Wife 22

80

“Perfect timing, Alice will settle the argument,” says Bunny, smiling at me as I enter the room.

Bunny sits on the chaise, looking as if she’s been sitting there for a hundred years. Her bandaged leg is propped up on a pillow, her feet are bare, and her toenails are painted a cheerful shade of tangerine. Even injured, she’s a veritable poster girl for aging gracefully. She must be in her sixties now and she’s more beautiful than ever.

“Bunny, I’m so sorry about your leg,” I say.

“Pah,” says Bunny. “We’re practically friends now, aren’t we, Jampo?”

Jampo is curled up on his dog bed in the corner of the room. When he hears his name he lifts his head.

“Bad, stinky dog,” I admonish him.

He growls softly and then lays his head back down on his crossed paws.

Jack stands, all limbs and freckles and a full head of ginger hair. He has the coloring of a tabby cat; peaches and cream, just like Caroline. I never got to know him as well as I did Bunny, even though he practically lived at the Blue Hill Theater when I was mounting my play (he liked to refer to himself as Bunny’s personal jack-of-all-trades), but he was always very kind to me.

“Take my seat, Alice,” he says.

“There’s plenty of room here, too,” says William, patting the cushion of the couch.

I can’t bring myself to look at him. “I’m fine. I’ll sit on the floor.”

Jack raises his eyebrows.

“Really, the floor is my favorite place.”

“It’s true, she prefers it,” says William. “Frequently she sits on the floor even when there are chairs available.”

“I used to like the floor, too. Until my hips stopped preferring it,” says Jack.

“Did you take your baby aspirin today?” asks Bunny.

“Baby aspirin has nothing to do with hips,” says Jack.

“Yes, but it has something to do with hearts, my love,” says Bunny.

I had forgotten how Bunny called Jack “my love.” That term of endearment always struck me as so romantic. After the Barmaid run was over, when I went home to Boston I tried calling William “my love,” but it just felt too much like an affectation. “My love” was something you had to earn, or be born into. I glance at William, who smiles pleasantly back at me, and I feel nauseous.

“Jack had a thing with his heart a few months ago,” explains Bunny.

“Oh, no-was it serious?” I ask.

“No,” says Jack. “Bunny worries unnecessarily.”

“That’s called looking out for you,” says Bunny.

“ ‘Looking out for me’ means she took all the Rihanna off my iPod and replaced it with Verdi.”

“You listen to Rihanna?” I ask.

“He was playing his music too loud,” says Bunny. “Deaf and a bad heart are too much for me to be expected to bear.”

“A shame,” says Jack. “A little deafness isn’t the worst thing for a marriage.” He winks at me.

“Alice,” exclaims Bunny. “Look at you. You’re glowing! The forties are such a wonderful decade. Before you get too comfortable, come here and give me a proper hello.”

I cross the room, sit down on the edge of the chaise, and sink into her arms. She smells exactly the way I remembered-of freesia and magnolia.

“Everything okay?” she whispers.

“Just life,” I mumble back.

“Ah-life. We’ll talk later, hmmm?” she says softly into my ear.

I nod, embrace her once more, and slip onto the floor beside her. “So what’s the argument?” I ask.

“Christiane Amanpour or Katie Couric?” says Bunny.

“Well, I like them both but if I had to choose,” I say, “Christiane.”

“We’re arguing about who’s more attractive,” says William, “not who’s a better reporter.”

“What does it matter how attractive they are?” I say. “These are women who talk to presidents, prime ministers, and dignitaries.”

“That was exactly my response,” says Bunny.

“How’s Nedra?” asks William.

“I-uh.”

“You-uh,” he says.

“Sorry. I’m just tired. She’s wonderful. We had a lot to catch up on.”

“Really?” he says. “Didn’t you just talk to her yesterday?”

Stay calm, Alice. Keep it simple. Whatever you do, don’t look up and to the right when you talk to him. That’s a sure sign somebody is lying. And don’t blink. Absolutely no blinking. “Well, yes, on the phone, but we rarely get a chance to talk in person. Without anybody else there. You know how it is,” I say, my eyes boring into his.

William gives me a bug-eyed look in return. I try and soften my gaze.

“Nedra’s Alice’s best friend. She’s getting married,” says William.

“How wonderful! Who’s the lucky man?” asks Bunny.

“Lucky woman. Her name’s Kate O’Halloran,” I say.

“Well. All right. Nedra and Kate. I can’t wait to meet them,” says Bunny.

“Alice is the maid of honor,” says William.

“Actually, I haven’t quite agreed to that yet.”

“I can see why. Maid is so medieval. Why not woman? Woman of honor,” asks Bunny.

I bob my head agreeably. Why the hell not? I’m a woman of honor-at least I used to be, before tonight.

“Well,” says Jack, looking at his watch. “I’m beat. Let’s hit it, Bunny. It’s nearly one in the morning our time.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, leaping to my feet. “I’m being so rude. Has anybody shown you to your room?”

I hear the TV blaring from the den and the sound of the kids talking over it.

“Yes, yes. William already brought our luggage up,” says Bunny. “And, Alice, you must promise to tell us when you become sick of us. Our return tickets are three weeks from now, but like Mark Twain says, visitors and fishes start to stink after…”

“I’ll never be sick of you,” I say. “You can stay here as long as you like. So you’re between shows?”

Bunny nods, following Jack up the stairs. “I’ve got a pile of scripts. I’m trying to decide what to do next. I’m hoping you’ll help me. Read through some of them?”

“I’d be honored. I think I’ll go to bed, too. It’s been a long day,” I say, faking a yawn. I plan to pretend to be asleep when William comes up.

“I’ll check on the kids,” says William once Bunny and Jack have disappeared into the guest room.

“Make sure that you tell them to shut off all the lights when they’re done with their show.” I head up the stairs.

“Alice?”

“What?”

“Should I bring you up some tea?”

I spin around, paranoid. Does he know something? “Why would I want tea? I just spent all evening drinking tea with Nedra.”

“Oh-right. Sorry, I just thought you might want something warm.”

“I do want something warm,” I say.

“You do?” he asks.

Is that eagerness in his voice? Does he think the something warm I’m talking about is him?

“My laptop,” I say.

His face falls.

I wake at four the next morning and shuffle downstairs, a raggedy mess. I walk into the kitchen only to find Bunny already there. She’s standing at the stove. The kettle is on and two mugs are lined up on the counter.

She smiles at me. “I had a feeling you might join me.”

“What are you doing up?”

“It’s seven for me. The question is, what are you doing up?”

“I don’t know. I couldn’t sleep.” I hug my ribs.

“Alice, what is it?”

I groan. “I’ve done something really bad, Bunny.”

“How bad?”

“Bad.”

“Addicted to painkillers bad?”

“Bunny! No, of course not!”

“Then it’s not that bad.”

I pause. “I think I’ve fallen in love with another man.”

Bunny slides into a kitchen chair slowly. “Oh.”

“I told you it was bad.”

“Are you sure, Alice?”

“I’m sure. And wait-it gets worse. I’ve never even met him.”

And so I tell Bunny the entire story. She doesn’t say one word while I’m speaking, but her face tells me everything I need to know. She’s an amazing, responsive audience. Her eyes widen and narrow as I show her the emails and Facebook chats. She murmurs and clucks and coos as I read her my answers to the survey. But mostly what she does is receive me-with every bit of her body.

“You must be heartbroken,” she finally says when I’m done.

I sigh. “Yes. But I feel so much more than that. It’s complicated.”

“It seems simple enough to me. This man, this researcher-he listened to you. He told you exactly what you wanted to hear. I’m sorry to say you’re probably not the first woman he’s done this to.”

“I know, I know. Wait. Do you really think that? God, I don’t think so. I really don’t. It seemed we had something kind of special, something just between me and-”

Bunny shakes her head.

“You think I’m a fool.”

“Not a fool, just vulnerable,” says Bunny.

“I feel so humiliated.”

Bunny waves my words away. “Humiliation is a choice. Don’t choose it.”

“I’m angry,” I add.

“Better. Anger is useful.”

“At William.”

“You’re angry at William? What about this Researcher?”

“No, William. He drove me to this.”

“Now, that’s not fair, Alice. It just isn’t. Listen. I’m no saint and I’m not sitting here in judgment. There was a time with Jack and me-we went through a rocky patch. We actually separated for a while, when Caroline left for college. Well, look, I don’t need to go into the details, but my point is no marriage is perfect and if it looks perfect, the one thing you can be damn sure of is that it isn’t. But don’t blame this on William. Don’t be so passive. You need to take responsibility for what you’ve done. What you almost did. Whether you end up staying with William is not the point. The point is don’t just let this happen to you.”

“This?”

“Life. Not to be morbid, but honestly, Alice, you don’t have enough years left to just fritter away. None of us does. God knows I don’t.” Bunny gets up and puts the kettle back on. The sun has just risen, and the kitchen momentarily fills with an apricot light. “By the way, do you have any idea what a natural storyteller you are? You’ve held me enraptured for the past two hours.”

“Storyteller?” William walks into the kitchen. He surveys the mugs. The dried up teabags.

“How long have you two been up,” he asks, “storytelling?”

“Since four,” says Bunny. “We’ve had a lot of catching up to do.”

“Fifteen years’ worth,” I say.

“It was a beautiful sunrise,” says Bunny. “The backyard was the color of a peach. For a moment there, anyway.”

William peers out the window. “Yes, well, now it’s the color of a Q-tip.”

“That must be the legendary Bay Area fog everybody always talks about,” says Bunny.

“Clear one minute, can’t see a thing the next,” says William.

“Just like marriage,” I say under my breath.

81

John Yossarian added Games

Sorry

Lucy Pevensie added Activities

Looking for the lamppost

Please tell me you had a very good reason for not coming last night, Researcher 101.

I’m sorry, I really am. I know this sounds clichéd, but something unexpected came up. Something unavoidable.

Let me guess. Your wife?

You could say that.

Did she find out about us?

No.

Did you think she would?

Yes, I did.

Why?

Because I was going to tell her about us after I met with you last night.

You were? So what happened?

I can’t say. I wish I could. But I can’t. You’re looking for the lamppost?

That’s what I said.

You’re saying you want to go home, then? You want to leave this world. Our world?

We have a world?

I’ve been thinking that maybe things worked out for the best. Maybe it was fate that we couldn’t meet.

It wasn’t that we couldn’t meet. I was there. You stood me up.

I would have been there if I could, I promise you. But let me ask you something, Wife 22. Didn’t you feel the least bit relieved that I didn’t show?

No. I felt toyed with. I felt ridiculous. I felt sad. Do you feel relieved?

Does it help to know I’ve thought about you nearly every minute since?

And what about your wife? Have you thought about her nearly every minute since, too?

Please forgive me. The man who doesn’t show is not the man I want to be.

Who’s the man you want to be?

Someone other than who I am.

IRL?

What?

In real life?

Oh. Yes.

Are you trying?

Yes.

Are you succeeding?

No.

And would your wife agree with that assessment?

I’m working very hard not to hurt either one of you.

I need to ask you a question now and I need you to tell me the truth. Can you do that?

I’ll do my best.

Have you done this with other women? Been like this. The way you are with me.

No, never. You are the first. Stay here. Just a little while longer. Until we figure this out.

Are you telling me I should stop looking for the lamppost?

For now, yes.

82

“And that, my dear, is material,” says Bunny, nudging me. “I could definitely work that into a scene.”

Standing under the Tasty Salted Pig Parts sign at Boccalone is a line, at least twenty men long. Down the aisle, standing under the pastel blue Miette sign is another line, at least twenty women long. The men are buying salumi, the women petits fours.

“Actually, that’s a play unto itself,” she amends.

“Do you think women are afraid of mortadella?” asks Jack.

“Intimidated, maybe,” I say.

“Disgusted more like it,” says Zoe.

It’s 9:00 on a Saturday morning and the Ferry Building is already packed. Whenever we have out-of-town visitors this is one of the first places we take them. It’s one of San Francisco’s most impressive tourist attractions-a farmers’ market on steroids.

“It makes you yearn for a different kind of life, doesn’t it?” says William as we wander outside onto the wharf, strolling past bundles of gleaming red radishes and perfectly stacked pyramids of leeks. He snaps photos of the vegetables with his iPhone. He can’t help himself. He’s addicted to food porn.

“What kind of a life is that?” I ask.

“One where you wear your hair in braids,” pipes up Peter, referring to the pink-cheeked girl working the Two Girls and a Plow booth. “Like your apron,” he says to her.

“Muslin,” says the girl. “Holds its shape better than cotton. Twenty-five bucks.”

“When you’re under thirty, aprons are sexy,” says Bunny. “Over thirty you tend to look like one of the Merry Wives of Windsor. Caroline, would you like one? My treat?”

“Tempting, seeing that I only have four good apron-wearing years left. But I’ll pass.”

“That’s a good girl,” says William. “Real cooks aren’t afraid of stains.”

Bunny and Jack stroll just ahead of us, holding hands. Watching the two of them together is difficult: they’re so openly affectionate. My husband and I walk on opposite sides of the aisle. It occurs to me we’ve become one of those couples I wrote about in the survey. The ones who have nothing to say to each other. William has a grim, closed look on his face. I turn my back to him and open my Facebook App on my phone. John Yossarian is online.

Do you ever see other couples and feel envious, Researcher 101?

In what way?

That they’re so close.

Sometimes.

So what do you do?

When?

When that happens?

I look away. I’m an expert compartmentalizer.

William calls to me from across the aisle. “Should we buy some corn for tonight?”

“Okay.”

“Do you want to pick it out?”

“No, you go right ahead.”

William drifts over to the Full Belly Farm booth. He looks forlorn. His job search isn’t going well. Every week that passes wears him down a little more. I hate to see him like this. Despite the fact that his hijinks were a contributing factor toward his being laid off, they’re not the only reason. What happened to William is happening to so many of our friends: they’re being replaced by younger, cheaper models. I feel for him. I really do. I duck behind a towering display of beeswax hand creams.

Could it be as easy as holding his hand, Researcher 101?

Could what be?

Connecting with my husband.

I don’t think so.

I haven’t done that in a long time.

Maybe you should.

You want me to hold my husband’s hand?

“Is a dozen enough?” William shouts.

“That’s perfect, honey,” I answer.

I never call him honey. “Honey” is for Bunny and Jack’s benefit.

Bunny turns around, smiles, and nods at me approvingly.

Uh-not really.

Why not?

He doesn’t deserve it.

Oh, God.

“What?” Bunny mouths when she sees my startled face.

Suddenly I feel protective of William. What does Researcher 101 know about what William deserves?

That was mean. I don’t think I can do this anymore, Researcher 101.

I understand.

You do?

I was thinking the same thing.

Wait. He’s going to give up that easily? He’s giving me such mixed messages. Or maybe I’m giving him mixed messages.

“Do you have a five, Alice?” asks William. I look across the aisle. His face has suddenly gone the color of milk. I think about Jack and his heart. I think I should start buying baby aspirin and forcing William to take it.

“Are you okay?” I ask, approaching the stall.

“Of course. I’m fine,” says William, looking completely un-fine.

I glance at the corn. “Those are puny ears. Better make it another half dozen.”

“Will you help me?” he says.

“What’s wrong?”

He shakes his head. “I feel dizzy.”

He really does look sick. I take his hand. His fingers lace automatically through mine. We make our way over to a bench and sit there quietly for a few minutes. Peter and Caroline are sampling almonds. Zoe is sniffing a bottle of lavender oil. Bunny and Jack are standing in line at Rose Pistola to buy one of their famous egg sandwiches.

