Wife 22 (15 page)
Authors: Melanie Gideon
What a brilliant idea for a book! Diet books sell millions of copies. I wonder if anybody else has thought of it.
GOOGLE SEARCH “Guilt … Diet”
About 9,850,000 results (.17 seconds)
Gilt Groupe
Luxury designers and fashion brands at up to 70% off …
Working Moms … Guilt
I may feel a tiny twinge of guilt when the maid is washing my sheets and I’m eating an expensed lunch at Flora …
Guilt-Free Sushi
Guilt-free sushi eating may be complicated …
I’m not in the market for discount designer clothes and though I am a working mom, I’ve never felt guilty for having a job, and Zoe doesn’t allow me to eat sushi—well, certain kinds of overfished sushi like the common octopus, which is not a hardship for me—but hurrah!—there’s no Guilt Diet on Google.
“We’re in business!” I relay to Jampo, who is sitting at my feet. I write myself a note to look into the Guilt Diet in more depth once it’s morning, when I’m pretty sure it will reveal itself to be the most ridiculous idea ever, but you never know.
I log on to Facebook and go to William’s wall. He has no new update, which oddly disappoints me. What did I expect him to post?
William Buckle
Wife forced me to listen to Susan Boyle, but I got myself fired so I deserve it.
William Buckle
Wife looks mysteriously skinnier—suspect she’s ingesting tapeworms.
Or more likely something along the lines of—
William Buckle
“The past has no power over the present moment.” Eckhart Tolle
43.
After that night celebrating William’s Clio, a torturous three weeks went by. Three weeks in which William ignored me. Our lunchtime runs abruptly stopped. If he had to talk to me he avoided eye contact and looked at my forehead, which was deeply unsettling and made me blurt out stupid things like
according to our focus groups what people (women) really want to know about toilet paper is that it doesn’t tear while you’re in the middle of using it due to the fact that men wash their hands far less than women and if they do wash them most of the time they don’t use soap.
He also reverted to calling me Brown, and so I could only conclude he (like me) was drunk that evening and had absolutely no memory of the knuckle-grazing incident outside the bathroom. Or after sobering up was totally embarrassed having stared at me all night long and was doing everything he could to pretend it never happened.
Meanwhile, he and Helen were inseparable. At least three times a day she flounced into his office and shut the door, and every night she collected him and off they went for Rob Roys at the Copley Hotel, or to attend some fancy event at the Isabella Gardner Museum.
And then, just when I’d accepted an invitation from a friend to be set up on a blind date, I got this email.
From: williamb
Subject: Tom Kah Gai
Date: August 4, 10:01 AM
To: alicea
As you’ve probably noticed, I’ve been home sick for the past two days. I’m craving Tom Kah Gai. Would you bring me some? Make sure it’s from King and Me, not King of Siam. Once a mouse ran across my feet while eating at King of Siam. Thanks very much. 54 Acorn Street. 2nd Floor. Apt. 203
From: alicea
Subject: Re: Tom KHA Gai
Date: August 4, 10:05 AM
To: williamb
Bangkok Princess has the best Tom KHA Gai on Beacon Hill. King and Me a far second. I can forward your craving for soup to Helen, who surely said request was meant for.
From: williamb
Subject: Re: Tom KHA Gai
Date: August 4, 10:06 AM
To: alicea
The request was meant for you.
From: alicea
Subject: Re: Tom KHA Gai
Date: August 4, 10:10 AM
To: williamb
So let me get this straight. Because you have a craving for Tom Kha Gai, I’m to leave work in the middle of the day, traipse across the bridge, and hand-deliver your soup?
From: williamb
Subject: Re: Tom KHA Gai
Date: August 4, 10:11 AM
To: alicea
Yes.
From: alicea
Subject: Re: Tom KHA Gai
Date: August 4, 11:23 AM
To: williamb
Why would I do that?
He didn’t answer and he didn’t have to.
Why
was very clear to both of us.
Forty-five minutes later, I knocked on his door.
“Come on in,” he called out.
I nudged the door open with my foot, clutching a paper bag filled with two plastic containers of Tom Yung Goong. He was sitting on his couch, hair wet, barefoot, wearing a white T-shirt and jeans. I’d never seen him in anything but a suit or running shorts, and in casual attire he looked younger and somehow cockier. Had he showered for me?
“I have a fever,” he said.
“Yes, and I have Tom.”
“Tom?”
“Tom Yung Goong.”
“Tom Kha Gai couldn’t make it?”
“Stop complaining. It’s a Thai soup that begins with Tom that I walked over half a mile to bring you. Where are your utensils?” I asked.
I brushed past him on the way to the kitchen and suddenly he grabbed my arm and pulled me down on the couch next to him. Startled (he seemed just as startled), we both looked intently forward as if we were attending a lecture.
“I don’t want to get sick,” I said.
“I’ve broken it off with Helen,” he said.
He moved his leg slightly and our knees bumped together. Was that intentional? Then he moved his thigh so it was pressing up against mine. Yes, it was.
“It doesn’t look like you’ve broken it off,” I said. “She’s practically been living in your office.”
“We’ve been negotiating the terms of our breakup.”
“What terms?”
“She didn’t want to break up. I did.”
