Wife Living Dangerously (23 page)

I know that I should be working on my marriage. After the square-dance debacle, I’ve been reluctant to ask Michael to try
therapy again, but the grown-up in me knows that we must try again. I don’t want gimmicks, I want a real psychoanalyst, a
Freudian or Jungian, somebody smart and grounded in theories of the unconscious mind, someone who takes notes.

On my tenth birthday my mother tied a green and white Vera scarf over my eyes and took me on what she called a “mystery trip.”
Some indiscernible time later, it could have been fifteen minutes or three hours, she instructed me to remove the blindfold.
We were in the parking lot of Toy Town on the west side of town, a rambling flat-roofed store, windows plastered with yellowed,
oversized decals of dancing nursery rhyme characters. I remember feeling sorry for Mary because someone had peeled off almost
all of the little lamb’s head.

“Go ahead, Julie.” My mother reapplied her lipstick in the rearview mirror. “Open the envelope.” I did, and found it to be
filled with bright, crisp money. I’d never seen so many ten-dollar bills in one place. I started counting. Two hundred dollars.
It made me weep.

“What’s wrong, sugar?”

“It’s too much money. I can’t… I can’t take it.”

“Aww, sure you can, sweetie. This money is all for you. I want you to buy whatever you want. Isn’t there something you’ve
always wanted, some toy or silly thing, some pretty little doll and a carriage, maybe?”

Two hours later, I’d filled the backseat and trunk with everything I’d ever seen advertised on TV and coveted for myself.
A Lost in Space 3-D action game. A Barbie doll
and
a Ken with wardrobes. A doctor’s kit, with a plastic stethoscope and candy pills in a black vinyl bag; five different paint-by-numbers
kits including a black velvet one, a microscope with glass slides of wasp wings and silk strands, a badminton set with four
plastic racquets, a pottery wheel, and a rock tumbler that made so much noise I was only allowed to use it when my mother
wasn’t home because she said it triggered headaches.

My mother forgot my eleventh birthday. But she made it up to me the following year by taking me and Katie Lender to Adventure
Village, a small amusement park built into the depressed foothills of a southern Indiana town called Easterville.

It was like that my whole childhood; sometimes Trina remembered and sometimes she forgot depending on the ever-shifting circumstances
of her fluid life: new boyfriend, new job, bad headache, lousy mood. I learned to regard my birthdays with detached curiosity
rather than eager anticipation. At best it would be a rollicking celebration. At worst, forgotten.

All that changed when I met Michael. He believed that every birthday had to be a day-long homage to Julia. One year I walked
in to find hundreds of photocopies of my face taped all over the house. Another year he put together a kind of “this is your
life” party with my first flute teacher and the first kid I ever babysat. The birthdays became less inventive as our children
were born, but the basic idea—a celebration of Julia—was always at the core.

Today is my forty-first birthday and Michael has made a point of
not
wishing me a happy birthday which suggests that I’m in for a big party. He did this when we were first married, inviting
every friend and family member to our teeny apartment. It was kind of a surprise party in reverse. I didn’t walk into a room
crowded with people. I walked into an empty apartment, then one by one, everyone appeared at the door.

I’d better start cleaning.

6:00
P.M
. The house is immaculate. I figure it’s pointless to make dinner since Michael has probably ordered food, maybe even catered
from Petit Plum, which makes an outstanding chocolate truffle cake. Oh, no. I hope he didn’t order her lemon squares. Too
sweet. Mine are better. I can’t decide whether I should fake tears or not. I won’t. I will cover my mouth in shock. That’s
what I’ll do. I’ll cover my mouth, maybe bite my knuckle. Oh, I suppose I could squeeze out a few tears.

8:00
P.M
. The kids are starving so I microwave a lasagne. I guess I’ll get them in their baths and start the bedtime ritual. Maybe
Michael has a little private party planned, just for the two of us. I’d hinted about the lampwork necklace in the Trifles
catalog. I have a strong feeling that he’s got that necklace hidden somewhere in this house.

9:38
P.M
. Michael is in his underwear, brushing his teeth. He smiles at me from the bathroom as white foam drips down his chin. He
tells me I look beautiful and suggests I take off all my clothes and get into bed with him. “I’ll give you a backrub—naked,”
he says, pronouncing the word “nekk-ed” like a hillbilly. “And then I’ll give you a front rub.”

