Wife 22 (2 page)

Zoe’s right hand moves over her cellphone’s keypad at top speed.

“You’re wearing
that
?” she says.

“What? It’s vintage.”

Zoe snorts.

“Zoe, sweetheart, will you please look up from that thing? I need your honest opinion.” I spread my arms wide. “Is it really that bad?”

Zoe cocks her head. “That depends. How dark is it going to be?”

I sigh. Just a year ago Zoe and I were so close. Now she treats me like she does her brother—as a family member who must be tolerated. I act like I don’t notice, but invariably overcompensate, trying to be nice for both of us, and then I end up sounding like a cross between Mary Poppins and Miss Truly Scrumptious from
Chitty
Chitty
Bang
Bang
.

“There’s a pizza in the freezer, and please make sure Peter is in bed by ten. We should be home soon after that,” I say.

Zoe continues to text. “Dad’s waiting for you in the car.”

I scurry around the kitchen looking for my purse. “Have a great time. And don’t watch
Idol
without me!”

“Already Googled the results. Should I tell you who gets the axe?”

“No!” I shout, running out the door.

“Alice Buckle. It’s been entirely too long. And what a breath of fresh air you are! Why doesn’t William drag you to these events more often? But I suppose he’s doing you a favor, isn’t he? Another night, another vodka launch. Ho-hum, am I right?”

Frank Potter, chief creative officer of KKM Advertising, looks discreetly over my head. “You look wonderful,” he says, his eyes darting around. He waves to someone at the back of the room. “That’s a lovely suit.”

I take a big gulp of wine. “Thanks.”

As I look around the room, at all the sheer blouses, strappy sandals, and skinny jeans most of the other women are wearing, I realize that “business dressy” really means “business sexy.” At least with this crowd. Everybody looks great. So
of
the moment. I wrap one arm around my waist and hold the wine glass so it hovers near my chin, a poor attempt at camouflaging my jacket.

“Thank you, Frank,” I say, as a bead of sweat trickles down the back of my neck.

Sweating is my default response when I feel out of place. My other default response is repeating myself.

“Thank you,” I say once more. Oh, God, Alice. A trifecta of thanks?

He pats me on the arm. “So how are things at home? Tell me. Is everything okay? The kids?”

“Everybody’s fine.”

“You’re sure?” he asks, his face screwed up with concern.

“Well, yes, yes, everybody’s good.”

“Wonderful,” he says. “Glad to hear it. And what are you doing these days? Still teaching? What subject was it?”

“Drama.”

“Drama. That’s right. That must be so—rewarding. But I imagine quite stressful.” He lowers his voice. “You are a saint, Alice Buckle. I certainly wouldn’t have the patience.”

“I’m sure you would if you saw what these kids are capable of. They’re so eager. You know, just the other day one of my students—”

Frank Potter looks over my head once again, raises his eyebrows, and nods.

“Alice, forgive me, but I’m afraid I’m being summoned.”

“Oh, of course. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you. I’m sure you have other—”

He moves toward me and I lean in, thinking he’s going to kiss me on the cheek, but instead he pulls back, takes my hand firmly, and shakes it. “Goodbye, Alice.”

I look out into the room, at everyone breezily drinking their lychee FiGtinis. I chuckle softly as if I’m thinking of something funny, trying to look breezy myself. Where is my husband?

“Frank Potter is an ass,” a voice whispers in my ear.

Thank God, a friendly face. It’s Kelly Cho, a longtime member of William’s creative team—long in advertising anyway, where turnover is incredibly fast. She’s wearing a suit, not all that different from mine (better lapels), but on her it looks edgy. She’s paired it with over-the-knee boots.

“Wow, Kelly, you look fabulous,” I say.

Kelly waves my compliment away. “So how come we don’t see you more often?”

“Oh, you know. Coming over the bridge is such a hassle. Traffic. And I still don’t feel all that comfortable leaving the kids home alone at night. Peter’s just twelve, and Zoe’s a typical distracted teenager.”

“How’s work?”

“Great. Other than being up to my neck in details: costumes, wrangling parents, soothing spiders and pigs that haven’t learned their lines yet. The third grade is doing
Charlotte’s Web
this year.”

Kelly smiles. “I love that book! Your job sounds so idyllic.”

“It does?”

“Oh, yeah. I would love to get out of the rat race. Every night there’s something going on. I know it seems glamorous—the client dinners, box seats for the Giants, passes to concerts—but it’s exhausting after a while. Well, you know how it is. You’re an advertising widow from way back.”

Advertising
widow?
I didn’t know there was name for it. For
me
.
But Kelly’s right. Between William’s traveling and entertaining clients, I’m basically a single mother. We’re lucky if we manage to have a family dinner a few times a week.

I look across the room and catch William’s eye. He heads toward us. He’s a tall, well-built man, his dark hair graying at just the temples, in that defiant way some men gray (as if to say to hell with the fact that I’m forty-seven—I’m still sexy as hell and the gray makes me look even sexier). I feel a rush of pride as he crosses the room in his charcoal suit and gingham shirt.

“Where did you get your boots?” I ask Kelly.

William joins us.

“Bloomie’s. So, William, your wife isn’t familiar with the term
advertising
widow.
How is that possible when you’ve made her into one?” asks Kelly, winking at me.

William frowns. “I’ve been looking all over for you. Where have you been, Alice?”

“She’s been right here, suffering Frank Potter, in fact,” says Kelly.

“You were talking to Frank Potter?” William asks, alarmed. “Did he approach you or did you approach him?”

“He approached me,” I say.

“Did he mention me? The campaign?”

“We didn’t talk about you,” I say. “We didn’t speak for long, actually.”

I watch William clenching his jaw. Why is he so stressed? The clients are smiling and drunk. There’s a lot of press. The launch is a success as far as I can see.

