Wife 22 (42 page)

I watch William slide off the bar stool, his phone in his hand. He sees me and waves me over, pointing to the table where Bunny, Caroline, and Jack are already sitting. Unbelievable. He doesn’t look rattled in the least bit.

When I get to the table, he pulls my chair out for me. “How did it go with Nedra?”

“Fine.”

“She’s okay with me giving the toast?”

I shrug.

“Are
you
okay with me giving the toast?”

“I have to go to the bathroom.”

In the bathroom, I dab my face with cold water and lean over the sink. I look horrible. Under the fluorescent light my suit looks pink, almost cartoonish. I take a few deep breaths. I’m in no rush to get back to the table. I open my Facebook chat.

The little green button next to his name turns into a half moon. He’s gone. I’m furious. How dare he log off on me! I walk out of the bathroom and nearly collide with a waiter. “Can I get you anything?” he asks.

I look out into the room and see Nedra approaching our table. She hands the mike to a clearly flustered William, kisses him on the cheek, then returns to her table, where she slides her chair as close as she can to Kate’s.

William stands up and clears his throat. “So, I’ve been asked to give a toast.”

“I don’t want anything, but you see that man with the mike? That’s my husband. He’d like a piña colada,” I whisper to the waiter.

“Of course. I’ll bring it to him after he’s done speaking.”

“No, he’s desperate for one now. He’s parched. So parched. See how he keeps swallowing and gulping? He needs it to get through the toast. Can you put a rush on it?”

“Absolutely,” says the waiter, scurrying to the bar.

“I’ve known Nedra and Kate for—let’s see—thirteen years,” says William. “The first time I met Nedra—”

I hear the whir of the blender. I watch the bartender pour the drink into a glass. I watch him garnish the drink with a piece of pineapple and a cherry.

“And I knew,” says William. “We all knew.”

The waiter crosses the room with William’s drink.

“You know how you just know? When two people are right for each other?”

The waiter begins wending his way through the tables.

“And Kate—Kate, my God, Kate. What can I say about Kate,” blabs William.

The waiter is waylaid by a couple asking for drinks. He takes their order and moves on.

“I mean, come on. Look at the two them. The bride and—well, the bride.”

The waiter arrives at William’s table and slides the drink in front of him. William looks down at the drink, confused. “What is this? I didn’t order this,” he whispers, but everybody can hear him because he’s holding the mike.

“It’s a piña colada, sir. Your throat is parched, sir,” says the waiter.

“You’ve given me somebody else’s order.”

“No, it’s for you,” insists the waiter.

“I’m telling you I didn’t order it.”

“Your wife did,” whispers the waiter, pointing to me.

William looks across the room at me and I give him a little wave. Dozens of micro-expressions flit across his face. I try and catalog them: bewilderment, vulnerability, shock, shame, anger, and then something else, something I’m entirely unprepared for. Relief.

He nods. He nods again, then he takes a sip of the piña colada. “That’s good. Surprisingly good,” he says into the mike and then promptly spills the glass all over his white shirtfront. Bunny and Caroline leap to their feet, their napkins in hand, and begin dabbing at William’s shirt.

“Soda water, please!” yells Bunny. “Quick, before the stain sets.”

I dart into the bathroom hallway. Thirty seconds later, William finds me.

“You
know
?” he whispers, pressing me up against the wall.

I glare at his wet, stained shirt. “Obviously.”

He saws his jaw back and forth. “ ‘Real life isn’t all it’s cracked up to be’?”

“You toyed with me. For months. Why shouldn’t I toy with you? Just a little.”

He takes a deep breath. “William had a very bad year. William is not trying to make excuses for himself. William should have told his wife about his bad year.”

“Why are you talking about yourself in the third person?”

“I’m trying to speak your language. Facebooking you. To your face. Say something.”

“Give me your phone.”

“Why?”

“Don’t you want to know how I found out?”

William hands me his phone.

