Kelly smiles. “I love that book! Your job sounds so idyllic.”
“It does?”
“Oh, yeah. I would love to get out of the rat race. Every night there’s something going on. I know it seems glamorous—the client dinners, box seats for the Giants, passes to concerts—but it’s exhausting after a while. Well, you know how it is. You’re an advertising widow from way back.”
Advertising widow? I didn’t know there was name for it. For me. But Kelly’s right. Between William’s traveling and entertaining clients, I’m basically a single mother. We’re lucky if we manage to have a family dinner a few times a week.
I look across the room and catch William’s eye. He heads toward us. He’s a tall, well-built man, his dark hair graying at just the temples, in that defiant way some men gray (as if to say to hell with the fact that I’m forty-seven—I’m still sexy as hell and the gray makes me look even sexier). I feel a rush of pride as he crosses the room in his charcoal suit and gingham shirt.
“Where did you get your boots?” I ask Kelly.
William joins us.
“Bloomie’s. So, William, your wife isn’t familiar with the term advertising widow. How is that possible when you’ve made her into one?” asks Kelly, winking at me.
William frowns. “I’ve been looking all over for you. Where have you been, Alice?”
“She’s been right here, suffering Frank Potter, in fact,” says Kelly.
“You were talking to Frank Potter?” William asks, alarmed. “Did he approach you or did you approach him?”
“He approached me,” I say.
“Did he mention me? The campaign?”
“We didn’t talk about you,” I say. “We didn’t speak for long, actually.”
I watch William clenching his jaw. Why is he so stressed? The clients are smiling and drunk. There’s a lot of press. The launch is a success as far as I can see.
“Can we get out of here, Alice?” asks William.
“Now? But the band hasn’t even started. I was really looking forward to hearing some live music.”
“Alice, I’m tired. Let’s go, please.”
“William!” a trio of attractive young men circles around us—also members of William’s team.
After William has introduced me to Joaquin, Harry, and Urminder, Urminder says, “So, I was ego surfing today.”
“And the day before,” says Joaquin.
“And the day before,” says Kelly.
“Will you allow me to finish?” asks Urminder.
“Let me guess,” says Harry. “1,234,589 hits.”
“Dumb-ass,” says Urminder.
“Way to steal his thunder, Har,” says Kelly.
“Now 5,881 sounds pathetic,” pouts Urminder.
“10,263 definitively does not sound pathetic,” says Harry.
“Or 20,534,” says Kelly.
“You’re all lying,” says Joaquin.
“Don’t be jealous, Mr. 1,031,” says Kelly. “It’s unbecoming.”
“50,287,” says William, silencing everybody.
“Dude,” says Urminder.
“That’s because you won that Clio,” says Harry. “How long ago was that, boss? Nineteen eighty—?”
“Keep it up, Harry, and I’ll take you off semiconductors and put you on feminine hygiene,” says William.
I can’t hide the startled look on my face. They’re having a competition over how many hits their names bring up. And the hits are all in the thousands?
“Now look what you’ve done. Alice is appalled,” says Kelly. “And I don’t blame her. We’re a bunch of petty narcissists.”
“No, no, no. I wasn’t judging. I think it’s fun. Ego surfing. Everybody does it, don’t they? They’re just not brave enough to admit it.”
“What about you, Alice? Googled yourself lately?” asks Urminder.
William shakes his head. “There’s no need for Alice to Google herself. She doesn’t have a public life.”
“Really? And what kind of a life do I have?” I ask.
“A good life. A meaningful life. Just a smaller life.” William pinches the skin between his eyes. “Sorry, kids, it’s been fun, but we’ve got to go. We have a bridge to cross.”
“Do you have to?” asks Kelly. “I hardly ever see Alice.”
“He’s right,” I say. “I promised the kids we’d be home by ten. School night and all.”
Kelly and the three young men head for the bar.
“A small life?” I say.
“I didn’t mean anything by it. Don’t be so sensitive,” says William, scanning the room. “Besides, I’m right. When’s the last time you Googled yourself?”
“Last week. 128 hits,” I lie.
“Really?”
“Why do you sound so surprised?”
“Alice, please, I don’t have time for this. Help me find Frank. I need to check in with him.”
I sigh. “He’s over there, by the windows. Come on.”
William puts his hand on my shoulder. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
There’s no traffic on the bridge and I wish there was. Heading home is usually something I relish: the anticipation of getting into my pajamas, curling up on the couch with the clicker, the kids asleep upstairs (or pretending to be asleep but likely texting and IM’ing away in their beds)—but tonight I’d like to stay in the car and just drive somewhere, anywhere. The evening has been dislocating, and I’m unable to shake the feeling that William is embarrassed by me.
