The Breakup

by Debra Kent

  I prayed hard while she considered my request. Please make her let me in. Please, Lord. Finally, she stepped back and pulled open the door. “I guess it’s okay,” she said.

  I recognized the furniture right away. The place was filled with the crap we’d kept in the basement for the garage sale we never had the energy to have. Roger had loaded everything into the back of a U-Haul. He said he’d deliver it to Promise House, the battered women’s shelter. I spotted the pair of butterfly chairs, the cheap laminate bookcases, the wicker love seat and chairs we bought in graduate school at Pier 1. Hanging above the sofa, the amateurish still life I’d painted when I was nine months pregnant and bored out of my skull. I’m not sure what galled me more, that he gave her something I painted or that he gave her something so hideous. What I did not see, however, was a telephone. Leave it to Roger to lock this girl in the condo without a connection to the outside world. “Can I use your phone?” I asked.

  “Oh, we can’t have phones out here in the country,” she said matter-of-factly. “And my husband says the kind without wires are too expensive. Is that the kind you have? Without wires?”

  “Yes, that’s what we have. The kind without wires.” God.

  I watched her size five bottom as she led me to the sofa, and I cringed imagining Roger violating her body. She made Alyssa look matronly. I couldn’t pinpoint the accent. Filipino, maybe? She offered me a glass of water. I reached to accept it and gestured for her to sit down. She sat cross-legged in the wicker chair and the cat jumped into her lap, kneaded her little belly, and plopped down. I glanced around the room. It was sparsely furnished but spotless, truly immaculate. I had a cruel, fleeting thought—maybe she could clean our other house too. I attribute this bizarre thought to my state: completely deranged. My husband had a child for a wife. He kept her locked in a little condo at the end of a country road with instructions to stay put. For the moment, I had two goals: to learn her age, and to figure out how they met.

  Mary broke the silence. “When’s the baby coming?”

  I didn’t know what she meant until I remembered my lie. “Oh, I’m not sure. Maybe in the winter.” I was speaking like a foreigner myself. I was trying to establish some kind of rapport.

  She rolled the cat over and displayed its bulging belly. “Tippy’s pregnant too!” She ran her fingers over the nipples. She smiled and patted her own stomach. “I also want to have baby.”

  “Are you”—I tried to produce a smile—“pregnant?”

  The girl shrugged. “Don’t know. Maybe.” She pulled the gum out of her mouth, stretched it, and popped it back in. She smiled dreamily. “Maybe not. Hope so. I love babies.”

  Of course you do, I wanted to say, because you’re practically a zygote yourself. “Babies are great,” I answered. “Do you have any little brothers or sisters?”

  She looked away. “Yes. Four brothers, three sisters. Back home.”

  Now I was getting somewhere. “Oh, what a nice big family. Are you the oldest?”

  The girl nodded, still looking away. “How old are you?” I asked, then held my breath.

  She bit her lip and hesitated. “Twenty-one.”

  Bullshit. I giggled and said, “No, really. How old are you, really?”

  She looked at me and answered almost obediently. “Sixteen, ma’am.”

  Now I was ma’am? I should have been glad to get my answer, but now I was stewing because she called me ma’am. There was that wretched word again. “You’re a beautiful girl, Mary,” I told her. “You must be an actress. Is that how you met your husband?”

  I’d flattered her. She smiled shyly. “Oh, no. Not me. I met him through CLIT.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You know, Classy Ladies International Trade.” When she realized I hadn’t heard of this CLIT, she elaborated: “It’s a worldwide organization that links well-mannered international ladies with established American gentlemen.” She obviously had that memorized. I wondered if she knew what the acronym meant in English. I would have laughed if I hadn’t been so mortified.

  “How nice,” I answered. I didn’t know what to say next. Should I tell her I was Roger’s real wife? Let her know her marriage is a joke, that she’s essentially a sex slave? I didn’t want to say anything that might scare her, and I couldn’t let Roger know I was onto him. Not yet, not until Omar gave me the go-ahead. So I pulled myself up, thanked her for the water, and started to leave. But I felt such compassion for the girl. She was stuck in that little condo with all my old crap. No car, no friends. I had to ask, “Listen, do you need anything?”