So I let him. Maybe he has planned a different kind of birthday surprise, one that starts with sex and ends with cake. But
as Michael’s warm, strong hands make slow circles across my deltoids, he suddenly stops and gasps and I realize then that
he did, in fact, forget.

“Oh, Jesus,” he says. “Oh, God, Julie. Today’s your birthday. I totally forgot. Oh, Jesus.”

“It’s okay.” I can feel hot tears flooding my eyes. I blink them back and will myself to remain composed. I keep my face pressed
into the mattress. “It’s no big deal. You’ve had a lot on your plate these days. With that antitrust case and your band and
all.”

“Oh, honey, oh, God, I’m so sorry. Oh, jeez. I can’t believe I forgot your birthday. Things have been so crazy at work. I
just. Look. Please. Tell me. How can I make it up to you? Please. I’ll do anything. Name it.”

“Just remember my birthday next year, okay?” I tell him. “That would be enough.”

“I feel like such an idiot.”

“Stop. Really. It’s no big deal.”

Now there is no way either of us could possibly continue the massage. I’m too bitter and Michael is too overwrought and remorseful.
I sit up and reach for the clothes I’d left folded on the wrought-iron bench at the foot of our bed. “I think I need some
fresh air.”

“Can I come with you?”

I tell Michael that I’d rather be alone. I pull out of the driveway and start driving. I switch on the radio, find WAKC (“Ass-Kickin’
Country”), crank it up loud, and head north on Kirby. I consider driving to Jupiter’s, the pickup bar on the south side of
town, but wind up in the Kroger parking lot. I turn off the engine, the radio, the lights. I am staring at the sign above
the supermarket and notice that birds have built nests in the crevices along every single letter except the G, and wonder
why they chose to reject this one letter. Perhaps there was a short in the wiring and one of them had been electrocuted while
trying to establish its nest, so the others knew intuitively to stay away.

I am crying again and now my cell phone is ringing. “Michael?”

“It’s Evan, actually.”

“Evan. Hi. Are you, is something wrong?”

“No. Everything’s fine. I just… I just wanted to, I don’t know. I guess I wanted to hear your voice. I know I shouldn’t
have called. God. You’re married.”

“It’s okay.” I’m still sniffling.

“Hey, by the way, happy birthday.”

He remembered.

“I wanted to call you earlier but I figured you were probably busy with some big family shindig.”

I didn’t say anything, just sniffled.

“Are you alright? You sound like you’ve got a cold. Or have you been crying?”

“My husband forgot my birthday.”

Long pause. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

“Me too.”

Another long pause. “I have an idea. Just hang on a second.”

Now I hear the sad, sweet wheeze of a harmonica. Evan is playing a melody I quickly recognize, that song from
Peter Pan,
which happens to be one of my favorites. He plays it mournfully and perfectly, and I find myself wondering if I’ll ever find
this treasure, this place where dreams are born, where time is suspended, where youth is eternal, and all one’s deepest wishes
are possible.

Two days later I find a box on my side of the bed. The box is wrapped in leftover Christmas paper, hastily, and taped in place
with the self-stick address labels we got for free from the American Heart Association. I’m normally amused by Michael’s childlike
gift-wrapping style but today the sight of this package dressed in holly and berries in the middle of April makes me want
to flush it down the toilet.

Michael steps quietly into the room as I finger the squashed red bow. “Ah,” he says, clapping his hands together, “you’ve
found it.”

“I guess I have. Is this for me?”

“Who else would it be for, you little nut?” He wraps his arms around my waist from behind and nuzzles the back of my neck.
“I’m sorry, Jules. I screwed up. Forgive me?”

I don’t covet diamonds the way Frankie does, but now I find myself thinking that if this is an apology, there had better be
something really expensive inside that box. I unwrap it quickly, lift the top off, and push aside the hard white tissue paper.

“Oh. Huh. A shirt.” A polyester-cotton blend scoop neck in a dull blue, the color of cheap sidewalk chalk, the kind you get
at the dollar store. An embroidered fish across the chest, yellow. I lift the blouse out of the box and shake it, expecting
that a small velveteen box will drop from a sleeve.

“Like it?” Michael has his tongue stuck in his cheek and he’s grinning, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet.

I am not an ingrate. I hate ingrates. “It’s cute.” I choke the words out.

