Wife 22 (36 page)

“God, I love the theater,” I say, watching the people around us filing into their seats. “Berkeley Rep is in our backyard. Why don’t we do this more often?”

The lights dim and a hush descends upon the theater as a few last-minute stragglers find their seats. This is my favorite part. Right before the curtain opens, when all the promise of the evening is ahead of you. I glance over at William. He’s wearing khakis, flat-front and slim-cut, which accentuate his muscular legs. I look at his thighs and a little shiver goes through me. All his running is paying off.

“Here we go,” whispers Bunny as the curtain parts.

“Thank you for taking us,” I say, squeezing her arm.

“Tweeting with Ho-Girl would have been more pleasurable,” says William, forty-five minutes later.

It’s intermission. We’re waiting in line at the bar along with dozens of other people.

“I can’t believe that made it to the stage,” says Jack. “It wasn’t ready.”

“And it was the playwright’s debut,” says Bunny. “I hope she’s got some thick skin.”

Everybody suddenly looks at me.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Alice. That was terribly insensitive,” says Bunny.

“Pah, is that what you say, Bunny? It was wan, boring, and absurd, just like
The Barmaid
, I’m afraid.”

Bunny’s eyes light up with pleasure. “Why, Alice, brava! It’s about time you faced up to that smelly fish of a review. Haul it into the boat instead of letting it swim circles around you over and over again for years on end. That’s how it loses its power.”

She winks at me. This morning I finally got up the courage to give her some of my pages. I’ve been setting aside time to write every day now. I’m starting to get into a rhythm.

“How old is the playwright?” I ask.

“Early thirties, I’d guess by her photo,” says William, looking through the program.

“Poor baby,” I say.

“Not necessarily,” says Bunny. “It’s only excruciating because for most of us the devastations happen in private, behind closed doors. When you’re a playwright, it all happens out in the open. But there’s a real opportunity there, you see? To take that ride publicly? Everybody gets to see you fall, but everyone also gets to see you rise. There’s nothing like a comeback.”

“What if you just fall and fall and fall?” I ask, thinking of William’s Facebook postings.

“Not possible; not if you stay with it. Eventually you’ll stand.”

We’re only three people away from the bar. I’m desperate for a drink. What’s taking so long? I hear the woman at the front of the line admonishing the bartender for not stocking Grey Goose and I freeze. That voice sounds familiar. When I hear the woman asking if they have grüner veltliner and the bartender suggesting perhaps she consider going with the house chardonnay, I groan. It’s Mrs. Norman, the druggie mother.

I have the sudden urge to dart behind a pillar and hide, then I think,
why should I hide? I haven’t done anything wrong.
Stand erect, Alice.
I hear my father’s voice in my head. My slumping gets especially pronounced when I’m nervous.

“Sutter Creek, can you believe it?” Mrs. Norman says, as she turns around and catches sight of me.

I give her a half-smile and nod while standing perfectly erect.

“Well, hello,” she says sweetly. “Darling, look, it’s the draaama teacher. From Carisa’s school.”

Mr. Norman stands about a foot shorter than Mrs. Norman.

He extends his hand. “Chet Norman,” he says nervously.

“Alice Buckle,” I say. I quickly introduce Bunny, Jack, and William, and then step out of line to talk to them.

“I’m sorry I missed
Charlotte’s Web
. I heard it was quite the performance,” says Mr. Norman.

“Um—I guess it was,” I say, trying not to wince. I still feel as though that production was a major miscalculation on my part.

“So,” says Mrs. Norman. “Attend the theater often?”

“Oh, yes. All the time. It’s part of my work, isn’t it? To see plays.”

“How nice for you,” says Mrs. Norman.

The lights flicker on and off.

“Well,” I say.

“Carisa just loves you,” Mr. Norman says, his voice breaking.

“Really?” I say, locking eyes with Mrs. Norman.

The lights flicker again, a little faster this time.

“I’m sorry,” he says, sticking out his hand again. “I’m really very sorry.”

“Chet,” warns Mrs. Norman.

“We’ve held you up,” he says.

“Oh, dear. I’m afraid you’ll have to swig your wine,” says Mrs. Norman as William walks toward us with my drink.

I look at her, all arch and glitter and condescension, and honest to God have to hold myself back from pinching a pretend joint between my thumb and index finger and pretend-puffing away on it.

“Carisa is a wonderful girl,” I say to Mr. Norman. “I’m very fond of her, too.”

“This play is crap, Chet,” says Mrs. Norman, considering her glass of wine. “As is this swill. Let’s skip the second half.”

“But that would be rude, honey,” whispers Mr. Norman. “You just don’t walk out at intermission at the theater, do you?” he asks me. “Is that—done?”

Oh, I like Chet Norman. William joins us and hands me a glass of wine.

“I don’t think there are any hard-and-fast rules,” I say.

“Are you having a nice summer, Mrs. Buckle?” asks Mrs. Norman.

“Lovely, thank you.”

“That’s nice,” says Mrs. Norman.

Then she abruptly turns away and walks toward the exit.

“A pleasure to meet you,” Mr. Norman calls out as he trots after her.