  “Oh, no. We’re fine. We have everything we need,” she said, trying to sound like a grown-up.

  I sped home, avoiding the detour this time, and called Omar, then Libby. Then I got online and searched for Classy Ladies International Trade. And I cannot believe what I discovered. Much more, later.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  February 19

  I was anxious to tell Omar the news about Roger’s mail-order bride. He reacted with uncharacteristic zeal. “Woo-hoo!” he yelped. “We’re going to nail that bastard to the wall!” I loved hearing him talk tough, and his enthusiasm filled me with pure joy. (I know this is an issue for me, and I realize it’s not particularly healthy—my impulse to make Omar my hero, my knight, my personal Terminator. Rather than see him merely as my well-paid advocate, I’ve already romanticized our relationship and his role in my life. I love his bald, penile head.) Omar said we’re ready to serve Roger with the divorce papers. I told him I wanted to wait until Friday. I’ve decided that I want to be there when he opens the envelope. I need just a little more time. Jesus. It’s really happening.

  I suspect Libby was a bit rankled to hear that I drove out to Lake Merle myself and got to Mary before she did. Libby didn’t say anything at first, and for a second I thought we’d been disconnected. To her credit, she recovered gracefully. “Hey, you want a job?” she joked. “I could always use the help.”

  Even though I’m glad I took the initiative, I’m annoyed she didn’t do it first. She’s the investigator. I’m just an unemployed psychotherapist. What’s the point of paying her all this money if I’m doing the legwork?

  Libby said she’s going to go out to the condo and get some pictures of Mary for her report. She also said she’d try to contact Classy Ladies International Trade, but suspects they’ll be slow to produce records if they suspect they’re part of an investigation and if the girl is underage.

  I went on-line, typed in classyladiesinternational trade.com. Lo and behold, it was there, in all its putridity. The on-line “catalog” was filled with 145 thumbnail shots of women of all ages, shapes, and sizes. Most of them were surprisingly plain, and many looked sad, though they obviously tried their best to look “marketable” for the camera. I was particularly struck by “Jasmine,” a plump woman who claimed to be thirty-five but who looked closer to fifty. When I clicked on her thumbnail, I got the full dossier. She said she loved housecleaning and cooking, and promised to make a cozy home for her Western mate. She looked panic-stricken.

  The company is owned by H. Wilhem Prost, a character who brazenly describes himself the “proud owner” of a Filipina bride. He sprinkles his own sickening experiences throughout the site. An excerpt from the home page:

  Willing, compliant, obedient. Let our ladies take you back in time, a time when men wore the pants and women did as they were told. Imagine your own geisha girl at your beck and call, a girl who only has eyes for you. Gentlemen, these women are desperate to meet upstanding Western men like yourselves. And all our ladies come with a 100 percent money-back guarantee. If you are not absolutely satisfied with your CLIT girl, you can return her— postage paid—and choose another of our lovely girls. What’s your fantasy? Damsel in distress? Virgin bride? Betty Crocker? Barefoot and pregnant? Young and innocent? We’ve got them all, and plenty more. CLIT girls won’t tell you it’s your turn to do the dishes or cook dinner. They wouldn’t dream of
getting a job (unless, of course, you tell them to). Their greatest pleasure is to serve, whether in the kitchen or in the bedroom. These are women who truly appreciate Western men, who crave the comfort of a traditional, domestic life. All they want in this world is a Western man who will treat them like a lady. If you’re that kind of man—and who isn’t?—then we have the girl for you!

  I thought of Mary, sitting alone in the condo beneath my ugly painting, playing with the cat, chewing gum. I wonder if that’s what she had in mind when she left her homeland and family. I tried not to imagine the fantasies Mary was purchased to fulfill. In graduate school, I once heard Roger tell his buddy Kirby Bond that “there’s nothing in this world like a cherry,” and I actually thought they were talking about produce until I saw his wicked grin and realized, blushing, that he was talking about something else entirely.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  February 21

  I felt masochistically compelled to go to the CLIT Web site again today. A disgusting sample of the FAQs:

  Q: How much will it cost me to get a CLIT girl?

