Wife 22 (26 page)

I leap to my feet. “Go Trojans! Go Zoe! Nice spike!” I shout.

“She’s a setter, not a spiker,” says Jude.

“Nice set, Zoe!” I shout, sitting down.

Jude snorts.

“She’s going to kill me,” I say.

“Yep,” says Jude, as Zoe’s cheeks flush pink with embarrassment.

“I have news,” I say to William that evening.

“Hold on, I’m just finishing the onions. Did you prep the carrots, Caroline?” asks William.

“I forgot,” says Caroline, hustling to the refrigerator. “Do you want them julienned or diced?”

“Diced. Alice, please get out of the way. You’re blocking the sink.”

“I have news,” I repeat. “About Nedra and Kate.”

“There’s nothing like the smell of caramelized onions,” says William, sticking the pan under Caroline’s nose.

“Mmmm,” she says.

I think about the way Jude looked at Zoe. With such longing. With such desire. The same exact way my husband is looking at a pile of limp onions.

“How much tarragon?” asks William.

“Two teaspoons, a tablespoon? I forgot,” says Caroline. “Although it might not be tarragon. It might be marjoram. Look on Epicurious.”

I sigh and grab my laptop. William glances at me. “Don’t go. I want to hear your news. I just have to check the recipe.”

I give him an exaggerated thumbs-up and walk into the living room.

I log on to Lucy’s Facebook page. Researcher 101 is online. I look up at William. He’s busy, frowning at his iPhone.

“Is it tarragon or marjoram?” asks Caroline.

“Hold on,” says William. “I can’t find the recipe on Epicurious. Was it Food.com?”

I click on Chat and quickly type:

It takes Researcher 101 just a few seconds to respond:

I shudder. Researcher 101’s voice sounds remarkably similar to George Clooney’s—at least in my head. I write:

Jesus! I feel a sudden pulsing heat in my groin and I cross my legs as if to hide it, as if somebody could see.

“Did you find it?” asks Caroline.

“Food.com. Two teaspoons of tarragon,” replies William, waving his phone at her. “You were right.”

I sit there on the couch, trying to persuade my heart rate to go back to its resting state. I breathe though my mouth. Is this what it feels like to have a panic attack? William looks at me from across the room.

“So what’s your news, Alice?” he asks.

“Nedra and Kate are getting married.”

“Are they?”

“You don’t sound surprised.”

He pauses and smiles. “I’m only surprised it took them this long.”

70.
That sometimes, when I’m alone and in a place where nobody knows me, I speak with a pretend British accent.

71.
Worry. Ask Peter when’s the last time he flossed. Fight off the urge to push the hair out of Zoe’s eyes so I can see her pretty face.

72.
How stunning it would be to see his features in my children’s faces.

John Yossarian
changed his profile picture

John Yossarian
changed his profile picture

It’s my 20th anniversary tomorrow.

And how are you feeling about that, Wife 22?

Ambivalent.

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for this to happen.

“This” meaning me?

I remember when I first went to college. It was in a city. I won’t say where. But I remember after I had said goodbye to my parents, I walked down the streets feeling exhilarated that nobody knew me. For the first time in my life I was completely disconnected from everybody I loved.

I remember that feeling, too. I found the disconnection terrifying.

You realize future generations will never experience this. We are reachable every minute of the day.

And your point is?

Your reachability is highly addictive, Wife 22.

Is that your hand in your new profile photo?

Yes.

Why did you post a photo of your hand?

Because I wanted you to imagine it on the back of your neck.

“W
e have to get potstickers,” says Peter.

“We always get potstickers. Let’s get lettuce wraps,” says Zoe. “The vegetarian ones.”

“Are you guys sure you’re okay with us crashing your anniversary dinner?” asks Caroline. “It’s not very romantic.”

“Alice and I have had twenty years to be romantic,” William says. “Besides, it’s nice to go out and celebrate. Did you know the traditional wedding gift for the twentieth anniversary is china? That’s why I made the reservation at P.F. Chang’s.” He taps his finger on the menu. “Cheng-du Spiced Lamb. China.”

China, yes. This morning I gave William a commemorative photo plate that I ordered back in December. The photo was taken of us twenty years ago standing in front of Fenway Park. He’s behind me, his arms draped around my neck. We look breathtakingly young. I’m not sure he liked the gift. The plate came with a display easel, but he just stuffed it back into the box.

William looks around the dining room stiffly. “Where’s the waiter? I need a drink.”

“So, twenty years,” says Zoe. “What’s it like?”

“Oh, Zoe, what kind of a question is that?” I say.

“The kind you’re supposed to ask on an anniversary. A serious kind. A taking-stock kind,” she says.

What were we thinking asking them to come to our anniversary dinner? If it was just William and me we’d talk about safe subjects like the bond market, or the sticky garage door. Instead we’re going to be interrogated as to how we feel about our marriage.

“What’s it like
how
?” asks William. “You must be more specific, Zoe. I hate the way your generation asks such vague questions. You expect
everybody else to do all the work, including clarifying what you meant to ask in the first place.”

