Wife 22 (6 page)

He picks up the remote and turns on the TV. “No. It means asshole who feeds ideas to the creative director.”

“William, shut off the TV. Are you sure? And why aren’t you more upset? Maybe you’re mistaken.”

William presses the mute button. “The new creative director was my ideator until yesterday. Yes, I’m sure. And what good does it do to be upset?”

“So you can do something about it!”

“There’s nothing to do. It’s decided. It’s done. Do we have any Scotch? The good stuff. Single malt?” William looks completely shut down, his face vacant.

“I can’t believe it! How could they do this to you after all these years?”

“The Band-Aid account. Conflict of interest. I believe in fresh air, Neosporin, and scabs, not sealing up boo-boos.”

“You told them that?”

He rolls his eyes. “Yes, Alice, that’s exactly what I told them. There’s a cut in pay.” William gives me a grim smile. “A rather substantial cut in pay.”

I’m panicked, but I try not to change the expression on my face. I need to buoy him up.

“It’s happening to everybody, sweetheart,” I say.

“Do we have any port?”

“Everybody our age.”

“That’s extremely comforting, Alice. Grey Goose?”

“How old is the new CD?”

“I don’t know. Twenty-nine? Thirty?”

I gasp. “Did he say anything to you?”

“
She
. It’s Kelly Cho. She said she was really looking forward to working with me.”

“
Kelly?
”

“Don’t be so shocked. She’s very good. Brilliant, actually. Pot? Weed? Aren’t the kids smoking yet? Jesus, they’re late-bloomers.”

“God, William, I’m so sorry,” I say. “This is incredibly unfair.” I turn to give him a hug.

He holds up his hand. “Don’t,” he says. “Just leave me alone. I don’t want to be touched right now.”

I move away from him on the couch, trying not to take it personally. This is typical William. When he’s hurt he becomes even more detached; he makes himself into the proverbial island. I’m the complete opposite. When I’m in pain I want everybody I love on the island with me, sitting around the fire, getting drunk on coconut milk, banging out a plan.

“Jesus, Alice, don’t look at me that way. You can’t expect me to take care of you right now. Let me just have my feelings.”

“No one’s asking you to not have your feelings.” I stand up. “I heard you in the driveway, you know. Starting the motorcycle. I thought we were being robbed.”

I hear the accusatory tone in my voice and hate myself. This happens all the time. William’s detachment makes me desperate for connection, which makes me say desperate things, which makes him more detached.

“I’m going to bed,” I say, trying not to sound wounded.

A look of relief spreads across William’s face. “I’ll be up in a while.” Then he closes his eyes, blocking me out.

I
’m not proud of what I do next, but consider it the act of a slightly OCD woman who did budget projections too far into the future and discovered that within one year (at William’s reduced salary and what little my job brought in) we’d be tapping into our savings and the kids’ college funds. Within two years, our retirement fund and any chance of our children going to college would be nil. We’d have to move back to Brockton and live with my father.

I see no alternative but to call Kelly Cho and beg for William’s job back.

“Kelly, hello, this is Alice Buckle. How are you?” I sing into the phone, in my best feel-good, composed drama-teacher voice.

“Alice,” Kelly says awkwardly, separating my name into three syllables: Al. Liss. S. She’s shocked I’m calling. “I’m fine, how are you?”

“I’m fine. How are you?” I chirp back, my calm drama-teacher voice dropping away. Oh, God.

“What can I do for you? Are you looking for William? I think he stepped out for lunch,” she says.

“Actually, I was looking for you. I was hoping we could speak frankly about what happened. William’s demotion.”

“Oh—okay. But didn’t he fill you in?”

“Yes, he did, but, well—I was hoping there’s some way we can reverse this thing. Not take away your promotion—that’s not what I’m talking about. Of course not, that wouldn’t be fair. But maybe there’s a way we can make this more of a horizontal move for William.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“Could you maybe put in a good word for him? Just ask around?”

“Ask who?”

“Look, William has been at KKM for more than ten years.”

“I’m aware of that. This is really hard. For me too, but I don’t think—”

“Jesus, Kelly, it’s only Band-Aids.”

“
Band-Aids?
”

“The account?”

Kelly is silent for a moment. “Alice, it wasn’t Band-Aids. It was
Cialis
.”

“
Cialis
. Erectile dysfunction
Cialis
?”

Kelly coughed softly. “That’s the one.”

“Well, what happened?”

“You need to ask him.”

“I’m asking you. Please, Kelly.”

“I really shouldn’t.”

“Please.”

“I don’t feel okay about—”

“Kelly. Don’t make me ask again.”

She gives a big sigh. “He lost it.”

“Lost it?”

“During the focus group. Alice, I’ve been wondering if there’s something going on at home because honestly, he just hasn’t been himself lately. Well, you saw it yourself. How strangely he acted at the FiG launch. For the past couple of months he’s been off. Anxious. Short-tempered. Distracted. Like work is the last place on earth he wants to be. Everybody has noticed, not just me. He’d been talked to. He’d been warned. And then this thing with the focus group. It was on video, Alice. The entire team saw it. Frank Potter saw it.”

“But he’s on the creative side, not strategic. Why was he even running a focus group?”

“Because he insisted. He wanted to be in on the research.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s probably better if you don’t.”

“Send me the video,” I say.

“That’s not a good idea.”

“Kelly, I’m begging you.”

“Oh, Christ. Hold on a sec. Let me think.”

Kelly is silent.

I count to twenty and say, “Still thinking?”