“Can we get out of here, Alice?” asks William.

“Now? But the band hasn’t even started. I was really looking forward to hearing some live music.”

“Alice, I’m tired. Let’s go, please.”

“William!” a trio of attractive young men circles around us—also members of William’s team.

After William has introduced me to Joaquin, Harry, and Urminder, Urminder says, “So, I was ego surfing today.”

“And the day before,” says Joaquin.

“And the day before,” says Kelly.

“Will you allow me to finish?” asks Urminder.

“Let me guess,” says Harry. “1,234,589 hits.”

“Dumb-ass,” says Urminder.

“Way to steal his thunder, Har,” says Kelly.

“Now 5,881 sounds pathetic,” pouts Urminder.

“10,263 definitively does not sound pathetic,” says Harry.

“Or 20,534,” says Kelly.

“You’re all lying,” says Joaquin.

“Don’t be jealous, Mr. 1,031,” says Kelly. “It’s unbecoming.”

“50,287,” says William, silencing everybody.

“
Dude
,” says Urminder.

“That’s because you won that Clio,” says Harry. “How long ago was that, boss? Nineteen eighty—?”

“Keep it up, Harry, and I’ll take you off semiconductors and put you on feminine hygiene,” says William.

I can’t hide the startled look on my face. They’re having a competition over how many hits their names bring up. And the hits are all in the thousands?

“Now look what you’ve done. Alice is appalled,” says Kelly. “And I don’t blame her. We’re a bunch of petty narcissists.”

“No, no, no. I wasn’t judging. I think it’s fun. Ego surfing. Everybody does it, don’t they? They’re just not brave enough to admit it.”

“What about you, Alice? Googled yourself lately?” asks Urminder.

William shakes his head. “There’s no need for Alice to Google herself. She doesn’t have a public life.”

“Really? And what kind of a life do I have?” I ask.

“A good life. A meaningful life. Just a smaller life.” William pinches the skin between his eyes. “Sorry, kids, it’s been fun, but we’ve got to go. We have a bridge to cross.”

“Do you have to?” asks Kelly. “I hardly ever see Alice.”

“He’s right,” I say. “I promised the kids we’d be home by ten. School night and all.”

Kelly and the three young men head for the bar.

“A small life?” I say.

“I didn’t mean anything by it. Don’t be so sensitive,” says William, scanning the room. “Besides, I’m right. When’s the last time you Googled yourself?”

“Last week. 128 hits,” I lie.

“
Really
?”

“Why do you sound so surprised?”

“Alice, please, I don’t have time for this. Help me find Frank. I need to check in with him.”

I sigh. “He’s over there, by the windows. Come on.”

William puts his hand on my shoulder. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

There’s no traffic on the bridge and I wish there was. Heading home is usually something I relish: the anticipation of getting into my pajamas, curling up on the couch with the clicker, the kids asleep upstairs (or pretending to be asleep but likely texting and IM’ing away in their beds)—but tonight I’d like to stay in the car and just drive somewhere, anywhere. The evening has been dislocating, and I’m unable to shake the feeling that William is embarrassed by me.

“Why are you so quiet? Did you have too much to drink?” he asks.

“Tired,” I mumble.

“Frank Potter is a piece of work.”

“I like him.”

“You
like
Frank Potter? He’s such a player.”

“Yes, but he’s honest. He doesn’t try and hide the fact. And he’s always been kind to me.”

William taps his fingers on the steering wheel in time to the radio. I close my eyes.

“Alice?”

“What?”

“You seem funny lately.”

“Funny how?”

“I don’t know. Are you going through some sort of a midlife thing?”

“I don’t know. Are
you
going through some sort of a midlife thing?”

William shakes his head and turns up the music. I lean against the
window and gaze out at the millions of lights twinkling in the East Bay hills. Oakland looks so festive, almost holidayish—it makes me think of my mother.

My mother died two days before Christmas. I was fifteen. She went out to get a gallon of eggnog and was struck by a man who ran a red light. I like to think she never knew what was happening. There was a screech of metal hitting metal, and then a gentle whooshing, like the sound of a river, and then, a peachy light flooding into the car. That’s the end I’ve imagined for her.

I’ve recited her death story so many times the details are stripped of their meaning. Sometimes when people ask about my mother I’m filled with a strange, not entirely unpleasant nostalgia. I can vividly summon up the streets of Brockton, Massachusetts, that on that December day must have been garlanded with tinsel and lights. There would have been lines of people at the liquor store, their carts packed with cases of beer and jugs of wine, and the air would have smelled of pine needles from the Christmas tree lot. But that nostalgia for what came immediately
before
is soon vanquished by the opaque
after
. Then my head fills with the cheesy opening soundtrack to
Magnum,
P.I
. That’s what my father was watching when the phone rang and a woman on the other end gently informed us there had been an accident.

Why am I thinking about this tonight? Is it, as William asks, a midlife thing? The clock is certainly ticking. This September when I turn forty-five, I will be exactly the same age my mother was when she died. This is my tipping-point year.

Up until now I’ve been able to comfort myself with the fact that even though my mother is dead, she was always out in front of me. I had yet to cross all the thresholds she had crossed and so she was still somehow alive. But what happens when I move past her? When no more of her thresholds exist?

I glance over at William. Would my mother approve of him? Would she approve of my children, my career—my marriage?

“Do you want to stop at 7-Eleven?” asks William.

Ducking into 7-Eleven for a Kit Kat bar after a night out on the town is a tradition for us.

“No. I’m full.”

“Thanks for coming to the launch.”

Is that his way of apologizing for how dismissive he was tonight?

“Uh-huh.”

“Did you have fun?”

“Sure.”

William pauses. “You’re a very bad liar, Alice Buckle.”

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