The Breakup

by Debra Kent

  “What the hell do you think?” I snapped. Another wife? My head was spinning.

  I needed time, time to sort things out. Just when I thought I knew the depths of Roger’s depravity, just when I felt that God had given me all I could handle, I find out that my husband has another wife! Who was she? Where had he met her? How did he find time to be with her? How could he have cheated on not one but two wives when he was screwing around with Alyssa and God knows who else? Was she young? Was she pretty? Was she a good cook? And most important, was she entitled to any of his assets?

  “I’m sorry I was short with you,” I told Libby. “That was uncalled for.”

  “No problem,” she answered. “I’m accustomed to it. Comes with the territory. I tend to be the purveyor of bad news. It’s not like people hire me to find out what their husbands are buying them for Valentine’s Day.”

  “When do you think you’ll know more?” I asked. My head felt like it was going to explode. I grabbed the Advil off the lazy Susan in the kitchen cabinet and swallowed four. Libby said she would call me as soon as she uncovered anything else.

  Omar insists it’s unlikely that Mary Tisdale is entitled to any of Roger’s assets since I married him first. That was the most reassuring thing I’d heard all day, assuming it’s true. Omar reminded me to keep up a good front. I don’t know how much longer I can fake this. I want that man out of my house. I wish he were dead.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  February 11

  It’s 1 P.M. and I still haven’t heard from Libby. This is agonizing! I left messages with her answering service, but she hasn’t called back. I had expected to go with Roger to visit his parents. I begged off, told him I was having menstrual cramps. That’s the one excuse that always placates him; he never argues with gynecological alibis. I’m still reeling. I can’t wait for Libby to call back.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  February 12

  I’m trying to stay focused but I can barely breathe. I know Roger is depraved, and believe me, I know I’m better off without him, but I still can’t help feeling like a loser and a reject. I wasn’t wife enough for him, so he had to find himself another one? And this one is undoubtedly the prim and proper traditionalist he has always wanted: the cook, the housekeeper, the submissive little woman who gladly dispenses with her family name to take on the Tisdale moniker. Who was this woman? Where had he found her? And how, in a town this size, could he possibly get away with it?

  Pete’s play date with Patrick Green fell through, which meant I had to serve as entertainment director. Pete must have sensed something was seriously wrong because he wouldn’t leave me alone all day. We played cards and forty-six rounds of Candy Land, watched Barney videos (gag) and made two and a half pounds of pink spaghetti with the Play-Doh Fun Factory. Then he insisted on singing from a big songbook my mother had bought him for Christmas. All the songs are long and repetitive, the kind of music that kids sing on long car drives when they want to make their parents crazy. We were singing “There’s a Hole in the Bucket,” and when we got to the line where the wife tells her husband to fix the hole with a straw, Pete asked, “How can straw fix a hole in a bucket, Mommy?” And before I could stop myself, I shrieked, “It can’t, Petey, which is why this song sucks!” He just stared at me. I laughed and tried to make a little joke of it, but I think I scared him.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  February 13

  Roger came home unexpectedly from play rehearsal today. He didn’t realize I was in the downstairs bathroom, and when I collided with him, he seemed nervous. He had a mesh bag of daffodil bulbs in one hand, a spade in the other. He claimed he wanted to do some planting. Roger has always hated gardening. In fact, his exact words were, “I hate nature.” And nobody plants daffodils this time of year.

  “What a great idea!” I exclaimed. “Let me grab my bulb-digger thingy. I’d love to help.”

  He stuck out a hand to stop me. “That’s quite all right. I’d like to do it myself. I mean, I’m sure you have better things to do.”

  “Don’t be silly,” I said. “I’m totally free. Remember, I’m unemployed.”

  Roger managed a shaky laugh. “Why don’t you relax? Take a bath!”

  I relented. “Actually, I could use a hot soak right now. Pulled a muscle carrying groceries.”

