was getting married, I was crying because my history with my father had come down to those four, perfectly chosen words. He could only say something that appeared to be so mundane precisely because our life together had been the opposite.
56
Did u read article advising everybody eat more cheese, Alice?
Why you ignore my texts, Alice?
HonE?
Sorry Dad. End of the school year. 2 busy 2 text. 2 busy to read. 2 busy to eat.
I worry u not eating enuf cheese. Women yr age need protein and calcium. Hope you not turn vegan out there Cali.
Trust me. U needn’t worry about my cheese intake.
News. Think might B falling in love.
What??? With who??
Conchita.
Conchita Martinez, our neighbor Conchita whose son Jeff I dated and then dumped my senior year?
Yes! That the one. She remember you fondly. Jeff, no so much. He harbor long grudge.
Why you sound like Indian in The Great Sioux Uprising? Are u spending a lot of time together?
Ever night. Hr house or mine. Mostly mine due to fact Jeff still live at home. Loser.
Oh, Dad-so happy for u.
Happy u, too. U hippily married all these years. Very proud. All turned out okay, for us, but do me favor-eat wheel of Brie today. Afraid u will collapse. U delicate flower u.
57
John Yossarian
Speaking plainly is underrated.
23 minutes ago
Okay, I’m worried that I’m becoming a problem for you, Researcher 101.
How so, Wife 22?
I’m not offending you enough.
I can’t disagree with that.
Fine. I’ll do my best to offend you more in the future because according to antonym.com pleasure is the opposite of offense, and I wouldn’t inadvertently want to give you pleasure.
One cannot be held responsible for the way one is received.
To give you pleasure was never my intention.
Is this your idea of speaking plainly, Wife 22?
You know it’s strange. The way our conversations go on and on. It’s like a river. We just keep jumping in and diving under the water. When we surface we may find we’ve drifted miles from where we were last time we spoke but it doesn’t matter. It’s still the same river. I tap you on the shoulder. You turn around. You call out. I answer.
I’m sorry you lost your engagement ring. It sounds like a very traumatic event. Did you ever tell your father the truth?
No, and I’ve always regretted it.
Why not tell him now?
Too many years have passed. What’s the point? It will just upset him.
Did you know that according to synonym.net, the definition of problem is a state of difficulty that needs to be resolved.
Is this your idea of speaking plainly, Researcher 101?
After communicating with you all these weeks I can definitively say you, Wife 22, are in need of some resolution.
I can’t disagree with that.
I can also say (a little less definitively for fear of putting you off) I would like to be the one that resolves you.
58
64. Three months into my pregnancy with Zoe, I was wretchedly sick but doing a good job of hiding it. I had actually lost five pounds from morning sickness, so nobody at the theater could tell I was pregnant-except of course for laser-eyed Bunny, who guessed my secret the instant she saw me. We had only met once before in Boston after she contacted me with the incredible news that The Barmaid won the contest. She immediately let me know that even though my script had won, it needed work. She asked if I was willing to do some rewriting. I said I was, of course, but assumed the changes would be minor.
I arrived in Blue Hill on a September afternoon. The past few weeks hadn’t been easy. William did not want me to go-certainly not when I was so sick. We had a fight over breakfast and I had stormed out, accusing him of trying to sabotage my career. I felt awful for the entire ride, but now that I stood in the doorway of the theater looking down at the stage I was light-headed with excitement. Here it was, spread out before me; my life as a real playwright was about to begin. The Blue Hill Theater smelled exactly the way a theater should smell, the top notes of dust and paper, the base notes of popcorn and cheap wine. I hugged my script to my chest and walked down the aisle to greet Bunny.
“Alice! You’re pregnant,” she said. “Congratulations! Hungry?” She held out a box of Little Debbie snack cakes.
“How did you know? I’m only twelve weeks along. I’m not even showing.”
“Your nose. It’s swollen.”
“It is?” I said, touching it.
“Not hideously. Just the eensiest bit. Happens to most women, but they don’t notice because the membranes swell over the course of the pregnancy, just not all at once.”
“Look, I’d appreciate if you didn’t tell anybody-”
The cloyingly sweet smell of Bunny’s open snack cake drifted into my nostrils and I clapped my hand over my mouth.
“Lobby, take a right,” Bunny instructed, and I ran back up the aisle and to the bathroom to throw up.
Those weeks of rehearsal were intense. Day after day I sat beside Bunny in the darkened theater, where she tried to mentor me. At first, most of Bunny’s suggestions were along the lines of encouraging me to move beyond cliché. “I just don’t believe it, Alice,” she’d often say of a scene. “People don’t talk this way in real life.” As the rehearsals went on, she got tougher and more insistent, because it was clear to her something was not working. She kept pushing me to find the nuance and shading she believed the characters were missing. But I didn’t agree. I thought the depth was there; she just wasn’t seeing it yet.
One week before opening night, the lead quit. The first dress rehearsal was a disaster; the second just a little bit better, and finally, in the eleventh hour I saw The Barmaid through Bunny’s eyes and was horrified. She was right. The play was a caricature. A bold, shiny surface, but little substance beneath. All curtain but no stage.
At that point it was too late to make any changes. I had to let the play go. It would catch a stiff wind or founder all on its own.
Opening night went well. The theater was packed. I prayed it would all come miraculously together that evening and judging by the enthusiastic crowd, that appeared to be the case. William was by my side the entire night. I had a small baby bump now, which brought out his protective instincts; his hand was a constant presence on the small of my back. The next morning came a rave review from the Portland Press Herald. The entire cast celebrated by taking a cruise on a lobster boat. Some of us got drunk. Others of us (me) threw up. None of us knew this was the single moment in the sun The Barmaid would get, but does anybody ever suspect that the magic is about to end just when the magical thing is unfolding?
I won’t say that William was happy that the play flopped, but I will say he was happy to have me home, getting ready for the baby. He didn’t go so far as to say I told you so, but anytime Bunny emailed me another bad review (she was not one of those directors who believed in ignoring your reviews-quite the opposite, she was in the you-get-enough-bad-reviews-you-become-inoculated camp) he got this grim look on his face that I could only read as embarrassment. Somehow my public failure had become his. He didn’t have to advise me not to write another play; I came to that decision all on my own. I convinced myself there was a three-act structure to pregnancy, a beginning, middle, and end. I was in essence a living play, and for now that would have to be enough.
65. I know “roommate” is a taboo word, but here’s a thought: what if being roommates is the natural stage of the middle part of marriage? What if that’s the way it’s supposed to be? The only way we can be while getting through the long, hard slog of raising kids and trying to save money for retirement and coming to terms with the fact that there is no such thing as retirement anymore and we’ll be working until the day we die?
66. Fifteen minutes ago.
59
“Yum,” says Caroline.
“That hits the spot,” says William.
“Is it supposed to taste like soil?” I ask, looking down into my smoothie.
“Oh, Alice,” says Caroline. “You’re such a truth-teller.”
“You mean she’s got no filter,” says William.
“You should really run with us,” says Caroline.
“Yes, why don’t you?” asks William, sounding completely disingenuous.
“Because somebody has to work,” I say.
“See, no filter,” says William.
“Okay-well, I’ve got to take a shower and get ready. I’ve got a second interview at Tipi this afternoon. It’s an intern position, but at least it’s a foot in the door,” says Caroline.
“Wait, what’s Tipi?” I ask.
“Microfinance. It’s this amazing company, Alice. They’ve only been around for a year but they’ve already given out over 200 million dollars in loans to women in third-world countries.”
“Have you told your mom you’re going on a second interview? She must be thrilled.”
“I haven’t told her. And believe me, she’ll be far from thrilled,” says Caroline. “She thinks I’m wasting my computer science degree. Now if it were Paypal or Facebook or Google, she’d be doing cartwheels.”
“That doesn’t sound like your mother.”
Caroline shrugs. “That is my mother. Just not a part of my mother most people ever see. I’m off.” She pops a strawberry into her mouth and leaves the kitchen.
“Well, good for her. She’s out there hustling,” I say.
“Meaning I’m not out there hustling?” says William. “I’ve been on ten interviews. I just don’t talk about it.”
“You’ve been on ten interviews?”
“Yes, and not one callback.”
“Oh-William, God, ten interviews? Why haven’t you told me? I could have helped you. This is overwhelming. It’s bad out there. It’s not just you. Let me help. I can help you. Please.”
“There’s nothing to help with.”
“Well, let me support you. Behind the scenes. I’m a good commiserater. Top-notch, in fact-”
He cuts me off. “I don’t need commiseration, Alice. I need a plan. And I need you to leave me alone while I come up with it. I’ll figure it out. I always do.”
I bring my glass to the sink and rinse it out. “Fine,” I say slowly. “Well, here’s my plan. I sent off that letter to the Parents’ Association asking if they’d consider making my position full-time in the fall. Six plays every semester should be a full-time job.”
“You want to be a drama teacher full-time?” asks William.
“I want us to be able to send our kids to college.”
William crosses his arms in front of his chest. “Caroline’s right. You should start running again. It would be good for you.”
“You seem to be doing okay with Caroline.”
“I’d rather run with you,” he says.
He’s lying. I wonder if Researcher 101 is a runner.
“What?” he asks.
“What do you mean ‘what’?”
“You had this strange look on your face.”
I stack my glass in the dishwasher and slam the door shut. “That’s just the way I look when I’m leaving you alone so you can figure things out.”
“California geese, we’re unforgettable. Goslings, gaggles, ganders on top. White feathers so soft you’ll want to pet us. Honk, honk, honk honk. Honk, honk, honk honk.”
Ganders on top. You’ll want to pet us? What was I thinking? I’m standing in the wings of the stage at Kentwood Elementary, second-guessing my decision to have the geese do a parody of Katy Perry’s “California Gurls” as the closing number for Charlotte’s Web. The lavender wigs I got at the costume store make the geese look slutty (as does their prancing and hip-wiggling) and judging by the jealous faces of Wilbur and Charlotte and the rest of the cast, I’m pretty sure I went too far in my attempt to make up for the geese having no lines. It seemed like such a brilliant idea at three in the morning when I was mucking around on YouTube and convinced myself that Katy Perry naked, draped in nothing but a cloud covering her ass, was a post-postfeminist statement.
I start thinking up excuses for why I have to leave before the play is over. For some reason, they are all tooth-related. I was eating caramels and my crown just fell off. I was eating a bagel and a piece of crust impaled my gum.
I can hear twitters and whispers coming from the parents as the geese wind up their number, which includes lining up like the Rockettes, arms slung around each other and seductively blowing kisses to the audience. The geese finish their song, adding a cheeky little butt swivel. Limp applause and the geese prance off the stage. Oh, Jesus, God. Helicopmama is right; I have been doing this for far too long. Then I see the boy who played Wilbur holding a bouquet of carnations. Next I am pushed onstage, where the bouquet is shoved in my arms. I turn to face an audience of mostly disapproving faces, except for three: the mothers of the geese, one of whom is a beaming Mrs. Norman, who seems to have forgiven me for accusing her of being a pothead.
“Well,” I say, “Charlotte’s Web. Always a favorite. And didn’t we have a wonderful Charlotte this year? You might think Charlotte’s Web is a bit inappropriate-Charlotte dying in the end and all-but in my experience the theater is a safe place to experiment with difficult issues like death. And what it feels like. What death feels like.”
It feels like this.
“I want to thank you for trusting me to look after your children. It’s not always easy being a drama teacher. Life isn’t fair. We aren’t all equal. Somebody has to have the bit part. And somebody has to be the star. I know we live in a time where we try and pretend this isn’t true.”
Parents are packing up their video cameras and leaving.
“We try and shield our kids from disappointment. From seeing things they shouldn’t see before their time. But we must be realistic. There are bad things out there. Especially on the Internet. Why, just the other day my son-my point is you can’t let them watch a movie and then fast-forward through the scary parts. Am I right?”
The auditorium is nearly empty now. Mrs. Norman waves at me from the front row.
“Okay, so thank you all for coming. Um-have a great summer and see you next year!”
“When will the DVD be available?” asks Mrs. Norman. “We’re so proud of Carisa. Who knew she was such a little dancer? I’d like to order three copies.”
“The DVD?” I ask.
“Of the play,” she says. “You did have it professionally taped, didn’t you?”
She can’t be serious. “I saw lots of parents taping the performance. I’m sure somebody will be happy to send you a copy of the tape.”
She shakes her head gravely. “Carisa, go get your backpack. I’ll meet you out front.”
We both watch as Carisa sashays away.
“That wig was a mistake, I’m sorry.”
“What are you talking about? The geese stole the show,” says Mrs. Norman. “The wigs were brilliant. As was the song choice.”
“You didn’t think it was a bit-mature?”
Mrs. Norman shrugs. “It’s a new world. Eight is the new thirteen. Girls are getting breasts in fourth grade. She’s already begging me for a bra. They make them in very small sizes, you know. Tiny. Padded. So cute. So, look, I want to apologize for what happened the other week. You took me by surprise. I wanted to thank you. I’m very grateful you did what you did.”
Finally, some gratitude!
“You’re very welcome. I’m sure any mother would have done the same thing had they been in my shoes.”
“So where and when can I meet you? I know we shouldn’t do this at school.”
“I think we’re okay,” I say. The auditorium is empty. “Nobody can hear us.”
“You want to do this now? You’ve been carrying it around? In your purse,” she points to my shoulder bag. “Great!” She holds out her hand and then retracts it quickly. “Maybe we should go backstage.”
This woman thinks I still have her pot? “Uh, Mrs. Norman? I don’t have your-stuff. I got rid of it. The day I called you about it, in fact.”
“You threw it away? That was nearly a thousand dollars’ worth!”
I look at her indignant, entitled moon face and I think of Researcher 101, which gives me confidence to speak plainly.
“Mrs. Norman, I’ve had a very difficult day. It was wrong of me to have the girls perform ‘California Geese.’ I apologize for that and really, really hope you don’t buy Carisa a bra. She’s far too young and as far as I can see has no breasts whatsoever. Perhaps you should have a conversation with your daughter about the trauma she incurred in finding your stash of illicit drugs instead of talking with me about how you can get it back. She’s a really sweet kid, and she’s confused.”
“What gives you the right?” Mrs. Norman hisses.
“Tell her something. Anything. Just address it. She won’t forget about it. Believe me.”
Honk, honk, honk, honk, honk, says Mrs. Norman, meaning “you piece-of-crap teacher.”
Honk, honk, honk, honk, honk, I say, meaning “you pothead mother, goodbye.”