  A: $6,450 total, American dollars. (A drop in the bucket compared with what it costs to maintain and eventually get rid of the typical American wife.)

  Q: Will my bride speak English?

  A: Enough to understand and fulfill your every wish. Seriously, most Filipinas speak English. They also speak other native languages, like Tagalog, Ilocano, and Visayan. If your bride needs help learning your mother tongue, you can surely play Professor Higgins to her Eliza Doolittle—we guarantee that she will be a willing student!

  Q: How young are your girls?

  A: Officially speaking, we can’t get girls younger than sixteen, because the government won’t give them a visa. But some clever girls will fudge their records, and we’re certainly not tattling on them!! (Wink!) If you have a hankering for youth, let us know, and we’ll see what we can do.

  Q: Can I do anything I want to my Filipina bride?

  A: As long as she consents, of course! But we don’t abide abuse or misuse of any kind, so if you’re planning on beating your bride or worse, don’t expect our support when your sorry ass gets hauled into court!

  Q: Would a girl in her teens or twenties be interested in a gentleman in his forties or fifties?

  A: Absolutely! Filipinas respect and admire older men. As the proud owner of my own Filipina bride (my fourth and last wife, I assure you), I can tell you that they admire experience and maturity. And if it takes us older gents a little longer in matters romantic, all the better for them.

  Q : Aren’t mail-order brides for American geeks who can’t get lucky with their own kind?

  A: We get this question all the time—from spoiled American women. The short answer: No. International brides are for discerning gentlemen who are simply sick and tired of playing games with jaded, grasping, greedy, selfish American women. And who isn’t? You only live once, gentlemen. Why not live well? CLIT can make it happen for you. Call us now!

  Unbelievable! As I scanned the site I imagined what must have been going through my husband’s debauched brain when he decided he just had to have one of these poor girls. Either he has some kind of tumor pressing on whatever part of the brain regulates morality or he has succumbed to another condition—the complete eradication of reason and conscience that apparently accompanies wealth in some people. I had a client like that, the wife of an Internet mogul. She regularly abused the illegal aliens she hired as housekeepers. Convinced a maid had stolen some jewelry, she pulled on a Playtex glove and conducted her own cavity search. She found nothing, and fired her anyway.

  Living with Roger this week has been absolute torture. I feel like the kid in Sixth Sense. I’m the only one who knows he’s dead. This sucker has no idea that the demolition ball’s about to smash him right in the face. I pray nothing goes wrong. Omar keeps saying it’s like the Battle of Normandy. We don’t make a move until we’re completely ready.

  By tomorrow morning, Libby’s report will be in my hands, with a copy on Omar’s desk. Friday at noon, it’s boom, baby. I can hardly wait to see the look on his face when the sheriff’s deputy serves him with the divorce papers. I cannot wait!

  ’Til next time,

  V

  February 28

  Today at 4 P.M. my parents came home from the oncologist to discover that the front door had been jimmied open, and the house was torn apart. At first it seemed like nothing valuable was missing. Not my mother’s jewelry, or the silverware, or the cash in Dad’s sock drawer.

  When my father saw the mess, he collapsed and chipped his front teeth when he hit the tiled floor. My mother called 911, screaming incoherently. The dispatcher sent a police car and an ambulance.

  Mom had revived my father by the time the paramedics arrived, and sent them away. The police searched the house, found nothing substantive, then called me. I sped through every red light on the way to my parents’ house. When I got there, the police were already gone, Dad was asleep, and Mom was making a pot of peppermint-ginseng tea. A locksmith was busy at the side door, replacing the cheap old lock with a more secure deadbolt.

  “The police think it’s neighborhood kids,” my mother told me as she pulled a pair of mugs out of the cabinet. Her eyes were swollen from crying. “Said they were probably looking for drugs—painkillers. That happens sometimes, you know. When kids get wind of someone dying.”

  The word hung there. Until then, neither of us had ever admitted that Dad was dying. Until then, we spoke only of temporary setbacks.