“Do you want an egg sandwich?” I ask. “I’ll go get you one. Maybe your blood sugar is low.”

“My blood sugar is fine. I miss this,” he says.

He looks straight ahead. His thigh touches mine ever so slightly. We sit stiffly next to each other like strangers. I’m reminded of the time I brought soup to his apartment on Beacon Hill. The first time he kissed me.

“You miss what?”

“Us.”

Seriously? He’s picking today, the day after I sneaked out to have an assignation with another man, to tell me that he misses us? Emotionally, William always arrives at the table just as the plates are being cleared. It’s infuriating.

“I’ve got to find a bathroom,” I say.

“Wait. Did you hear what I said?”

“I heard.”

“And all you have to say is you have to go to the bathroom?”

“Sorry-it’s an emergency.” I run into the Ferry Building, find a seat at Peet’s, and pull out my phone.

What the hell, Researcher 101?

I know. You’re angry.

Why did you even suggest meeting me?

I shouldn’t have.

Did you even plan on coming?

Of course I did.

You didn’t change your mind at the last minute? Decide the fantasy was better than the real thing?

No. It’s the real you that’s so appealing. I’m not interested in fantasies.

The damn survey. It’s completely changed my life.

Why?

Because now I realize how unhappy I’ve been.

Subjects frequently-

Don’t talk to me about subjects. Don’t insult me. I’m more than a subject to you.

You’re right.

I’m thinking of leaving my husband.

You are?

Researcher 101’s shock buzzes right through the phone; I feel it like a Taser. That’s not what he wanted to hear, neither is it true. I haven’t contemplated leaving William. I just said it to get a response. I look up and see Bunny walking briskly toward me. I slip down into my seat. She grabs the phone out of my hand, quickly reading the last lines of our chat. She shakes her head, kneels by my chair, and begins typing.

Let me ask you a question, Researcher 101.

Okay.

Tell me one thing you love about your wife.

I’m not sure that’s a good idea.

I’ve told you everything about my husband. Surely you can tell me one thing about your wife.

Okay, she is the most stubborn, proud, opinionated, stick-to-her-guns, loyal-to-the-death person I know. The weird thing is I think you’d like her. I think you’d be friends.

Oh. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do with that information.

I’m sorry-but you asked.

It’s okay. Actually it makes me feel better.

It does? Why?

Because it shows me you’re not a cad. That you have nice things to say about your wife.

“Cad? Who the hell uses words like ‘cad’?”

“Quiet!” says Bunny, elbowing me aside.

Thank you, I guess.

So what are we supposed to do now, Researcher 101?

I don’t know. I think things will become clear. I never thought any of this would happen. You’ve got to believe me.

What did you think would happen?

That you would just answer the questions and we would go our separate ways and it would be over.

What did you think wouldn’t happen?

That I would fall for you.

I grab the phone out of Bunny’s hand and type GTG, then I log off Facebook.

“Don’t want to answer him, hmm?” she asks.

“No, Cyrano, I don’t.”

Bunny sniffs. “He seems rather genuine. In his feelings for you.”

“I told you.”

“Something to drink?”

“No.”

We sit there for a moment, eavesdropping on people placing their orders for coffee.

“Alice?”

“What?”

“Listen to me. Every good director knows that even with the darkest of subject matter there have to be moments of grace. There have to be places where the light streams in. And if those places aren’t there, your job is to put them there. To write them in. Do you understand, Alice?”

I shake my head.

Bunny reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “It’s a misstep many playwrights make. They mistake darkness for meaning. They think light is easy. They think light will find a way through the crack in the door by itself. But it doesn’t, Alice. You have to open the door and let it in.”

83

“Nedra.”

“Alice.”

“How are you?”

“I’m fine, how are you?”

“Been biking, have you?”

“Yes, Alice. That would explain the shorts. And the biking shoes. And the helmet.”

“And the bike.”

“So.”

“So.”

“So what happened?”

“With what?”

“With Researcher 101?”

“Nothing happened.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“It’s over.”

“It’s over? Just like that, it’s over?”

“Yes. Happy now?”

“Oh, this is ridiculous, Alice. Are you going to invite me in or not?”

I open the door wide and Nedra wheels her bike in.

“I didn’t know Brits perspired. Do you want a towel?”

Nedra props the bike against the wall, then rubs her sweaty face on the sleeve of my T-shirt. “No need, darling. Is William here?”

“What do you want with William?”

“It’s a business matter,” she says. “I have a proposition for him.”

“He’s in the kitchen.”

“Are we still not talking?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. You’ll let me know when we are?”

“Yes.”

“Via phone or text?”

“Smoke signals.”

“Have you spoken to Zoe about Ho-Girl?”

No, I haven’t spoken to Zoe yet and I feel terrible about that. But the truth is, Ho-Girl and Zoe’s betrayal of Jude are on the back burner as I try and make sense of what’s happening between Researcher 101 and me.

“You’re making too big a deal of it. We’re talking cupcakes, Nedra.”

“Don’t put it off, Alice. I really think there’s something there you should look at.”

“Nedra?” William calls from the kitchen. “Is that you?”

“Ta, darling. At least somebody in this house is happy to see me,” says Nedra, walking away, leaving me alone in the foyer.

Shonda Perkins

PX90 DVD’s for sale. Cheap.

5 minutes ago

Julie Staggs

Marcy-too small for Marcy’s big girl bed.

33 minutes ago

Linda Barbedian

Insomnia

4 hours ago

Bobby Barbedian

Have been sleeping like a baby

5 hours ago

I’m trying to distract myself from the sound of laughter coming from the kitchen by reading my Facebook feeds, when my computer makes a submarine sound. A Skype message flashes on my screen.

Beautiful Russian Ladies

Are European and American women too arrogant for you?Are you looking for a sweet lady that will be caring and understanding? Then you come to the right place. Here you find a Russian lady that will love you with all her heart.

www.russiansexywoman.com

Please excuse if you are not interested.

For some reason I find this solicitation touching and sad. Is there anyone in the world who is not looking for somebody who will love them with all their heart?

There’s a sudden rap on my door. William walks into my office. “So that was interesting. Nedra asked me to cook for her wedding.”

“Cook what?”

“Dinner. Appetizers. Dessert. The entire meal.”

“You’re kidding!”

“It’s a small crowd, only twenty-five or so people. I’ve asked Caroline to help me.”

“You want to do this?”

“I think it’ll be fun. Plus she’s paying me. Quite well, I might add.”

“You know Nedra and I aren’t speaking.”

“I gathered that. What are you not speaking about?”

“The maid-of-honor dress she wants me to wear. It’s horrible. Empire waist. Puffy sleeves. I’ll look like Queen Victoria.”

“She’s your best friend, Alice. You’re going to miss her wedding over a dress?”

I frown. He’s completely right, of course.

“Alice? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Why?” It’s so hard to keep this up. To continually hide my distracted state.

“You just seem-funny,” he says.

“Well, you seem funny, too.”

“Yup. Although I’m trying not to be.”

He looks at me a moment too long, and I turn away. “So have you thought about the menu?” I croak.

“Anything but oysters. That’s the only requirement. Nedra thinks they’re too obvious. Like roses or champagne on Valentine’s Day.”

“I love oysters.”

“I know you do.”

“I haven’t had them in a long time.”

William shakes his head. “I don’t know why you insist on keeping yourself from the things you love.”

84

After William leaves, I go upstairs to my bedroom and shut the door. I set the timer on my phone for fifteen minutes. Then I let myself feel all the anticipation and heartbreak of the past few days. William’s comment about “missing us” ticker-tapes though my head, a constant loop. Ten minutes later, I’m sitting in the middle of the bed with a pile of used Kleenex in front of me, when I hear footsteps coming down the hallway. I can tell by the light tread that it’s Bunny. I try and compose myself, but it’s useless.

“Is everything okay?” she asks, opening the door.

“It’s fine. It’s really fine. I’m really very fine,” I say, the tears streaming down my cheeks.

“Can I do anything?”

“No, don’t worry. It’s just-” I burst into tears. “I’m sorry. I’m so embarrassed.”

Bunny enters the room, pulls out a starched hankie from her pants pocket, and hands it to me.

I stare at it blankly. “Oh, I couldn’t. It’s clean. I’m going to get it all dirty.”

“It’s a handkerchief. That’s what it’s for, Alice.”

“Really? That’s so nice,” I say, and then I start crying again, the full-blown ugly cry, hiccupping and gulping and trying to stop and not being able to.

Bunny sits beside me on the bed. “You’ve been holding that in a long time, haven’t you?”

“You don’t know how long!”

“Well, you just let it out now. I’ll stay here with you until you’re done.”

“It’s just that I don’t know if I’m a good person or a bad person. I’m thinking right now I’m a bad person. A cold person. I can be very cold, you know.”

“Everybody can,” she says.

“Especially to my husband.”

“Ah-it’s easiest to be cold to those we love.”

“I know. But why?” I sob.

Bunny sits with me until I arrive at that exhausted, washed-out, clear place on the other side of shame, where the air smells of late summer, of chlorine with a rising note of back-to-school supplies, and I feel for the first time in a very long time-hope.

“Better?” asks Bunny.

I nod. “I’m ridiculous.”

“No,” she says. “Just a little lost, like all of us.”

“I’ve been writing, you know.”

“You have?”

“Yes. Little scenes. About my life. Me and William-when we first met. Dinner parties. Conversations. Nothing interesting. But it’s a start.”

“Wonderful! I’d love to look at what you’ve got.”

“You would?”

“Of course. I’ve been waiting for you to ask.”

“Really?”

“Oh, Alice. Why are you so surprised?”

I look at the handkerchief balled up in my hand. “I’ve ruined your hankie.”

“Pah. Give me that.”

“No! It’s disgusting.”

“Give it!” she orders.

I drop it into her waiting hand.

“Don’t you understand, Alice? Nothing you do can disgust me.”

“That’s what I say to my kids.”

“That’s what I say to my kids, too,” she says softly, stroking my hair.

I start to sob again. She presses the handkerchief back into my hand. “It appears I took this prematurely.”

85

Lucy Pevensie added her Favorite Quotation

“Is-is he a man?” asked Lucy.

Well, is he, Researcher 101?

I’m not sure what you’re asking, Wife 22.

Does a real man leave his wife?

A real man looks for his wife.

And then what?

I’m not sure. Why are you asking?

I haven’t been the best of wives.

I haven’t been the best of husbands.

So maybe you should look for your wife.

Maybe you should look for your husband, too.

Why should I look for him?

He may be lost.

He’s not lost. He’s in the garage building shelves.

In his Carhartt pants?

You don’t forget anything, do you?

I forget plenty of things; however, the Internet does not.

He’s got a cute ass in those pants.

What makes a cute ass?

An ass that’s bigger than mine.

I’m going to the movies today with my wife.

You know, Researcher 101, I’m getting very mixed messages from you.

I know. I’m sorry. But that’s precisely why I’m going to the movies with my wife. I’ve been thinking about this a lot. I’ve reread all your answers from the survey and I’m convinced there is some spark left in your marriage. If there wasn’t, you wouldn’t be able to write about your courtship the way that you did. It’s not over between you and him. It’s not over between my wife and me, either. I’m making an effort. I think you should do the same with your husband.

And if it doesn’t work out with our spouses?

Then six months from now we’ll meet at Tea & Circumstances.

Let me ask you something.

Anything.

If we had met? If you had showed up that night? What do you think would have happened?

I think you would have been disappointed.

Why? What are you keeping from me? Do you have scales? Do you weigh 600 pounds? Do you have a comb-over?

Let’s just say I would not be what you had expected.

Are you sure about that?

The meeting was premature. It would have been disastrous. I’m convinced of that.

How so?

Each of us would have lost everything.

And now?

We lose only one thing.

What’s that?

The fantasy.

What are you going to see?

The new Daniel Craig movie. My wife likes Daniel Craig.

My husband likes Daniel Craig, too. Maybe your wife and my husband should get together.

86

I find William out in the garage standing on a ladder, wearing, yes, his Carhartt pants.

“I heard there’s a great new Daniel Craig movie out. Want to go see it?” I ask.

“Hold on,” William mumbles and quickly finishes mounting a bracket on the wall. “I thought you hated Daniel Craig.”

“He’s growing on me.”

“Hand me that shelf,” says William. I give it to him and he slides the shelf into place. “Damn. It’s crooked. I should have used the level.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Sloppy,” he says. “Thought I could eyeball it.”

“It’s not that bad. Nobody’s going to see it.”

“That’s beside the point, Alice. Not a word, you,” says William to Jampo, who is sitting beside the ladder obediently. Jampo gives a mournful errrr, never taking his eyes off William.

“So you’re hanging out with Jampo? Voluntarily?”

“He followed me out here,” he says, climbing down the ladder.

Jampo sniffs his boots excitedly. William watches him with a half-smile. “He thinks I’m going to take him on a run.”

“You’ve been running with him?”

“Once in a while. Hey, do you know what ‘sexiled’ means?”

“ ‘Sexiled’? No. Why?”

“I overheard Zoe discussing it with one of her friends. They were talking about college. It’s a term for being kicked out of your room when your roommate wants to have sex.”

“Must they coin a word for everything? What happened to hanging a sock on the door?” I ask.

“It’s a different generation.”

“She’s going to be gone soon. A blink and she’ll be gone. Another blink and there goes Peter. Blink, blink. Our progeny-poof. Do you think she’s having sex?”

“Do I think she had sex? With Jude? Probably.”

“Really?”

“Alice, I know about Ho-Girl. Nedra told me.”

“Oh, God. Ho-Girl. I can’t believe I haven’t spoken to her about it. It’s just been-so crazy around here. With Bunny and Jack coming and everything,” I add.

“Uh-huh.”

“Did Nedra tell you she cheated on Jude, too, not the other way around?”

“Yes, she did. And you haven’t checked out her Twitter account?”

“I was kind of hoping it would just go away.”

William pulls out his phone. “Let’s get it over with. It can’t be that bad.” He goes to his Google browser and types in Twitter Ho-Girl. His scent washes over me-Tide detergent and oranges. I love his smell. I’ve missed it. I breathe it in quietly.

“There she is,” I whisper, leaning into him.

Ho-Girl

Name Ho-Girl

Location California

Bio Creamy, filling, sugary, moist

Followers 552

You get a big delight in every bite. About 2 hours ago

@ booboobear Yes indeed, Ho-Girl. I can attest to that.

@Fox123 Sexy, sexy, girl. How about posting a photo? Of your delight?

@Lemonyfine Okay, Okay. I get that u love cupcakes. But can we talk about Yodels?

@Harbormast50 You have a bit of frosting on the corner of your lip. I’d be happy to wipe it off.

“Jesus! Nedra was right.”

“When is Nedra ever wrong? We’re signing up to get short, timely messages from Ho-Girl right now,” William barks.

“What-no! You can’t do that. She’ll know it’s us.”

“Give me some credit. I’m not going to sign up as @ma &pabuckle.”

“You’re going to use a fake handle?”

“Do you have a problem with that?”

“Well-yes. Don’t you? Shouldn’t we?” I try to keep a straight face.

“Not when it comes to our daughter. Let’s keep it in the Hostess family so she won’t suspect. How about @snoball?” he asks.

“Ug-that pink marshmallow skin makes me sick. How about @dingdong?” I suggest.

“I hate Ding Dongs. How about @hohos?”

“Too close to Ho-Girl. How about @nuttyhohos? Remember those? When they added peanuts?” I say.