I play my music at top volume in the car to calm myself down, but I dream a dream of days gone by doesn’t work today. When I get home I’m still amped up from the afternoon’s events, so I do something I know will likely only add to my anxiety: I steal into Zoe’s room to check the Hostess product inventory, something I do every week in hopes it will bring me some understanding as to how my daughter can consume thousands of Ding Dong calories a week and never gain an ounce.
“I don’t think she’s bulimic,” says Caroline, poking her head into the room. “You’d know if she were purging.”
“Yes, well, there are two Yodels missing,” I say.
“You’ve been counting them?”
“And I always hear the water running in the bathroom when she’s in there.”
“That doesn’t mean she’s throwing up. She probably doesn’t like people to hear her pee. I’ve been watching her. She’s not a puker. I don’t think she’s bingeing on Yodels, I really don’t, Alice. She just doesn’t fit the profile.”
I give Caroline a hug. I love having her here. She’s smart, funny, brave, creative, and kind: exactly the sort of young woman I hope Zoe will grow up to be.
“Ever had a Yodel?” I ask.
Caroline shakes her head. Of course she hasn’t.
I toss her one.
“I’ll save it for later,” says Caroline, frowning at the packaging.
“Give it back. I know you’re not going to eat it.”
Caroline wrinkles her nose. “You’re right, I’m not going to eat it, but my mother will-you know how she loves junk food. She and my dad are coming to visit. Yodels have no expiration date, right?”
“Bunny’s coming to Oakland?”
“We spoke this morning. They just decided.”
“Where are they staying?”
“I think they’re planning on renting a house.”
“Absolutely not. That’s too expensive. They can stay here. You can sleep in Zoe’s room and they can have the guest room.”
“Oh, no, she won’t want to impose. You’re already putting me up.”
“It’s no imposition. Actually, it’s selfish on my part-I want to see her.”
“But don’t you need to ask William first?”
“William will be fine with it, I promise.”
“Okay. Well, if you’re sure, I’ll tell her. She’d love that. So Alice, I had a thought. What about if you and I went running? We could do it secretly. Take it slowly. Run at your pace. And eventually get you to the point where you and William could run together again.”
“I don’t think William is interested in running with me.”
“You’re wrong. He misses you.”
“He told you that?”
“No, but I can tell. He talks about you all the time when we’re running.”
“You mean he’s complaining.”
“No! He just talks about you. Stuff you’ve said.”
“Really?”
Caroline nods.
“Well-that’s nice, I guess.”
Actually, it irritates me. Why can’t William act like he misses me to my face?
I take the Yodel out of Caroline’s hands. “Your mother’s favorite is Sno Balls.”
I can just see Bunny sitting in the back of the Blue Hill Theater, peeling the pink marshmallow skin off the chocolate cake while instructing an actor to go deeeeeeper. There’s something about the theater and simple carbohydrates.
“When I was a kid these used to come wrapped in foil,” I say. “Packaged up like it was a surprise. A gift that you didn’t know was coming.”
Like the Yodel, Bunny’s visit feels like fate.
Three days later, summer officially arrives. The kids are out of school and I am, too. Because of our finances we’re not doing much of anything this summer (except going on a camping trip to the Sierras in a few weeks). Everybody will be home all the time, except Caroline, who scored a part-time intern position at Tipi.
I take Caroline up on her offer to train with me and am now standing in the middle of the street, panting, bent over like an old lady, my hands on my knees, deeply regretting my decision.
“That’s a twelve-minute mile,” says Caroline, looking at her watch. “Good, Alice.”
“Twelve minutes? That’s pathetic. I can walk faster,” I gasp. “Tell me again why we’re doing this.”
“Because you’ll feel great afterwards.”
“And during I’ll feel like dying and curse the day I ever let you come stay with us?”
“That’s about right,” she says, bouncing on her toes. “Come on, keep moving. You don’t want the lactic acid building up in your calves.”
“No, noooo lactic acid for me. Just give me a second to catch my breath.”
Caroline squints distractedly into the distance.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Nothing,” she says.
“Are you looking forward to your parents coming?”
Caroline shrugs.
“Did you tell Bunny about Tipi?”
“Uh-huh.” Caroline does a quick stretch and then takes off at a trot. I groan and stagger after her. She spins around and runs backwards. “William told me you used to run a nine-minute mile. We’ll get you back there again. Pump your arms. No, not like a chicken, Alice. Tucked under your shoulders.”
I catch up to her, and after a few minutes she looks at her watch and frowns. “Do you mind if I sprint the last quarter mile?”
“Go, go,” I huff, waving her away.
As soon as she’s out of sight, I slow to a walk and take out my cell. I click on the Facebook app.
Kelly Cho
Thanks for the add, Alice!
5 minutes ago
Nedra Rao
Prenups, people. Prenups!!
10 minutes ago
Bobby Barbedian
Robert Bly says it’s all right if you grow your wings on the way down.
2 hours ago
Pat Guardia
Is dreaming of Tita’s lumpia. Hint-hint.
4 hours ago
Phil Archer
I read my daily fortune cookie!
The sensitivity you show to others will return to you.
5 hours ago
Boring. Nothing exciting.
Then I check Lucy Pevensie’s account.
John Yossarian
Likes barmaids.
5 hours ago
I give a little squeal.
60
John Yossarian
Why not?
1 hour ago
Okay I’m just going to ask. Are you flirting with me, Researcher 101?
I don’t know. Are you flirting with me?
Let me be the researcher for once. Answer my question.
Yes.
You should probably stop.
Really?
No.
61
FESTIVE SWEDISH POTLUCK AT NEDRA’S HOUSE
7:30: Standing in Nedra’s kitchen
Me: Here’s the meatballs!
Nedra (peeling back the aluminum foil and making a face): Are these homemade?
Me: And here’s the lingonberry jam to go with them.
Nedra: Now I understand why you chose Swedish. Because you ran out of cheap candles. Alice, the whole point of these internationally themed potlucks is to step outside our comfort zones and make new foods, not buy them at Ikea.
William: Blåbärsplåt (handing her a casserole dish).
Nedra (peeling back the aluminum foil, her face aglow with delight): You brought something, too?
William: I made it. It’s a traditional Swedish delicacy.
Nedra: William, darling, I’m so impressed. Alice, put the lingonberry jam on the table, will you? The Styrofoam cup is a nice touch, by the way.
7:48: Still standing in the kitchen
Linda: Wait until you have to move your kid to college. It’s like childbirth, or marriage; nobody tells you the truth about how hard it is.
Kate: Come on, it can’t be that bad.
Bobby: Did we tell you the twin master suites are finished?
Linda: First I had to get up at five in the morning to log on to get Daniel’s scheduled move-in time. It’s first come first served, and everybody wants the 7-to-9 a.m. slot. If you don’t get that slot you’re screwed.
Nedra: Why didn’t you make Daniel get up at five in the morning?
Linda (waving her hand, dismissing the idea that an eighteen-year-old boy could possibly be counted upon to set an alarm clock correctly): I got the 7-to-9 a.m. slot. We arrived on campus at 6:45 and already there were huge lines of parents and kids waiting for the four elevators that serviced the entire dorm. Clearly there was a 5-to-7 a.m. the-rules-don’t-apply-to-me-because-I’m-paying-$50,000-a-year slot that I was not made aware of.
Bobby: I’ve been sleeping like a baby. Linda, too. And our sex life-I won’t go into details, but let’s just say it’s an extreme turn-on to feel like strangers in your own home.
Linda: So each of us dragged a fifty-pound suitcase up five flights of stairs to Daniel’s room. A Sisyphean feat, given the fact that every couple of minutes we were pushed aside by the happy-go-lucky parents who got there early enough to use the elevator to haul their kids’ stuff up to their rooms, who said stupid things like “looks like you got your hands full” and “moving-in day-aren’t you glad to be rid of them!” And when we got to Daniel’s room-horror!-his roommate was already there and almost completely moved in. When the roommate’s mother saw us she didn’t even say hello; she was frantically unpacking and hoarding as much floor space as she could. Apparently the roommate had that syndrome where one leg is shorter than the other and had been given special dispensation to move in super-duper early-the 3-to-5 a.m. slot.
Me: William, just think of all the money we’re going to save now that the kids won’t be going to college so that we can avoid moving-in day.
Bobby: My only question is, why did we wait so long? We could have been this happy years ago. Our contractor told us that’s what all the people who get twin master suites say.
Linda: At least the roommate had the decency to seem embarrassed by the quantity of stuff he’d brought: a microwave, hot plate, fridge, a bike. We left Daniel’s suitcases in the hallway and told them we’d be back later.
Bobby: Pop over and I’ll give you a tour.
Linda: So we’re leaving and the roommate says, “Guess what? I have a sno-cone maker.” My heart sank. I’d bought Daniel a sno-cone maker, too. I read on some blog it was one of the top things you should bring to college to make you popular. Now they would have two sno-cone makers in one ten-by-ten room, which would be one sno-cone maker too many to make them popular. Instead people would be wondering what’s up with those tools in 507 with the two sno-cone makers? All those years of subtle social manipulation, making sure he got invited to the popular kids’ parties, making helpful suggestions like if you don’t feel comfortable “freaking” at the dance, just say it’s against your religion or that your parents forbid you to do it. That’s when I started to cry.
Me: What’s “freaking”?
Kate: Dry humping. Basically, simulating sex on the dance floor.
Bobby: I told her she should save the tears for later when all the parents said goodbye to their kids in the hallways-the one officially sanctioned location for farewells-but did she listen?
Linda: I cried then. I cried when we came back that evening and the roommate’s goddamn mother was still there organizing and rearranging knickknacks and I couldn’t in good conscience say what the fuck, lady to a mother whose kid’s left leg is three inches shorter than his right, and I cried once more in the hallway at the designated crying time.
Me: Isn’t it nice none of the children are here?
Linda (sobbing): And now I’m going to have to do it all over again in August with Nick. And then the kids are gone. We’ll officially be empty-nesters. I’m not sure I can bear it.
Bobby: I’ll bet there are services that will move your kid into college for you.
William: Great idea. Subcontract the job.
Nedra: No mother wants some stranger moving her kid into college, you bloody idiots.
Me: I’d love to hear more about the twin master suites. Do you have photos? Is this pink stuff gravlox?
Nedra: Lax. Lox is Jewish.
Me: How do you know?
Nedra: Hebfaq.com.
8:30: On the patio, eating dinner
Nedra: Believe it or not, there is such a thing as a good divorce.
Me: What makes a good divorce?
Nedra: You keep the house, I’ll keep the cabin in Tahoe. We’ll share the condo in Maui.
William: In other words, money.
Nedra: It helps.
Kate: And respect for one another. And wanting to do right by the kids. Not hiding assets.
William: In other words, trust.
Me (not looking at William): So tell us what it’s like, Linda-having two masters. How does it work?
Linda: We watch TV in his or my bedroom, we have our snuggle time, and it’s only when we’re ready to sleep that we each go to our suites.
Bobby: The suites are purely for sleep.
Linda: Sleep is so important.
Bobby: Lack of sleep leads to binge eating.
Linda: And memory loss.
Me: And repressed anger.
William: What about sex?
Linda: What do you mean, what about it?
Nedra: When do you have it?
Linda: When we normally have it.
Nedra: Which is when?
Bobby: Are you asking how often?
Nedra: I’ve always wondered how many times a week straight married couples have sex.
William: I imagine that has something to do with how long they’ve been married.
Nedra: That does not sound like an endorsement for marriage, William.
Me: What color did you paint the walls, Linda?
Nedra: A couple married for more than ten years-I’d guess once every two weeks.
Me: What about carpets? Can you believe shag is back in style?
Linda: Way more.
Me: Well-I’m not going to lie.
Linda: You’re saying I’m lying?
Me: I’m saying you might be stretching the truth.
William: Pass the Blåbärsplåt.
Me: Once a month.
William: (coughs)
9:38: In the kitchen, putting leftover food into Tupperware containers
Nedra: My forehead is shiny. I’m stuffed. I’m drunk. Put away your phone, Alice. I don’t want my photo taken.
Me: You’ll thank me one day.
Nedra: You do not have my permission to post this on Facebook. I have plenty of enemies. I would prefer they not know where I live.
Me: Calm down. It’s not like I’m posting your address.
Nedra (grabbing my phone out of my hand, her thumbs working the screen): It is like you’re posting my address. If your phone has a GPS, your photos have geotags embedded in them. Those tags provide the exact longitude and latitude of where the photo was taken. Most people don’t know that geotags even exist, which let me tell you has worked to many of my clients’ advantages. There. I’ve shut off the location services setting on your camera. Now you may take my picture.
Me: Forget it. You’ve taken all the fun out of it.
Nedra: So you were exaggerating, right? You have sex more than once a month.
Me (sighing): No, I was telling the truth. At least lately that’s how it is.
Nedra: It may feel like once a month, but I’m sure it’s more. Why don’t you keep track of it. There’s probably some phone app created just for that purpose.
Me: Have you seen the Why Am I Such a Bitch app? It’s free. Tells you what day you are in your cycle. There’s a version for men, too, only it’s $3.99. It’s the Why Is My Lady Such a Bitch app. And for $4.99 you can upgrade to the Never Ask Your Lady if She’s About to Get Her Period app.
Nedra: What does that do?
Me: It charges you $4.99 every time you’re stupid enough to ask your lady if she’s about to get her period.
Nedra (a look of horror on her face): What are you doing? Don’t toss the Blåbärsplåt!
10:46: Through the bathroom door
Me: Anybody in there?
William (opening door): No.
Me (shuffling from one side to the other, trying to get by William and into the bathroom): Pick a side, William. Left or right?
William: Alice?
Me: What? (trying to squish past him) I have to go to the bathroom.
William: Look at me.
Me: After I pee.
William: No, look at me now. Please.
Me (looking at the floor): Okay, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have told EVERYBODY we only have sex once a month.
William: I don’t care about that.
Me: You should care. That’s private information.
William: It doesn’t mean anything.
Me: It means something to me. Besides, it’s probably more than once a month. We should keep track of it.
William: It’s once a month lately.
Me: See-you care. (Pause.) Why are you looking at me like that? Say something. (Pause.) William, if you don’t move out of my way I’m going to have an accident. Now, left or right?
William (long pause): I loved that night in your office.
Me (longer pause): Me, too.
10:52: Wandering through the garden
Bobby: I sense you’re interested in the master suites idea.
Me: The lanterns are magical. It’s like Narnia back here.
Bobby: I can email you the name of my contractor.
Me: If we made two master suites out of our bedroom, we’d each be in a room the dimensions of a prison cell.
Bobby: It’s changed our lives. I’m not lying.
Me (touching his cheek with the palm of my hand): I’m happy for you, Bobby. I really am. But I don’t think separate bedrooms is going to fix us.