“Shit, Dad,” says Peter. “She was just asking to be nice.”

“Peter Buckle—this is our anniversary dinner. I would appreciate it if you didn’t say
shit
,” I say.

“Well, what am I allowed to say?”

“ ‘Dang.’ ‘Rats.’ Or how about ‘bananas’?” I suggest.

“As in,
Bananas, Dad? She was just asking to be nice
?” says Peter. “Are you bananas?”

William nods at me from across the table and for a moment I feel united. Which causes me even more duress as I think of Researcher 101 asking me to imagine his hand on the back of my neck.

“How about I take Peter and Zoe to California Pizza Kitchen?” asks Caroline. “We can meet up with you afterwards. What kind of food are you in the mood for, Zoe?” Caroline raises her eyebrows at me. She and I are still debating as to whether Zoe has an eating disorder.

“Vegetarian lettuce wraps,” says Zoe, shooting William a questioning look.

“It’s okay. I want you all to stay,” I say. “And your father does, too. Right, William?”

“Alice, would you like your present now or later?” William says.

“I thought P.F. Chang’s was my present.”

“It’s only part one of your present. Zoe?” says William.

Zoe rummages around in her purse and pulls out a smallish rectangular package wrapped in dark green paper.

“Did you know that emerald is the official twentieth-anniversary color?” asks William.

Emerald? I flash back to the day in the jewelry store with Nedra. Her making me try on that emerald ring. Oh, God. Had William solicited her to help him pick out a ring for our twentieth anniversary? An emerald ring like the one that belonged to my mother that I threw out the car window the week before we got married?

Zoe hands me the package. “Open it,” she says.

I stare at William, shocked. His gifts are usually last minute, like fancy jams or a gift certificate for a pedicure. Last year, he gave me a book of forever stamps.

“Now?” I ask. “Wouldn’t it be better to wait until we’re home? Anniversary gifts are kind of private, aren’t they?”

“Just open it, Mom,” says Peter. “We all know what it is.”

“You do? You told them?”

“I had some help with this one,” he admits.

I shake the package. “We’re on a budget. I hope you didn’t do anything crazy.” But I really, really hope he did.

I rip open the paper excitedly to reveal a white cardboard box that says Kindle.

“Wow,” I say.

“Isn’t it cool?” says Peter, grabbing the box out of my hands. “Look, the box opens like a book. And Dad preloaded it for you.”

“I ordered it a month ago,” says William, by which he means
I want you to know I put some thought into this
.

“He got you
The Stand
. Said it was your favorite book when you were in high school. And the Twilight series—apparently many mothers are into the books,” says Zoe. “I think it’s gross, but whatever.” She looks at me suspiciously, as a fifteen-year-old daughter is apt to look at her mother. I nod as innocently as possible while simultaneously trying to look delighted.

“The latest Miranda July,
You Are She Who Knows Something I Used To but Forgot
,” says Zoe, “or something like that. You’ll love her. She’s awesome.”

“And
Pride and Prejudice
,” says Peter.

“Wow,” I say. “Just wow. I’ve never read
Pride and Prejudice
. This is so unexpected.”

I put the Kindle back in its box carefully.

“You’re disappointed,” says William.

“No, of course not! I just don’t want to scratch it. It’s a very thoughtful gift.”

I glance around the table. Everything seems out of plumb. Who is this man? I barely recognize him. His face is lean because of all the running. His jaw firm. He hasn’t shaved in days and he’s sporting a light stubble. If I didn’t know him, I’d think he was hot. I reach across the table and pat William’s arm awkwardly.

“That means she loves it,” translates Peter.

I look down at the menu. “I do,” I say. “I really do.”

“Great,” says William.

“I was twelve when I started to work,” says Caroline. “After school I’d sweep the theater while Mom was in rehearsals.”

“Hear that, kiddos?” I say, spooning a second helping of Kung Pao chicken onto my plate. “She was
twelve
. That’s the way they do it in Maine. You kids need to contribute. You need to get a job. Raking lawns. Delivering newspapers. Babysitting.”

“We’re okay,” says William.

“Well, actually we’re kind of not,” I say. “Pass the chow mein, please.”

“Should I be scared? Is this something I should be scared about? I have fifty-three dollars in my savings account. Birthday money. You can have it,” says Peter.

“Nobody has to give up their birthday money,” says William. “We all just have to be more frugal.”

I look at my Kindle guiltily.

“Starting tomorrow,” says William. He raises his glass. “To twenty years,” he toasts.

Everybody raises his or her glass but me. I’d already pounded down my Asian pear mojito.

“I only have water,” I say.

“So toast with your water,” says William.

“Isn’t it considered bad luck to toast with water?”

“If you’re in the Coast Guard,” says William.

I raise my water glass and say what’s expected. “To twenty more.”

Zoe studies my conflicted face. “You’ve answered my question about what twenty years of marriage is like.”

She looks at William. “And without any further clarification from me.”

An hour later, back at home, William sinks into his chair with a sigh, remote control in hand, and then leaps to his feet. “Alice!” he shouts, his hand on his ass.