“Fine. Done.”

We turn to each other and begin laughing.

“Quiet, you Nutty Ho Ho,” whispers William.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this.”

“She just tweeted again,” he says.

I peer at his screen and we read the Tweet out loud together.

There is no better way to start the day than sucking the cream out of a Twinkie. About 1 minute ago

“What the hell, Zoe!” I gasp. “Does she have any idea how dangerous this is?”

William’s fingers fly over the touch screen.

@nuttyhohos What the hell, Zoe? Do you have any idea how dangerous this is?

“You weren’t supposed to type that! Now those sickos are going to know her real name,” I yell at William. “And so much for our fake handle.”

Stop following me, J. I can tell it’s u. About 1 minute ago

“She thinks we’re Jude,” says William.

@booboobear Ho-Girl is a queen. She should be treated as thus. I am here to serve you, my queen. Is it a Ding Dong Day?

William growls.

@nuttyhohos Ho-Girl is not a queen. She’s a fifteen-year-old girl, you sick predator.

I mean it, J. Stop it. About 1 minute ago

@Lemonyfine Listen to the fine lady, J, or I’ll have to go all diggity do on your ass.

Stop fighting, all of you. There’s still some cream left in my Twinkie:) About 1 minute ago

I grab the phone out of William’s hand.

@nuttyhohos OMG, Zoe, why can’t you be like a normal girl and have an eating disorder?

R u implying I’m fat? I’m not fat, J. About 1 minute ago

@nuttyhohos This is not J. This is your mother. I know all about the Hostess cupcakes in your closet.

@Fox123 BFN.

William grabs the phone back.

@nuttyhohos This is your father. Deactivate this account right now, Zoe Buckle!

“Now you’ve given them her last name!” I shout.

@booboobear WTF. BFN.

@nuttyhohos Deactivate your account NOW, Ho-Girl!

Suddenly the garage door begins to open. William and I stand there, blinking, huddled together, as Zoe materializes in front of us. She holds her phone in one hand, the garage door opener in the other. She’s so furious she can’t speak. She tweets instead.

I can’t believe u guys. This is a total invasion of privacy! I’ll never forgive you. About 1 minute ago

“Zoe, please-” I say.

I’m not talking to you. About 1 minute ago

@nuttyhohos We can see that.

I’m never talking to you again. About 1 minute ago

@nuttyhohos This is not okay, sweetheart. Ho-Girl is really not okay. You could have gotten yourself into serious trouble.

Zoe looks at me and begins to cry. Then she starts tweeting again.

How could you wish I had an eating disorder? About 1 minute ago

“Baby,” I say.

“I am so not your baby. You have absolutely no idea who I am!” she yells.

Zoe holds the garage door opener up over her head and clicks it aggressively like she’s firing a weapon, and the door slowly begins to lower on us.

“William-”

“Just let her be,” he says, as our daughter’s head, then her torso, then her legs disappear.

I give a little cry and he pulls me under his arm, where the scent of detergent is the strongest. It’s nice there, a nest. We stay like that for a few minutes.

“Well,” he finally says. “What now?”

“Lock her in her room for a thousand years?”

“Force her to eat skirt steak?”

“Are we terrible?”

“At what?”

“Being parents?”

“No, but we suck at Twitter.”

“You suck at Twitter,” I say.

“That’s because you made me nervous. I had stage fright.”

“Oh, if I hadn’t been there you would have been much wittier?” I ask.

“@nuttyhohos Apricots are ripe, vegan daughter,” he says.

“@nuttyhohos Saved them all for you, please consider eating instead of Ding Dongs.”

“@nuttyhohos Not that I don’t like Ding Dongs. There is a time and place for Ding Dongs. When you’re thirty and live in your own apartment and can pay your own rent.”

“@nuttyhohos Not kidding. If you don’t eat the apricots today they’ll rot.”

“@nuttyhohos FYI apricots six dollars a pound. EAT THEM OR ELSE.”

“@nuttyhohos and try not to swallow pits.”

“@nuttyhohos swallowing bad idea in general.”

“@nuttyhohos says surgeon general.”

“@nuttyhohos and your father.”

“Well?” says William.

“Not bad.”

“Yes, all my followers think so.”

“All one of them.”

“All you need is one, Alice.”

“I have to go talk to her.”

“No, I think what you need to do is give her a little time.”

“And then what?”

William lifts my chin. “Look at me.”

Jesus, you smell so good, how could I have forgotten you smelled like this?

“Let her come to you,” he says.

Then he abruptly lets go of me and turns back toward the shelves, frowning. “I’m going to have to do it again,” he says. “Now where’s the damn level?”

87

“Mom! Help! I need a bigger Tupperware!” Zoe shrieks from the kitchen.

These are the first words Zoe has uttered to me in two days. Both William and I have been getting the silent treatment since the Twitter incident.

“Could this be interpreted as ‘her coming to me’?” I ask William, who is sitting on the couch.

William sighs. “Damn dog door.”

“Well?”

He puts down the paper. “Beggars can’t be choosers.”

I leap to my feet.

“I’ve been calling you for ages!” Zoe’s crouched by the stove, holding a pint-sized Tupperware container, her eyes darting around wildly.

“That’s not big enough.”

“No shit, Mom. All the Tupperware has disappeared.”

I open the fridge. “Leftovers.”

“There it is!” yells Zoe and I whirl around just in time to see the mouse barreling toward me from across the room.

“Eek!” I shout.

“Do you think you could come up with something more original?” grunts Zoe as she chases after the mouse, who skitters like a drunk, ears flapping, a tiny Dumbo.

“Eek, eek!” I cry again as the mouse runs between my legs and disappears under the fridge.

Zoe stands up. “That’s your fault,” she says.

“What’s my fault?”

“That it went under the fridge.”

“Why is it my fault?”

“You seduced it.”

“How?”

“By opening the door and letting all that nice cool air out.”

“Really, Zoe? Well, let me open it again and maybe the mouse will reappear.”

I take out a large Tupperware container full of lasagna. I empty the lasagna onto a plate, wash the Tupperware, and hand it to her. “Here you go.”

“Thanks.”

“Now what?”

Zoe shrugs, sitting down at the table. “We wait.”

We sit in silence for a few minutes.

“I’m very glad you are not the kind of girl who is scared of mice,” I say.

“No thanks to you.”

We hear the mouse scrabbling around under the fridge.

“Should I get a broom?” I ask.

“No! That will traumatize it. Let it come out on its own.”

We sit in silence for another five minutes. We hear more scratching sounds, louder this time. “The elephant in the room,” I say.

Zoe’s eyes suddenly well up and she bows her head. “I didn’t want you to be ashamed of me,” she whispers.

“Zoe. Why would I be ashamed?”

“It just happened. I didn’t mean it to. Jude was in Hollywood. He was getting all this attention. And there was this boy. He kissed me. I didn’t kiss him first. And then I couldn’t stop kissing him. I’m a slut!” she cries. “I don’t deserve Jude.”

“You’re not a slut. Don’t you ever let me hear you use that word again when describing yourself! Zoe, you’re fifteen. So you made a mistake. You had a lapse in judgment. Why didn’t you just explain it to Jude? He adores you. Don’t you think he would have understood? Eventually?”

“I told him. Right away.”

“And what happened?”

“He forgave me.”

“But you didn’t forgive yourself. And that explains Ho-Girl?”

Zoe nods.

“Okay, okay. But Zoe, there’s something I don’t understand. The kiss matters far less to me than why you’ve been so mean to Jude. He follows you around like a puppy. He’d do anything for you.”

“He’s smothering me.”

“So your solution is to just run away?”

“I learned it from you,” she mumbles.

“You learned what from me?”

“Running away.”

“You think I’m running away? From what?”

“From everything.”

I register that hit in my belly. “Really? That’s really what you think?” I ask.

“Kind of,” whispers Zoe.

“Zoe. Oh, God,” I trail off.

At that moment the mouse runs under the table.

I lift my feet and we look at each other, wide-eyed. Zoe puts her finger up to her lips. “Don’t make a sound,” she mouths.

“Eek!” I mouth back.

Zoe fights off a smile as she very slowly slides off the chair and crouches on the floor, Tupperware in hand. Next I hear the sound of the plastic slapping the floor.

“Got it!” she yells, crawling out from under the table, pushing the Tupperware in front of her.

The mouse isn’t moving. “Did you kill it?” I ask.

“Of course not,” says Zoe, flicking the plastic with her fingers. “It’s playing dead. It’s scared to death.”

“Where should we release it?”

“You’re coming with me?” asks Zoe. “You never come with me. You’re scared of mice.”

“Yes, I’m coming with you,” I say, getting a piece of cardboard from the recycling bin. “Ready?” I slide the cardboard underneath the Tupperware and the two of us lift the container and slip out the back door, Zoe with her hand on top of the plastic container, me with my hand beneath, supporting the cardboard. We walk that ungainly way for a while, up the hill to a grove of eucalyptus trees. Then we bend as one, lowering the Tupperware to the ground. I slide the cardboard out.

“Bye, little mouse,” croons Zoe as she lifts the plastic.

A second later the mouse is gone.

“I don’t know why, but I always feel sad when I let them go,” says Zoe.

“Because you had to trap them?”

“No, because I worry that they won’t ever find their way home,” says Zoe, her eyes filling with tears again.

It occurs to me in that moment that Zoe is the same exact age I was when my mother died. She looks mostly like a Buckle, not an Archer. She has good hair, by which I mean hair she doesn’t have to fight with. She has lovely clear skin, and lucky girl, she’s got William’s height: she’s nearly five foot seven. But where I see myself, where I see the Archer side of the family, is around her eyes. The resemblance is especially pronounced when she’s sad. The way she bats the tears away with those inky dark lashes. The way her iris lightens from a navy to a sort of stormy blue-gray. That’s me. That’s my mother. Right there.

“Oh, Zoe. Sweetheart. You have such a big heart. You always have. Even as a little girl.” I put my arm tentatively around her.

“I shouldn’t have said those things to you. It’s not true. You’re not running away,” she says.

“It might be true. A little true.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know that.”

“I’m an ass.”

“I know that, too,” I say, punching her playfully on the shoulder. Zoe makes a face.

“Zoe, honey, look at me.”

She turns and bites her lower lip.

“Do you love Jude?”

“I think so.”

“Then do me a favor?”

“What?”

I put my hand on her cheek. “Don’t wait any longer, for God’s sake. Tell him how you feel.”

88

“Who’s the understudy for the lead?” asks Jack, squinting at his theater program. “I can’t read it. Alice, can you read this?”

I squint at the program. “How is anybody supposed to read this? The print is minuscule.”

“Here.” Bunny hands me a pair of reading glasses. They’re very hip-square and gunmetal gray.

“No, thanks,” I say.

“I bought them for you.”

“You did? Why?”

“Because you can no longer read small print and it’s time you faced up to that fact.”

“I can no longer read minuscule print. That’s very nice of you, but I don’t need them.” I hand the glasses back to her.

“God, I love the theater,” I say, watching the people around us filing into their seats. “Berkeley Rep is in our backyard. Why don’t we do this more often?”

The lights dim and a hush descends upon the theater as a few last-minute stragglers find their seats. This is my favorite part. Right before the curtain opens, when all the promise of the evening is ahead of you. I glance over at William. He’s wearing khakis, flat-front and slim-cut, which accentuate his muscular legs. I look at his thighs and a little shiver goes through me. All his running is paying off.

“Here we go,” whispers Bunny as the curtain parts.

“Thank you for taking us,” I say, squeezing her arm.

“Tweeting with Ho-Girl would have been more pleasurable,” says William, forty-five minutes later.

It’s intermission. We’re waiting in line at the bar along with dozens of other people.

“I can’t believe that made it to the stage,” says Jack. “It wasn’t ready.”

“And it was the playwright’s debut,” says Bunny. “I hope she’s got some thick skin.”

Everybody suddenly looks at me.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Alice. That was terribly insensitive,” says Bunny.

“Pah, is that what you say, Bunny? It was wan, boring, and absurd, just like The Barmaid, I’m afraid.”

Bunny’s eyes light up with pleasure. “Why, Alice, brava! It’s about time you faced up to that smelly fish of a review. Haul it into the boat instead of letting it swim circles around you over and over again for years on end. That’s how it loses its power.”

She winks at me. This morning I finally got up the courage to give her some of my pages. I’ve been setting aside time to write every day now. I’m starting to get into a rhythm.

“How old is the playwright?” I ask.

“Early thirties, I’d guess by her photo,” says William, looking through the program.

“Poor baby,” I say.

“Not necessarily,” says Bunny. “It’s only excruciating because for most of us the devastations happen in private, behind closed doors. When you’re a playwright, it all happens out in the open. But there’s a real opportunity there, you see? To take that ride publicly? Everybody gets to see you fall, but everyone also gets to see you rise. There’s nothing like a comeback.”

“What if you just fall and fall and fall?” I ask, thinking of William’s Facebook postings.

“Not possible; not if you stay with it. Eventually you’ll stand.”

We’re only three people away from the bar. I’m desperate for a drink. What’s taking so long? I hear the woman at the front of the line admonishing the bartender for not stocking Grey Goose and I freeze. That voice sounds familiar. When I hear the woman asking if they have grüner veltliner and the bartender suggesting perhaps she consider going with the house chardonnay, I groan. It’s Mrs. Norman, the druggie mother.

I have the sudden urge to dart behind a pillar and hide, then I think, why should I hide? I haven’t done anything wrong. Stand erect, Alice. I hear my father’s voice in my head. My slumping gets especially pronounced when I’m nervous.

“Sutter Creek, can you believe it?” Mrs. Norman says, as she turns around and catches sight of me.

I give her a half-smile and nod while standing perfectly erect.

“Well, hello,” she says sweetly. “Darling, look, it’s the draaama teacher. From Carisa’s school.”

Mr. Norman stands about a foot shorter than Mrs. Norman.

He extends his hand. “Chet Norman,” he says nervously.

“Alice Buckle,” I say. I quickly introduce Bunny, Jack, and William, and then step out of line to talk to them.

“I’m sorry I missed Charlotte’s Web. I heard it was quite the performance,” says Mr. Norman.

“Um-I guess it was,” I say, trying not to wince. I still feel as though that production was a major miscalculation on my part.

“So,” says Mrs. Norman. “Attend the theater often?”

“Oh, yes. All the time. It’s part of my work, isn’t it? To see plays.”

“How nice for you,” says Mrs. Norman.

The lights flicker on and off.

“Well,” I say.

“Carisa just loves you,” Mr. Norman says, his voice breaking.

“Really?” I say, locking eyes with Mrs. Norman.

The lights flicker again, a little faster this time.

“I’m sorry,” he says, sticking out his hand again. “I’m really very sorry.”

“Chet,” warns Mrs. Norman.

“We’ve held you up,” he says.

“Oh, dear. I’m afraid you’ll have to swig your wine,” says Mrs. Norman as William walks toward us with my drink.

I look at her, all arch and glitter and condescension, and honest to God have to hold myself back from pinching a pretend joint between my thumb and index finger and pretend-puffing away on it.

“Carisa is a wonderful girl,” I say to Mr. Norman. “I’m very fond of her, too.”

“This play is crap, Chet,” says Mrs. Norman, considering her glass of wine. “As is this swill. Let’s skip the second half.”

“But that would be rude, honey,” whispers Mr. Norman. “You just don’t walk out at intermission at the theater, do you?” he asks me. “Is that-done?”

Oh, I like Chet Norman. William joins us and hands me a glass of wine.