Bobby: I knew it! You guys are having problems.
Me: Do you think Aslan could be waiting for us on the other side of that hedge?
Bobby: Sorry. I didn’t mean to sound so enthusiastic about your struggles.
Me: I’m not struggling, Bobby. I’m waking up. This is me waking up (lying down on the grass).
Bobby (staring down at me): You waking up looks remarkably similar to you after five glasses of wine.
Me (gasp): Bobby B! There’s so many stars! When did there get to be so many stars? This is what happens when we forget to look up.
Bobby: Nobody’s called me Bobby B in a long time.
Me: Bobby B, are you crying?
11:48: Walking upstairs to our bedroom
Me: It would appear I’m a little drunk.
William: Take my arm.
Me: I suppose now would be a good time to have sex.
William: You’re more than a little drunk, Alice.
Me (slurring): Am I unbecomingly drunk or becomingly drunk?
William (escorting me into the bedroom): Get undressed.
Me: I don’t think I’m capable of that at the moment. You undress me. I’ll just close my eyes and have a little rest while you take advantage of me. That will still count, won’t it? In our monthly total? If I fall asleep while we’re doing it? Hopefully I won’t vomit.
William (unbuttoning my shirt and taking it off): Sit down, Alice.
Me: Wait, I’m unprepared. Give me a second to hold in my stomach.
William (sliding my pajama top over my head, pushing me back into the pillows, and covering me with a blanket): I’ve seen your stomach before. Besides, it’s completely dark.
Me: Well, since it’s completely dark you’re welcome to pretend I’m Angelina Jolie. Pax! Zahara! Eat your whole-wheat pasta or else. And all six of you scram out of the family bed-NOW! Hey, why don’t you be Brad?
William: I am not a role-playing sort of man.
Me (bolting up): I forgot to buy candles at Ikea. Now I have to go back. I hate Ikea.
William: Jesus, Alice. Go to sleep.
62
I wake in the late morning with a terrible headache. William’s side of the bed is empty. I check his Facebook status.
William Buckle
52,800 feet
One hour ago
Either he’s on his way to Paris or he’s gone for a ten-mile run. I lift my head from the pillow and the room tilts. I’m still drunk. Bad wife. Bad mother. I think about what embarrassing things I did last night at the potluck and cringe. Did I really try and pass Ikea meatballs off as my own? Did I really crawl through a hedge in Nedra’s garden looking for a portal into Narnia? Did I really admit to our friends that we have sex only once a month?
I fall back to sleep. Two hours later, I wake and weakly call out “Peter,” then “Caroline,” then “Zoe.” I can’t bring myself to call for William-I’m too humiliated, plus I don’t want to admit to him I’ve got a hangover. Finally, in desperation, I yell “Jampo” and am rewarded with the immediate frantic pitter-pat of tiny feet. He rushes into the bedroom and hurls himself up on the bed, panting at me as if to say “you are the only thing in this world I love, the only thing I care about, the one thing I live for.” Then he proceeds to pee all over the sheets in excitement.
“Bad boy, bad boy!” I shout but it’s useless, he can’t stop in midstream, so I just watch him dribble. His bottom lip has somehow gotten stuck on his teeth, giving him a pathetic, unintentional Elvis sort of sneer that could be read as hostility but I know is shame. “It’s all right,” I tell him. When he’s done, I drag myself out of bed, strip off my clothes, the duvet, sheets, and mattress cover, and make a mental list of things I will do today to set myself right.
1. Drink room-temperature water with lemon.
2. Knit a scarf. A long, thin scarf. No, a short, thin scarf. No, a coaster, i.e. an extremely short, short scarf.
3. Take Jampo on a brisk walk outside: 30 to 45 minutes minimum without sunglasses, perhaps in a low-cut V-neck, so I can fully absorb optimal daily dose of vitamin D through my retinas and the delicate skin at the tops of my breasts.
4. Plant lemon verbena in the yard so I can start drinking tisanes and feeling organic and cleansed and elegant (providing 1. lemon verbena is still alive after buying at Home Depot a month ago and then forgetting to water or repot AND 2. if able to dip head below waist without puking).
5. Laundry.
6. Make Bolognese sauce, simmer on the stove all day so the family comes home to homey smell of cooking.
7. Sing, or if I’m too nauseous to sing, watch The Sound of Music and pretend I am Liesl.
8. Remember what it felt like to be sixteen going on seventeen.
It’s a good to-do list-too bad I don’t do a thing on it. Instead, I make another mental list of things I absolutely should NOT do and proceed to knock off every single item:
1. Load the washer but forget to turn it on.
2. Eat eight bite-sized Reese’s peanut butter cups while telling myself they only add up to half of a regular-sized cup.
3. Eat eight more.
4. Put a bay leaf (because lemon verbena very clearly dead) in some boiling-hot water and force myself to drink entire mugful.
5. Feel great because I picked that bay leaf while taking a hike in Tilden Park and then dried it in the sun (okay, in the dryer, but I would have dried it in the sun if I hadn’t left it in the pocket of my fleece and then stuck it in the wash).
6. Feel really great because I am now officially a forager.
7. Contemplate a new career as a bay leaf forager/supplier to Bay Area’s best restaurants. Fantasize about being featured in the annual food issue of the New Yorker wearing a bandana on my head while holding a woven basket full of fresh bay leaves.
8. Google California bay leaf and discover it’s the Mediterranean bay leaf that is used for cooking and while the California bay leaf is not poisonous, ingestion is not recommended.
9. Go online and reread all the communication between me and Researcher 101 until I’ve read between all his lines and sucked every bit of titillation out of his words.
10. Exhausted, fall asleep on the chaise in the sun, Jampo curled up beside me.
“You smell like booze. It’s oozing out of your pores.”
I open my eyes slowly to see William looking down at me.
“It’s customary to give a person some warning when a person is sound asleep,” I say.
“A person shouldn’t be sound asleep at four in the afternoon,” William counters.
“Would now be a good time to tell you I’d like to change schools and enroll at the Pacific Boychoir Academy in the fall?” asks Peter, he and Zoe strolling out onto the deck.
I raise my eyebrows at William, giving him my see-I-told-you-our-son-was-gay look.
“Since when do you like to sing?” asks William.
“Are you getting bullied?” I ask, cortisol flooding through my body at the thought of him being picked on.
“God, Mom, you stink,” says Zoe. She waves her hand at me.
“Yes, your father already informed me of that. Where have you been all day?”
“Zoe and I hung out on Telegraph Avenue,” says Peter.
“Telegraph Avenue? The two of you? Together?”
Zoe and Peter exchange a furtive look. Zoe shrugs. “So.”
“So-it’s not safe there,” I say.
“Why, because of all the homeless people?” asks Zoe. “I’ll have you know our generation is post-homeless.”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“It means we’re not afraid of them. We’ve been brought up to look homeless people in the eye.”
“And help them panhandle,” adds Peter.
“And where were you while our children were begging on Telegraph Avenue?” I ask William.
“It’s not my fault. I dropped them off at Market Hall in Rockridge. They took the bus to Berkeley,” says William.
“Pedro sang ‘Ode to Joy’ in German. We made some guy twenty bucks!” says Zoe.
“You know ‘Ode to Joy’?” I ask.
“There’s a ‘You Can Sing Ludwig von Beethoven in German’ channel on YouTube,” says Peter.
“William, should I start with the potatoes?” Caroline shouts from the kitchen.
“I’ll help,” I say, hauling myself out of the chaise.
“No need. Stay here. We’ve got it under control,” says William, disappearing into the house.
As I watch everyone bustling around the kitchen, it occurs to me that Sunday afternoon is the loneliest time of the week. With a sigh, I open my laptop.
John Yossarian
likes Sweden
3 hours ago
Lucy Pevensie
Is in need of her magic cordial but seems to have misplaced it.
3 hours ago
There you are. Have you looked under the backseat of the car, Wife 22?
No, but I looked under the backseat of the White Witch’s sled.
What does the cordial do?
Heals all illnesses.
Ah-of course. Are you ill?
I have a hangover.
I’m sorry to hear that.
Are you of Swedish descent?
I can’t divulge that information.
Well, can you tell me what you like about Sweden?
Its neutrality. It’s a safe place to wait out a war, if one is in a war, that is.
Are you in a war?
Possibly.
How can somebody “possibly” be in a war? Wouldn’t it be obvious?
War is not always obvious, particularly when one is in a war with oneself.
What kind of war does one typically have with oneself?
A war in which one side of him thinks he may be crossing a line, and the other side of him thinks it’s a line that was begging to be crossed.
Researcher 101? Are you calling me a beggar?
Absolutely not, Wife 22.
Well, are you calling me a line?
Perhaps.
A line you are in the process of stepping over?
Tell me to stop.
Wife 22?
You’re Swedish.
What makes you think that?
Based on the fact that you use the word “ah” sometimes.
I’m not Swedish.
Okay, you’re Canadian.
Better.
You grew up on a cattle ranch in Southern Alberta. You learned to ride when you were three; home-schooled in the mornings with your four siblings, afternoons spent poaching cows with the Hutterite children who lived in the Colony next door.
How I miss my friends, the Hutterites.
You were the oldest, so much was expected out of you, not the least of which was to grow up and run the ranch. Instead you went to college in New York and only came home once a year to help with branding. An event to which you brought all your girlfriends to impress and shock the hell out of them. Also so they could see how good you look in chaps.
I still have those chaps.
Your wife fell in love with you when she saw you mount a horse.
Are you psychic?
You’ve been married a long time. It could be she is no longer as interested in seeing you mount a horse, although I would imagine that would never get old.
You’ll get no disagreement from me on that.
You are not: pasty, a gamer, a golfer, a dullard, somebody who corrects other people’s malapropisms, somebody who despises dogs.
No disagreement there either.
Don’t stop.
Don’t stop what, Wife 22?
Crossing my line.
63
67. To want the people you love to be happy. To look homeless people in the eye. To not want what you don’t have. What you can’t have. What you shouldn’t have. To not text while driving. To control your appetite. To want to be where you are.
68. Once I got past the morning sickness with Zoe, I loved being pregnant. It changed the dynamics between William and me utterly. I let myself be vulnerable and he let himself be the protector, and every day this stunned, primal, bumper-stickerish voice inside of me whispered this is the way it should be. This is how you were meant to live. This is what your whole life has been for. William was gallant. He opened doors and jars of spaghetti sauce. He heated up the car before I got in and held my elbow as we navigated rainy sidewalks. We were whole, the three of us, a trinity way before Zoe was born-I could have happily stayed pregnant for years.
And then Zoe arrived, a colicky, drooling, aggressively unhappy baby. William fled to the sanity of the office each day. I stayed home on maternity leave and divided hours into fifteen-minute increments: breastfeed, burp, lie on couch with screaming baby, attempt to sing screaming baby to sleep.
This was when I felt the loss of my mother most acutely. She never would have let me go through those disorienting early months alone. She would have moved right in and taught me the things a mother teaches her daughter: how to give a baby a bath, how to get rid of cradle cap, how long you should stay mad at your husband when he straps your baby into the swing haphazardly and she slides out.
And most importantly, my mother would have filled me in about time. She would have said, “Honey, it’s a paradox. For the first half of your life each minute feels like a year, but for the second half, each year feels like a minute.” She would have assured me this was normal and it would do no good to fight it. That’s the price we pay for the privilege of growing old.
My mother never got that privilege.
Eleven months later, I woke one morning and the disorientation was gone. I picked my baby up out of her crib, she made the sweetest dolphin squeal, and I fell instantly in love.
69. Dear Zoe,
Here is the story of the beginning of your life. It can be summed up in one sentence. I loved you and then I got really scared and then I loved you more than I ever thought it was possible for one person to love another. I think we are not so dissimilar, although I’m sure it feels like we are right now.
Things you may not know or remember:
1. You have always been a trendsetter. When you were two, you stood up on Santa’s lap and belted out “Do, a Deer” to the hundred irritated people who had been standing in line for an hour. Everybody started singing with you. You were flash-mobbing before anybody even knew what flash-mobbing was.
2. The first vacation your father and I took without you kids was to Costa Rica. You know how some girls go through a horse stage? Well, you were going through a primate stage. You convinced yourself I’d agreed to bring you home a white-faced capuchin. When we returned and I gave you your gift, a stuffed chimp named Milo, you said thank you very much, then went into your room, opened your window, and threw it into the branches of the redwood tree in the backyard, where to this day it still lives. Occasionally, when there’s a big storm, and the tree sways from side to side, I get a glimpse of Milo’s face, his faded red mouth smiling sadly at me.
3. Often I wish I were more like you.
Zoe, my baby-I am in the still-in-your-camp-even-though-you-can-barely-stand-to-look-at-me-most-of-the-time-right-now stage. It’s difficult, but I’m muddling through. Soy venti lattes help the time pass, as does watching Gone with the Wind.
Your loving Mama
64
John Yossarian changed his profile picture
Do you like walking in circles, Researcher 101?
Sometimes walking in circles can be very helpful.
I suppose-as long as the circle walking is intentional.
I’ve been imagining what you look like, Wife 22.
I can’t divulge that information; however, I can tell you I’m not a Hutterite.
You have chestnut-colored hair.
I do?
Yes, but you would likely describe it as mouse brown because you tend to underestimate yourself, but you have the kind of hair women envy.
That’s why I always get such dirty looks.
Eyes, brown as well. Possibly hazel.
Or possibly blue. Or possibly green.
You’re pretty, and I mean this as a compliment. Pretty is what lies between beautiful and plain, and in my experience pretty is the best place to be.
I think I’d rather be beautiful.
Beautiful makes evolving into any sort of a person with morals and character very difficult.
I think I’d rather be plain.
Plain-what can I say about that? So much of life is a lottery.
So you think of me when we’re not chatting online?
Yes.
In your regular life? Your civilian life?
Frequently I’ll find myself in the middle of doing something mundane, emptying the dishwasher or listening to the radio, and something you said will pop into my head and I’ll get this amused look on my face and my wife will ask me what’s so funny.
What do you tell her?
That I met this woman online.
You do not.
No, but soon I may have to.
65
Kelly Cho
Loves being in charge.
5 minutes ago
Caroline Kilborn
Is full.
32 minutes ago
Phil Archer
Cleaning house.
52 minutes ago
William Buckle
Gimme Shelter
3 hours ago
“Could you please stop checking Facebook, Alice? For one bloody minute?” asks Nedra.
I set my phone on vibrate and slip it into my purse.
“So, as I was just saying but will repeat for your benefit-I have some big news. I’m going to ask Kate to marry me.”