“Every time you take a photo, your longitude and latitude is tagged. Your last profile photo—the one of your hand—it was taken at our house. You left me a trail that led right back to you.”

I turn off the location services setting on his phone’s camera. “There. Now nobody can track you.”

“What if I want to be tracked?”

“In that case you should seek professional help.”

“How long have you known?”

“Since this afternoon.”

William runs his hand through his hair. “Jesus, Alice. Why didn’t you say something? Does Bunny know?”

I nod.

“Nedra, too?”

“Yes.”

He grimaces.

“Don’t be embarrassed. They adore you. They thought it was the most romantic thing they had ever heard of.”

“Is that what you thought?”

“Why, William? Why did you do it?”

He sighs. “Because I saw your Google search. The night of the FiG launch? You didn’t clear history. I saw it all. From ‘Alice Buckle’ to ‘Happy Marriage.’ You were miserable.
I
made you miserable. I made that stupid comment about you having a small life. I had to do something.”

“And the Netherfield Center? That was an invention? Its connection to UCSF?”

“I knew you wouldn’t take part in the survey unless it was properly credentialed. Setting up the website wasn’t hard. What was hard was when it took on a life of its own. I was planning to confess. The night we were supposed to meet at Tea & Circumstances? Then Bunny and Jack came. I never intended to stand you up. I begged you not to go, remember? I didn’t think it would end like this.”

“But why did you have to sneak around? You could have just asked me the questions to my face. You didn’t even try.”

“What do you mean? I stalked you. I solicited you. I opened a fake Facebook account. I pinged you, alerted you, and notified you. I read the goddamn
Chronicles of Narnia
and
Catch-22.
”

“Is this on? Is this working?” We hear Nedra testing the mike. “William? Are you out there? It’s terribly bad form to not finish a toast. To be a toast dangler. At least in the UK, it is.”

“Oh, Jesus,” groans William, uncharacteristically flustered. “Save me.”

“Fine,” I say. “I’ll give the damn toast.”

As I make my way across the room, I try and clear my head. I should say something about love, obviously. Something about marriage. Something funny. Something sweet. But my mind is swimming with thoughts of William. The lengths to which he went to reach me.

When I get to the table, Zoe hands the microphone to me. “Go, Mom,” she whispers.

I bring the microphone slowly up to my lips. “Do you know how you know you know?” I sputter.

I did not just say that. My knees are shaking. I stare out into the crowd nervously and clutch at my throat.

“Head high,” Bunny says under her breath.

“When things are right.”

“People don’t talk that way in real life,” Bunny whispers.

“There’s just no stopping lovers from being together.”

“From the heart, Alice. From the heart,” she urges me.

“I’m sorry. Hold on.” I search for William but I don’t see him anywhere. “Let me try this again. Nedra. Kate. My sweetest, dearest friends.” A hush settles over the restaurant. I look out at the room.

“My God, look at all those phones. Do you realize there are phones on everybody’s table? Is there anybody here without a device? Raise your hand. No, I didn’t think so. You know, it’s crazy. It’s really crazy. We live in such connected times. It’s so easy to become addicted to having access to everything and everybody in a split second, but I’m not so sure that’s a good thing.”

I pause, take a sip of my water, and stall, hoping clarity will come to me. Where the hell did William go?

“Someone once told me waiting was a dying art. He worried that we had traded speed and constant access for the deeper pleasures of leaving and returning. I wasn’t sure I agreed with him. Who doesn’t want what they want when they want it? That’s the world we live in. To pretend otherwise is ridiculous. But I’m starting to think he was right. Nedra and Kate, you are a perfect example of what waiting brings you. Your partnership inspires me. It makes me want to be better. You have one of the strongest, most stalwart, loving, and tender relationships I’ve ever seen, and it will be my privilege to bear witness to your marriage tomorrow.”

I try and unobtrusively wipe my sweaty palms on my skirt.