“You do remember, don’t you?” Michael cocks his head. “The fishy shirt? Door County? The gift store? Next to the pancake place?
Come on, Jules. Work with me here. Fishy, fishy?”

“What are you talking about?” I remember a lot of things about that vacation in Door County—Michael getting the kids to bed
early in the adjoining room so we could make love, the sweet honey powder he dusted across my breasts and between my legs,
the hot bubble bath we took later, and the deliciously sensual way he washed my hair—but I have no recollection of a “fishy
shirt.” Michael holds the top up to his own chest and does a little dance. “Remember? Fishy, fishy?”

I watch my husband dancing with this ugly shirt, babbling nonsense, and I feel something like shards of glass shoot through
my veins.

“Okay.” Flop sweat appears across Michael’s brow. He sighs as he resigns himself to the failure of his birthday surprise.
“Think back. Last summer in Door County. We were in the gift store. Next to the pancake place. You looked at this shirt. I
called the store. I had them FedEx it.” He holds the shirt up and waves it. “
It was this specific shirt.
Jake liked the fish. You said, Fishy, fishy. I heard you. You loved this shirt.” Then, with desperation, “Didn’t you?”

“Not really.”

“You didn’t?” He drops his head in defeat. “Aw, honey. I’m sorry. I really blew it, didn’t I?” Michael hugs me and his body
feels like the lead apron the dentist makes you wear for X-rays. “Please, Julie, please let me make it up to you.”

How could he possibly make it up to me, this man who routinely denies himself even the smallest pleasures? On second thought,
self-abnegation no longer applies to Michael. Since he started playing with the band, my husband has spared no expense on
his musician self. New sunglasses, a sleek black revolving shelving unit for CDs, expensive speakers. The guest room in the
basement is now his music room. My gilt-framed cherub print has been replaced by a poster of the Allman Brothers. His old
turntable, neglected since the advent of the compact disc, now sits on top of his grandmother’s antique dresser, surrounded
by stacks of classic rock LPs. I offered to help him repaint the room but he said it was fine the way it was, and I tried
not to interpret that as a sign of rejection, a recoiling from my wifely cooties.

“Don’t worry about it,” I tell him, snaking out of his embrace. “It’s a cute shirt. I needed a… fish shirt.”

“You’re just being nice.”

“Yes. I am.” Eager to take advantage of this small window of obsequiousness, I ask, “How’s Edith?”

“Edith?”

“You know. Edith. Berry. Your paralegal? The girl who sings with your band?”

“She’s fine,” Michael says. “She seems to be getting better with every gig. She really has a spectacular voice.”

And a spectacular body, I want to say. “Is she… dating anyone?”

“I don’t believe so. Between work and singing with the band, I’m afraid that Edith doesn’t have much of a social life.”

In other words, you’re the only man in her life, I am thinking. By day and by night, it’s Mike, Mike, Mike. “I saw her at
Borders. She told me you guys asked her to join the band.”

“We did. A while ago. I… thought I told you.”

“No.” Say it, Julie. “You know, Michael, I’ve already been through this once with you. I don’t want to go through it again.”

He understands the reference immediately. “You won’t have to, Julie. I love you more than life.”

I toss the fishy-fishy shirt to the top wire shelf in my closet. It falls off the edge and lands crazily out of joint, like
a woman who has jumped to her death. I pick up the shirt and jam it in between a pair of snow boots and a Hefty bag full of
maternity clothes.

Have you ever probed your gums with a toothpick until they were raw and bloody, because even though it hurts like heck and
you know it can’t be good to dig at your teeth this way, somehow it also feels oddly pleasurable to pick and probe, even as
you’re bleeding? “Why didn’t you tell me that Edith was an official member of the band?” I’m compelled to ask.

“Oh. I just, I thought you knew.”

I keep picking away. “How would I know if you didn’t tell me?”

“Maybe you would have known if you came more often to watch me play.”

“For your information, Michael, there are three little things standing in the way of me becoming a barfly. They’re called
Caitlin, Lucy, and Jake. Remember them?”

“Julie, please, I don’t want to get into this with you. Listen. I’m going out.”

“Fine!” I throw the box on the floor. “Tell Edith Berry I send my regards!” I wait until I hear the garage door close, then
go back into the closet, yank the fish shirt off the floor, and stuff it in the trash.