  “Okay, then.” Roger wiped the perspiration from his forehead. I sprinted upstairs to the bathroom, locked the door, and ran the water for effect. I carefully opened the blinds in the bathroom. I saw Roger begin digging under the blue spruce. I watched him plunge the spade into the earth, deeper and deeper and deeper. He wiped his brow, then plunged again. He dropped to the ground and put his hands into the soil. He grabbed the shovel and started digging again. A second hole. Then a third. And yet another. Forty minutes later the yard looked like a habitat for prairie dogs. It reminded me of a book Pete has, a story about a poor lad who gets duped by a leprechaun. The story ends with this guy digging under every tree in the forest. Naturally, he never finds the gold. And neither did Roger.

  Later, as he was brushing his teeth, he asked, “Did you happen to find anything that, er, belongs to me?”

  I tried not to smile. “Like what?”

  “Oh, a little box, like a strongbox. I kept some files in there. You know, for my next play.”

  “No, sweetheart, I haven’t seen it. But I’ll let you know if I do.”

  ’Til next time,

  V

  February 15

  Libby finally called. She had no information about Mary Tisdale. She doesn’t know how they met, whether they have kids, how old she is, where she’s from. No one in the Lake Merle condos would say whether they had met her, or whether she even exists. There are no official records for Mary Tisdale, no social security number, no driver’s license, no insurance records. Libby drove out to the condo twice and banged on the door, but no one answered. All the shades were drawn, the lights were off. “But I’m sure there was someone inside,” she said. “I could hear music. And I smelled something cooking.”

  “So what’s the next step?” I asked. “Can we involve the police? Get a warrant or something?”

  Libby thought for a moment. “I’ll call you right back.” Ten minutes later, Libby was on the line. “I’ve got a friend in the sheriff’s department. She says she thinks she can wrangle a warrant next week. Maybe Wednesday. Can you wait that long?”

  “I guess I’ll have to.” I felt deflated. But when I hung up, I decided that no, I couldn’t wait that long. This weekend I’m going to drive out to Lake Merle myself, and I’m not leaving until I’ve met Mrs. Mary Tisdale.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  February 16

  I never made it to Lake Merle. It was around noon when the phone rang. Roger had taken Pete to the mall for shoes. I was home alone.

  “Open your front door,” Eddie told me.

  “Why should I?” I answered. I wasn’t in the mood for his games.

  “Just do it.”

  I was on the cordless phone. “Fine,” I told him. “I’m walking downstairs. I’m opening the door . . .”

  There he was, parked in the driveway, talking to me from his cell phone. He slid down the window and blew me a kiss. He kept talking into the phone, staring at me. “Wanna go for a ride?”

  I went back in the house and locked the door behind me. “Not now, Eddie. Please.”

  He sighed long and hard. “Don’t be this way, darling,” he said.

  “Do you realize I could take a restraining order out on you?”

  Silence. Then he finally said, “Oh, you don’t want to do that, sweetheart. I’m not your enemy. Besides, don’t you want me on your side when you take your husband to court? Especially when you guys start fighting about custody. Don’t you want me on your side?”

  This was a nightmare. “Look. What do you want from me? Money? Sex?”

  Eddie chortled. “How about
a little of both? Come on out. Let’s take a ride.”

  I grabbed my purse and climbed into his van. He leaned over and kissed me and his mouth was hot and sweet. The slick seats smelled of Armorall. He drove out to the abandoned grain silo by the county airport. And then, amidst the pesticides and peat moss in his van, Eddie kissed my neck and whispered, “I missed you.” He started fiddling with my belt buckle.

  “Eddie, please. I have to get back home.”

  “Not yet, darling,” he whispered. He reached under my shirt and casually played with my breasts as he spoke. “We’re not done . . . negotiating.”

  “What do you want, Eddie? Gold? Is that what this is all about?”

  A smile slowly spread across his face. “You’re a genius.”

  “I don’t have the gold,” I told him. He pinched my nipple. “Ouch!” I yelled. “Let go!” I pulled away. “Eddie, I’m perfectly happy to give you a little cash if you’re short. Just tell me what you need.”

  He laughed. “ ‘A little cash’ isn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

  “Eddie, there is no gold. Diana was wrong.”

  Eddie stared into my face. He didn’t know whether to believe me.

  Finally, he said, “Really?”

