Wife 22 (21 page)

58.
Planet of the Apes.

59.
Not much. Well, hardly ever. I don’t really see the point. We have to live with each other, so what’s the use and honestly, who’s got the energy? We used to, in the early years. Our biggest argument happened before we were even married, and it was over me wanting to invite Helen to the wedding. I told him it would be a nice conciliatory gesture—she probably wouldn’t come, but inviting her was the right thing to do, especially since we were inviting almost all of our colleagues from Peavey Patterson. When he told me he had no intention of inviting a woman who called me a whore (and who seemed to hate him vehemently) to his wedding, I reminded him that technically I
was
the other woman when she called me that name, and could we blame her for hating us? Wasn’t it time to forgive and forget? After I said that, he told me I could afford to be generous because I’d won. Well, that so infuriated me that I took off my engagement ring and threw it out the window.

Now, this wasn’t a ring from Zales, this was my mother’s engagement ring that had been in her family for years, brought over by her mother from Ireland. It wasn’t worth much—it was one small diamond flanked by two tiny emeralds. What
was
priceless about the ring was its history and the fact that my father had given it to William to give to me. There was an engraving inside the band. Something terribly sweet, probably bordering on saccharine, that I can’t recall. All I can remember is the word “heart.”

The problem was we were in the car when I threw the ring out of the window. We had just left my father’s house and were driving past the park in Brockton when William made the comment about me having
won
. I just wanted to scare him. I hurled the ring out the window into the park and we proceeded to speed by, both of us in shock. We drove back and tried to pinpoint the spot where I had thrown it, but even
though we searched through the grass methodically we couldn’t find it. I was devastated. Each of us secretly blamed the other. He blamed me, of course, for throwing the ring. I blamed him for being so coldhearted. The loss of the ring deeply unsettled both of us. Losing, or in my case, throwing away, something so priceless before we had even started our lives together—was this a bad omen?

I couldn’t bear to tell my father the truth, so we lied and told him our apartment was robbed and the ring stolen. We even planned what to say if he asked why I hadn’t been wearing it at the time. I took it off because I was giving myself a facial and didn’t want to get the green gunk caught in the delicate filigree setting, which I would then have to root out with a toothpick or a dental probe. I have since learned that when lying, it’s best not to offer up any details. It’s the details that do you in.

60.
“Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta.”

61.
Long, tapered fingers. Big palms. Cuticles that never needed to be pushed back. Chet Baker on the tape player. He was cutting peppers for the salad. I looked at those hands and thought, I am going to have this man’s children.

62.
What would you do if you ever stopped communicating? I wrote “That would NEVER EVER happen. William and I talk about everything. That won’t be our problem.” And no, it does not hold true today.

63.
In the backyard of my cousin Henry’s apartment in the North End, which overlooked Boston Harbor. It was in the evening. The air smelled of the sea and garlic. Our wedding bands were simple and plain, which felt right after the engagement ring debacle. If my father was upset about the ring, he didn’t say anything. In fact, he said very little that night, he was so overcome with emotion. Every five minutes or so before the ceremony started he would clasp my shoulders vigorously and nod. When it was time to give me away, he walked me to the arbor, lifted my veil, and kissed me on the cheek. “Off you go, honey,” he said, and that’s when I began to cry. I proceeded to cry through the entire ceremony, which understandably threw William off. “It’s all right,” he kept mouthing to me while the priest did his part. “I know,” I kept
mouthing back to him. I wasn’t crying because I was getting married, I was crying because my history with my father had come down to those four, perfectly chosen words. He could only say something that appeared to be so mundane precisely because our life together had been the opposite.

Did u read article advising everybody eat more cheese, Alice?

Why you ignore my texts, Alice?

HonE?

Sorry Dad. End of the school year. 2 busy 2 text. 2 busy to read. 2 busy to eat.

I worry u not eating enuf cheese. Women yr age need protein and calcium. Hope you not turn vegan out there Cali.

Trust me. U needn’t worry about my cheese intake.

News. Think might B falling in love.

What??? With who??

Conchita.

Conchita Martinez, our neighbor Conchita whose son Jeff I dated and then dumped my senior year?

Yes! That the one. She remember you fondly. Jeff, no so much. He harbor long grudge.

Why you sound like Indian in
The Great Sioux Uprising
? Are u spending a lot of time together?

Ever night. Hr house or mine. Mostly mine due to fact Jeff still live at home. Loser.

Oh, Dad—so happy for u.

Happy u, too. U hippily married all these years. Very proud. All turned out okay, for us, but do me favor—eat wheel of Brie today. Afraid u will collapse. U delicate flower u.

John Yossarian

Speaking plainly is underrated.

23 minutes ago

Okay, I’m worried that I’m becoming a problem for you, Researcher 101.

How so, Wife 22?

I’m not offending you enough.

I can’t disagree with that.

Fine. I’ll do my best to offend you more in the future because according to antonym.com pleasure is the opposite of offense, and I wouldn’t inadvertently want to give you pleasure.

One cannot be held responsible for the way one is received.

To give you pleasure was never my intention.

Is this your idea of speaking plainly, Wife 22?