“I don’t think there are any hard-and-fast rules,” I say.

“Are you having a nice summer, Mrs. Buckle?” asks Mrs. Norman.

“Lovely, thank you.”

“That’s nice,” says Mrs. Norman.

Then she abruptly turns away and walks toward the exit.

“A pleasure to meet you,” Mr. Norman calls out as he trots after her.

The second half of the play is even worse than the first, but I’m glad we stick it out. For me it’s desensitization therapy-where you gradually inject the patient with a bit of the substance the person has an allergy to, in my case, public failure, so the person learns to tolerate the substance without the body overreacting. I feel deeply for the playwright. I’m sure she’s here, sitting in the wings or maybe even in the back of the theater. I wish I knew who she was. If I did, I would find her. I would tell her to let it wash over her, to feel it all, to not run from it. I would tell her that people would eventually forget. It might feel like the experience would kill her, but it wouldn’t. And one morning, maybe a month, or six months, or a year, or five years from now, she’d wake up and notice the way the light streamed through the curtains and the smell of coffee descended upon the house, like a blanket. And on that morning she’d sit down and confront the blank page. And she’d know she had arrived at the beginning again, and it was a new day.

89

John Yossarian added Likes

Sweden and conditions of utmost ease and luxury

Lucy Pevensie added Likes

Cair Paravel

Ah, Sweden-land of utmost ease and luxury. Is that where you’ve been hiding? Haven’t heard from you in a while, Researcher 101.

Maybe that’s because you insist on living in a castle. I imagine the cell service must be quite spotty at Cair Paravel. Did you take your husband to the Daniel Craig movie?

I did.

I took my wife, too.

Did she like it?

She liked it, although she gets annoyed by the way DC is constantly pursing his lips.

I agree with her. It’s irritating.

Maybe he can’t help it. Maybe his lips just go that way.

So the effort is going well with your wife?

We’re a work in progress, but yes, slow progress.

Do you still think about me?

Yes.

All the time?

Yes, although I’m trying not to.

I think that’s a good idea.

What?

That you try not to think about me.

What about you?

Are you asking if I think about you?

Yes.

I’m going to take a pass on that question. Is the survey over?

It can be if you want it to be.

Do I still get my $1,000?

Of course.

I don’t want it.

Are you sure?

It just seems wrong given what’s happened.

I wasn’t lying, you know.

About what?

I did fall for you.

Thank you for saying that.

If I hadn’t been married…

And if I hadn’t been married…

We never would have met.

Online.

Yes, online.

90

Bunny and I are sitting at the kitchen table, working our way through a bowl of pistachios and a pile of scripts, when Peter walks in with a friend.

“Do we have any pizza rolls?” he asks.

“No, but we have Hot Pockets.”

“You’re kidding,” he says, his eyes aglow.

“Yes, I am,” I say. “Do you think your father would allow that kind of junk food in the house?”

I extend my hand to his friend.

“I’m Peter’s mother, Alice Buckle. If it was up to me we’d have a freezer full of Hot Pockets, but since we don’t, I can offer you Wasa crackers with almond butter. I’m sorry, I wish I had Skippy, but that’s on the blacklist, too. I think there are a few hard-boiled eggs in the fridge if you’re allergic to nuts.”

“Should I call you Alice or Mrs. Buckle?” he asks.

“You may call me Alice, although I appreciate you asking. It’s a West Coast thing,” I explain to Bunny. “All the kids call adults by their first names out here.”

“Except for teachers,” says Peter.

“Teachers are called ‘dude,’ ” I say. “Or maybe ‘du.’ Is the ‘de’ silent these days?”

“Stop showing off,” says Peter.

“Well, I am Mrs. Kilborn and you may call me Mrs. Kilborn,” says Bunny.

“And you are?” I ask the boy.

“Eric Haber.”

Eric Haber? The Eric Haber I thought Peter had a secret crush on? He’s adorable: tall, eyes the color of peanut brittle, obscenely long lashes.

“Peter talks about you all the time,” I say.

“Stop it, Mom.”

A look passes between Eric and Peter, and Peter shrugs.

“So what are you two up to? Just hanging out?”

“Yeah, Mom, hanging out.”

I stack the scripts in a pile. “Well, we’ll leave you to it. Let’s go out on the deck, Bunny. Eric, I hope to be seeing more of you.”

“Uh-yeah, okay,” he says.

“What was all that about?” asks Bunny when we’ve settled out on the deck.

“I thought Eric was Peter’s secret crush.”

“Peter’s gay?”

“No, he’s straight, but I thought he might be gay.”

Bunny takes some sunscreen out of her bag and rubs it on her arms slowly.

“You’re very close to Zoe and Peter, aren’t you, Alice?” she says.

“Well, sure.”

“Mm-hmm,” she says, offering me the tube. “Mustn’t forget the neck.”

“You say ‘mm-hmm’ like there’s something wrong with that. Like you don’t approve. Do you think I’m too close?”

Bunny rubs the excess sunscreen into the back of her hands.

“I think you’re-enmeshed,” she says carefully. “You’re very intense with them.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

“Alice, how old were you when your mother died?”

“Fifteen.”

“Tell me something about her.”

“Like what?”

“Anything. Whatever comes to mind.”

“She wore big gold hoop earrings. She wore Jean Naté body splash and she drank gin and tonic all year round, didn’t matter the season. She said it made her feel like she was always on vacation.”

“What else?” asks Bunny.

“Let me guess. You want me to go deeeeeper,” I sigh.

Bunny grins.

“Well, I know this sounds funny, but for a few months after she died I thought she might come back. I think it had something to do with the fact that she went so suddenly; it was impossible to process that she was there one minute and gone the next. Her favorite movie was The Sound of Music. She even looked a little like Julie Andrews. She wore her hair short, and she had the most beautiful, long neck. I kept expecting her to suddenly pop around a tree and sing to me, like when Maria sang that song to Captain von Trapp. What was the name of that song?”

“Which one? When she realizes she’s fallen for him?” asks Bunny.

“So here you are standing there loving me. Whether or not you should,” I sing softly.

“You have a lovely voice, Alice. I didn’t know you could sing.”

I nod.

“And your father?” asks Bunny.

“He was absolutely wrecked.”

“Did you have help? Aunts and uncles? Grandparents?”

“Yes, but after a few months it was just the two of us.”

“You must have been very close,” Bunny says.

“We were. We are. Look, I know I’m too involved in their lives. I know I can be overbearing and intense. But Zoe and Peter need me. And they’re all I have.”

“They’re not all you have,” says Bunny. “And you have to start the process of letting them go. I’ve gone through this with three children already-believe me, I know. Fundamentally you have to make a break. In the end they’ll turn out to be exactly who they are, not who you want them to be.”

“Are you ready, Alice?” Caroline comes bounding out on the deck, dressed in her running gear.

“Speaking of,” says Bunny.

Caroline frowns and looks at her watch. “You said two, Alice. Let’s get going.”

“She’s a taskmaster, your daughter,” I say, getting to my feet.

“Alice-that was a nine-minute mile!”

“You’re kidding!” I gasp.

“I’m not. Look.” Caroline shows me her stopwatch.

“How the hell did that happen?”

Caroline bobs her head happily. “I knew you could do it.”

“Not without you. You’ve been a wonderful trainer.”

“Okay, let’s cool down,” says Caroline, slowing to a walk.

I give a little hoot.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?”

“Do you think I can get down to eight?”

“Don’t push it.”

We walk quietly for a few minutes.

“So how’s Tipi going?”

“Oh, Alice, I couldn’t be happier. And guess what? They offered me a full-time job! I start in two weeks.”

“Caroline! That’s wonderful!”

“It’s all falling into place. And I have to thank you, Alice. I don’t know what I would have done without your support and encouragement. You and William letting me stay here. And Peter and Zoe. Really, just incredible kids. Being with your family has been so good for me.”

“Well, Caroline, it was truly our pleasure and our gain. You’re a lovely young woman.”

When we get home, I pick up a laundry basket full of clean clothes that has been sitting in the middle of the living room floor for days and bring it upstairs into Peter’s room. I place the basket on the floor, knowing full well that it will now sit there for a week. He’s been petitioning for a later bedtime. I told him the day he started to put his clothes away and take a shower without me asking him to was the day I’d consider a later bedtime.

“You have so much energy, Alice. Maybe I should start running,” says Bunny, poking her head into the room.

“All thanks to your daughter,” I say. “And congratulations, by the way, to the mother of the recently gainfully employed. It’s incredible news about Tipi.”

Bunny’s eyes narrow. “What news?”

“That she’s been offered a full-time job?”

“What? I just got her an interview at Facebook. I pulled major strings to get it. Did she accept the job at Tipi?”

“Well, I think so. She seemed deliriously happy.” Bunny flushes red. “What’s wrong? She didn’t tell you? Oh, God, was it supposed to be a surprise? She didn’t say that. I just assumed she would have told you.”

Bunny shakes her head vigorously. “The girl has an advanced degree in computer science from Tufts. And she’s going to blow it all away working for some nonprofit!”

“Bunny, Tipi is not just some nonprofit. Do you know what they do? Microfinance. I think last year they gave away something like 200 million dollars in loans-”

Bunny cuts me off. “Yes, yes, I know, but how is the girl going to support herself? She’ll barely make a living wage at Tipi. You don’t understand, Alice. Your kids haven’t started to think about college yet. But here’s a piece of advice. The liberal-arts education days are over. Nobody can afford to major in English anymore. And don’t get me started on art history or theater. The future is math, science, and technology.”

“But what if your kids are bad at math, science, and technology?”

“Too bad. Force them to major in those subjects anyway.”

“Bunny! You can’t be serious. You of all people, who’s made a living in the arts all her life!”

“For crying out loud, you two,” says Caroline, stalking into the room. “Yes, Mom, it’s true. I’ve accepted the job at Tipi. And yes, it’s also true, I’ll be making basically minimum wage. So what? So is half the country. Actually, half the country would be lucky to be making minimum wage, to even have a job. I’m the lucky one.”

Bunny staggers backward and sits down on the bed.

“Bunny?” I say.

She gazes blankly at the wall.

“You don’t look well. Should I get you a glass of water?” I ask.

“You’re living in a dream world. You cannot survive on minimum wage, Caroline. Not in a city like San Francisco,” says Bunny.

“Of course I can. I’ll get roommates. I’ll waitress at night. I’ll make it work.”

“You have a master’s degree from Tufts in computer science.”

“Oh, okay. Here it comes,” says Caroline.

“And you are absolutely crazy not to do something with it. It’s your job, no, it’s your responsibility to do something with it. You’d be making twice, three times the income right off the bat!” she yells.

“The money isn’t important to me, Mom,” says Caroline.

“Oh, the money isn’t important to her, Alice,” says Bunny.

“Yes, the money isn’t important to her, Bunny.” I sit down next to her on the bed. “And maybe that’s okay for now,” I say gently. I put my hand on Bunny’s knee. “Look. She’s young. She has nobody to support but herself. She has lots of time for the money to be important to her. Caroline’s going to be working for an organization that really makes a difference in women’s lives.”

Bunny glares at both of us defiantly.

“You should be proud, Bunny, not angry,” I say.

“Did I say I wasn’t proud? I didn’t say that,” she snaps.

“Well, you’re certainly acting that way,” says Caroline.

“You are pushing me into a corner! And I don’t appreciate it,” shouts Bunny.

“How am I pushing you into a corner?” asks Caroline.

“You’re making me out to be somebody I’m not. Some ungenerous person. I can’t believe-I mean, what in the world? Me, of all people,” says Bunny indignantly, then, suddenly, she covers her face with her hands and groans.

“What now?” asks Caroline.

Bunny waves Caroline away.

“What, Mom?”

“I can’t speak.”

“Why can’t you speak?”

“Because I’m mortified,” whispers Bunny.

“Oh, please,” says Caroline.

“Be nice. She feels bad,” I mouth to Caroline.

Caroline sighs heavily, her arms crossed. “Mortified over what, Mom?”

“That you’re seeing this part of me,” says Bunny in a muffled voice.

“You mean Alice is seeing this part of you. I see this part of you all the time.”

“Yes, yes,” says Bunny, her hands dropping to her sides, looking absolutely miserable. “I know you do, Caroline. Mea culpa. Mea culpa!” she cries.

Caroline starts to melt when she sees her mother’s genuine distress.

“I think you’re being too hard on yourself, Bunny,” I say. “It’s not that black and white. Not when it comes to your kids.”

“No, I’m a hypocrite,” says Bunny.

“Yep,” says Caroline. “She’s a hypocrite.” She leans in and kisses Bunny on the cheek. “But a lovable hypocrite.”

Bunny looks at me. “How pathetic am I? Not even half an hour ago I was lecturing you pompously about how you should let your kids go.”

“There’s only one way to let them go that I know of,” I say. “Messily.”

Bunny picks up Caroline’s hand. “I am proud of you, Caro. I really am.”

“I know, Mom.”

She strokes Caroline’s palm. “And who knows, maybe you could give yourself a little microloan, if you need it. One of the perks of working at Tipi. If you find it difficult to live on the salary, that is.”

Caroline shakes her head at me.

“But, Alice, I have to tell you, if either Zoe or Peter shows any aptitude for math or technology, you really should-”

Caroline puts a finger on her mother’s lips, silencing her. “You always have to get the last word, don’t you?”

Later that afternoon I check Lucy Pevensie’s Facebook page. There are no new messages or posts. Yossarian is not online, either.

I scroll through my Facebook news feed.

Nedra Rao

It’s the 21st century. Is there nobody capable of making flattering bike shorts for women?

47 minutes ago

Linda Barbedian

Target! New sheets for Nick’s dorm room.

5 hours ago

Bobby Barbedian

Target! Not on your life.

5 hours ago

Kelly Cho

Is afraid the chickens are coming home to roost.

6 hours ago

Helen Davies

Hotel George V Paris-ahhh…

8 hours ago

Lately when I read my feed I feel such a mixture of worry, irritation, and envy, I wonder if it’s even worth having an account.

I’m antsy. I open a Word file. A minute goes by. Five minutes. Ten. My fingers hover over my keyboard. I nervously type “A Play in 3 Acts by Alice Buckle,” then quickly delete it, then write it again, this time in caps, thinking capital letters might give me courage.

The sounds of Marvin Gaye’s “What’s Going On” drifts into my bedroom from downstairs. I look at my watch. It’s 6:00. The cutting board will be pulled out soon. Peppers will be washed. Corn will be husked. And somebody, most likely Jack, will take his wife for a spin around the kitchen. Others of us-William and I-will be reminded of middle school dances and drinking cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer in the basement of the neighbor kid’s house. And the youngest of us, Zoe and Peter, and perhaps even Caroline, will download Marvin Gaye onto their iPods, feeling like they are the first ones on earth to discover that earthy, sexy voice.

I put my fingers on the keyboard and begin to type.

91

William walks into the kitchen. “Are you hungry for lunch?” he asks.

I look at the clock. It’s 11:30. “Not really.”

He rummages around the cupboard, pulling down a box of crackers. “Do we have any hummus?”

“Second shelf. Behind the yogurt.”

“So. News,” says William, opening the fridge. “I got a job offer.”

“What? William! You’re kidding me. When?”

“They called yesterday. It’s in Lafayette. Great benefits. Health. Dental.”

“Who called yesterday? You didn’t even tell me things were serious with anybody.”

“I was afraid it would fall through. I didn’t want to get your hopes up. It’s an office supply company.”

“Office supplies? Like Office Max?”