  I nodded solemnly. “Really.”

  “In that case, I guess I’ll take you home now.” He turned the key in the ignition and I gulped back a lump in my throat. Neither of us spoke during the ride back. He switched on a country station and hummed quietly. I wondered whether there was any way Eddie might discover I had lied to him. When he pulled into my neighborhood, I reached for the door. “You can let me out right here.” I jumped out and walked the quarter of a mile to my house.

  It is now 3 P.M. Roger and Pete should be back any minute. My nipple still hurts.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  February 17

  2:45 A.M. I’m sitting here, waiting for the Tylenol PM to take effect. I can’t sleep. I can’t get the image out of my head of Eddie heaving over my body in the van. I swear I can still smell him on me. I’m completely obsessed with the following horrible thoughts: (1) Eddie will realize that I’m lying and he’ll try to hurt me. (2) Eddie will realize I’m lying and he’ll kill Pete. (3) Eddie has given me AIDS. (4) Eddie has given me herpes. (5) Eddie has given me genital warts. (6) I’m pregnant.

  I’m finally feeling a little sleepy. I think I’m going to crash on the couch now. I can’t lie next to Roger, for all the obvious reasons—and now this. I feel sick. But tired too, thank God. I’ve got to get at least a few hours’ sleep if I’m going to drive out to Lake Merle tomorrow.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  February 18

  I never thought I’d make it out of the house. First Pete said that he was still hungry after lunch, so I made him a cup of tomato soup and a peanut butter sandwich. He then announced that he hated crunchy peanut butter. We were all out of creamy. So I trashed the sandwich and made him tortellini instead. The colander tipped as I was draining the pasta, and the whole thing slid down the garbage disposal. Pete started screaming and flailing his arms and legs. He kicked off a shoe, which hit the mirror in the hall, shattering it into a million jagged pieces. I grabbed for the glass with my bare hands, cut my index finger, and bled on the carpet. I couldn’t find the carpet cleaner and tried dishwashing liquid, which only made it worse.

  When I finally settled Pete down, Roger appeared and announced that he wanted to make summer plans. He thought it might be nice if Pete and I spent the summer in the Upper Peninsula, and maybe he could visit us on weekends. I played along, told him it was a splendid idea. That creep had it all figured out. He’d spend Monday through Friday on Lake Merle with his other wife, spend weekends with me, and never the twain shall meet. That’s what he thinks!

  After Roger had plotted out our summer using his new calendar software, the phone rang. And rang. And rang. First it was Greta Haas from church, asking if I’d help with this year’s Easter egg hunt. Then my mother called, just to complain about Dad’s oncologist; she says he ran down the hospital fire escape just to avoid talking to her, and I believe it. Then a supposedly wheelchair-bound phone solicitor with Handicapped Marketing Associates tried to sell me light bulbs that supposedly last 100 years. (I pushed the button on my new anti-telemarketer gadget—it gives me such pleasure to use that thing—and listened delightedly as the authoritative recorded voice told the phone solicitor to shove it.) The phone rang one more time, but whoever was on the line hung up. Caller ID registered this one as an anonymous call. My guess is, it was the phone solicitor calling me back for spite. Or maybe it was Eddie.

  By now it was 3 P.M. I told Roger I had to get my nails done. He nodded vaguely in my direction and returned his attention to Xena. I’m sure it didn’t even register that I’d left the house. Twenty minutes later he would call upstairs for me, starting with a medium-range holler, gradually building up to that shrill eardrum-puncturing shriek of his. He would ask Pete to run upstairs and find me, at which point Pete would tell him that I left to get my nails done because Pete, unlike his father, actually paid attention when I had something to say. I imagined the stupid way Roger rubbed the side of his head whenever he was bewildered, and thanked God I wouldn’t have to live with this dog much longer.

  I took the shortcut to Lake Merle, but hit a detour—they’re digging up Crawford Road—which meant I had to take Market, putting me twenty minutes out of my way. By the time I’d made it to the lake I had soaked through my blazer and my hands were so sweaty I left stains on the leather-wrapped steering wheel. I pulled into the subdivision, followed the road west, and found Roger’s condo. It was the last unit at the very end of a gravel road virtually engulfed by tall pines. I parked along the curb. My heart thumped so hard I could see the silver teapot pin on my lapel pulsating.