Nedra and I are browsing in a jewelry store on College Ave.
“And what’s your opinion on moonstones?” she adds.
“Oh, dear,” I say.
“Did you hear what I just said?”
“I heard.”
“And all you have to say is ‘Oh, dear’? May I see that one, please,” says Nedra, pointing to an oval moonstone set in eighteen-karat gold.
The saleswoman hands it to her and she slips it on her finger.
“Let me see,” I say, grabbing her arm. “I don’t get it. Is there something about moonstones and lesbians? Some Sapphic thing that I’m missing?”
“For God’s sake,” says Nedra. “Why am I asking you? You have no taste in jewelry. In fact, you never wear jewelry and you really should, darling. It would perk you up a bit.” She studies my face worriedly. “Still having insomnia?”
“I’m going for the French no-makeup look.”
“I’m sorry to tell you, but the French no-makeup look only works in France. The light is different there. Kinder. American light is so crude.”
“Why do you want to get married now? You’ve been together thirteen years. You never wanted to get married before. What’s changed?”
Nedra shrugs. “I’m not sure. We just woke up one morning and solidifying our relationship felt right. It’s the strangest thing. I don’t know if it’s my age or something-the big five-oh looming. But suddenly I want tradition.”
“The big five-oh is not looming. You won’t be fifty for another nine years. Besides, things are great with you and Kate. If you get married you’ll be all screwed up like the rest of us.”
“Does this mean you don’t want to be my maid of honor?”
“You’re going to do the whole thing? Bridesmaids, too?” I say.
“You and William are screwed up? Since when?”
“We’re not screwed up. We’re just-distant. It’s been incredibly stressful. Him losing his job.”
“Mmm. Can I try that one?” Nedra asks the saleswoman, gesturing to a marquise-cut diamond ring.
She puts it on her finger, extends her arm, and admires her hand.
“It’s a bit Cinderella-ey, but I like it. The question is, will Kate? Alice, you’re in a rather bad mood today. Let’s forget we ever had this conversation. Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to call you tomorrow. You’re going to say, ‘Hello, Nedra, what’s new?’ I’m going to say, ‘I have news; I’ve asked Kate to marry me!’ You’re going to say, ‘Goodness-about time! When can we go out shopping for dresses? And can I accompany you to the cake tasting?’ ” Nedra hands the ring back to the saleswoman. “Too flashy. I need something more subtle. I’m a divorce lawyer.”
“Yes, and it would look unseemly for her wife to be sporting a two-carat diamond engagement ring. Bought on the proceeds of other people’s failed marriages,” I say.
Nedra gives me a dirty look.
“Sorry,” I say.
“Look, Alice, it’s as simple as this. I’ve found the person I want to spend the rest of my life with. And she’s passed the spectacular test.”
“The spectacular test?”
“When I first met Kate she was spectacular. And a decade later she is still the most spectacular woman I’ve ever known. Besides you, of course. Don’t you feel that way about William?”
I want to feel that way about William.
“Well, why shouldn’t I have what you have?” Nedra asks.
“You should. Of course you should. It’s just that everything in your life is changing so fast. I can’t keep up. And now you’re getting married.”
“Alice.” Nedra puts her arm around me. “This isn’t going to change anything between us. We’ll always be best friends. I hate married people who say ridiculous things like ‘I married my best friend.’ Is there any clearer path to a sexless marriage? That won’t be me. I am marrying my lover.”
“I’m so happy for you,” I squeak. “And your lu-va. It’s just super-terrific news.”
Nedra frowns. “Things will get better with William. You’re just going through a rough patch. Ride it out, darling. Good things are ahead. I promise you. Let me ask you something. Why don’t you want to be my maid of honor? Is it the word maid you object to?”
No. I have absolutely no problem with maid. It’s the word honor. Honor is something I said goodbye to in my last two chats with Researcher 101.
“May I see the emerald ring?” asks Nedra.
“Lovely choice. Emeralds are a symbol of hope and faith,” says the saleswoman, handing her the ring.
“Ah-” says Nedra. “It’s bloody gorgeous. Here, Alice, try it on.”
She slides the ring onto my finger.
“That looks stunning on you,” says the saleswoman.
“What do you think?” Nedra asks.
I think the gleaming green stone looks like it was flown by hot-air balloon directly from Oz to Oakland, and it’s the perfect symbol of Nedra’s sparkling life.
“Spectacular Kate will love it,” I sniff.
“But do you love it?” asks Nedra.
“Why does it matter if I love it?”
Nedra pulls the ring off my finger and hands it back to the saleswoman with a sigh.
Watching my best friend read my private emails and Facebook chats is not typically an activity I indulge in. But for the last half hour, that’s precisely what I’ve been doing. I’ve finally confided in Nedra about Researcher 101 and judging by the look of contempt on her face, I’m starting to think this was a very bad idea.
Nedra flings my cellphone across the kitchen table.
“I can’t believe you.”
“What?”
“What the hell are you doing, Alice?”
“I can’t help it. You read them. Our chats are like a drug. I’m addicted.”
“He is witty, I’ll give him that, but you’re married! Married as in ‘I will love you and only you until the end of my days.’ ”
“I know. I’m a terrible wife. That’s why I told you. You have to tell me what to do.”
“Well, that’s easy. You have to sever all ties with him. Nothing’s happened yet. You haven’t crossed any line except in your mind. Just stop chatting with him.”
“I can’t just stop,” I say, horrified. “He’ll worry. He’ll think something’s happened to me.”
“Something has happened to you. You’ve come to your senses, Alice. Right now. Today.”
“I don’t think I can do that. Just quit the study without saying anything.”
“You must,” says Nedra. “Now, I’m not a prude, you know that. I think a little bit of flirting is good for a marriage, as long as you redirect that sexual energy back into your relationship, but you’ve gone way beyond the flirting stage.”
She picks up my phone and scrolls through my chats. “ ‘A war in which one side of him thinks he may be crossing a line, and the other side of him thinks it’s a line that was begging to be crossed.’ Alice, this isn’t innocent anymore.”
Hearing her read Researcher 101’s words out loud makes me shudder-
in a good way. And although I know Nedra is absolutely right, I also know I’m not capable of letting him go. At least not yet. Not without a proper goodbye. Or finding out his intentions-if he has intentions, that is.
“You’re right,” I lie. “You’re absolutely right.”
“Good,” says Nedra, softening. “So you’ll stop chatting with him? You’ll quit the study?”
“Yes,” I say, my eyes filling with tears.
“Oh, Alice, come on, it can’t be that bad.”
“It’s just that I was lonely. I didn’t realize how lonely I was until we started emailing. He listens to me. He asks me things. Important things, and what I say matters,” I say, suddenly sobbing.
Nedra reaches across the table and takes my hand. “Darling, here are the facts. Yes, William is an idiot sometimes. Yes, he’s flawed. Yes, the two of you may be going through a dry spell. But this-” she picks up my phone and shakes it. “This isn’t real. You know that, don’t you?”
I nod.
“So do you want me to refer you to a great couples counselor? She’s wonderful. She’s actually helped some of my clients get back together.”
“You send your clients to a couples counselor?”
“When I think there’s something worth saving, yes.”
Later that afternoon, when I’m sitting in the school bleachers pretending I’m watching Zoe play volleyball (every five minutes I shout out “Go Trojans,” and she glances up in the bleachers and gives me a withering look), I think about William and me. Some of the blame for my emotional straying has to fall on him; his being so uncommunicative. I want to be with somebody who listens to me. Who says, Start from the beginning, tell me everything, and don’t leave out a thing.
“Hi, Alice.” Jude plops down beside me. “Zo’s playing well.”
I watch him watching Zoe and can’t help but feel a little jealous. It’s been so long since I’ve been gazed at like that. I remember the feeling as a teenager. The absolute surety that the boy was not in control of his gaze-that I was, simply by existing. No words needed to be spoken. A gaze like that needed no translation. Its meaning was obvious. I can’t stop looking at you, I wish I could but I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.
“You’ve got to stop stalking her, Jude.”
“Tic Tac?” He shakes three mints into the palm of my hand. “I can’t help it,” he says.
Didn’t I just say the same thing to his mother not more than an hour ago?
“Jude, sweetheart, I’ve known you since you were a toddler, so trust me that this is said with love. Move the hell on.”
“I wish I could,” he says.
Zoe looks up into the bleachers and her mouth drops open when she sees the two of us together.
I leap to my feet. “Go Trojans! Go Zoe! Nice spike!” I shout.
“She’s a setter, not a spiker,” says Jude.
“Nice set, Zoe!” I shout, sitting down.
Jude snorts.
“She’s going to kill me,” I say.
“Yep,” says Jude, as Zoe’s cheeks flush pink with embarrassment.
“I have news,” I say to William that evening.
“Hold on, I’m just finishing the onions. Did you prep the carrots, Caroline?” asks William.
“I forgot,” says Caroline, hustling to the refrigerator. “Do you want them julienned or diced?”
“Diced. Alice, please get out of the way. You’re blocking the sink.”
“I have news,” I repeat. “About Nedra and Kate.”
“There’s nothing like the smell of caramelized onions,” says William, sticking the pan under Caroline’s nose.
“Mmmm,” she says.
I think about the way Jude looked at Zoe. With such longing. With such desire. The same exact way my husband is looking at a pile of limp onions.
“How much tarragon?” asks William.
“Two teaspoons, a tablespoon? I forgot,” says Caroline. “Although it might not be tarragon. It might be marjoram. Look on Epicurious.”
I sigh and grab my laptop. William glances at me. “Don’t go. I want to hear your news. I just have to check the recipe.”
I give him an exaggerated thumbs-up and walk into the living room.
I log on to Lucy’s Facebook page. Researcher 101 is online. I look up at William. He’s busy, frowning at his iPhone.
“Is it tarragon or marjoram?” asks Caroline.
“Hold on,” says William. “I can’t find the recipe on Epicurious. Was it Food.com?”
I click on Chat and quickly type:
What’s happening?
It takes Researcher 101 just a few seconds to respond:
Besides our brains being flooded with phenylethylamine?
I shudder. Researcher 101’s voice sounds remarkably similar to George Clooney’s-at least in my head. I write:
Should we put a stop to this?
No.
Should I ask that my case be transferred to another researcher?
Absolutely not.
Have you ever flirted like this with another of your subjects?
I have never flirted with another woman besides my wife.
Jesus! I feel a sudden pulsing heat in my groin and I cross my legs as if to hide it, as if somebody could see.
“Did you find it?” asks Caroline.
“Food.com. Two teaspoons of tarragon,” replies William, waving his phone at her. “You were right.”
I sit there on the couch, trying to persuade my heart rate to go back to its resting state. I breathe though my mouth. Is this what it feels like to have a panic attack? William looks at me from across the room.
“So what’s your news, Alice?” he asks.
“Nedra and Kate are getting married.”
“Are they?”
“You don’t sound surprised.”
He pauses and smiles. “I’m only surprised it took them this long.”
66
70. That sometimes, when I’m alone and in a place where nobody knows me, I speak with a pretend British accent.
71. Worry. Ask Peter when’s the last time he flossed. Fight off the urge to push the hair out of Zoe’s eyes so I can see her pretty face.
72. How stunning it would be to see his features in my children’s faces.
67
John Yossarian changed his profile picture
It’s my 20th anniversary tomorrow.
And how are you feeling about that, Wife 22?
Ambivalent.
I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for this to happen.
“This” meaning me?
I remember when I first went to college. It was in a city. I won’t say where. But I remember after I had said goodbye to my parents, I walked down the streets feeling exhilarated that nobody knew me. For the first time in my life I was completely disconnected from everybody I loved.
I remember that feeling, too. I found the disconnection terrifying.
You realize future generations will never experience this. We are reachable every minute of the day.
And your point is?
Your reachability is highly addictive, Wife 22.
Is that your hand in your new profile photo?
Yes.
Why did you post a photo of your hand?
Because I wanted you to imagine it on the back of your neck.
68
“We have to get potstickers,” says Peter.
“We always get potstickers. Let’s get lettuce wraps,” says Zoe. “The vegetarian ones.”
“Are you guys sure you’re okay with us crashing your anniversary dinner?” asks Caroline. “It’s not very romantic.”
“Alice and I have had twenty years to be romantic,” William says. “Besides, it’s nice to go out and celebrate. Did you know the traditional wedding gift for the twentieth anniversary is china? That’s why I made the reservation at P.F. Chang’s.” He taps his finger on the menu. “Cheng-du Spiced Lamb. China.”
China, yes. This morning I gave William a commemorative photo plate that I ordered back in December. The photo was taken of us twenty years ago standing in front of Fenway Park. He’s behind me, his arms draped around my neck. We look breathtakingly young. I’m not sure he liked the gift. The plate came with a display easel, but he just stuffed it back into the box.
William looks around the dining room stiffly. “Where’s the waiter? I need a drink.”
“So, twenty years,” says Zoe. “What’s it like?”
“Oh, Zoe, what kind of a question is that?” I say.
“The kind you’re supposed to ask on an anniversary. A serious kind. A taking-stock kind,” she says.
What were we thinking asking them to come to our anniversary dinner? If it was just William and me we’d talk about safe subjects like the bond market, or the sticky garage door. Instead we’re going to be interrogated as to how we feel about our marriage.
“What’s it like how?” asks William. “You must be more specific, Zoe. I hate the way your generation asks such vague questions. You expect everybody else to do all the work, including clarifying what you meant to ask in the first place.”
“Shit, Dad,” says Peter. “She was just asking to be nice.”
“Peter Buckle-this is our anniversary dinner. I would appreciate it if you didn’t say shit,” I say.
“Well, what am I allowed to say?”
“ ‘Dang.’ ‘Rats.’ Or how about ‘bananas’?” I suggest.
“As in, Bananas, Dad? She was just asking to be nice?” says Peter. “Are you bananas?”
William nods at me from across the table and for a moment I feel united. Which causes me even more duress as I think of Researcher 101 asking me to imagine his hand on the back of my neck.
“How about I take Peter and Zoe to California Pizza Kitchen?” asks Caroline. “We can meet up with you afterwards. What kind of food are you in the mood for, Zoe?” Caroline raises her eyebrows at me. She and I are still debating as to whether Zoe has an eating disorder.
“Vegetarian lettuce wraps,” says Zoe, shooting William a questioning look.
“It’s okay. I want you all to stay,” I say. “And your father does, too. Right, William?”
“Alice, would you like your present now or later?” William says.
“I thought P.F. Chang’s was my present.”
“It’s only part one of your present. Zoe?” says William.
Zoe rummages around in her purse and pulls out a smallish rectangular package wrapped in dark green paper.
