Wife 22 (33 page)

“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.

“A
nd 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.

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.

“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.

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?

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.

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.

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

“Quiet!” says Bunny, elbowing me aside.

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.”

“N
edra.”

“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?”