“Now, I know I’m supposed to give you some advice now. Sage advice coming from somebody who’s been married for two decades. I’m not sure what wisdom I can offer, but I can say this. Marriage isn’t neutral. Sometimes we’d like to think it is, but listen, hiding out in the infirmary waiting for the war to end is no way to live.”

I look out at a sea of confused faces. Uh-oh.

“What I’m trying to say is don’t have a Sweden of a marriage. Or a Costa Rica of a marriage, either. Not that I don’t like Sweden or Costa Rica; they are perfectly lovely places to live and visit and I appreciate their neutrality, politically anyway. But my advice is—have the courage to let your marriage be some fiery country in the throes of revolution where each of you speaks a different dialect and sometimes you can barely understand each other but it doesn’t matter because, well, each of you is fighting. Fighting for each other.”

People start to whisper. A pair of women get up from their table and make their way to the bar. I’m losing them. What was I thinking? I am the least equipped person in the world to be giving advice about marriage. I’m a fake, I should sit down, I should shut up, and just when I’m getting ready to bolt from the room, my phone chimes. I ignore it. It chimes again.

“This is embarrassing, I’m so sorry. It might be an emergency. My father—you see. Let me just take a peek.”

I put the microphone down and pick up my phone. I have a message from John Yossarian.

18. What did you used to do that you don’t do now?

I look up, and in the corner of the room I see William smiling at me.
You son of a bitch,
I think.
You sweet, dear, son of a bitch.

I pick the microphone back up. “Listen, all I have to say … all I have to say is—run, dive, pitch a tent. Spend hours on the phone with your best friend.”

Nedra pops up and gives a Queen Elizabeth wave with a cupped palm. Laughter ripples through the room.

“Wear bikinis.”

More than a few groans from the women in the over-forty group.

“Drink tequila.”

Hoots of appreciation from the under-forty group.

“Wake up in the morning happy for no good reason.”

People are smiling. Faces are soft. Eyes are glistening.

“You’ve got them, Alice,” whispers Bunny. “Reel them in slowly now.”

I take a deep breath
. “
Lie in the grass, dream of your future, of your one imperfect life and your one imperfect marriage to your one imperfect true love. Because what else is there?” I lock eyes with William. “Honestly, there’s nothing else. Nothing else matters. To love.” I raise my glass. “To Nedra and Kate.”

“To Nedra and Kate,” the room echoes back.

I plop down in my chair, wiped out.

“Mom, you were awesome,” says Peter.

“I didn’t know you could just wing it like that,” says Zoe.

Nedra blows me a kiss from across the room, tears in her eyes.

“Where’s Dad?” asks Zoe.

“There,” says Peter, pointing. He’s leaning against the wall watching us, holding his phone in his hand.

I get my phone and quickly type.

An instant later I get a message.

“Back in a minute,” I say.

I’m standing near the bathroom door and William steps forward, into the dim light of the hallway.

“Wait. Before you say anything, I’m sorry,” I say.

“
You’re
sorry? For what?”

“I didn’t make it easy for you. I was hard to find.”

“Yes, you were hard to find, Alice. But I made you a promise a long time ago that no matter how far you wandered, how far you went off trail, I would come after you, I would find you and I would bring you home.”

“Well, here I am. For better or for worse. And you’re probably thinking for worse right now.”

“No, I’m thinking we have got to stop meeting in the bathroom hallway,” he says, inching closer.

I pull the engagement ring out of my pocket. I wave it in his face and he stops short.

“Is that—?”

“Yes.”

“What? How?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters.”

“No, it doesn’t. What matters is this,” I say, sliding the ring on my finger.

William inhales sharply. “Did you just do what I think you did?”

“I don’t know. What do you think I did?”

“Made me obsolete.”

“Oh, pah! It’s the twenty-first century, not the nineteenth. Women can put their engagement rings on their own damn fingers. Now I need to know something and you need to tell me the truth. And may I suggest you answer without thinking about it too much? If you had to do it all again, would you marry me?”