You know it’s strange. The way our conversations go on and on. It’s like a river. We just keep jumping in and diving under the water. When we surface we may find we’ve drifted miles from where we were last time we spoke but it doesn’t matter. It’s still the same river. I tap you on the shoulder. You turn around. You call out. I answer.

I’m sorry you lost your engagement ring. It sounds like a very traumatic event. Did you ever tell your father the truth?

No, and I’ve always regretted it.

Why not tell him now?

Too many years have passed. What’s the point? It will just upset him.

Did you know that according to synonym.net, the definition of
problem
is a state of difficulty that needs to be resolved.

Is this
your
idea of speaking plainly, Researcher 101?

After communicating with you all these weeks I can definitively say you, Wife 22, are in need of some resolution
.

I can’t disagree with that.

I can also say (a little less definitively for fear of putting you off) I would like to be the one that resolves you.

64.
Three months into my pregnancy with Zoe, I was wretchedly sick but doing a good job of hiding it. I had actually lost five pounds from morning sickness, so nobody at the theater could tell I was pregnant—except of course for laser-eyed Bunny, who guessed my secret the instant she saw me. We had only met once before in Boston after she contacted me with the incredible news that
The Barmaid
won the contest. She immediately let me know that even though my script had won, it needed work. She asked if I was willing to do some rewriting. I said I was, of course, but assumed the changes would be minor.

I arrived in Blue Hill on a September afternoon. The past few weeks hadn’t been easy. William did not want me to go—certainly not when I was so sick. We had a fight over breakfast and I had stormed out, accusing him of trying to sabotage my career. I felt awful for the entire ride, but now that I stood in the doorway of the theater looking down at the stage I was light-headed with excitement. Here it was, spread out before me; my life as a real playwright was about to begin. The Blue Hill Theater smelled exactly the way a theater should smell, the top notes of dust and paper, the base notes of popcorn and cheap wine. I hugged my script to my chest and walked down the aisle to greet Bunny.

“Alice! You’re pregnant,” she said. “Congratulations! Hungry?” She held out a box of Little Debbie snack cakes.

“How did you know? I’m only twelve weeks along. I’m not even showing.”

“Your nose. It’s swollen.”

“It is?” I said, touching it.

“Not hideously. Just the eensiest bit. Happens to most women, but they don’t notice because the membranes swell over the course of the pregnancy, just not all at once.”

“Look, I’d appreciate if you didn’t tell anybody—”

The cloyingly sweet smell of Bunny’s open snack cake drifted into my nostrils and I clapped my hand over my mouth.

“Lobby, take a right,” Bunny instructed, and I ran back up the aisle and to the bathroom to throw up.

Those weeks of rehearsal were intense. Day after day I sat beside Bunny in the darkened theater, where she tried to mentor me. At first, most of Bunny’s suggestions were along the lines of encouraging me to move beyond cliché. “I just don’t believe it, Alice,” she’d often say of a scene. “People don’t talk this way in real life.” As the rehearsals went on, she got tougher and more insistent, because it was clear to her something was not working. She kept pushing me to find the nuance and shading she believed the characters were missing. But I didn’t agree. I thought the depth was there; she just wasn’t seeing it yet.

One week before opening night, the lead quit. The first dress rehearsal was a disaster; the second just a little bit better, and finally, in the eleventh hour I saw
The Barmaid
through Bunny’s eyes and was horrified. She was right. The play was a caricature. A bold, shiny surface, but little substance beneath. All curtain but no stage.

At that point it was too late to make any changes. I had to let the play go. It would catch a stiff wind or founder all on its own.

Opening night went well. The theater was packed. I prayed it would all come miraculously together that evening and judging by the enthusiastic crowd, that appeared to be the case. William was by my side the entire night. I had a small baby bump now, which brought out his protective instincts; his hand was a constant presence on the small of my back. The next morning came a rave review from the
Portland Press Herald
. The entire cast celebrated by taking a cruise on a lobster boat. Some of us got drunk. Others of us (me) threw up. None of us knew this was the single moment in the sun
The Barmaid
would get, but does anybody ever suspect that the magic is about to end just when the magical thing is unfolding?

I won’t say that William was happy that the play flopped, but I will say he was happy to have me home, getting ready for the baby. He didn’t go so far as to say I told you so, but anytime Bunny emailed me another bad review (she was not one of those directors who believed in ignoring your reviews—quite the opposite, she was in the you-get-enough-bad-reviews-you-become-inoculated camp) he got this grim look on his face that I could only read as embarrassment. Somehow my public failure had become his. He didn’t have to advise me not to write another play; I came to that decision all on my own. I convinced myself there was a three-act structure to pregnancy, a beginning, middle, and
end. I was in essence a living play, and for now that would have to be enough.

65.
I know “roommate” is a taboo word, but here’s a thought: what if being roommates is the natural stage of the middle part of marriage? What if that’s the way it’s supposed to be? The
only
way we
can
be while getting through the long, hard slog of raising kids and trying to save money for retirement and coming to terms with the fact that there is no such thing as retirement anymore and we’ll be working until the day we die?

66.
Fifteen minutes ago.