“Did you know that emerald is the official twentieth-anniversary color?” asks William.
Emerald? I flash back to the day in the jewelry store with Nedra. Her making me try on that emerald ring. Oh, God. Had William solicited her to help him pick out a ring for our twentieth anniversary? An emerald ring like the one that belonged to my mother that I threw out the car window the week before we got married?
Zoe hands me the package. “Open it,” she says.
I stare at William, shocked. His gifts are usually last minute, like fancy jams or a gift certificate for a pedicure. Last year, he gave me a book of forever stamps.
“Now?” I ask. “Wouldn’t it be better to wait until we’re home? Anniversary gifts are kind of private, aren’t they?”
“Just open it, Mom,” says Peter. “We all know what it is.”
“You do? You told them?”
“I had some help with this one,” he admits.
I shake the package. “We’re on a budget. I hope you didn’t do anything crazy.” But I really, really hope he did.
I rip open the paper excitedly to reveal a white cardboard box that says Kindle.
“Wow,” I say.
“Isn’t it cool?” says Peter, grabbing the box out of my hands. “Look, the box opens like a book. And Dad preloaded it for you.”
“I ordered it a month ago,” says William, by which he means I want you to know I put some thought into this.
“He got you The Stand. Said it was your favorite book when you were in high school. And the Twilight series-apparently many mothers are into the books,” says Zoe. “I think it’s gross, but whatever.” She looks at me suspiciously, as a fifteen-year-old daughter is apt to look at her mother. I nod as innocently as possible while simultaneously trying to look delighted.
“The latest Miranda July, You Are She Who Knows Something I Used To but Forgot,” says Zoe, “or something like that. You’ll love her. She’s awesome.”
“And Pride and Prejudice,” says Peter.
“Wow,” I say. “Just wow. I’ve never read Pride and Prejudice. This is so unexpected.”
I put the Kindle back in its box carefully.
“You’re disappointed,” says William.
“No, of course not! I just don’t want to scratch it. It’s a very thoughtful gift.”
I glance around the table. Everything seems out of plumb. Who is this man? I barely recognize him. His face is lean because of all the running. His jaw firm. He hasn’t shaved in days and he’s sporting a light stubble. If I didn’t know him, I’d think he was hot. I reach across the table and pat William’s arm awkwardly.
“That means she loves it,” translates Peter.
I look down at the menu. “I do,” I say. “I really do.”
“Great,” says William.
“I was twelve when I started to work,” says Caroline. “After school I’d sweep the theater while Mom was in rehearsals.”
“Hear that, kiddos?” I say, spooning a second helping of Kung Pao chicken onto my plate. “She was twelve. That’s the way they do it in Maine. You kids need to contribute. You need to get a job. Raking lawns. Delivering newspapers. Babysitting.”
“We’re okay,” says William.
“Well, actually we’re kind of not,” I say. “Pass the chow mein, please.”
“Should I be scared? Is this something I should be scared about? I have fifty-three dollars in my savings account. Birthday money. You can have it,” says Peter.
“Nobody has to give up their birthday money,” says William. “We all just have to be more frugal.”
I look at my Kindle guiltily.
“Starting tomorrow,” says William. He raises his glass. “To twenty years,” he toasts.
Everybody raises his or her glass but me. I’d already pounded down my Asian pear mojito.
“I only have water,” I say.
“So toast with your water,” says William.
“Isn’t it considered bad luck to toast with water?”
“If you’re in the Coast Guard,” says William.
I raise my water glass and say what’s expected. “To twenty more.”
Zoe studies my conflicted face. “You’ve answered my question about what twenty years of marriage is like.”
She looks at William. “And without any further clarification from me.”
An hour later, back at home, William sinks into his chair with a sigh, remote control in hand, and then leaps to his feet. “Alice!” he shouts, his hand on his ass.
I look at where he’s been sitting. There’s a huge wet stain on the cushion. Oh, Jampo!
“I dropped a glass of water this afternoon,” I say.
William smells his fingers. “It’s piss.”
Jampo comes running into the living room and jumps on my lap. He buries his head in my armpit. “He can’t help it. He’s just a puppy,” I say.
“He’s two years old!” shouts William.
“Twenty-four months. No child is toilet-trained at twenty-four months. He didn’t do it on purpose.”
“He most certainly did,” William says. “First my pillow and now my chair. He knows all my places.”
“You’re being ridiculous,” I say.
Jampo peeks out of my armpit and growls at William.
“Bad boy,” I whisper.
He growls some more. I feel like we’re in a cartoon. I can’t help it. I start to laugh. William looks at me in shock.
“I can’t believe you’re laughing.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m really sorry,” I say, still laughing.
He glares at me.
“Think I’ll go to bed now,” I say, tucking Jampo under my arm.
“You’re bringing him with you?”
“Only until you come to bed and then I’ll kick him out,” I say. “I promise.”
I wave my Kindle at him.
“What are you going to read first?” William asks.
“The Stand. I can’t believe you remembered how much I loved it. I want to see if it’s as good as it was when I first read it.”
“You’re setting yourself up for disappointment,” says William. “I suggest you don’t hold it to the same standard.”
“What-I should make a new standard?”
“You’re not seventeen. The things that were relevant then aren’t anymore.”
“I disagree. If it was gripping then, it should be gripping now. That’s how you know something is a classic. A keeper.”
William shrugs. “The dog’s ruined my chair.”
“It’s just pee.”
“It’s soaked through the entire cushion and into the frame.”
I sigh. “Happy anniversary, William.”
“Twenty years. That’s something, Alice.”
William pushes the hair back from his eyes, a gesture I know so well, and for a moment I see the young man that he was, the day I first met him, when I was interviewing for the job. Everything is colliding, past and present and future. I grip Jampo so tightly he squeals. I want to say something to William. Something so he knows to reach out and pull me back from the edge.
“Don’t be too long.”
“I won’t,” says William, the remote control back in his hand.
That night he sleeps on the couch.
69
John Yossarian added Games
Clue
Lucy Pevensie added Lives in
Spare Oom
How was your anniversary, Wife 22?
Confusing.
Is that my fault?
Yes.
What can I do?
Tell me your name.
I can’t.
I imagine you have an old-fashioned sort of name. Like Charles or James. Or maybe something a bit more modern, like Walker.
You do realize everything changes once we know each other’s names. It’s easy to reveal our true selves to strangers. Far harder to reveal those truths to those we know.
Tell me your name.
Not yet.
When?
Soon-I promise.
70
73. Yes, it was different with Peter. After the delivery, after I had slept for a few hours, they brought him to me. It was the middle of the night. William had gone home to be with Zoe.
I peeled back the swaddling blanket. He was one of those babies who looked like a grizzled old man, by which I mean he was the most beautiful baby I had ever seen (although the size of his forehead worried me).
“I already hate his wife,” I told the nurse.
74. Bliss. Exhaustion. Coming-home party. Too tired to clean. Too tired to have sex. Too tired to greet William when he comes in the door after work. Zoe tries to smother Peter. Peter adores Zoe even though daily she thinks of inventive new ways to try and knock him off. Forty-plus diapers a week. Is three years old too young for a sister to change her baby brother’s diaper? Afternoons on the couch, Peter sleeping on my stomach. Zoe watching inappropriate TV for four hours. Fight with husband over whether Oprah inappropriate TV. Shirts soaked in spit-up. Family of three, hours of 6 a.m. to 7 p.m. Family of four, hours of 7 p.m. to 10 p.m. Family of two (me and Peter), hours of 10 p.m. to 6 a.m. Don’t worry, say all the books. Distance between you and husband is only temporary. Once baby is four months old, sleeping through the night, eating solids, a year old, past the terrible twos, in kindergarten, reading, getting more pee in the toilet than on the floor, recovered from the poison oak that got everywhere including under his foreskin, has learned to do the backstroke, had his tetanus shot, stopped biting girls, is capable of putting on his socks, no longer lies to you about brushing his teeth, no longer requires lullabies, goes to middle school, enters puberty, comes out as a proud gay tween-then you and William will get back to normal. Then the distance will miraculously disappear.
75. Dear Peter,
The truth-I was upset when I found out you were going to be a boy. Mostly because I had no idea how to mother a boy. I thought it would be much more difficult than being a mother to a girl because of course I knew all about being a girl due to the fact that I was one. Actually still am. The girl inside me lives. I think you’ve seen her from time to time. She’s the one who understands the pleasure of a good nose pick-just do it in private, please, and wash your hands afterward.
Some things you might not know or remember:
1. When you were two and had a horrible ear infection and wouldn’t stop crying, I was so distraught at seeing you in pain that I climbed into your crib and held you until you fell asleep. You didn’t wake for ten hours, not even when the crib broke.
2. When you were three, you had only two things on your Christmas list: a potato and a carrot.
3. Funny thing you once said upon me giving you ravioli with butter for dinner (we’d run out of tomato sauce): I can’t eat this. This ravioli has no heart.
4. Unanswerable thing you once said while helping me fold laundry: Where was I when you were a little girl?
5. Thing you said that broke my heart: Even when I die I’ll still be your boy.
It has given me unbelievable pleasure to be your mother. You are my funniest, dearest, brightest star.
Your loving Mama
76. First part of question: I don’t know; second part of question: to some degree.
71
“Oh, darling, this is nice. Isn’t this nice? Why don’t we do this more often?” asks Nedra.
Nedra is taking me to the M.A.C store on 4th Street in Berkeley to buy makeup, her treat. She says she’s tried to adjust to my French no-makeup look, but after weeks of me bearing no increasing resemblance to Marion Cotillard (Marie Curie, maybe), something must be done. I don’t bother telling Nedra that I’ll wear the makeup for two days, maybe three, and then forget about it. She knows this is the case, but it doesn’t matter to her. The real reason she’s taking me is to guilt me into being her maid of honor. I’m sure we’ll find our way over to Anthropologie, where I’ll be forced to try on dresses.
It’s right after rush hour and the streets are still busy. As we pull up to the intersection of University and San Pablo, I see two kids standing in the median holding up a sign scrawled on a piece of cardboard.
“That’s so sad,” I say, trying to read the sign, but we’re too far away. “Can you read that, Nedra?”
She squints. “I really wish you would get some reading glasses. I’m tired of being your interpreter. Father lost job. Please help. Songs for free. Requests taken. Oh, Jesus, God, Alice, don’t freak out,” she says as we pull closer and those two kids metamorphose into Peter and Zoe.
I inhale sharply and roll down the window. Peter is singing Neil Young’s “After the Gold Rush.” The driver of a Toyota three cars in front of me holds out a five-dollar bill. “You got a nice voice, kid,” I hear him say. “Sorry about your dad.”
Despite my confusion, the sound of Peter’s angelic voice makes me want to cry. He does have a nice voice. He didn’t get that from William or me.
I stick my head out the car window. “What the hell are you doing?”
They stare at me in total shock.
“Leave ’em alone, lady. Better yet, give them a twenty,” yells the woman in the car behind me. “You look like you can afford it.”
I’m sitting in the passenger seat of Nedra’s Lexus. “This isn’t my car,” I yell back at her. “For your information, I drive a Ford!”
“You told us to find work,” yells Zoe.
“Babysitting!”
“It’s a recession, in case you haven’t heard. Unemployment is twelve percent. There’s no applying for jobs anymore. You have to invent them,” yells Zoe.
“She’s right,” says Nedra.
“This is an awesome spot,” adds Peter. “We’ve already made over a hundred dollars.”
We pull up next to them and stop. The light turns green and the air buzzes with angry horns. I stick my hand out the window and wave the cars on.
“A hundred dollars for whom? You’re donating that money to a food shelter. I couldn’t be more embarrassed,” I hiss.
And terrified-some lunatic could have coaxed them into his car. For all their grown-up posturing, Peter and Zoe are both sheltered, naïve kids. A refresher course on stranger danger is in order.
“You enterprising little things,” says Nedra. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”
“Get in the car,” I say. “RIGHT NOW.”
Zoe looks at her watch. She’s wearing a vintage Pucci dress and ballet flats. “Our shift doesn’t end until noon.”
“What, you punched in for panhandling?” I say.
“It’s important to have structure and keep regular hours,” says Peter. “I read that in Dad’s book: 100 Ways to Motivate Yourself: Change Your Life Forever.”
“Climb in, kids,” says Nedra. “Do as your mother says or I’ll have to look at her pale, blotchy face forever and that will be your fault.”
Peter and Zoe climb into the backseat.
“You don’t smell homeless,” says Nedra.
“Homeless people can’t help the way they smell,” says Peter. “It’s not like they can knock on somebody’s door and ask to take a shower.”
“That’s very compassionate of you,” says Nedra.
“That was fun, Pedro,” says Zoe, bumping fists with Peter.
I knew the day would come when I’d lose Peter to Zoe, when they’d begin to confide in one another and keep each other’s secrets, but I had no idea it would happen this soon or like this.
“Can we please go home?” I say.
Nedra keeps driving up San Pablo.
“Is anybody listening to me?” I cry.
Nedra takes a left onto Hearst and a few minutes later parks on 4th Street. She turns around. “Get lost, darlings. Meet us back here at one.”
“You look tired, Mom.” Peter pokes his head into the front seat.
“Yeah, what’s up with the dark circles?” asks Zoe.
“I’m going to take care of that,” says Nedra. “Now scram, you two.”
“It’s not like you caught them smoking crack,” says Nedra, as we’re walking into M.A.C.
“You sided with them. Why do you always have to be the cool one?”
“Alice, what’s wrong?”
I shake my head.
“What?” she repeats.
“Everything,” I say. “You wouldn’t understand. You’re fiancéed. You’re happy. Everything good is ahead of you.”
“I hate it when people make nouns into verbs,” says Nedra. “And plenty of good things are ahead of you, too.”
“What if you’re wrong? What if my best days are behind me?”
“Don’t tell me this is about that ridiculous marriage survey. You stopped writing to that researcher, right?”
I pick up a tube of eggplant-colored lip gloss.
“So what’s this about?” she asks, putting the lip gloss back. “Not your color.”
“I think Zoe’s got an eating disorder.”
Nedra rolls her eyes. “Alice, this happens every summer when school gets out. You get paranoid. You become morose. You’re a person who needs to stay occupied.” I nod and let myself be led to the foundation counter. “A tinted moisturizer-not too heavy. A little mascara and a pop of blush. And after that we’ll take the teensiest, quickest trip through Anthropologie, shall we?” says Nedra.
That night Peter crawls into bed with me.
“Poor Mom,” he says, wrapping his arms around me. “You had a hard day. Watching your children begging on the streets.”
“Aren’t you too old for snuggling?” I say, pushing him away, wanting to punish him a little.