“Fine, Alice,” says Kelly. “But you have to swear not to tell anybody I
sent it to you. Look, I’m really sorry. I respect William. He’s been a mentor to me. I wasn’t campaigning for his job. I feel horrible about this. Do you believe me? Please believe me.”

“I believe you, Kelly, but now that you’re creative director you should probably stop pleading with people to believe you.”

“You’re right. I’ve got to work on that. I’ll email you the video.”

“Thank you.”

“And Alice?”

“Uh-huh?”

“Please don’t hate me.”

“Kelly.”

“What?”

“You’re doing it again.”

“Right, right! I’m sorry. I wasn’t prepared for this promotion. It’s what I always dreamed about but I didn’t think it would happen so abruptly. Between you and me, I feel like such a fake. I don’t know what to say. I should go now. I’m really not a bad person. I like you so much, Alice. Please don’t hate me. Oh—Christ, goodbye.”

Voicemail: You Have One New Message

Alice! Alice, my dear. It’s Bunny Kilborn from Blue Hill. It’s been a very long time. I hope you’ve been getting my Christmas cards. I think of you so often. How are you and William? The children? Is Zoe off to college yet? She must be close. Maybe you’ll send her back east. Look. I’ll get straight to it. I have a favor to ask. Remember our youngest, Caroline? Well, she’s moving to the Bay Area and I’m wondering if you’d be willing to help her out a bit? Show her around? She’s looking for a job in IT. Maybe you even have some contacts in the tech world? She’ll need to find a place to live, a roommate sort of situation, and, of course, a job, but it would be so nice to know she’s not completely on her own out there. Besides, you two would hit it off. So how are you otherwise? Still teaching drama? Dare I ask if you ever write plays anymore? I know
The Barmaid of Great Cranberry Island
really took the wind out of your sails, but— I’m on the phone. Jack, I’m ON THE PHONE! Sorry, Alice, have to run, let me know if—

Mailbox Full

Now there’s a voice from my past.
Bunny Kilborn:
the renowned founder and artistic director of the Blue Hill Theater in Maine; winner of three Obies, two Guggenheims, and a Bessie Award. She’s directed everything from Tennessee Williams’s
A Streetcar Named Desire
to Harold Pinter’s
The Homecoming
, and in the late nineties, Alice Buckle’s
The Barmaid of Great Cranberry Island
. No, I’m not saying I was in the same league as Williams and Pinter. I entered a contest for emerging playwrights and ending up winning first prize, which was the mounting of my play at the
Blue Hill Theater. Everything I had been working for had led to that moment and that win. It felt—well, it felt like destiny.

I had always been a theater rat. I started acting in middle school and then in high school attempted writing my first play. It was horrible, of course (heavily influenced by David Mamet, who to this day is still my favorite playwright, although I can’t abide his politics), but I wrote another play and then another and another, and with each play I found my voice a little more.

In college, three of my plays were produced. I became one of the theater department’s stars. When I graduated, I took a day job in advertising, which left my nights free to write. When I was twenty-nine I finally got my big break—and I flopped. It’s an understatement when Bunny says the play took the wind out of my sails. The reviews were so bad I never wrote another play again.

There was one good review from the
Portland Press Herald
. I can still recite passages by heart: “emotionally generous,” “a thought-provoking coming-of-age story, the effect of which is like mainlining Springsteen’s ‘Jungleland
.
’ ” But I can also recite passages from all the other reviews, which were consistently negative: “fails miserably,” “clichéd and contrived,” “amateurish,” and “Act 3? Put us out of our misery already!” The play closed within two weeks.

Bunny made an effort to keep in touch with me all these years, but I didn’t reciprocate much. I was too ashamed. I had embarrassed Bunny and her company, as well as blown my one big chance.

Bunny’s call has to be more than serendipity. I want to be connected to her; to have her in my life again in some way.

I pick up the phone and nervously dial her number. It rings twice.

“Hello?”

“Bunny—Bunny is that you?”

There’s a pause, then …

“Oh, Alice,
love
. I hoped you would call.”

I
t’s taken me a few days to work up the nerve to look at the KKM video. It occurs to me as I sit in front of my laptop, finger about to click the Play arrow, that I am crossing a line. My heart is thrumming in the same way it did when I called Kelly, which, come to think of it, was the real moment I crossed the line—when I started acting like William’s mother instead of his wife. If my heart knew Morse code and could tap out a message, it would be saying
Alice, you spying nosy parker, delete this file right now!
, but I don’t know Morse code, so I just tuck those thoughts away and click Play.

The camera pans in on a table at which two men and two women are seated.

“One sec,” says Kelly Cho. The table becomes blurry, then snaps into focus again. “Ready.”

“Cialis,” says William. “Elliot Ritter, fifty-six; Avi Schine, twenty-four; Melinda Carver, twenty-three; Sonja Popovich, forty-seven. Thank you all for coming. So you screened the commercial, right? What did you think?”

“I don’t get it. Why are they sitting in separate bathtubs if the dude has a four-hour erection?” asks Avi.

“He doesn’t have a four-hour erection. If he had a four-hour erection he’d be in an ambulance on the way to the hospital. The precautions have to be clearly stated in the commercial,” says William.

Melinda and Avi exchange a lusty look. Under the table, her hand seeks out his thigh and squeezes it.

“Are you a couple?” asks William. “Are they a couple?” he whispers under his breath.

“They didn’t say they were a couple,” says Kelly.

William must be wearing an earpiece and Kelly must be in the room with the one-way mirror, watching and listening.