  “Shhh!” I scolded. “What if he hears you?”

  My mother smiled sadly. “I wouldn’t worry about that, love.” The air was sour with the smell of incontinence and decay. Engulfed by the demands of caregiving, my mother had stopped tending herself; her fingernails were broken and there was a swath of dull gray across her otherwise red hair. As painful as it was to see my father so diminished, it was agonizing to see this change in my mother—a woman who wouldn’t dream of being seen without makeup, not even for the moment it takes to run out to the curb and retrieve the mail. I watched her at the sink, her thickened waistline and slumped shoulders, and forced myself to think of something else.

  Mom had just put the cozy over the teapot when the phone rang. I told her to let the machine pick up, but she insisted on answering, thinking it might be the police, or maybe Dad’s doctor. I heard her say, “Excuse me?” then turned to see a look of confusion on her face. Then she said, “Who is this?” and I just knew this had something to do with me.

  “What was that all about, Mom?”

  “I don’t know. Weird,” she said. She poured the tea into my mug. “It was a man.”

  My heart thudded. “What did he say, Mom? Tell me.”

  My mother looked at me. “He said, ‘Tell your daughter I found what I was looking for.’ ” She took a sip. “Weird, huh?”

  I raced upstairs to the crawlspace, slid open the door, and frantically reached inside. The strongbox. It was gone. The gold was gone. I started crying, screaming, tearing at my hair, my clothes. I felt sick, rootless, panicked, despairing, desperate. Not because the gold was gone, but because the man who had been my lover had forced his way into a dying man’s house and ripped it apart with those big, callused hands. I told my mother about my suspicions and she looked at me with scorn. She folded her arms across her chest and whispered, “What have you gotten yourself into, Valerie?” I felt like a child, chastised and shamed.

  My mother urged me to call the police, but what would I tell them? That my former lover had stolen the gold ingots I’d stolen from my soon-to-be exhusband? I told Mom not to worry, that I’d handle everything. I helped her clean up the mess, then tucked her into bed beside my father, and locked up behind me. I went to the Jeep, locked all the doors, and sat there in my parents’ driveway.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  March 1

  When I woke up this morning, I realized that my marriage w
ould be over in less than twenty-four hours. I should have been exultant, but I felt like I was crawling out of my skin. Hoping to distract myself, I headed to the gym for a sweaty, mindless workout. I grabbed a battered People and found an empty treadmill. Nine minutes and fourteen burnt calories later, Ben Murphy clambered onto the machine next to mine and gave me one of his unselfconsciously openhearted smiles. “You’re looking healthy,” he said. In my family, “healthy” was a euphemism for fat, but I believe that Ben believed that I looked healthy.

  Ben Murphy reminds me of my neighbor Anne’s golden retriever. He always seems so darn happy to see me. He told me that this summer he and his son will take a cross-country trip to visit historical battlefields. Personally, I can’t think of a worse way to spend my vacation, but I didn’t have the heart to tell him that.

  “It’s going to be quite the adventure,” he said, sprinting effortlessly at 5.9 miles an hour (I was only walking 3.5 mph and was already panting). “We’re going south to the Moores Creek National Battlefield in North Carolina, and probably hit the Wright Brothers National Memorial while we’re down there. Then there’s the Cowpens National Battlefield in South Carolina—that’s where the British advanced on the Pickens militia.” His voice rose with excitement. I tried to look interested. I had no idea what he was talking about. The only thing I remember about social studies is Harriet Tubman: Runaway Slave. I bought a book about her from the Scholastic Book Club. I remember its smooth brick red cover, the smell of its fresh pages, the story of brave Harriet. Everything else is a blur. Even now, when I watch C-SPAN, I’m more likely to take note of a senator’s blubbery chin than anything he has to say about tax reform.

  “. . . but I think the Antietam Battlefield in Sharpsville, Maryland, will be the most dramatic.” Ben was still talking. “That historical site marks the end of Robert E. Lee’s first invasion of the North. Over twenty-three thousand troops were killed or wounded in a single day.” Ben shook his head. “Can you believe that? Twenty-three thousand men in one day. Boggles the mind.”