  I stared at the condo. While most of the units had some special feature—a striped awning here, a handpainted mailbox there—this one had nothing to distinguish it. The landscaping was sparse, almost barren. There were no painted shutters, no pretty plaque bearing the family name or house number, no colorful wind sock. In fact, there were no signs of life. The shades and curtains were all drawn. Visitors, it seems, were not welcome here.

  I turned my ear toward the door and listened. Backstreet Boys. I heard a faint rustling, footsteps, something clanging, maybe a pan. I took another deep breath and knocked at the door, softly at first, then harder when no one responded. I knocked again. The music stopped, and then I could hear nothing. No footsteps, no clanging. I cupped my ear against the door now, and held my breath until it hurt.

  The door opened. I lifted my eyes and saw the apprehensive face of a young girl, a small and slender Asian girl. She opened the door a crack and stared at me. She couldn’t have been older than sixteen. She wore a plain white buttoned shirt and cheap, shiny trousers, white socks, and flip-flops. And she was beautiful. Full lips, dark eyes. Her black hair was tied back. No makeup except for lip gloss. She was chewing gum.

  “Is the lady of the house here?” I asked her. She stared at me as if she didn’t understand.

  I tried again. “Do you speak English?” She nodded quickly, but kept her grip on the door.

  “The lady of the house. Mary Tisdale. Is she home?”

  She looked at me a long time. “I am Mrs. Tisdale.”

  I thought I must have heard wrong. What do you mean, you’re Mary Tisdale? Crazy thoughts popped into my head. Maybe she was a distant cousin, from the Asian side of the family (but there is no Asian side of the family). Maybe a half sister—my father-inlaw’s illegitimate daughter. I groped for a rational explanation. How could this be Roger’s wife? Impossible. I tried to remain composed, but my heart was now smashing around in my mouth, and I could feel my whole body flush with panic.

  “What’s your husband’s name?”

  She beamed at me. “Roger Tisdale. Mister Roger Tisdale.” Jesus. She was a kid. I felt dizzy, heard my blood roaring
in my ears. I steadied myself against the door frame.

  “Let me get this straight. You are married—you’re married, as in husband and wife—to Roger Tisdale?”

  She nodded her head enthusiastically.

  “Roger Tisdale, the playwright?”

  “Yes! Yes! That’s my man!” the girl exclaimed. Her man? I had to stay clearheaded. I had to keep her talking. I suddenly regretted that I didn’t have any M&M’s with me; she struck me as the kind of kid who could be bribed with candy.

  “What’s your business?” she asked, a little suspiciously.

  “My business? Oh, I live around here; just wanted to meet the neighbors and all that. I’m Mrs. Ryan.”

  Mary started to smile, then remembered something and grew serious. She closed the door a little more. “I’m not supposed to talk to anybody.”

  “Why not?”

  “My husband says not to. He says, ‘Stay inside and take good care, Mary.’ So that’s what I do. I stay inside and wait for him.” She pouted. “But I miss him. He’s all the time traveling, putting on his shows.” Putting on his shows? So that’s how he explained why he’s rarely around. With me it was writers’ retreats and rehearsals. With her, he’s putting on shows. Dandy.

  A pregnant cat rubbed against her legs. She lifted it into her arms and stroked its head. “I play with Tippy. Eat. Watch TV. Dance to music. Clean house. That’s all I do.”

  I tried to be solicitous, tried to be a nice, normal, nonthreatening woman. A friend. A big sister. “Oh, I know what you mean. Sounds like my life.” I rolled my eyes.

  “Men.”

  She smiled at me and echoed: “Men.”

  “Listen, can I come in for a minute? I’m feeling a little sick. I think . . . I may be pregnant.” I don’t know, it just seemed like the right thing to say. I could almost hear her interior debate: Roger told me not to talk to strangers. But this lady seems nice. Maybe it’s okay. And Roger won’t find out anyway.