“Never,” he says, snuggling in closer.
“How much do you weigh?”
“A hundred pounds.”
“How tall are you?”
“Five one.”
“You may snuggle for another five pounds or another inch, whichever comes first.”
“Why only five pounds and an inch?”
“Because after that it will be unseemly.”
Peter is quiet for a moment. “Oh,” he says softly, his hand patting my arm the exact same way he used to when he was a toddler.
He was so tuned into me when he was younger; it was exhausting. If any sort of a worried look broke over my face he’d run over. It’s okay, Mama. It’s okay, he would say solemnly. Would you like a song?
“I’ll miss it, too, sweetheart,” I say. “But it will be time.”
“Can we still watch movies together on the couch?”
“Of course. I’ve got our next one lined up. The Omen. You’re going to love the part at the zoo where all the animals go wild.”
We lie quietly together for a while.
Something is nearly over. I put my hand over my heart as if I can keep its contents from spilling out.
72
Lucy Pevensie added her profile picture
Nice dress, Wife 22.
You think so? I’m wearing it for my coronation. The rumor floating around here is that soon I’m to be crowned Queen Lucy the Valiant.
Will I be invited to your coronation?
That depends.
On what?
Do you have the proper coronation attire? A velvet cape, preferably royal blue?
I have a velvet cape, but it’s puce. Will that do?
I suppose. My best friend wants me to be her maid of honor.
Ah-so this is a maid of honor dress.
Well, this is what she’d like me to wear. Well, not exactly this dress, but something similar.
Is it possible you’re exaggerating a bit?
Has it ever occurred to you that marriage is a sort of Catch-22? The very things that you first found so attractive in your spouse-his darkness, his brooding, his lack of communication, his silence-those things that you found so charming in the beginning are the very things that twenty years later drive you mad?
I’ve heard similar sentiments from other subjects.
Have you ever felt this way?
I can’t divulge that information.
Please. Divulge something, Researcher 101. Anything.
I can’t stop thinking about you, Wife 22.
73
77. A dictatorship where the dictator changes every day. Not sure if democracy is possible.
78. Well, many people here on earth in the twenty-first century believe in the concept of the one true love, and when they believe in the one true love this often leads to marriage. It may seem to you like a silly institution. Your species might be so advanced you have different partners for different stages of your life: first crush, marriage, breeding, child-raising, empty nest, and slow, but hopefully not painful, death. If that’s the case, maybe the one true love doesn’t enter into it-but I doubt it. You probably just call it something else.
79. It seems to me that everyone takes their turn: behind the curtain managing props, being a bit player, then in the chorus, then center stage, then, at last, all of us end up in the audience, watching, one of the faceless appreciators in the dark.
80. Days and weeks and months of glances, of unrequited lust.
81. Living on the top of a mountain in a house with a quilt on the bed and fresh flowers on the table every day. I would wear long white lace dresses and Stevie Nicks-style boots. He would play the guitar. We would have a garden, a dog, and four lovely kids who built towers out of blocks on the floor while I made chicken in a pot.
82. You need it, like air.
83. Kids. Companionship. Can’t imagine life without them.
84. Can imagine life without them.
85. You know the answer to that.
86. Yes.
87. Of course!
88. In some ways, yes. Other ways, no.
89. Cheat. Lie. Forget about me.
90. Dear William,
Do you remember that time we went camping in the White Mountains? We did most of the hike the first day. Our plan was to spend the night and then get up early and climb to the top of Tuckerman Ravine. But you drank too much and the next morning you had a killer hangover, the kind of hangover one can only sleep off. So you crawled back inside your sleeping bag and I went up Tuckerman without you.
You didn’t wake until late afternoon. You looked at your watch and knew immediately something was very wrong; it was a hike that should have taken me two hours, but I had been gone close to six and you had a pretty good idea why-I had gone off trail. I was always going off trail. You, on the other hand always stayed on the trail, but without you there walking beside me, I drifted, and became helplessly lost.
Now, this was a long time ago. Before AOL. Before cellphones. We were still years away from searching and clicking and browsing and friending. So you came after me the old-fashioned way. You rang your bear bell, you called out my name, and you ran. And at dusk, when you finally found me, sobbing at the base of a pine tree, you made me a promise I’ll never forget. No matter where I went, no matter how far I drifted, no matter how long I was gone, you would come after me and bring me home. It was the most romantic thing a man had ever said to me. Which makes it all the more difficult for me to come to terms with the fact that twenty years later we’ve drifted from one another again. Profligate drifting. Senseless drifting. As if we had all the daylight left in the world to make it to the top of Tuckerman.
If this sounds like a goodbye letter, I’m sorry. I’m not sure it’s goodbye. It’s more of a warning. You should probably look at your watch. You should probably say to yourself, Alice has been gone a very long time. You should probably come and find me. AB
74
I wake to the clatter of aluminum tent poles skittering over the hardwood floor.
“Where the hell is your mother?” I hear William shout from downstairs.
I just want to stay in bed. However, thanks to me, sleep will have to be shelved because we’re going camping in the Sierras. I made the reservation a few months ago. It sounded so idyllic then: sleeping under the stars surrounded by sugar pines and firs-a little family bonding. Caroline and Jampo will have the house to themselves for a few days.
“Goddammit!” William shouts. “Is there anybody here capable of packing a tent properly?”
I climb out of bed. Not nearly so idyllic a vision now.
An hour later we are on the road and our family bonding looks like this: William listening to the latest John le Carré novel on his iPhone (which, by the way, is exactly what I’m listening to on the car’s CD player, but William says he’s unable to concentrate unless he’s read to privately), Peter playing Angry Birds on his phone, every so often shouting bananas and dang it, and Zoe furiously texting-God knows to whom. It’s like this for two and a half hours until we begin driving over the pass and cell reception cuts out. Then it’s like they’ve awoken from a dream.
“Whoa, trees,” says Peter.
“Is that where those people ate those people?” asks Zoe, peering down at the lake.
“You mean the Donner Party,” says William.
“Breast or thigh, Zoe?” asks Peter.
“Hil-ar-ious, Pedro. How long is this camping trip anyway?” asks Zoe.
“Our reservation is for three nights,” I say. “And it’s not like it’s work. It’s car camping. Nobody has to do anything. We’re here to have fun and relax.”
“Yes, this morning was extremely relaxing, Alice,” says William, staring out the window. He’s as unenthusiastic as the children.
“Does this mean there’ll be no cell service?” asks Zoe.
“Nah, we’re just in a dead zone. Dad said there’d be Wi-Fi at the campground,” says Peter.
“Uh-he’s wrong, sorry. There’s no Wi-Fi,” I tell them.
I just found out this fact myself yesterday when I confirmed our reservation. Then I went into my bedroom and had a nice, private panic attack at the thought of being incommunicado with Researcher 101 for seventy-two hours. Now I’m resigned to it.
Gasps issue forth from the backseat.
“Alice, you didn’t tell me that,” says William.
“No, I didn’t tell any of you that because if I did, you wouldn’t have come.”
“I can’t believe you are going to unplug,” says Zoe to me.
“Well, believe it,” I say. I reach over William and pop my cellphone into the glove box. “Hand your phones over, kiddos. You, too, William.”
“What if there’s an emergency?” says William.
“I brought a first-aid kit.”
“An emergency of a different sort,” he says.
“Like what?”
“Like having to get in touch with somebody,” he says.
“That’s the whole point. To get in touch with each other,” I say. “IRL.”
“IRL?” asks William.
“In real life,” I say.
“It really disgusts me that you know that acronym,” says Zoe.
Fifteen minutes later, apparently incapable of doing anything-daydreaming, conversing, or having one original thought without the aid of their devices-the kids are asleep in the backseat. They stay asleep until we roll into the campground.
“Now what?” says Peter, after we finish setting up the campsite.
“Now what? This is what,” I say, spreading my arms wide. “Getting away from it all. The woods, the trees, the river.”
“The bears,” says Zoe. “I have my period. I’m staying in my tent. Blood is like catnip to them.”
“Disgusting,” says Peter.
“That’s an old wives’ tale,” says William.
“No, it’s not. They can smell it miles off,” says Zoe.
“I’m going to throw up now,” says Peter.
“Let’s play cards,” I say.
Zoe holds up a finger. “Too windy.”
“Charades,” I suggest.
“What? No! It’s not dark yet. People will be able to see us,” she says.
“Fine. How about we go find some firewood?” I ask.
“You look mad, Mom,” says Peter.
“I’m not mad, I’m thinking.”
“It’s strange how your thinking face looks like your mad face,” says Peter.
“I’m going to take a nap,” says Zoe.
“Me, too,” says Peter. “All this nature makes me sleepy.”
“I’m a little tired, too,” says William.
“Do what you want. I’m going down to the river,” I say.
“Take a compass,” says William.
“It’s fifty feet from here,” I say.
“Where?” asks Peter.
“Through the trees. There. See? Where all those people are swimming.”
“That’s a river? It looks like a stream,” says Zoe.
“Tucker, you are not allowed to do dead man’s float in the water!” we hear a woman scream.
“Why not?” a boy yells back.
“Because people will think you’re dead!” the woman screams back.
“We drove all this way so you could swim in a stream with hundreds of other people? We could have just gone to the town pool,” says Peter.
“You people are pathetic,” I huff, stomping off.
“When are you coming back, Alice?” William calls after me.
“Never!” I shout.
Two hours later, sunburned and happy, I pick up my shoes and head back. I’m exhausted, but it’s a good exhausted, the kind that comes from submersing yourself in a glacial river on a July afternoon. I walk slowly, not wanting to break the spell. Occasionally I have this sort of out-of-body experience where I feel all my previous incarnations simultaneously: the ten-year-old, the twenty-year-old, the thirty-year-old, and the forty-something-year-old-they’re all breathing and looking out of my eyes at the same time. The pine needle path crunches under my bare feet. The smell of hamburgers grilling makes my stomach growl. I hear the faint sounds of a radio-Todd Rundgren’s “Hello It’s Me”?
It feels strange not to have my phone with me. It feels even stranger not to be on constant alert, waiting for my next hit: an email or post from Researcher 101. What I feel instead is emptiness. Not a yearning emptiness, but a lovely, blissed-out emptiness that I know will be obliterated the moment I set foot in our campsite.
But that’s not what happens. Instead I find my family sitting around the picnic table, talking. TALKING. Without a device, or a game, or even a book in sight.
“Mama,” cries Peter. “Are you okay?”
He hasn’t called me Mama in at least a year, maybe two.
“You went swimming,” said William, noting my wet hair. “In your shorts?”
“Without me?” says Zoe.
“I didn’t think you’d want to go. You spent half an hour blow-drying your hair this morning.”
“If you had asked I would have gone,” Zoe sniffs.
“We can swim again after dinner. It will still be light.”
“Let’s go for a hike,” says Peter.
“Now?” I say. “I was thinking I’d take a little nap.”
“We’ve been waiting for you,” says William.
“You have?”
The three of them exchange looks.
“Fine. Great. Let me change and we’ll go.”
“We’re not making enough noise,” says Zoe. “Bears only attack when they’re surprised. Or smell you. Woo-hoo. Woo-hoo, bear!”
We’ve been hiking for over forty-five minutes. Forty-five mosquito-slapping, horse-fly-buzzing, children-whining, no-breeze-to-be-found-anywhere minutes.
“I thought this was a loop. Shouldn’t we be back already?” says Peter. “And why didn’t anybody bring a water bottle? Who goes hiking without a water bottle?”
“Run up the trail, Pedro,” I say. “Scout ahead. This is all looking very familiar to me. I’m sure we’re almost at the end. In fact, I think I hear the river.”
This is a lie. I don’t hear anything but droning insects.
Peter takes off and William yells after him, “Not too far ahead! I want you to stay in singing range. That’s the rule.”
“I beg you. Please don’t do this to me,” says Zoe.
“Right, right, turn off the lights, we’re gonna lose our minds tonight,” we hear Peter crooning.
Zoe rolls her eyes.
“It’s better than woo-hoo, bear,” I tell her.
“Do you really think we’re almost there?” asks William.
“Party crasher, penny snatcher.”
“Oh, my God. Is penny snatcher a you-know-what?” I ask.
“What?” says William.
“You know. Something you put pennies in? A bank. A slot. A euphemism for-”
He looks at me perplexed.
“A purse?” I whisper.
“Oh my God, mother, a vagina, just say it,” says Zoe. “And it’s panty snatcher, not penny snatcher.”
“Call me up if you a gangsta-” Peter’s voice suddenly breaks off.
We walk for another couple of minutes.
“Is there anything more ridiculous than a twelve-year-old white boy using the word ‘gangsta’?” asks Zoe.
“Zoe, shush!”
“What?”
We all stop and listen.
“I don’t hear anything,” says Zoe.
“Exactly,” I say.
William cups his hands to his mouth and yells, “We asked you to sing!”
Silence.
“Peter!”
Nothing.
William tears down the path, Zoe and me on his heels. We round the corner and find Peter frozen in place, standing not more than five feet away from a mule deer. Now, this is not a run-of-the-mill mule deer. It’s an enormous trophy buck, well over two hundred pounds, antlers as long as baguettes, and he and Peter seem to be engaged in some sort of staring contest.
“Back away slowly,” whispers William to Peter.
“Do mule deer charge?” I whisper to William.
“Slowly,” repeats William.
The buck snorts and takes a few steps toward Peter and I let out a little gasp. Peter looks like he’s under a spell: he has a half-smile on his face. Suddenly I understand what I’m witnessing. It’s a rite of passage. The kind Peter’s gone through hundreds of times in his video games, battling otherworldly creature of all sorts, ogres and sorcerers and woolly mammoths, but rarely does a twenty-first-century boy have such an opportunity in real life-to have actual physical contact with the wild thing; to lock eyes with it. Peter extends his hand as if to touch the buck’s antlers, and his sudden movement seems to wake the buck up and it darts away into the brush.
“That was unbelievable,” says Peter, turning to us, his eyes gleaming. “Did you see him looking at me?”
“You weren’t scared?” breathes Zoe.
“He smelled like grass,” Peter says. “Like rocks.”
William looks at me and shakes his head in wonder.
On the way back, we hike through the woods single-file. Peter leads the way, then Zoe, then me, then William bringing up the rear. Occasionally the setting sun pierces through the trees-magenta, then bright orange. I tip my face up to receive the warmth. The light feels like a benediction.
William reaches for my hand.
75
I wake in the middle of the night to the sound of Zoe screaming. William and I bolt up and look at each other.
“It is an old wives’ tale,” he says, “isn’t it?”