The second half of the play is even worse than the first, but I’m glad we stick it out. For me it’s desensitization therapy—where you gradually inject the patient with a bit of the substance the person has an allergy to, in my case, public failure, so the person learns to tolerate the substance without the body overreacting. I feel deeply for the playwright. I’m sure she’s here, sitting in the wings or maybe even in the back of the theater. I wish I knew who she was. If I did, I would find her. I would tell her to let it wash over her, to feel it all, to not run from it. I would tell her that people would eventually forget. It might feel like the experience would kill her, but it wouldn’t. And one morning, maybe a month, or six months, or a year, or five years from now, she’d wake up and notice the way the light streamed through the curtains and the smell of coffee descended upon the house, like a blanket. And on that morning she’d sit down and confront the blank page. And she’d know she had arrived at the beginning again, and it was a new day.

B
unny and I are sitting at the kitchen table, working our way through a bowl of pistachios and a pile of scripts, when Peter walks in with a friend.

“Do we have any pizza rolls?” he asks.

“No, but we have Hot Pockets.”

“You’re kidding,” he says, his eyes aglow.

“Yes, I am,” I say. “Do you think your father would allow that kind of junk food in the house?”

I extend my hand to his friend.

“I’m Peter’s mother, Alice Buckle. If it was up to me we’d have a freezer full of Hot Pockets, but since we don’t, I can offer you Wasa crackers with almond butter. I’m sorry, I wish I had Skippy, but that’s on the blacklist, too. I think there are a few hard-boiled eggs in the fridge if you’re allergic to nuts.”

“Should I call you Alice or Mrs. Buckle?” he asks.

“You may call me Alice, although I appreciate you asking. It’s a West Coast thing,” I explain to Bunny. “All the kids call adults by their first names out here.”

“Except for teachers,” says Peter.

“Teachers are called ‘dude,’ ” I say. “Or maybe ‘du.’ Is the ‘de’ silent these days?”

“Stop showing off,” says Peter.

“Well, I am Mrs. Kilborn and you may call me Mrs. Kilborn,” says Bunny.

“And you are?” I ask the boy.

“Eric Haber.”

Eric Haber?
The Eric Haber I thought Peter had a secret crush on? He’s adorable: tall, eyes the color of peanut brittle, obscenely long lashes.

“Peter talks about you all the time,” I say.

“Stop it, Mom.”

A look passes between Eric and Peter, and Peter shrugs.

“So what are you two up to? Just hanging out?”

“Yeah, Mom, hanging out.”

I stack the scripts in a pile. “Well, we’ll leave you to it. Let’s go out on the deck, Bunny. Eric, I hope to be seeing more of you.”

“Uh—yeah, okay,” he says.

“What was all that about?” asks Bunny when we’ve settled out on the deck.

“I thought Eric was Peter’s secret crush.”

“Peter’s gay?”

“No, he’s straight, but I thought he might be gay.”

Bunny takes some sunscreen out of her bag and rubs it on her arms slowly.

“You’re very close to Zoe and Peter, aren’t you, Alice?” she says.

“Well, sure.”

“Mm-hmm,” she says, offering me the tube. “Mustn’t forget the neck.”

“You say ‘mm-hmm’ like there’s something wrong with that. Like you don’t approve. Do you think I’m too close?”

Bunny rubs the excess sunscreen into the back of her hands.

“I think you’re—enmeshed,” she says carefully. “You’re very intense with them.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

“Alice, how old were you when your mother died?”

“Fifteen.”

“Tell me something about her.”

“Like what?”

“Anything. Whatever comes to mind.”

“She wore big gold hoop earrings. She wore Jean Naté body splash and she drank gin and tonic all year round, didn’t matter the season. She said it made her feel like she was always on vacation.”

“What else?” asks Bunny.

“Let me guess. You want me to go deeeeeper,” I sigh.

Bunny grins.

“Well, I know this sounds funny, but for a few months after she died I thought she might come back. I think it had something to do with the fact that she went so suddenly; it was impossible to process that she was there one minute and gone the next. Her favorite movie was
The Sound of Music.
She even looked a little like Julie Andrews. She wore her hair short, and she had the most beautiful, long neck. I kept expecting her to suddenly pop around a tree and sing to me, like when Maria sang that song to Captain von Trapp. What was the name of that song?”

“Which one? When she realizes she’s fallen for him?” asks Bunny.

“
So here you are standing there loving me. Whether or not you should,”
I sing softly.

“You have a lovely voice, Alice. I didn’t know you could sing.”

I nod.

“And your father?” asks Bunny.

“He was absolutely wrecked.”

“Did you have help? Aunts and uncles? Grandparents?”

“Yes, but after a few months it was just the two of us.”

“You must have been very close,” Bunny says.

“We were. We are. Look, I know I’m too involved in their lives. I know I can be overbearing and intense. But Zoe and Peter need me. And they’re all I have.”

“They’re not all you have,” says Bunny. “And you have to start the process of letting them go. I’ve gone through this with three children already—believe me, I know. Fundamentally you have to make a break. In the end they’ll turn out to be exactly who they are,
not
who you want them to be.”

“Are you ready, Alice?” Caroline comes bounding out on the deck, dressed in her running gear.

“Speaking of,” says Bunny.

Caroline frowns and looks at her watch. “You said two, Alice. Let’s get going.”

“She’s a taskmaster, your daughter,” I say, getting to my feet.

“Alice—that was a nine-minute mile!”

“You’re kidding!” I gasp.

“I’m not. Look.” Caroline shows me her stopwatch.

“How the hell did that happen?”

Caroline bobs her head happily. “I knew you could do it.”

“Not without you. You’ve been a wonderful trainer.”

“Okay, let’s cool down,” says Caroline, slowing to a walk.

I give a little hoot.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?”