“No-not like Office Max. King’s Stationery. It’s a mom-and-pop shop, but they’re growing. They’ve got two stores in the Bay Area and plan to open two more in San Diego this year. I would be direct mail marketing coordinator.”

“Direct mail? As in flyers, postcards, and mailers?”

“Yes, Alice, as in what people usually throw in the recycling bin before even looking at it. I was fortunate to get it. There were dozens of applicants. The people seem nice. It’s a perfectly fine job.”

“Of course it is,” I say. “But William, is this what you want?” Were office supplies his big dream?

“What I want doesn’t matter anymore,” he says quietly.

“Oh, William-” He holds up his hand and cuts me off.

“Alice, no. Stop. I owe you an apology. And if you’ll just shut up for a second I can give it to you. You were right. I should have tried harder to make it work at KKM. It’s my fault I was laid off. I let you down. I let the whole family down. And I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

I’m stunned. Did William just admit to me he may have had something to do with being laid off, that it wasn’t just all about redundancies? Did he just say it was his fault? He leans over the sink and looks out the window into the backyard, chewing his lip, and as I watch him I feel the last bits of anger over the Cialis debacle drain right out of me.

“You haven’t let me down, William. And your ‘not trying’ wasn’t the only reason you were laid off. I know that. A part of it was out of your control. Maybe it’s my fault, too, somehow. All of this. Where we are. Maybe I let you down, too.”

He turns to face me. “You haven’t let me down, Alice.”

“Okay. But if I did, and I probably did, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, too.”

He gathers his breath. “I should take this job. I like paper. And pens. And sticky notes. And highlighters.”

“I love highlighters. Especially the green ones.”

“And mailing supplies.”

“And staplers. Don’t forget staplers. Do you know staples come in colors now? And Lafayette has a great downtown. You can probably walk there for lunch from the office. Grab a Starbucks in the afternoon.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” says William, dipping a cracker in the hummus. “That will be nice.”

“Have you formally accepted?”

“I wanted to talk it over with you first.”

“When do you need to give them an answer?”

“I have a week.”

“Well, let’s just let it sink in. Really weigh the pros and cons.”

I’m hoping this will buy me some time to find out what’s going on with my job. I haven’t heard anything back from Kentwood Elementary as to my query about going full-time in the fall, but I’m hopeful. Often the Parents’ Association doesn’t make decisions about how funds are being dispersed until the very last minute.

“Seeing that there are no other job offers forthcoming there are only pros, Alice. I can’t think of any negatives,” says William.

He’s right. We don’t have the luxury of choice. Nobody does. Not anymore.

92

The next day I wake with a headache and a fever. I spend the morning in bed, and at lunchtime William and Zoe bring me up a tray: a bowl of chicken noodle soup, a glass of ice water, and the mail: an envelope and People magazine.

I sniff the soup. “Mmmm.”

“Imperial Tea Court,” William says.

I pop a noodle into my mouth. “You drove to Imperial Tea Court? In Berkeley?”

He shrugs. “They make the best noodles. Besides, my days of bringing you noodles in the middle of the day are numbered.”

“What are you talking about?” asks Zoe.

“Nothing,” I say.

We haven’t told the children about William’s job offer yet. I know they’ve been worried and will be very relieved to hear he’s employed again, but I don’t want to say anything to them until we’ve made a firm decision. William and I glance at each other.

“Obviously not nothing,” says Zoe.

Jampo comes running into the room and leaps on the bed.

William snatches him up. “You’re not allowed up there. How about a run, you monster?” Jampo stares at him aggressively like he’s a terrorist and then suddenly licks his face. William’s really been making an effort with Jampo. Are they friends now?

“We need to have a discussion about nothing this evening,” I say.

“Can you give me a ride to Jude’s before your run, Dad?” asks Zoe.

Jude and Zoe are officially a couple again. The day after we caught the mouse, I heard Zoe on the phone with Jude, crying and apologizing. That night he came over for dinner and the two of them held hands under the table. It was so sweet and felt so right it stopped my heart.

“I guess so. Caroline and I have to talk to Nedra about the cake, anyway. Alice, are you two speaking yet?”

“I’m about to send her a smoke signal,” I say.

“The wedding is in two weeks. Perhaps you should light the fire now.”

After lunch I take another nap, and when I wake I swallow three more Advil. I can’t seem to shake this headache. Everything aches. Even my rib cage. I listen for noises from downstairs but it’s quiet. Nobody’s home but me. I log on, but there’s nothing from Researcher 101: no email and no Facebook messages. I’m almost relieved that’s the case. I finish off the noodles. I rifle through People. Then I open the envelope that’s come in the day’s mail.

Dear Alice Buckle,

The Kentwood Elementary School Parents’ Association regrets to inform you that we will not be renewing your contract as a drama teacher for the upcoming school year. As you know, the Oakland public school system is experiencing dire budget shortfalls, and it has been decided the funds that the Parents’ Association previously dedicated to the Drama Program will have to be rerouted elsewhere. We appreciate your years of loyal service and wish you the very best of luck in your endeavors.

Sincerely,

The Kentwood Elementary School Parents’ Association Board

Mrs. Alison Skov

Mr. Farhan Zavala

Mrs. Kendrick Bamberger

Ms. Rhonda Hightower

Mrs. Chet Norman

A door slams downstairs and a few seconds later, I hear laughter. I lie there in bed, stunned. Why didn’t I see this coming? I should have known something was up when I saw Mrs. Norman at Berkeley Rep. Clearly this was already in the works. She was so smug and her husband so apologetic; she most likely spearheaded my termination.

When William clomps up the stairs in his sneakers, I pretend to be asleep. He walks to the side of the bed and I can feel his eyes on my face. He gently touches the back of his hand to my forehead to see if I’m hot.

“You’re a bad faker,” he says.

“I’ve been fired,” I whisper.

I hear the rustle of paper as he reads the letter. “Fuck them,” he says.

“It hurts,” I whimper.

William puts his hand on mine. “I know, Alice.”

I’m sick for the next three days.

“It’s a summer flu,” says Bunny. “You just have to let it run its course.”

Every morning, I get up thinking it will have passed. I go downstairs, pour myself a cup of coffee, feel nauseous at the smell of it, and go back upstairs.

“She’s a very bad patient,” says Jack.

“The worst,” says William.

“Am I not sighing enough?” I ask.

“No. You’re not moaning enough, either,” says William.

“We need to talk,” I say. “About nothing,” meaning his job offer.

“When you’re feeling better.”

I watch bad TV. I spend a lot of time online.

KED3 (Kentwood Elementary Third Grade Drama Parents’ Forum) Digest #134

KED3ParentsForum@yahoogroups.com

Messages. in this digest (6)

1. I’m starting a Get Alice Buckle Her Job Back group. Please join me! Posted by: Farmymommy

2. RE: I’m starting a Get Alice Buckle Her Job Back group. Please join me. Yes! Count me in. I have to admit I feel terrible about the way this was handled. It was done so impersonally. Somebody (you know who I’m talking about, Storminnormandy) should have had the courage to tell her face-to-face. At the very least she should have been given a goodbye lunch, at Blackberries, or Red Boy Pizza. Yes, Charlotte’s Web was a disaster. We all agree with that (sorry, mothers of the geese), but doesn’t she deserve another chance? And if not another chance, at least appreciation for all her years of service? Posted by: Queenbeebeebee

3. RE: I’m starting a Get Alice Buckle Her Job Back group. Please join me. Are you kidding me? May I remind you Alice Buckle basically had our kids do a striptease dance in the auditorium. All that was missing was the pole. Posted by: Helicopmama

4. RE: I’m starting a Get Alice Buckle Her Job Back group. Please join me. Please desist from starting this group. There are circumstances that none of you are aware of that led to Alice Buckle’s termination. Circumstances that I cannot, unfortunately, reveal to you at this time. What I can tell you is that Ms. Buckle had some serious lapses in judgment. Let’s just leave it at that and move on. Posted by: Storminnormandy

5. RE: I’m starting a Get Alice Buckle Her Job Back group. Please join me. Alice Buckle is a very good friend of mine. She does not want her job back. Well, not anymore. When she first found out, she would have done anything to get her job back because she was panicked about how her family would survive on NO income (her husband is currently unemployed, too). But after sitting with it for a few days she’s come to agree with Storminnormandy. It is time for her to move on. She wants to apologize for her mistakes. And she really hopes you will not terminate the performing arts program altogether. Posted by: Davidmametlurve182

6. RE: I’m starting a Get Alice Buckle Her Job Back group. Please join me. I have loved every single minute I’ve spent working with your children. Posted by: Davidmametlurve182

My cell rings.

“Are we talking yet?” asks Nedra.

“No.”

“I heard about your job. I’m so sorry, Alice.”

“Thank you.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’ve got the flu.”

“Who gets the flu in the summer?”

“Apparently me. So did you decide on the lemon or raspberry cake?”

“Oysters.”

“Oyster cake.”

“No, for appetizers.”

“I thought that was too obvious. Oysters being aphrodisiacs and all.”

“That’s a very nice apology,” says Nedra. “Accepted. Potluck two nights from now.”

“You’re still doing the potluck so close to your wedding?”

“Italian. We’ll make it easy. Just bring a jar of tomato sauce.”

“Nedra?”

“What?”

“Jude is an amazing kid.”

“And so is Zoe. Kisses. I’ll talk to you soon.”

I end the call and log on to my Facebook page.

Nedra Rao

Misses her best friend.

2 hours ago

Nedra Rao

“unlikes” Kentwood Elementary.

3 hours ago

Linda Barbedian

Can’t believe she’s going to be an empty nester.

4 hours ago

Kelly Cho

Et tu, Brute?

5 hours ago

Phil Archer

Pawnshop-a time capsule. Who knew?

6 hours ago

Helen Davies

Wanted: VP Food and Beverage Division in Boston. Startle me. Sell me. Pitch me. See LinkedIn for more info.

7 hours ago

93

John Yossarian is married.

Lucy Pevensie is married.

I guess congratulations are in order?

You, too.

I take it things are going well then?

Things?

With your wife?

Things are becoming clearer with my wife. They are, however, becoming less clear in all other areas.

Like work?

Yes, like work. I’ve been looking for another job. It’s time for me to leave the Netherfield Center.

Because of me?

No, because of me. I crossed the line. You didn’t do anything wrong.

I’m very sorry to hear that.

Don’t be.

Well, if it makes you feel any better it appears I crossed the line, too, at work. I definitely will have to look for another job.

Oh, no, Wife 22.: (

It’s all right. It’s my fault. I made the mistake of mixing up my love for the kids with my love for the job. I was tired. I got sloppy. I should have quit a long time ago.

What now?

Now I make amends.

94

Still sick. Once again, the house is empty except for Jampo and me. William took the kids to the pool and Caroline and her parents went into San Francisco to look at apartments; she may have to get five roommates in order to afford living in the city, but she’ll move out by the end of the month. I’m going to miss her terribly, but I take comfort in the fact she’ll only be a BART ride away.

I can’t stop thinking about Helen’s Facebook posting. I go to her LinkedIn page to find out more about the job. After reading the detailed description for the VP of Food and Beverage (and having spent the last month being the lucky recipient of William’s gourmet meals and various sundry food obsessions), I know this would be the perfect job for William-a job that would perhaps even qualify as his pipe dream-however, there are three big obstacles. One: William is far too proud to apply for it himself; two: the job is in Boston; and three: me. I’m sure Helen still hates me. But maybe, after all these years, I’ve finally been given the opportunity to set things right.

An hour later, I hold my breath, utter a quick “Please, God,” and press Send.

From: Alice Buckle ‹alicebuckle@rocketmail.com›

Subject: A voice from the past…

Date: August 13, 10:04 AM

To: Helen Davies ‹helendavies@D &DAdvertising.com›

Dear Helen,

I have owed you a real apology for years. Actually I owe you a few apologies, but first, the big one-I’m very sorry about William. I want you to know I did have standards. I believed in the sisterhood. Up until that point I had never been the “other woman” in a relationship and I never intended to become one. But something happened between William and me that was-well, it was unexpected. It just sort of carried us away. Neither one us was looking for it. I know that’s a cliché, but it’s the truth.

I’m sorry that I flirted with him behind your back. I’m sorry that I didn’t invite you to our wedding (I wanted to, I knew it was the right thing to do, but I let myself be talked out of it). But mostly I’m sorry that it’s taken me twenty years to apologize.

And now, in a strange bit of comeuppance, I find myself in the uncomfortable position of asking you for a favor. I’m writing to you on behalf of William. I saw your job listing for the VP of Food and Beverage: William would be perfect for it. He’s too proud to apply himself, but I’m not too proud to ask you for a chance to throw his hat in the ring. I don’t want any special favors, I only ask that you don’t hold me against him.

I’ve attached William’s CV.

All the very best,

Alice Buckle

95

Alice?

Hi Dad.

I have something 2 tell u.

I have something to tell u 2.

Been clning house. Dump runs. Salvation Army. Pawnshop.

Pawnshop? Why?

Wanted 2 buy Conchita some jewelry.

In a pawnshop?

Don’t make fun. Pawnshop has many treasures. Asked Conchita move in w me.

You’re kidding!!

U don’t approve?

Of course I approve. I think it’s wonderful!

I thought I done with all this.

With all what?

U know what.

Romance?

Sex.

Love, Dad?

Yes, love.

:’(

Why u sad, sweetheart?

:-#

I’m your father. U don’t have to B embarrassed.

I haven’t always told you the truth, Dad.

I know that, honey.

Things are kind of hard around here.

I had a feeling something was going on. U been so far away.

I’m really sorry. I’m feeling a little lost.

Do not give up. U be found soon. Good thgs on their way 2 u.

Oh, Dad. How do you know?

Becos I sent them in the mail.

96

Pat Guardia

Can’t believe she almost didn’t do this. Loves her husband so much.

1 hour ago

Pat Guardia

Somebody kill me now.

3 hours ago

Pat Guardia

Hates her husband with all her heart.

4 hours ago

Pat Guardia

Water just broke. Going to the hospital! Have never been more in love.

6 hours ago

“Hello, baby,” I whisper, looking down at Pat and her newborn in the hospital bed.

“Go ahead,” says Pat. “Take off his hat. I know you want to smell him.”

I slip off the blue knit beanie and breathe in the sweet, milky new-baby-head smell.

“Oh, God, Pat. How can you stand it? He’s gorgeous. And he’s got a perfectly shaped head. How did you manage that?” I ask.

“Only twenty minutes of pushing,” says Tita proudly.

“Only because Liam is my third,” says Pat.

Shonda hands Pat a pink box wrapped in glittery ribbon. “I know I’m supposed to bring something for the baby, but tough. You’re the one who needs a present right now. Miracle Serum of Light Complexion Illuminator. Not that you need it, sweetheart.”

“It sounds like a church,” says Tita.

“Oh, it is,” says Shonda. “Once you start using it, you’ll be worshiping at MSLCI’s altar forever, trust me.”

“You finally got your boy,” I say.

“What am I going to do with a boy?” says Pat. “All I know is girls.”

“Cover his wee-wee when you change his diaper,” I tell her.

“And how long should she refer to it as a wee-wee?” asks Shonda.

“A month, two months tops,” I say. “Then you can graduate to penie.”

“None of this wee-wee and penie silliness. You should call it a penis from the beginning,” says Tita.

“You feel very strongly about that, Tita, don’t you,” says Shonda.

“I hate it when people make up ridiculous names for their hoo-hoos,” says Tita.

“Do you want to hold him?” Pat asks me.