In the few seconds it takes to untangle ourselves from our sleeping bags and unzip the tent, we hear three more very disconcerting sounds: Peter roaring, the sound of feet pounding across the dirt, and then Peter screaming, too.
“Oh God, oh God, oh God,” I cry. “Hurry up, get out!”
“Give me that flashlight!” yells William.
“What are you going to do with it?”
“I’m going to brain the bear with it, what do you think I’m going to do with it?”
“Make lots of noise. Scream. Wave your arms about,” I say, but William is gone.
I take a few deep breaths, then crawl out after him, and here’s what I see: Zoe in her nightgown and bare feet, brandishing a guitar like a bat. Jude kneeling, his head bowed, as if he’s on the chopping block. Peter sprawled on the ground, and William beside him.
“He’s okay,” William yells to me.
A few people from neighboring campsites have run over and stand on the perimeter of our campsite. All of them are wearing headlamps. They look like miners, except for their pajamas.
“Everything’s okay,” William tells them. “Go back to your tents. We’ve got it under control.”
“What happened!” I shout.
“I’m so sorry, Alice,” says Jude.
“Are you crying, Jude?” asks Zoe, lowering the guitar, her face softening.
“Where’s the bear?” I shout. “Did it run off?”
“No bear,” moans Peter.
“It was Jude,” says Zoe.
“Jude attacked Peter?”
“I just wanted to surprise Zoe,” says Jude. “I wrote her a song.”
I run to Peter’s side. His shirt is rolled up and I see a gash in his stomach. I cover my mouth with my hand.
“Pedro heard me scream and was trying to save me,” says Zoe. “With his marshmallow roasting stick.”
“He was running with it,” says Jude. “It got stuck in the ground.”
“Then he impaled himself,” says Zoe.
“Screw you,” groans Peter. “I fell on my sword for you.”
“There’s hardly any blood. That’s not good,” says William, shining the flashlight on the wound.
“What’s that yellow stuff that’s curling out?” I ask. “Pus?”
“I think it’s fat,” says William.
Peter squeals.
“That’s okay, that’s fine, nothing to worry about,” I say, trying to sound like fat poking out of a wound is an ordinary thing. “Everybody has fat.”
“It means it’s pretty deep, Alice,” whispers William. “He’s going to need stitches. We need to bring him to the ER.”
“I just saw that movie Say Anything with John Cusack and I got inspired,” explains Jude.
“ ‘In Your Eyes.’ I love Peter Gabriel,” grunts Peter. “Your song better be worth it.”
“You wrote me a song?” asks Zoe.
“Is that your car, Jude?” asks William, referring to the Toyota parked in front of our campsite.
Jude nods.
William helps Peter to his feet. “Let’s go, you’re driving. Peter can stretch out in the backseat. Alice, you and Zoe follow in our car.”
“You’re driving like a crazy person. You don’t have to tailgate them,” snaps Zoe.
“Did you know Jude was coming?”
“No! Of course not.”
“Who were you texting on the way down here?”
Zoe crosses her arms and looks out the window.
“What’s going on between the two of you?”
“Nothing.”
“And ‘nothing’ is why he drove four hundred miles in the middle of the night to serenade you?”
Even though I’m furious at Jude-why couldn’t he have made his surprise appearance in daylight?-I think what he did was incredibly romantic. I loved Say Anything. Especially the iconic scene where John Cusack is standing on his car holding up his boom box in that trench coat with the huge shoulder pads-I see the doorway to a thousand churches in your eyes. Eleven words that pretty much sum up what it was like to be a teenager in the 1980s.
“It’s not my fault he keeps stalking me.”
“He wrote you a song, Zoe.”
“Not my fault either.”
“I saw the way you were looking at him. Obviously you still have feelings for him. Finally!” I say as we drive off the dirt onto a paved road and Jude picks up speed.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” says Zoe, covering her face with her arm.
We drive down an empty road, past meadows and fields. The moon looks like it’s sitting on a fence post.
“Where the hell is the hospital!” I cry after ten minutes. Finally on my right I see a set of buildings, ablaze in lights.
The parking lot is practically deserted. I say a silent prayer of thanks that we’re in the middle of nowhere. If this were Children’s Hospital in Oakland, we’d be waiting five hours to be seen.
I forgot about stitches. Actually, I forgot about the lidocaine shots that come before the actual stitches.
“You may want to look the other way,” suggests the ER doc, the needle in his hand.
Whenever we watch movies or TV that has any bit of sex in it, Peter asks me, “Should I look away?” Depending on the content, if it’s just rolling around on the bed fully clothed or kissing or a little bit of dry humping, I tell him no. If there’s any sign body parts might be making an appearance, I tell him yes. I know he’s seen breasts on the Internet, but he hasn’t seen them with his mother sitting beside him on the couch. I don’t know who would be more uncomfortable in that situation-him or me. He’s not ready. He’s not ready to see himself get injected with lidocaine, either.
“Look away,” I say to Peter.
“I was talking to you, actually,” says the doctor.
“I don’t have a problem with needles,” I say.
Peter has a death grip on my hand. “I’m going to distract myself now. By having a meaningless conversation with you.”
His eyes stare intently into mine, but my eyes skitter involuntarily toward the needle.
“Mom, I have something to tell you and it may come as a surprise.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, watching the doctor begin to make injections all around the wound.
“I’m straight.”
“That’s good, honey,” I say, as the doctor now begins to inject the lidocaine inside the wound.
“You’re doing great, Peter,” says the doctor. “Almost done.”
“Mrs. Buckle,” says the doctor. “Are you okay?”
I feel dizzy. I grab onto the side of the bed.
“This always happens,” says the doctor to William. “We tell the parents not to look but they can’t help it-they look. I had a father in here the other day who suddenly collapsed when I was stitching up his daughter’s lip. Pitched right over. Big guy. Two hundred pounds. Chipped three teeth.”
“Let’s go, Alice,” says William, taking my elbow.
“Mom, did you hear me?”
“Yes, sweetheart, you’re straight.”
William forces me to my feet.
“Your son is straight. And would you please stop shaking?” I say to William. “It’s making me nauseous.”
“I’m not shaking,” says William, holding me up. “You are.”
“There’s a gurney out in the hallway,” says the doctor.
Those are the last words I hear before I faint.
76
The next day, after a six-hour drive home (two of those hours being stuck in stop-and-go traffic), I go straight upstairs to bed. I’m exhausted.
Zoe and Peter follow me into my room. Peter hurls himself onto the bed next to me, fluffs a pillow, and grabs the remote. “Netflix?” he says.
Zoe looks at me with concern.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. I can’t remember the last time she looked at me kindly.
“Maybe you fainted because you were getting sick,” she says.
“That’s very generous of you, but I fainted because I watched the doctor stick a needle into an open wound in Pedro’s belly.”
“Six stitches,” Peter says proudly, pulling up his shirt to expose the bandage.
“Aren’t you overdoing it a little? The doctor said you’d be fine by today,” says Zoe.
“Six stitches,” Peter repeats.
“I know, Pedro, you were very brave.”
“So are we watching When Barry Met Wally or what?” asks Peter.
After Peter admitted to me he had no desire to see The Omen, I put an end to the mother-son creepy thrillers club. Peter and I are now the sole members of the mother-son romantic comedy club, and I promised when we got home that we’d begin the Nora Ephron series. First we’ll watch the classic When Harry Met Sally, then Sleepless in Seattle, and finally, You’ve Got Mail. I do not expect these movies to result in any nightmares for Peter, other than the horror of realizing how often and comprehensively men and women misunderstand one another.
“I hate romantic comedies,” Zoe says. “They’re so predictable.”
“Is that your way of saying you want to join the club?” asks Peter.
“Dream on, gangsta,” she says, leaving the room.
“Should I look away?” Peter asks one minute into the movie, when Billy Crystal is kissing his girlfriend outside Meg Ryan’s car.
“Should I look away?” he asks again during the famous fake orgasm scene in Katz’s deli. “Or maybe just plug my ears?”
“Should I look away?” he asks when-
“Oh, for God’s sake, Pedro. People have sex, okay. People love sex. People talk about sex. People simulate sex. Women have vaginas. Men have penises.” I wave my hand. “Blah, blah, blah.”
“I’ve decided I don’t want to be Pedro anymore,” he says.
I mute the movie. “Really? Everyone’s gotten the hang of it.”
“I just don’t.”
“Okay. Well, what do you want to be called?”
Please don’t let him say Pedro 3000 or Dr. P-Dro or Archibald.
“I was thinking-Peter.”
“Peter?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, that’s a lovely name. I like Peter. It suits you. Should I be the one to break it to your father or should you?”
Peter unmutes the movie.
Billy Crystal: There are two kinds of women: high maintenance and low maintenance.
Meg Ryan: Which one am I?
Billy Crystal: You’re the worst kind. You’re high maintenance but you think you’re low maintenance.
Peter mutes the movie again. “Why did you think I was gay?”
“I didn’t think you were gay.”
Peter gives me a skeptical look.
“Okay, I thought there might be a possibility.”
“Why, Mom?”
“You just gave off-a vibe.”
“Examples?”
“Well. You changed your name to Pedro.”
“Right-there are so many gay Pedros. Go on.”
“You hated Eric Haber. Too much.”
“That’s because he liked Briana too. He was my competition. But he and Pippa Klein are going out, so now he’s cool.”
“Um-your hair swirls counterclockwise.”
Peter shakes his head at me. “You are a kook.”
“And because you use words like ‘kook.’ ”
“Because you use words like ‘kook’! I’m straight, Mom.”
“I know, Peter.”
“Wow, I haven’t heard ‘Peter’ in a long time.”
“Sounds good, doesn’t it?”
“Don’t think I’ve forgotten that it’s slang for penis.”
“Of course not. But doesn’t that give it a sort of edge?” I poke him.
“Ow!”
I sigh. “I’m going to miss my gay son who would never leave me for another woman. I know that’s homophobic-thinking you’ll stay unnaturally attached to me because you’re gay. Either way, you’re leaving me eventually.”
“If it makes you feel better, you could still think of me as your gay son in private. Besides, what kind of a straight twelve-year-old would agree to watch When Harry Met Sally with his mother?” asks Peter.
He unmutes the movie and chuckles.
“That’s exactly the vibe I was talking about,” I say.
“What? Precocious? Smart? Funny? Straight people can be those things, too. You’re so heterophobic.”
After the movie (both of us tear up at the ending), Peter goes in search of something to eat and I log on to Facebook. There’s nothing from Researcher 101, which is not really a surprise: I did tell him I was going to be off-line for a few days. There is, however, no shortage of postings on my wall.
Pat Guardia Alice Buckle
Braxton Hicks-FOR NOW.
30 minutes ago
Shonda Perkins Alice Buckle
New samples: Waterproof Defencils. Juicy Tubes.
32 minutes ago
Tita De La Reyes Alice Buckle
Five dozen lumpia looking for a good home.
34 minutes ago
Weight Watchers
Amnesty Day!! Rejoin the program. First two months free!
4 hours ago
Alice Buckle
Has been tagged in a photo by Helen Davies
4 hours ago
Within minutes of logging on, I feel sick, for two reasons. One-the Mumble Bumbles, Pat, Tita, and Shonda, are stalking me through the ethers. If I don’t agree to breakfast at the Egg Shop soon, they’ll ring my doorbell, throw me in the car, and drive me there. And two-because falling down a rabbit hole into the past frequently has this effect on me. Helen’s posted a load of photos from our Peavey Patterson days. The one I can’t stop looking at was taken the night William won his Clio. It’s of him and Helen sitting at the table, heads tipped toward another, as if in deep conversation. And there in the background, sitting at another table, is me, staring at them hungrily like a madwoman. Helen’s posted this embarrassing photo on purpose.
Helen friended me right after she friended William, with only one intention as far as I can see: to let me know that losing William didn’t ruin her life. She married a man named Parminder, and she and her husband started their own ad agency, which, according to her profile on LinkedIn, has offices in Boston, New York, and San Francisco, and had over $10 million in billings last year. She’s on Facebook all the time; she makes me look like a Luddite. She is no longer zaftig-she golfs, does the tango, and spins, and as of today, weighs a svelte 122 pounds. She uploads photos constantly. Here are her three children sitting at the table making homemade valentines. Here is her cutting garden. And here she is with her new haircut. Do you Like? And although I know her page is curated meticulously, I can’t help falling for her pitch. She has an enviable life. Perhaps she even won, if the markers for winning are a toned body, highlights, and an estate in Brookline.
At least Weight Watchers won’t make me feel envious. I log on and open up my Plan Manager. I scroll back to February 10, the last day I used it.
Weightwatchers.com
Plan Manager for Alice Buckle
PointsPlus Values: 29
Daily Used 32
Daily Remaining 0
Activity Earned 0
Favorites (recently added)
Egg Point Value 2
Yoplait yogurt Point Value 3
Gummy Bears (30) Point Value 14
Krispy Kreme glazed donut Point Value 20
Don’t know PointsPlus Value?
Enter Food Marshmallow Fluff
Enter Fiber 0
Enter Fat 5
Enter Carbohydrates 30
Enter Protein 0
Calculating PointsPlus Values NOW! 33
Now I remember why I stopped Weight Watchers. Counting every morsel of food made me feel incredibly hopeful for the first half of the day, then when one tablespoon of Fluff turned into five an hour before dinner, utterly guilty. Hey, whatever happened to my idea for a Guilt Diet? The same template would work beautifully, with just a few little tweaks.
Guiltdiet.com
Plan Manager for Alice Buckle
GuiltPlus Values: 29
Daily Used 102
Daily Remaining 0
Penance Earned 0
Favorites (recently added)
Used last piece of toilet paper and did not replace roll Guilt Value 1.5
Said I read Anna Karenina Guilt Value 3
Denied I read The Unauthorized Biography of Katy Perry Guilt Value 7
I am not bilingual. Guilt Value 8
I am American. Guilt Value 10
I do not know the difference between Shias and Sunnis. Guilt Value 11
I secretly believe in the Law of Attraction. Guilt Value 20
I didn’t call back my best friend after she called four times and left scary messages in her divorce lawyer voice saying, “Alice Buckle, call me back immediately, there’s something we have to talk about.” Guilt Value 8
Don’t know Guilt Value?
Enter Guilt Excessive flirting and nearly constant fantasizing about a man who is not my husband
How many people were hurt? None yet.
How many people could be hurt? 3 to 10
Cost to make it up??
Time to make it up???
Unmakeupable? I’m afraid so.
CALCULATE GuiltPlus Value NOW: 8942
WARNING: This exceeds (by 44.04 weeks) weekly allotment of GuiltPlus points.