“We can’t do this,” I said, by which I meant
press your thigh harder against mine.
“Why?”
“You’re my boss.”
“And—”
“And there’s a power differential.”
He laughed. “Right. A power differential—between
us.
You’re such a weak, submissive little creature. Tiptoeing around the office.”
“Oh, Jesus.”
“Tell me to stop and I’ll stop.”
“Stop.”
He put his hand on my thigh and a shiver went through me.
“Alice.”
“Don’t screw with me. Don’t say my name unless you mean it. What happened to Brown?”
“That was to keep me safe.”
“Safe?”
“Safely away from you. You, Alice. Goddammit. You.”
Then he turned and leaned in to kiss me and I could feel his fever and I thought
no no no no no
until I thought
yes, you son-of-a-bitch, yes.
It was at that precise moment that the door opened and Helen walked in carrying a plastic bag of takeout from the King of Siam; apparently she hadn’t gotten the message about the restaurant’s rodent problem. I was so surprised, I gave a little shriek and jumped to the other side of the couch.
Helen looked just as surprised.
“You son-of-a-bitch,” she said.
I was confused. Had I called William a son-of-a-bitch out loud? Had she heard me?
“Is she talking about me?” I asked.
“No, she’s talking about me,” said William, rising to his feet.
“Your assistant said you were sick. I brought you Pad Thai,” said Helen, her face contorted with anger.
“You told me you had broken up,” I said to William.
“He told me you had broken up,” I said to Helen.
“Yesterday!” yelled Helen. “Not even twenty-four hours ago.”
“Look—Helen,” said William.
“You slut,” said Helen.
“Is she talking about me?” I asked.
“Yes, now she’s talking about you,” sighed William.
I’d never been called a slut before.
“That’s not very nice, Helen,” he said.
“I’m so sorry, Helen,” I said.
“Shut up. You went after him like a dog in heat.”
“I told you it was an accident. Neither one of us was looking for this,” said William.
“That’s supposed to make me feel better? We were practically engaged,” shouted Helen. “There’s a code between women. You don’t steal another woman’s man, you whore,” she hissed at me.
“I think I’d better go,” I said.
“You’re making a big mistake, William,” said Helen. “You think she’s so strong, so sure of herself. But that won’t last. It’s all an act. She’ll hit one bad patch and she’ll run away. She’ll disappear.”
I had no idea what Helen was talking about. Running away and disappearing was something drug addicts or people going through midlife crises did—not twenty-three-year-old women. But later I would look back on this moment and realize Helen’s words were eerily prescient.
“Please come sit down,” said William. “Let’s talk.”
Helen’s eyes filled with tears. William walked to Helen, put his arm around her shoulder, and led her to the couch.
Come back tonight,
he mouthed to me.
I quietly slipped out the door.
44.
Plucking eyebrows. Flossing teeth. Picking things out of teeth. Paying bills. Talking about money. Talking about sex. Talking about your kid having sex.
45.
Grief.
46.
Of course I do. Doesn’t everybody? You want particulars, I know. Okay, that I changed the sheets (when really I’ve just changed the pillowcases). That I wasn’t the one who put the nice knives in the dishwasher instead of hand-washing them and by the way, I don’t need anybody to tell me the nice knives are the knives with black handles—I’m not a dolt, just somebody who’s in a hurry. That I’m not hungry for dinner (if I’m not hungry it’s because I ate an entire package of Keebler Fudge Stripes an hour before everybody came home). That it took me
five nights to finish that bottle of wine (then why are there two bottles in the recycling bin?). That somebody must have sideswiped my side mirror when I parked at Lucky’s—those inconsiderate jerks—it did not happen when I was backing out of the garage. But no, not the obvious one. We’ve never had a problem there.
John Yossarian
added his profile picture
John Yossarian
added his profile picture
You bear a striking resemblance to a yeti, Researcher 101.
Why thank you, Wife 22. I was hoping you’d say that.
However, it looks like you have a very un-yeti-like ear hanging from your head.
That’s not an ear.
Actually, it’s more like a bunny ear.
Actually, it’s a hat.
I’m revising my opinion. You bear a striking resemblance to Donnie Darko. Has anybody ever told you that?
This is precisely why I didn’t post a photo in the first place.
Can we talk about the orange pants?
No, we may not.
Okay, let’s talk about #45. I can’t stop thinking about it. This was a tough one.
Tell me more.
Well, at first I thought it would be easy. The answer would be grief, of course. But upon further reflection, I’m wondering if stasis isn’t the correct answer.
You might be interested to know that subjects often answer in much the same way you did, first stating the obvious and then struggling to come up with something more nuanced. Why stasis?
Because in some ways stasis is a cousin of grief, but rather than dying all at once, you die a tiny bit every day.
Hello?
I’m here. Just thinking. That makes sense to me, especially given your answer to #3—
once a week
—and to #28—
once a year.
You’ve memorized my answers?
Of course not, I have your file here in front of me. Would you like me to go ahead and change your answer to stasis?
Yes, please change my answer. It’s more truthful, unlike your profile photo.
I don’t know about that. In my experience, the truth is frequently blurry.
Wife 22?
Sorry—my son’s calling me. GTG.