“Could I? I already washed my hands.”

“Of course. Go sit in the rocker with him.”

She carefully hands me the baby. He’s asleep, so I tiptoe over to the rocker. Once I’m seated, I take a good look at him: the perfect bow-shaped lips, the tiny fist curled up against his cheek. I sigh happily.

“You could do it again, Alice,” says Pat. “You’re only forty-four. My friend just got pregnant and she’s forty-five.”

“God, no,” I whisper. “I’m done with all that. My babies are nearly grown. I’ll just have a baby vicariously through you. I’ll take him anytime you need a break. Day or night, you just call and I’ll take him,” I say. “I mean that, Pat. I’m not just saying it.”

“I know you’re not,” says Pat.

“You’re crying, Alice,” says Tita.

“I know,” I say. “Newborns always make me cry.”

“How come?” asks Shonda.

“They’re just so vulnerable. So defenseless. So pure.”

“Uh-huh,” says Shonda.

“You’re crying, Shonda,” says Tita.

“So are you, Tita,” says Shonda.

“I’m not crying,” says Pat, sniffling.

We’re all in different parts of the room, but it feels like we’ve joined hands. This is what happens with the Mumble Bumbles-this sudden sort of swelling and gathering each other up.

“When I was young, forty-five seemed so old,” I say. “My mother seemed so old.”

Liam uncurls his fist and I slide in my pinkie. He grasps it tightly and brings it to his mouth.

“But now that I’m almost forty-five it seems so young. My mother was such a baby. She had so much life ahead of her.”

“And so do you,” says Tita softly.

“I’ve gotten everything all wrong. Zoe doesn’t have an eating disorder. Peter isn’t gay.”

“Just because she passed away doesn’t mean you can’t speak to her, Alice,” says Shonda.

“That marriage study was a stupid idea. I screwed up at work.”

“The conversation never stops,” says Tita.

I nestle my face into Liam’s blankets. “He’s so beautiful.”

“She’d want you to pass her, Alice,” says Shonda.

“Please, please let me take care of him sometimes,” I beg, standing up.

“To not pass her would be a betrayal,” says Pat.

“I feel like I’m saying goodbye,” I say.

“Not just goodbye, but hello,” says Tita. “There you are. Hello, Alice Buckle.”

I walk to Pat’s bedside, tears streaming down my face, and hand Liam back to her.

“Everybody dreads their tipping-point year,” says Tita. “They think if they just don’t pay attention to it, it’ll go away. I don’t know why you all make such a big fuss. Not when this is what’s on the other side of it.”

The Mumble Bumbles gather around me and soon we’re a crying, hugging mob, one tiny human in the middle of us, the future, his finger pointed up toward the sky.

97

FESTIVE ITALIAN POTLUCK AT NEDRA’S HOUSE

6:30: Standing in Nedra’s kitchen

Me: Here’s the pasta sauce. I brought two kinds. Mushroom and three-cheese.

Nedra: That’s very nice, but you’re an hour early.

Zoe: Is Jude home?

Nedra: In his room, darling. Go on in. What time does the movie start?

Zoe: Seven.

Nedra: Have fun!

Me: I thought we could go over the maid-of-honor responsibilities.

Nedra (watching Zoe walk away): This makes me very, very happy. The two of them back together. Does it make you happy?

Me: Did you hear what I just said?

Nedra: Show up.

Me: I’m right here.

Nedra: On my wedding day-show up. That is your responsibility.

Me: Done. I’ll even wear a hideous Queen Victoria dress.

Nedra: I bought you a beautiful dress.

Me: You did?

Nedra: A halter-top. Very flattering. You’ve got great shoulders and arms. You should show them off.

Me: I have something to tell you. About Researcher 101.

Nedra: You don’t have to tell me anything, Alice. In fact, I’d rather not hear it. La-la-la-la-la.

Me: I think it’s over.

Nedra (sighing): It wasn’t over before?

Me: He’s going to try and make it work with his wife.

Nedra: He has a wife?

Me: Stop, Nedra. Please. I just told you it’s over.

Nedra: So you’re going to try and make it work with William?

Me: Well, that’s the funny thing. It doesn’t seem like work right now.

Bobby (walking into the kitchen): Ladies! I know I’m early. I hope I’m not interrupting. But look at this gorge-o bread. Smell it. Here (ripping off the end). La Farine. Just out of the oven. Have a bite.

Nedra: Where’s Linda?

Bobby: She’s not going to be able to make it.

Me: Well, looks like we’ll all be partnerless. William and Kate can’t make it either.

Nedra: What’s Linda’s excuse?

Bobby: She’s divorcing me. I got the potluck. She got everything else.

7:30: In Nedra’s living room

Nedra: I hate to say it, but I knew the twin master suites were the beginning of the end.

Bobby: I want to get high. I deserve to get high. Do you have any pot, Nedra? Alice, you don’t have to sit so far away. Divorce is not contagious.

Nedra: Actually, you’re wrong. Divorce is a sort of contagion. I see it all the time. A man comes in looking for representation and then a few weeks later another man comes in, a friend of the first man, just wanting to know his rights and all, but just in case, he’s brought along a comprehensive list of all the marital assets, the last three years of income tax returns, and a recent pay stub. Alice, you stay right where you are.

Bobby (starting to cry): She wants to move to New York to be closer to the kids.

Nedra (getting up): Bloody hell. Hold on.

Me (sitting next to him on the couch): Don’t cry, Bobby B.

Bobby: I love it when you call me that. You’re such a nice woman. Why didn’t I marry you?

Me: I’m no prize, believe me.

Bobby: I’ve always envied William.

Me: You have?

Bobby: Even after twenty years together, the two of you are still so connected.

Me: We are?

Bobby: It used to drive Linda crazy. She thought you guys were faking it. I told her you can’t fake passion like that.

Nedra (walking back into the room, holding a joint): Success!

Me: Jude smokes?

Nedra (lighting the joint and inhaling): Of course not. It’s mine.

Me: You have your own supply?

Nedra (handing the joint to Bobby): Here you go, darling. It’s the good stuff. Very clean. I have a medical condition.

Me: What’s your medical condition?

Bobby (taking a big toke, and then another and then another): Oh, Jesus, that’s good.

Nedra: You don’t believe me?

Me: No, Nedra, I don’t.

Nedra: It’s in the DSM. It’s an actual disorder.

Me: What’s it called?

Nedra: Middle age.

Bobby (coughing): I have that, too.

Nedra: There’s only one known cure.

Bobby: What’s that?

Nedra: Old age.

Bobby (cackling): Is it the Mary Jane, or is Nedra suddenly really funny?

Me: Mary Jane? Just how old are you, Bobby B?

Nedra (inhaling deeply, then looking at the joint): I’m getting married. Can you believe it? Me? A bride?

Bobby: Will you represent me in the divorce?

Nedra: I wish I could, darling. But I know the both of you. It wouldn’t be fair. I can recommend somebody very good.

Zoe (walking into the living room with Jude): Quick, get the camera so we can take pictures of them and they’ll be so embarrassed and horrified they’ll never touch the stuff again.

Me: Oh, my God, Zoe! What are you doing here? I am not smoking, for your information. I haven’t taken one hit.

Nedra: This is very rude of you. To just walk in on us and invade our privacy. I thought you went to the movies.

Jude: Do you think this is a rave?

Zoe: You do realize pot is much stronger these days than it was when you were growing up?

Jude: Frequently it’s dipped in embalming fluid.

Zoe: One puff could trigger schizophrenia.

Nedra: In a teenage brain-with an unconnected frontal lobe. Our frontal lobes have been connected for decades now.

Bobby: Blame it on me.

Nedra: Blame it on Linda.

Jude (reaching for his guitar): Well, since you’re all high and everything, would you like to hear a song?

Me: I’m not high. And I would. I would really like to hear a song, Jude.

Zoe (blushing): It’s called “Even Though.”

Bobby: Hold on. I have to lie on the carpet for this.

Me: Me, too.

Nedra: Move over.

Me: I feel like I’m in high school.

Bobby (starting to cry again, softly): There’s something about being stoned and lying on the floor.

Me (reaching for Bobby’s hand)

Nedra (reaching for Bobby’s other hand)

Jude (strumming the guitar, looking at Zoe): I wrote it for Zoe.

Bobby (moaning): Ohhh!

Jude: Is he okay? Should I stop?

Bobby (clutching his heart): Ahhhh!

Jude: What? What is it?

Nedra: He means play, darling. He means the world needs more love songs. He means bonne chance and glück und den besten wünschen and buona fortuna. He means “how wonderful it is to be young.”

Bobby (sobbing): That’s exactly what I mean. How did you know?

Me: Nedra is fluent in moans.

98

From: Helen Davies ‹helendavies@D &DAdvertising.com›

Subject: Re: A voice from the past…

Date: August 15, 3:01 PM

To: Alice Buckle ‹alicebuckle@rocketmail.com›

Alice,

I knew I was in trouble the day you interviewed for the job at Peavey Patterson. I’m sure you aren’t aware of this, as you practically ran out of William’s office that day, but he watched you go. It was involuntary. He couldn’t help himself. He stood in his doorway and watched you walk down the corridor. Then he watched you stand by the elevators, nervously punching the down button over and over again. And then, even when you were gone, he still stood there in the doorway. You knew each other even before you knew each other. That was the look on his face the day he interviewed you. Recognition. I didn’t stand a chance.

As far as the position, even though William is certainly qualified, I’m not sure I can help. Give me a few days to think about it. I assume you don’t want to move to Boston. And I assume he doesn’t know that you’ve applied for him and you’d like to keep it that way. He’s always been a proud man.

Apology accepted.

HD

99

“I took the job,” says William.

“What job?”

“The direct mail job, Alice. What other job would I be talking about?”

It’s been two days since I got the email from Helen, and-nothing.

“But we didn’t talk about it.”

“What’s there to talk about? We’re both out of work. We need the income, not to mention the benefits. It’s done. To be honest, I feel relieved.”

“But I just thought-”

“No. Don’t say anything else. It’s the right thing to do.” He leans back against the kitchen counter, his hands jammed in his pockets, and nods at me.

“I know. I know it is. It’s really great, William. Congratulations. So when do you start?”

William turns around and opens the cupboard. “Monday. So, interesting news. Kelly Cho was let go from KKM.”

“She was let go? What happened?”

“I guess they did a major restructuring,” says William, grabbing the flour. “I was only the first round.”

It’s Friday. Tonight, Nedra is throwing a celebratory dinner (for friends and colleagues that won’t be at the ceremony-she even invited Bunny, Jack, and Caroline), and tomorrow is the wedding.

“What are you prepping?” I ask.

“Cheese puffs.”

“Sorry-I overslept,” says Caroline, walking into the kitchen.

Bunny follows her in, yawning. “Please tell me there’s coffee.”

Caroline pours two cups of coffee and sits down at the table with her pad, frowning.

“We’re never going to get all this done.”

“Delegate,” says William.

“I’ll help,” I say.

“Me, too,” says Bunny.

Caroline and William glance at each other.

“How I can put this nicely?” says Caroline.

“Right,” I say. “Our services are not desired. Bunny, should we retire to the deck?”

“I’m really very happy to peel something. I’m an expert peeler,” says Bunny.

“Fine, Mom, I’ll call you when we get to the potatoes,” says Caroline.

Bunny takes a sip of her coffee and sighs. “I’m going to miss this.”

“What? My nearly dead lemon tree? Living with the constant threat of earthquakes?”

“You, Alice. Your family. William. Peter and Zoe. Having coffee with you every morning.”

“You really have to leave?”

“Caroline’s found an apartment. She’s got a job. It’s time for us to go home. Promise me we won’t fall out of touch again.”

“That won’t happen. I’m back in your life for good.”

“Marvelous. That’s just what I wanted to hear, because I’ll imagine we’ll be going back and forth quite a bit on this.”

“On what?”

“I read your pages. There’s some really good stuff in there, Alice, but I’ll be honest. It needs work.”

I nod. “Let me guess. People don’t talk that way in real life, right?”

Bunny chuckles. “Did I really say that to you? Oh, goodness, that was a long time ago, wasn’t it?”

“Is it still true?”

“No. You have a good ear for dialogue now. Now the challenge will be disclosure. Moving past your vulnerability. Your work is autobiographical, after all.”

“Some of it.” I make a face.

“I’m being too nosy? I’m sorry.”

“Oh, don’t be. I need a kick in the ass.”

“A kick in the ass is the opposite of what you need. What you need is a cupping of the chin,” says Bunny, turning to me and cupping my chin. “Listen to me. Take yourself seriously. Write your goddamn play already.”

“You’re not going to believe it!” says William, an hour later.

I’m in my bedroom closet, attempting to figure out what to wear tonight. I rifle through my clothes. No, no, no. Too fancy, too outdated, too matronly. Maybe I could get away with wearing the Ann Taylor suit.

“I just got an email from Helen Davies.”

“Helen Davies?” I try and look surprised. “What does she want?”

“Do you remember she posted her firm was looking for a VP of Food and Beverage?”

I shrug.

“Well, I didn’t pay any attention to the posting because the job was in Boston, but she just wrote to me and asked if I’d be interested. They’ve decided to move the division to the San Francisco office.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously. She thinks I’d be the perfect person to head it up.”

“I can’t believe it.”

“Me either.”

“It’s unbelievable timing.”

“Eerie, isn’t it? It feels like fate. Like everything that happened twenty years ago is just circling back around. It feels good, Alice. Good!” He twirls me out of the closet and waltzes me around the room.

“You’re crazy,” I say.

“I’m lucky,” he says, dipping me.

“You’re a kook,” I say. He swings me back up and our eyes find each other.

I bury my face in his shirt, suddenly feeling shy.

“No, you don’t. You’re not allowed to hide,” he says, pulling me away from him. “Look at me, Alice.”

He gazes down at me and I think it’s been so long, I think there you are, I think home.

“We’re going to be okay. I have to admit I was worried. I wasn’t sure,” says William, tucking my hair behind my ears. “But I think we’re going to be okay.”

“I hope so.”

“Don’t hope so. Believe it. If there was anytime you needed to believe, it’s now, Alice.”

He takes my face in his hands and tilts it up. His kiss is tender and sweet and doesn’t last a second longer than it should.

“Whoa. I’m dizzy.” I untangle myself from him and sit down on the bed. “All that twirling.” And kissing. And gazing. And being gazed at. I feel breathless.

“I’ll need to make a few hires. I was thinking about Kelly Cho.”

“Kelly? Wow. Well, I guess that would be a really nice gesture.”

William goes on, musing out loud. I haven’t seen him so animated in months. He does a two-step around the bedroom. He doesn’t notice when I open my laptop.

From: Alice Buckle ‹alicebuckle@rocketmail.com›

Subject: VP Food and Beverage: William Buckle

Date: August 17, 10:10 AM

To: Helen Davies ‹helendavies@D &DAdvertising.com›

Dear Helen,

You are one class act.

Thank you. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.

Alice

100

John Yossarian

Adrift on a little yellow raft

10 minutes ago

Lucy Pevensie

Mothballs and fur

15 minutes ago

You’re back in the wardrobe?

I’m afraid so.

Time passes differently in Narnia then IRL.

Look at you, using acronyms like IRL.

You’ll only have been gone for five minutes when you return.

A lifetime on the Internet.

Your husband won’t even know that you left.

That’s the hope, anyway. I’ll miss you, Yossarian.

What will you miss?

Your paranoia, your complaining, your salty brand of sanity.