RECOMMENDED ALTERNATIVE: Pee on the seat in a public toilet instead (Guilt Value 5).
I am a very bad person. Helen of Troy is a very put-together person. Even though I stole her boyfriend, she went on to have a fine life. A better life, perhaps, than mine.
I slide off the bed and walk to the top of the stairs.
“William!” I shout. I feel a pressing need to talk to him. I don’t know about what. I just want to hear his voice.
No answer.
“William?”
Jampo comes tearing up the stairs.
“Your name is not William,” I say, and he cocks his head forlornly.
I think about the way William reached out for my hand when we were in the woods, right after Peter saw the deer. I think about Peter’s accident and how that unlikely event-its marshmallow roasting sticks and pus and ER confessions of sexual identity-have bonded us all together. I think about Zoe looking at me with kindness and worrying I might be getting sick and I know what I have to do. The past twenty-four hours have just solidified it. I log on to Lucy’s Facebook page before I lose my nerve and send a message to Researcher 101.
This has gone too far. I’m sorry, but I have to quit the study.
As soon as I press Send, I feel a rush of sweet relief, not unlike the relief I used to feel on a Monday when I entered “eggs” on my Weight Watchers Plan Manager.
The next day I decide to unplug. I’m scared to see Researcher 101’s reply (or worse, his silence) and I don’t want to spend the day obsessively checking my Facebook messages, so I shut off my phone and computer and leave them in my office. It’s not easy. My fingers involuntarily tap and circle all day as if browsing an invisible page. And even though I don’t have my phone, I react as if I do. I’m in a state of hypervigilance-waiting to be summoned by a bell that will not be ringing.
I try and embed myself in the day. I run with Caroline; Peter and I bake blueberry muffins; I take Zoe to Goodwill; but even though my body is there, my brain is not. I’m no better than Helen. I, too, treat my life as something to be mined and then packaged up for public consumption. Every post, every upload, every Like, every Interest, every Comment is a performance. But what happens to the performer when she’s playing to an empty stage? And when did the real world become so empty? When everybody abandoned it for the Internet?
My digital diet lasts until after dinner, when I can’t bear it any longer and I break my fast. By the time I log on to Lucy Pevensie’s Facebook page, I’m breathless.
John Yossarian invited you to the event “Coffee”
Tea & Circumstances, July 28, 7 p.m.
You can’t quit yet. There are things I need to tell you now that can only be said in person.
RSVP Yes No Maybe
Relief floods through me again, but there’s nothing sweet about it this time. It’s relief of the desperate, addictive, I-may-never-have-an-opportunity-like-this-again sort, and it hits me like I’ve mainlined a drug. Before I can stop myself, God help me, I click Yes.
77
From C REATIVE P LAYMAKING
Exercise: Write a breakup scene where the characters speak almost entirely in clichés.
“I’m coming over there right now,” says Nedra.
“I’m in the middle of coloring my hair-you can’t,” I say, looking into the bathroom mirror with dismay. “Hold on, I’m putting you on speaker.”
I place the phone on the counter and start scrubbing my forehead with a dry washcloth. “I’ve got dye all over my face and it’s not coming off!” I cry.
“Are you using soap and water?”
“Of course I am,” I say, squirting the washcloth with three pumps of liquid soap and then running it under the tap.
“Alice. This is crazy. I’m begging you, don’t go meet him,” says Nedra.
“You don’t understand.”
“Oh, really? Okay. Let’s see-your needs weren’t being met. Could you be any less original, Alice?”
“Researcher 101 sees me for who I really am,” I say. A woman in her underwear with dye dripping down her temples. “And he’s a mystery. And I feel like if I don’t do this now, there’ll never be another chance.” I throw the washcloth in the sink and check the time. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”
Nedra pauses. “That’s what they all say. Researcher 101 is an invention, you know that, don’t you? You’ve invented him. You think you know him, but you don’t. It’s a one-way relationship. You’ve revealed everything to him, all your secrets, your confessions, your hopes and your dreams, and he hasn’t told you anything about himself,” says Nedra.
“That’s not true,” I say, combing my hair. “He’s told me things.”
“What, that he likes piña coladas? What kind of a man likes piña coladas?”
“He told me he can’t stop thinking about me,” I say softly.
“Oh, Alice. And you believed him? William is real. William. Okay, you’ve grown apart. Okay, you’re going through a dry spell, but you have a marriage worth saving. I’ve heard every iteration of this story a thousand times, from every angle, from every perspective-an affair is never worth it. Go to counseling. Do everything you can to fix this.”
“Jesus, Nedra, I’m just meeting him for coffee.” I peer in the mirror. Is my part supposed to be orange?
“If you agree to meet him for coffee, you are crossing a threshold, and you know it.”
I open the cupboard under the sink and rummage around for the hair dryer. “I thought you’d support me. Out of all the people in the world, I thought you’d at least try and understand what I’m going through. I didn’t go looking for this. It came looking for me. Literally. The invitation showed up in my Spam folder. It just happened.”
“Bloody hell, Alice, it didn’t just happen. You were complicit in making it happen.”
I find the hair dryer, but the cord is hopelessly tangled. Can’t anything be easy? Suddenly I feel so tired. “I’m lonely. I’ve been lonely for a long time. Isn’t that worth something? Don’t I deserve to be happy?” I whisper.
“Of course you do. But that’s no reason to abandon your life.”
“I’m not abandoning it. I’m just meeting him for coffee.”
“Yes, but what do you want out of this? Why are you meeting him for coffee?”
Why indeed, when I look like this? There are circles the color of, yes, thistles, under my eyes. With concealer, maybe I could lighten them to lavender. “I don’t know, exactly,” I admit.
I can hear Nedra breathing. “I have no idea who you are anymore,” she says.
“How can you say that? I’m the same person I’ve always been. Maybe you’ve changed.”
“Well, I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
“Meaning what?” I ask.
“Like mother, like daughter.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Nedra.”
“If you had returned any of my last four phone calls you would.”
“I told you I was in the mountains. There was no cell reception.”
“Well, you may be interested to know Jude and I had a little heart-to-heart about Zoe.”
“Good. Did you tell him to move on? She’s not going to take him back.”
“She’d be lucky to get him back. He finally told me what really happened. I knew something didn’t feel right. It was Zoe who cheated on Jude.”
“No, Jude cheated on Zoe,” I say slowly.
“No, Jude let Zoe tell everybody he cheated on her in order to protect her reputation but she cheated on him, and despite her cheating ways, and for the life of me I don’t know why, he’s still madly in love with her, the little sap.”
Could this be true?
“Jude’s lying. Zoe would have told me,” I say, but I know in my heart it is true. It explains so much. Oh, Zoe.
“Your daughter has issues; lying is the least of them.”
“I know about my daughter’s issues. Don’t you dare throw information I’ve shared with you in confidence in my face.”
“Alice, you’ve been so busy carrying on with Researcher 101 that you have no idea what’s happening with your own daughter. She doesn’t have an eating disorder; she’s got a Twitter account. With over five hundred followers. Would you like to know her user name? It’s Ho-Girl.”
“Ho-Girl?”
“Short for Hostess Girl. She reviews bakery products, but her reviews can be interpreted in a few different ways, if you know what I mean. The point is your daughter is in trouble, but you haven’t noticed as you’ve been so busy living your double life. She’s obviously working something out.”
“Yes, whether she prefers Twinkies or fruit pies. Why do you always have to exaggerate? And why are you treating me this way? I’m your best friend, not your client. I expected to you to be on my side, not William’s.”
“I am on your side, Alice. This is me being on your side. Don’t go meet him.”
“I don’t have a choice.”
“Fine. Don’t expect me to be waiting here when you come back. I can’t be your confidante. Not on this front. I won’t lie for you. For the record, I think you’re making a huge mistake.”
“Yes, you’ve made that very clear. I assume you’ll be finding a new maid of honor? One who isn’t such a whore?”
Nedra inhales sharply.
I fantasize about throwing the phone against the wall in lieu of hanging up, but I can’t afford to buy a new one, and I am not in some Nora Ephron movie (as much as I would like to be because if I were, I’d know no matter how horrible things got, there would be a happy ending on New Year’s Eve), so instead I stab Off on the phone with my finger, leaving a permanent smudge of Clairol Nice ’n Easy Medium Golden Brown on the screen.
78
From C REATIVE P LAYMAKING
Exercise: Now write that same breakup scene in two sentences.
“Don’t do it,” says the best friend.
“I have to,” says the protagonist.
79
July 28th is a perfect summer day. No humidity and a temp of 75. I spend an hour upstairs in my bedroom agonizing over what to wear to meet Researcher 101. A skirt and sandals? Too schoolgirlish. A sundress? Trying too hard. In the end I settle on jeans and a peasant shirt, but I put on some of the new makeup Nedra bought for me: mascara and a quick swipe of blush. This is the real me and it will have to do. If he doesn’t like it, tough. The conversation I had with Nedra has completely shaken me up. I almost want to disappoint 101. To turn him off, so I don’t have to make any decision and he can make it for me.
Downstairs, Caroline and William are making a salad. When I walk into the kitchen William looks up, startled. “You look nice,” he says. “Are you going somewhere?”
“Meeting Nedra for a cup of tea after dinner, so I’ll have to eat quickly.”
“Since when does Nedra drink tea in the evening?”
“She says she has something to talk to me about.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“You know Nedra.”
I’m stunned by my ability to lie so effortlessly.
The doorbell rings and I look at my watch. 6:00.
“Are the kids expecting anybody?”
William shrugs.
I walk to the door in my espadrilles, taking the opportunity to practice a sexier gait. I put a little sway into it, dip my head to the side coquettishly. I swivel around to make sure William hasn’t seen me. He’s standing in front of a cupboard, studying its contents. I open the front door.
“Alice,” cries Bunny. “It’s been so long!”
The next few hours pass like this.
6:01: I try and wipe the stunned look off my face. We’ve gotten the dates messed up. We thought Bunny and Jack were arriving tomorrow night, but here they are, a day early, standing on the doorstep.
6:03: Jampo comes racing to the door, barking furiously.
6:04: Jampo bites Bunny on the leg, drawing blood. Bunny cries out in pain.
6:05: Hearing the scream, William, Caroline, Zoe, and Peter run into the hallway.
6:07: Triage in the kitchen in the form of me babbling on endlessly. It’s just a nip, not a bite. Where are the Band-Aids? Do we have Neosporin? That’s not Neosporin, it’s Krazy Glue.
6:09: William grits his teeth as he cleans Bunny’s wound.
6:10: I check the time.
6:15: William asks who would like a drink.
6:17: I open a bottle of pinot noir and pour the adults a glass.
6:19: I drain my glass and pour another glug.
6:20: William suggests I slow down.
6:30: The buzzer goes off and William takes the macaroni and cheese out of the oven.
6:31: Everybody exclaims how good it smells and how they can’t wait to eat it.
6:35: The pros and cons of using Gruyère over the more traditional cheddar when making homemade macaroni and cheese are discussed and parsed.
6:40: I tell Bunny and Jack how thrilled I am to have them come stay with us.
6:45: Bunny inquires as to whether I’m feeling well. I say I’m feeling fine, why does she ask? She says something about the beads of sweat that are popping out on my forehead.
6:48: Bunny asks Caroline how her job search is going.
6:49: Caroline tells her “great!”; she’s been appointed the new CEO of Google.
6:51: I tell everybody that I’m very, very sorry but I have a previous engagement that I can’t miss and I can’t call to cancel because Nedra dropped her cellphone in the toilet yesterday and therefore I have no way to reach her.
6:51: William pulls me aside and says he can’t believe I’m still going-Bunny and Jack have just arrived.
6:52: I tell him I’m sorry, but I have to go.
6:52: William reminds me that having Bunny and Jack come stay with us was my idea. It’s not fair to make him play host alone. He asks me please not to go.
6:53: I go.
7:05: High on adrenaline, I arrive at Tea & Circumstances and grab a table. Researcher 101 is late, too.
7:12: I check the time.
7:20: I open the Facebook app on my phone. No new posts and he’s not online.
7:25: I order a lemon tea. I’d rather have coffee, but I don’t want to risk the bad breath.
7:26. I check Facebook.
7:27: I check Facebook again.
7:28: I turn my phone off and on.
7:42: I feel middle-aged.
7:48. I send him a Facebook message. Did we say seven or eight? Maybe we said eight. Anyway, I’m here!
8:15: You stupid, stupid woman.
I look down at my espadrilles, and at the lip gloss smeared on the rim of my mug. My body shudders, starting from my toes and working all the way up to my shoulders.
“Are you okay?” asks the waitress gently, a minute later.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” I mumble.
“You’re sure?”
“I just got some bad news.”
“Oh-gosh. I’m so sorry. Can I help?”
“No, thank you.”
“Okay. Well, please don’t hesitate to let me know if you need anything. Anything at all.” She hurries off.
I sit at the table, my head buried in my arms. Suddenly my phone chimes. It’s a Facebook message from John Yossarian.
I’m so sorry. Something unexpected came up.
I look at the words in shock. Okay, okay, okay. There’s a reason he didn’t come. But who does he think he is, standing me up? I swing between wanting desperately to believe him and wanting to tell him to fuck off, but before I can stop myself I type I was worried something had happened to you.
My phone chimes again almost instantly.
Thank you so much for understanding. I’m not playing games. I wanted to be there more than anything. You have to believe me.
I glance up from my phone. Tea & Circumstances is deserted. Apparently nobody wants Tea & Circumstances after 8 p.m. I read and reread his last two messages. Although he’s saying all the right things, I don’t think I’ve ever felt lonelier. Did something really come up? Was he even planning on coming to meet me? Or did he change his mind at the last minute? Did he decide he liked me better at a distance? That meeting the real me would ruin his fantasy? And what about my fantasy? That there was a real man out there who saw me. A man who couldn’t stop thinking about me. A man who made me feel like a woman worthy of being obsessed about. What if the truth is that Researcher 101 is just some stupid jerk who gets off on leading pathetic, lonely, middle-aged women on?
I’m too heartbroken to lie. I type I wanted you to be here more than anything, too.
8:28: I get in my car.
8:29: I drive home.
8:40: I pull into the driveway.
8:41: I unlock the front door.
8:42: “Alice?” William shouts. “We’ve been waiting for you. Come join us.”
8:44: Flooded with guilt at the sound of William’s voice, I force a smile on my face and walk down the hallway to the living room.
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Свежие любовные романы в удобных форматах
Любовные романы
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ВКОНТАКТЕБиблиотека с любовными романами, которая наверняка придётся по вкусу женской части аудитории
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Библиотека с фантастикой и фэнтези, а также смежных жанров
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