I’ll miss you, too, Lucy Pevensie.

What will you miss?

Your magic cordials, your bravery-your ridiculous blind faith in a talking lion.

Do you believe in second chances?

I do.

I can’t help thinking it was fate that brought us together.

And fate that kept us apart. Forgive me for complicating things, for falling for you, Wife 22.

Don’t apologize. You reminded me I was a woman worth falling for.

GTG. I see land.

GTG. I see light through the crack of the wardrobe door.

101

I’m about to close my Lucy Pevensie account for good, but before I do, I poke around on John Yossarian’s wall one last time. It’s been such an intense couple of months and Researcher 101 has played such a big part in my daily life. Even though I’m ready to say goodbye, and I know it’s the right thing to do, I still feel bereft. It’s a last-day-of-camp feeling. I’m bittersweet, but ready to pack it up and go home.

On Yossarian’s information page, I see a link to a Picasa album, which contains his profile photos. Suddenly I wonder if he’s disabled his geotag function. I open the album and click on the yeti photo. A map of the United States pops up with a red pushpin stuck smack in the middle of the Bay Area. No, he has not disabled his geotag function. I zoom in on the pushpin. The photo was taken on the Golden Gate Bridge. I exhale with pleasure. This is dangerous. This is titillating. There’s a part of me that’s still curious, that will always be curious. Even though we had a certain kind of intimacy, in truth I know nothing about him. Who is he? How does he spend his days?

I repeat the same process with the photo of the horse and once again the pushpin is stuck in San Francisco, but the location is Crissy Field. He’s got to be athletic. He probably runs and bikes. Maybe he even does yoga.

I click on the photo of the dog, but this time the red pushpin appears on Mountain Road in Oakland. Wait a second. Is it possible he lives in Oakland? I just assumed he lived in San Francisco, based on the Netherfield Center’s proximity to UCSF.

I click on the photo of the labyrinth and the pushpin again shows his location as Oakland. But this photo was taken minutes from my house. In Manzanita Park.

I click on the photo of his hand, my heart thudding. Stop this, Alice Buckle, stop it right now. You extracted yourself. You just said goodbye. A map of my neighborhood pops up. I enlarge the map. It zeros in on my street. I drag the icon of the little yellow man onto the pushpin, wanting more detail, and an actual photo of an actual house appears. 529 Irving Drive.

My house.

What? The photo was taken from my house? I try and process this information.

Researcher 101 has been inside my house? He’s been stalking me? He’s a stalker? But this makes no sense. How could he have gotten into my house? Somebody is always home, between school being out and Caroline working only part-time, and Jampo would have barked his head off if somebody broke in, and William never-William… Jesus.

I zoom in on the photo of the hand. And when the familiar details of that hand come into focus-the big palm, the long, tapered fingers, the little freckle on the top of the pinkie, I feel sick because-it’s William’s hand.

“Alice, can I borrow some conditioner?” Bunny stands in the doorway wrapped in a towel, clutching her toiletry bag in her hand. Then she looks at my face. “Alice, dear God, what happened?”

I ignore her and go back to my computer. Think, Alice, think! Did Researcher 101 somehow hack into our family’s photo library? My brain feels folded over, like an omelet. Researcher 101 is a stalker, Researcher 101 has been stalking me, has been stalking William, William stalking, William is a stalker, Researcher 101 is a stalker is William is Researcher 101. Oh, my, God.

“Alice, you’re mumbling. You’re scaring me. Did somebody get hurt? Did somebody die?” she asks.

I look up at Bunny. “William is Researcher 101.”

Bunny’s eyes widen, and then, to my surprise, she throws back her head and laughs.

“Why are you laughing?”

“Because of course it’s William. Of course! It’s too perfect. It’s-delicious.”

I shake my head in frustration. “You mean duplicitous.”

Bunny steps into the room and peers over my shoulder as I frantically scroll back through our emails and chats, seeing them in an entirely different light this time.

Me: I can have the weather delivered every morning to my phone by weather.com. What could be better?

101: Getting caught in the rain?

“I can’t believe it. The nerve of him. The Piña Colada song?” I shriek.

“My God, that’s clever,” says Bunny. “I guess he was tired of his lady; they’d been together too long.” She winks at me and I scowl back at her.

Me: You’re very lucky. He sounds like a dream dog.

101: Oh, he is.

“Oh, yes, very funny, so funny, so terribly funny, William, ha-ha,” I say.

“Do you recognize that dog?” asks Bunny.

I look at the photo more closely. “Goddammit. That’s our neighbor’s dog. Mr. Big.”

“Your neighbor is Mr. Big?”

“No, the dog is Mr. Big.”

“How could you have missed that?” asks Bunny. “It’s almost like he wanted you to know, Alice. Like he was giving you clues.”

Me: Yes, please change my answer. It’s more truthful. Unlike your profile photo.

101: I don’t know about that. In my experience, the truth is frequently blurry.

“That son of a bitch,” I say.

“Mmm. Sounds like he’s been reading a bit too much Eckhart Tolle,” says Bunny.

Me: If we had met? If you had showed up that night? What do you think would have happened?

101: I think you would have been disappointed.

Me: Why? What are you keeping from me? Do you have scales? Do you weigh 600 pounds? Do you have a comb-over?

101: Let’s just say I would not be what you had expected.

I groan. “He was toying with me the entire time!”

“One person’s toying is another person’s dropping clues and waiting to be discovered. Maybe you were just slow on the uptake, Alice. Besides, I have to tell you that so far, I haven’t read one thing he’s written that wasn’t true.”

“What? Everything was a lie. Researcher 101 was a lie. He doesn’t exist!”

“Oh, but he does exist. William couldn’t have made him up if Researcher 101 wasn’t somehow a part of him. Or a him he wanted to be.”

“No. He played me. He just told me what I wanted to hear.”

“I don’t think so,” says Bunny, chuckling.

“What is wrong with you, Bunny? Why do you seem so delighted about all of this?”

“Why aren’t you delighted? Don’t you understand, Alice? You can carry on with both Researcher 101 and William. Forever. Because they’re one and the same!”

“I feel so humiliated!”

“Again with the humiliation. There’s no reason to feel humiliated.”

“Of course there is. I said things. Things I never would have. Things he had no right to know. Answers he cheated out of me.”

“Well, what if he had asked you those things to your face?”

“William never would have asked me.”

“Why not?”

“He wasn’t interested. He stopped being interested a long time ago.”

Bunny tightens the towel under her arms. “Well, all I can say is that he went to an awful lot of trouble for a husband who wasn’t interested in knowing what his wife thought or wanted or believed. And now I just have one question for you.” She gestures to the Ann Taylor suit that I’ve spread out on the bed. “You aren’t planning on wearing that to dinner, are you?”

“You got something from your father,” says William, walking into the bathroom. “I had to sign for it.”

I’ve been upstairs for an hour, stewing, and avoiding William, trying to will myself into a positive frame of mind for dinner. But the sight of him infuriates me all over again.

“You look great,” he says, handing me an envelope.

“I don’t look great,” I snap.

“I’ve always loved that suit.”

“Well, you’re the only one, then.”

“Jesus, Alice. What’s going on? Are you mad at me?”

“Why would I be mad at you? Should I be mad at you?”

My phone chimes. It’s a text from Nedra. Hope you’re getting that toast ready! Practice, practice, practice. So excited about tonight. Xoxoxo.

“Damn toast,” I say. “That’s the last thing I want to do.”

“Oh-that’s why you’re so snappish. Nerves,” says William. “You’ll do fine.”

“No, I won’t do fine. I can’t do it. I just can’t do it. I can’t be expected to do everything. You do the toast!” I cry.

“Are you serious?”

“Yes, I am. You’re going to have to do it. I’m not doing it.”

William looks at me aghast. “But Nedra will be so disappointed. You’re the maid of honor.”

“It doesn’t matter who gives the toast. You. Me. It just has to be somebody from this family. Get Peter to do it. He’s good at those sorts of things.”

“Alice, I don’t understand.”

“No, you don’t. And you never have.”

William shrinks away from me, as if I’ve hit him.

“I’ll come up with something,” he says softly. “Let me know when you’re done in here so I can take a shower.”

After William’s gone, I don’t know what to do with myself, so I open the envelope. There are two items inside: a card from my father and an old hankie folded carefully into a square. The hankie belonged to my mother. There are three little violets embroidered on the white cotton along with my mother’s initials. I press the hankie to my nose. It still smells of her Jean Naté body splash. I pick up the card.

Sometimes things we lose come back to us. Not usually, from this old man’s experience, but sometimes, they do. I found this in the pawnshop in Brockton. The owner said it’s been sitting in the case for over two decades, but that won’t be a surprise to you. I know you’ve made some mistakes and done some things you wish you could take back. I know you’re feeling lost and you’re not sure what to do. I hope this will help you make up your mind. I love you, honey.

I carefully unfold the handkerchief and there, nestled in the white cotton, is my engagement ring: the one I threw out the car window when William and I had the argument about inviting Helen to our wedding. Somebody must have found it and brought it to the pawnshop. The jewels have darkened with age and it needs a good cleaning, but there’s no mistaking the tiny diamond flanked by two even tinier emeralds-the ring that my grandfather gave to my grandmother so many years ago, the ring that I so cavalierly tossed away.

I try and make out the engraving on the inside of the ring but the type is too small. I can’t think about what it all means now. If I do, I’ll lose it. We have an hour before we have to leave for dinner. I slip the ring into my pocket and go downstairs.

The dinner is being held at a new trendy restaurant called Boca.

“Is that Donna Summer playing?” asks William, when we walk in the door.

“Jude told me Nedra was hiring a deejay,” says Zoe. “I hope they don’t play seventies music all night long.”

“I love this song,” says Jack to Bunny. “I sense your dance card will be full tonight, ‘Bad Girl.’ ”

“Did you take your baby aspirin?” Bunny asks.

“I took three,” Jack says. “Just in case.”

“In case of what?” asks Bunny.

“This,” he says, kissing her on the lips.

“You two are cute,” says Zoe.

“You wouldn’t think it was cute if that was your mother and me,” says William.

“That’s because between the ages of thirty and sixty, PDA is gross,” says Zoe. “And after sixty it’s cute again. You’re older than sixty, right?” Zoe whispers to Jack.

“Just a squidge,” says Jack, pinching his thumb and forefinger together.

“There’s Nedra,” says William. “At the bar.” He gives a low whistle.

Nedra is wearing a forest-green silk wrap dress with lots of cleavage showing. She rarely shows décolletage; she thinks it’s déclassé. But tonight she made an exception. She looks stunning.

“We should probably tell her,” says William. “Do you want to or should I?”

“Tell her what?” asks Peter.

I sigh. “That your father is doing the toast, not me.”

“But you’re the maid of honor. You have to do the toast,” says Zoe.

“Your mother isn’t feeling well,” says William. “I’m standing in for her.”

“Right,” says Zoe, whose face tells me everything she’s thinking: her mother is running away-once again. I should care, I’m setting a very bad example for my daughter, but I don’t. Not tonight.

“Darling! Have a Soiree,” cries Nedra, when she sees me approaching. She holds out a martini glass filled with a clear liquid. Little purple flowers skitter across the surface.

“Lavender, gin, honey, and lemon,” she says. “Give it a try.”

I summon the bartender. “Chardonnay, please,” I say.

“You’re so predictable,” says Nedra. “That’s one of the things I love about you.”

“Yes, well, I predict you’re about to not love my predictability.”

Nedra puts the martini glass down. “Do not put a damper on my evening, Alice Buckle. Do not even think about it.”

I sigh. “I feel terrible.”

“Here we go. What do you mean you feel terrible?”

“Sick.”

“Sick how?”

“Headache. Stomachache. Light-headed.”

The bartender gives me my wine. I take a big sip.

“That’s just nerves,” says Nedra.

“I think I’m having a panic attack.”

“You are not having a panic attack. Stop being so dramatic and just say what you need to say.”

“I can’t give the toast tonight. But don’t worry, William’s going to take my place.”

Nedra shakes her head. “That is a hideous suit.”

“I didn’t want to upstage you. But I shouldn’t have worried. All this-” I say, waving at her breasts. “Wow.”

“I asked one thing of you, Alice. One thing most women would be thrilled about. For you to be my maid of honor.”

“There’s a reason. I’m a mess. I can’t think straight. Something’s happened,” I cry.

“Really, Alice?” She looks at me incredulously.

“I got some bad news tonight. Some really, terrible, horrible bad news.”

Nedra’s face softens. “Christ, why didn’t you open with that? What’s happened? Is it your father?”

“Researcher 101 is William!”

Nedra takes a dainty sip of her Soiree. She takes another little sip.

“Did you hear me?”

“I heard you, Alice.”

“And?”

“Are you about to get your period?”

“I have evidence! Look. This is one of Researcher 101’s profile photos.” I take out my phone, go to Facebook, click on his photo album, and then click on the photo of his hand. “First of all, it’s geotagged.”

“Hmm,” says Nedra, looking over my shoulder. I drag the icon of the little yellow man onto the red pushpin and when the photo of our house pops up on the screen, she claps her hand over her mouth. “Wait, it gets better.” I zoom in on the photo. “It’s his hand. He could have used any hand. Any hand from the Internet. A clip art hand, even. He used his own.”

“That bloody, fucking idiot,” says Nedra, grinning.

“I know!”

“I can’t believe it.”

“I know!”

She shakes her head in disbelief. “Who knew he had it in him? That is the single most romantic thing I’ve ever heard of.”

“Oh, God, not you, too.”

“What do you mean not me, too?”

“Bunny had the same reaction.”

“Well, that should tell you something, then.”

I finger my engagement ring in my pocket. “Oh, Nedra, I don’t know what to feel. I’m so confused. Look,” I show her the ring. “This came today in the mail.”

“What is it?”

“My engagement ring.”

“The one you threw out the car window fifty million years ago?”

“My father found it in a pawnshop. Somebody must have turned it in.” I hold the ring up to my eye and squint. “There’s an engraving, but I can’t read it.”

“Your refusal to deal with your adult-onset presbyopia is becoming a real problem, Alice,” says Nedra. “Let me see.”

I hand the ring to her.

“Her heart did whisper he had done it for her,” she reads. “Oh, for God’s sake.”

“It does not say that.”

“Yes, it does.”

“You’re making that up.”

“I promise you, I’m not. That sounds familiar. Give me your phone.” She types the quote into Google search. “It’s Jane Austen. Pride and Prejudice,” she squeals.

“Well, that’s just ridiculous,” I say.

“Completely ridiculous. Over-the-top ridiculous. You have got to forgive him. It’s a sign.”

“I don’t believe in signs.”

“Oh, that’s right, only romantics believe in signs.”

“Wimps,” I say. “Saps.”

“And you go right on believing you’re not one of them, darling.”

“What are you two whispering about?” asks Kate, popping up behind Nedra. Kate is wearing a yellow dress that I’m sure Nedra picked out for her. Together they’re a sunflower: Kate is the blossom, Nedra the stem.

“My God, you look beautiful,” says Nedra, reaching up and stroking her cheek. “Doesn’t she, Alice? She looks like an Irish Salma Hayek.”

“Okay. I think that’s a compliment. Listen, I think we’re getting close to sitting down,” says Kate. “Maybe fifteen minutes? Alice, when do you want to do the toast? Right before we eat? Or after.”

“She’s not giving a toast,” says Nedra.

“She’s not?” says Kate.

“William’s going to do a toast in her place.”

Kate raises her eyebrows.

“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, but I’m just not up to it tonight. But William will be brilliant. He so good at these sorts of things. Much better than me, actually. I’m terrible in front of a crowd. I get all sweaty and my legs-”

“Enough, Alice,” says Nedra. “Let’s circulate, darling,” she says to Kate.

I take my chardonnay and go sit at an empty table in the back of the room. I see Zoe and Jude in a corner, holding hands, staring intently into each other’s eyes. Peter is out on the dance floor, doing the robot all by himself and by the looks of it having a grand time. Jack, Bunny, and Caroline are sitting at a table. And William is at the bar, his back to me. I grab my phone. John Yossarian is still online. William must have forgotten to log out.

I’ve changed my mind. I want to meet you, Researcher 101.

Uh-I can’t really chat right now. I’m sorry. I’m in the middle of something.

When can we meet?

I thought you went through the wardrobe, back into your real life.

Real life isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

I don’t understand. What happened?

When can we meet?

I can’t meet with you, Wife 22.

Why?

Because I’m with my wife.

She can’t hold a candle to me.

You don’t know her.

She’s a wuss.

That’s not true.

You’re a wuss.

Possibly.

Tell me the truth. You at least owe me that. Are you happy in your marriage?

That’s not a small question.

I had to answer it. Your turn.

I watch as William puts the phone down, then picks it up again, then puts it down again and takes a big sip of his drink. Finally he picks the phone up once more and begins to type.

Fair enough. Okay. Well, if you had asked me a few months ago I would have said no. She was unhappy and so was I. I was troubled over how far we had grown apart and how distant we had become. I had no idea who she was anymore, what she wanted or what she dreamed about. And it had been so long since I had asked her. I wasn’t sure I was capable of having that conversation, at least not face-to-face. So I did something I’m not proud of. I went behind her back. I thought I could get away with not telling her, but now I think I’m going to have to confess.

Do you remember you said that you thought marriage was a sort of Catch-22? The very things that made you fall in love with your spouse became the very things that made you fall out of love with him? I’m afraid I’m finding myself at a similar Catch-22 moment. I did something out of love, in order to save my marriage. But the thing I did might be the very thing that ends it. I know my wife. She’s going to be very upset when she finds out what I’ve done.

So why confess at all?

Because it’s time for me to show up.

“Excuse me, everybody, excuse me,” says Nedra. She’s standing at the front of the room, holding a wireless microphone. “If everybody will please go to their tables now.”

I watch William slide off the bar stool, his phone in his hand. He sees me and waves me over, pointing to the table where Bunny, Caroline, and Jack are already sitting. Unbelievable. He doesn’t look rattled in the least bit.

When I get to the table, he pulls my chair out for me. “How did it go with Nedra?”

“Fine.”

“She’s okay with me giving the toast?”

I shrug.

“Are you okay with me giving the toast?”

“I have to go to the bathroom.”

In the bathroom, I dab my face with cold water and lean over the sink. I look horrible. Under the fluorescent light my suit looks pink, almost cartoonish. I take a few deep breaths. I’m in no rush to get back to the table. I open my Facebook chat.

I’m heartbroken.

Why are you heartbroken, Wife 22?

You did this to me.

That’s not exactly true. We both played a part in this.

I was vulnerable. I was lonely. I was needy. You preyed on me!

I was vulnerable, lonely, and needy too, did you ever think of that?

Look, this is not productive anymore. I think we should stop chatting.

Why do you get to make that decision? You’re just going to leave me hang-

The little green button next to his name turns into a half moon. He’s gone. I’m furious. How dare he log off on me! I walk out of the bathroom and nearly collide with a waiter. “Can I get you anything?” he asks.

I look out into the room and see Nedra approaching our table. She hands the mike to a clearly flustered William, kisses him on the cheek, then returns to her table, where she slides her chair as close as she can to Kate’s.

William stands up and clears his throat. “So, I’ve been asked to give a toast.”

“I don’t want anything, but you see that man with the mike? That’s my husband. He’d like a piña colada,” I whisper to the waiter.

“Of course. I’ll bring it to him after he’s done speaking.”

“No, he’s desperate for one now. He’s parched. So parched. See how he keeps swallowing and gulping? He needs it to get through the toast. Can you put a rush on it?”

“Absolutely,” says the waiter, scurrying to the bar.

“I’ve known Nedra and Kate for-let’s see-thirteen years,” says William. “The first time I met Nedra-”

I hear the whir of the blender. I watch the bartender pour the drink into a glass. I watch him garnish the drink with a piece of pineapple and a cherry.

“And I knew,” says William. “We all knew.”

The waiter crosses the room with William’s drink.

“You know how you just know? When two people are right for each other?”

The waiter begins wending his way through the tables.

“And Kate-Kate, my God, Kate. What can I say about Kate,” blabs William.

The waiter is waylaid by a couple asking for drinks. He takes their order and moves on.

“I mean, come on. Look at the two them. The bride and-well, the bride.”

The waiter arrives at William’s table and slides the drink in front of him. William looks down at the drink, confused. “What is this? I didn’t order this,” he whispers, but everybody can hear him because he’s holding the mike.

“It’s a piña colada, sir. Your throat is parched, sir,” says the waiter.

“You’ve given me somebody else’s order.”

“No, it’s for you,” insists the waiter.

“I’m telling you I didn’t order it.”

“Your wife did,” whispers the waiter, pointing to me.

William looks across the room at me and I give him a little wave. Dozens of micro-expressions flit across his face. I try and catalog them: bewilderment, vulnerability, shock, shame, anger, and then something else, something I’m entirely unprepared for. Relief.

He nods. He nods again, then he takes a sip of the piña colada. “That’s good. Surprisingly good,” he says into the mike and then promptly spills the glass all over his white shirtfront. Bunny and Caroline leap to their feet, their napkins in hand, and begin dabbing at William’s shirt.

“Soda water, please!” yells Bunny. “Quick, before the stain sets.”

I dart into the bathroom hallway. Thirty seconds later, William finds me.

“You know?” he whispers, pressing me up against the wall.

I glare at his wet, stained shirt. “Obviously.”

He saws his jaw back and forth. “ ‘Real life isn’t all it’s cracked up to be’?”

“You toyed with me. For months. Why shouldn’t I toy with you? Just a little.”

He takes a deep breath. “William had a very bad year. William is not trying to make excuses for himself. William should have told his wife about his bad year.”

“Why are you talking about yourself in the third person?”

“I’m trying to speak your language. Facebooking you. To your face. Say something.”

“Give me your phone.”

“Why?”

“Don’t you want to know how I found out?”

William hands me his phone.

“Every time you take a photo, your longitude and latitude is tagged. Your last profile photo-the one of your hand-it was taken at our house. You left me a trail that led right back to you.”

I turn off the location services setting on his phone’s camera. “There. Now nobody can track you.”

“What if I want to be tracked?”

“In that case you should seek professional help.”

“How long have you known?”

“Since this afternoon.”

William runs his hand through his hair. “Jesus, Alice. Why didn’t you say something? Does Bunny know?”

I nod.

“Nedra, too?”

“Yes.”

He grimaces.

“Don’t be embarrassed. They adore you. They thought it was the most romantic thing they had ever heard of.”

“Is that what you thought?”

“Why, William? Why did you do it?”

He sighs. “Because I saw your Google search. The night of the FiG launch? You didn’t clear history. I saw it all. From ‘Alice Buckle’ to ‘Happy Marriage.’ You were miserable. I made you miserable. I made that stupid comment about you having a small life. I had to do something.”

“And the Netherfield Center? That was an invention? Its connection to UCSF?”

“I knew you wouldn’t take part in the survey unless it was properly credentialed. Setting up the website wasn’t hard. What was hard was when it took on a life of its own. I was planning to confess. The night we were supposed to meet at Tea & Circumstances? Then Bunny and Jack came. I never intended to stand you up. I begged you not to go, remember? I didn’t think it would end like this.”

“But why did you have to sneak around? You could have just asked me the questions to my face. You didn’t even try.”

“What do you mean? I stalked you. I solicited you. I opened a fake Facebook account. I pinged you, alerted you, and notified you. I read the goddamn Chronicles of Narnia and Catch-22.”

“Is this on? Is this working?” We hear Nedra testing the mike. “William? Are you out there? It’s terribly bad form to not finish a toast. To be a toast dangler. At least in the UK, it is.”

“Oh, Jesus,” groans William, uncharacteristically flustered. “Save me.”

“Fine,” I say. “I’ll give the damn toast.”

As I make my way across the room, I try and clear my head. I should say something about love, obviously. Something about marriage. Something funny. Something sweet. But my mind is swimming with thoughts of William. The lengths to which he went to reach me.

When I get to the table, Zoe hands the microphone to me. “Go, Mom,” she whispers.

I bring the microphone slowly up to my lips. “Do you know how you know you know?” I sputter.

I did not just say that. My knees are shaking. I stare out into the crowd nervously and clutch at my throat.

“Head high,” Bunny says under her breath.

“When things are right.”

“People don’t talk that way in real life,” Bunny whispers.

“There’s just no stopping lovers from being together.”

“From the heart, Alice. From the heart,” she urges me.

“I’m sorry. Hold on.” I search for William but I don’t see him anywhere. “Let me try this again. Nedra. Kate. My sweetest, dearest friends.” A hush settles over the restaurant. I look out at the room.

“My God, look at all those phones. Do you realize there are phones on everybody’s table? Is there anybody here without a device? Raise your hand. No, I didn’t think so. You know, it’s crazy. It’s really crazy. We live in such connected times. It’s so easy to become addicted to having access to everything and everybody in a split second, but I’m not so sure that’s a good thing.”

I pause, take a sip of my water, and stall, hoping clarity will come to me. Where the hell did William go?

“Someone once told me waiting was a dying art. He worried that we had traded speed and constant access for the deeper pleasures of leaving and returning. I wasn’t sure I agreed with him. Who doesn’t want what they want when they want it? That’s the world we live in. To pretend otherwise is ridiculous. But I’m starting to think he was right. Nedra and Kate, you are a perfect example of what waiting brings you. Your partnership inspires me. It makes me want to be better. You have one of the strongest, most stalwart, loving, and tender relationships I’ve ever seen, and it will be my privilege to bear witness to your marriage tomorrow.”

I try and unobtrusively wipe my sweaty palms on my skirt.

“Now, I know I’m supposed to give you some advice now. Sage advice coming from somebody who’s been married for two decades. I’m not sure what wisdom I can offer, but I can say this. Marriage isn’t neutral. Sometimes we’d like to think it is, but listen, hiding out in the infirmary waiting for the war to end is no way to live.”

I look out at a sea of confused faces. Uh-oh.

“What I’m trying to say is don’t have a Sweden of a marriage. Or a Costa Rica of a marriage, either. Not that I don’t like Sweden or Costa Rica; they are perfectly lovely places to live and visit and I appreciate their neutrality, politically anyway. But my advice is-have the courage to let your marriage be some fiery country in the throes of revolution where each of you speaks a different dialect and sometimes you can barely understand each other but it doesn’t matter because, well, each of you is fighting. Fighting for each other.”

People start to whisper. A pair of women get up from their table and make their way to the bar. I’m losing them. What was I thinking? I am the least equipped person in the world to be giving advice about marriage. I’m a fake, I should sit down, I should shut up, and just when I’m getting ready to bolt from the room, my phone chimes. I ignore it. It chimes again.

“This is embarrassing, I’m so sorry. It might be an emergency. My father-you see. Let me just take a peek.”

I put the microphone down and pick up my phone. I have a message from John Yossarian.

18. What did you used to do that you don’t do now?

I look up, and in the corner of the room I see William smiling at me. You son of a bitch, I think. You sweet, dear, son of a bitch.

I pick the microphone back up. “Listen, all I have to say… all I have to say is-run, dive, pitch a tent. Spend hours on the phone with your best friend.”

Nedra pops up and gives a Queen Elizabeth wave with a cupped palm. Laughter ripples through the room.

“Wear bikinis.”

More than a few groans from the women in the over-forty group.

“Drink tequila.”

Hoots of appreciation from the under-forty group.

“Wake up in the morning happy for no good reason.”

People are smiling. Faces are soft. Eyes are glistening.

“You’ve got them, Alice,” whispers Bunny. “Reel them in slowly now.”

I take a deep breath. “Lie in the grass, dream of your future, of your one imperfect life and your one imperfect marriage to your one imperfect true love. Because what else is there?” I lock eyes with William. “Honestly, there’s nothing else. Nothing else matters. To love.” I raise my glass. “To Nedra and Kate.”

“To Nedra and Kate,” the room echoes back.

I plop down in my chair, wiped out.

“Mom, you were awesome,” says Peter.

“I didn’t know you could just wing it like that,” says Zoe.

Nedra blows me a kiss from across the room, tears in her eyes.

“Where’s Dad?” asks Zoe.

“There,” says Peter, pointing. He’s leaning against the wall watching us, holding his phone in his hand.

I get my phone and quickly type.

Lucy Pevensie invited John Yossarian to the event “Proposal”

The Bathroom Hallway, August 17, Now.

RSVP Yes No Maybe

An instant later I get a message.

John Yossarian has responded Yes.

“Back in a minute,” I say.

I’m standing near the bathroom door and William steps forward, into the dim light of the hallway.

“Wait. Before you say anything, I’m sorry,” I say.

“You’re sorry? For what?”

“I didn’t make it easy for you. I was hard to find.”

“Yes, you were hard to find, Alice. But I made you a promise a long time ago that no matter how far you wandered, how far you went off trail, I would come after you, I would find you and I would bring you home.”

“Well, here I am. For better or for worse. And you’re probably thinking for worse right now.”

“No, I’m thinking we have got to stop meeting in the bathroom hallway,” he says, inching closer.

I pull the engagement ring out of my pocket. I wave it in his face and he stops short.

“Is that-?”

“Yes.”

“What? How?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters.”

“No, it doesn’t. What matters is this,” I say, sliding the ring on my finger.

William inhales sharply. “Did you just do what I think you did?”

“I don’t know. What do you think I did?”

“Made me obsolete.”

“Oh, pah! It’s the twenty-first century, not the nineteenth. Women can put their engagement rings on their own damn fingers. Now I need to know something and you need to tell me the truth. And may I suggest you answer without thinking about it too much? If you had to do it all again, would you marry me?”

“Is that a marriage proposal?”

“Answer the question.”

“Well, that depends. Is there a dowry involved? Give me the damn ring, Alice.”

“Why?”

“Just give it to me.”

“You still owe me a thousand dollars for participating in the study. Don’t think I’ve forgotten,” I say, taking the ring off and handing it to him.

He looks at the engraving and a smile creeps across his lips.

“Read it out loud,” I say.

He gives me that dark, brooding, trademark stare of his. “Her heart did whisper he had done it for her.”

I had no mother for twenty-nine Christmases, Easters, and birthdays. No mother for college graduation. No mother sitting in the front row at the opening night of my play. No mother at my wedding or the birth of my children. But I have a mother today. Here she is, speaking to me as if no time has ever passed, telling me exactly what I need to know.

“My father found it in a pawnshop in Brockton. It’s been there for twenty years. Nedra said it’s a sign.”

“If you’re a person who believes in signs,” he says.

“I am.”

“Since when?”

“Since-forever.”

William reaches down for my hand.

“Not so fast. I’m a married woman.”

“And I’m a married man.”

“You never answered my question.”

“Yes, Alice Buckle,” he says, sliding the ring onto my finger.

“You showed up,” I whisper.

“Shush, you nutty ho ho,” he says, as he pulls me into his arms.