“Why are you so quiet? Did you have too much to drink?” he asks.
“Tired,” I mumble.
“Frank Potter is a piece of work.”
“I like him.”
“You like Frank Potter? He’s such a player.”
“Yes, but he’s honest. He doesn’t try and hide the fact. And he’s always been kind to me.”
William taps his fingers on the steering wheel in time to the radio. I close my eyes.
“Alice?”
“What?”
“You seem funny lately.”
“Funny how?”
“I don’t know. Are you going through some sort of a midlife thing?”
“I don’t know. Are you going through some sort of a midlife thing?”
William shakes his head and turns up the music. I lean against the window and gaze out at the millions of lights twinkling in the East Bay hills. Oakland looks so festive, almost holidayish—it makes me think of my mother.
My mother died two days before Christmas. I was fifteen. She went out to get a gallon of eggnog and was struck by a man who ran a red light. I like to think she never knew what was happening. There was a screech of metal hitting metal, and then a gentle whooshing, like the sound of a river, and then, a peachy light flooding into the car. That’s the end I’ve imagined for her.
I’ve recited her death story so many times the details are stripped of their meaning. Sometimes when people ask about my mother I’m filled with a strange, not entirely unpleasant nostalgia. I can vividly summon up the streets of Brockton, Massachusetts, that on that December day must have been garlanded with tinsel and lights. There would have been lines of people at the liquor store, their carts packed with cases of beer and jugs of wine, and the air would have smelled of pine needles from the Christmas tree lot. But that nostalgia for what came immediately before is soon vanquished by the opaque after. Then my head fills with the cheesy opening soundtrack to Magnum, P.I. That’s what my father was watching when the phone rang and a woman on the other end gently informed us there had been an accident.
Why am I thinking about this tonight? Is it, as William asks, a midlife thing? The clock is certainly ticking. This September when I turn forty-five, I will be exactly the same age my mother was when she died. This is my tipping-point year.
Up until now I’ve been able to comfort myself with the fact that even though my mother is dead, she was always out in front of me. I had yet to cross all the thresholds she had crossed and so she wa
s still somehow alive. But what happens when I move past her? When no more of her thresholds exist?
I glance over at William. Would my mother approve of him? Would she approve of my children, my career—my marriage?
“Do you want to stop at 7-Eleven?” asks William.
Ducking into 7-Eleven for a Kit Kat bar after a night out on the town is a tradition for us.
“No. I’m full.”
“Thanks for coming to the launch.”
Is that his way of apologizing for how dismissive he was tonight?
“Uh-huh.”
“Did you have fun?”
“Sure.”
William pauses. “You’re a very bad liar, Alice Buckle.”
3
April 30
1:15 A.M.
GOOGLE SEARCH “Alice Buckle”
About 26 results (.01 seconds)
Alice in Wonderland Belt Buckles
Including the Mad Tea Party buckle, Tweedle Dee, Tweedle Dum buckle, the White Rabbit buckle, Humpty Dumpty buckle …
Alice BUCKLE
Boston Globe archive … Ms. Buckle’s play, The Barmaid of Great Cranberry Island, Blue Hill Playhouse “wan, boring, absurd” …
Alice BUCKLE
Alice and William Buckle, parents of Zoe and Peter, enjoying the sunset aboard the …
GOOGLE SEARCH “Midwife crisis”
About 2,333,000 results (.18 seconds)
Urban Dictionary: Midwife crisis
The act of dropping a newborn on its head shortly after birth.
GOOGLE SEARCH “MidLIFE crisis”
About 3,490,000 results (.15 seconds)
Midlife Crisis—Wikipedia the Free Encyclopedia
Midlife crisis is a term coined in 1965 …
Midlife Crisis: Depression or Normal Transition?
Midlife transitions can mark a period of tremendous growth. But what do you do when midlife becomes a crisis that develops into depression?
GOOGLE SEARCH “Zoloft”
About 31,600,000 (.12 seconds)
Zoloft (Sertraline HCl) Drug Information: Uses, Side Effects
Learn about the prescription medication Zoloft (Sertraline HCl), drug uses, dosage, side effects, drug interactions, warnings, and patient labeling …
Sertraline … Zoloft
Let me tell you about my experience with Zoloft. I was released from the psych ward yesterday afternoon …
GOOGLE SEARCH “Keys in refrigerator Alzheimer’s”
About 1,410,000 results (.25 seconds)
Alzheimer’s Symptoms
The Alzheimer’s Association has updated its list of the … putting the keys in the egg tray in the door of the refrigerator.
GOOGLE SEARCH “Lose weight fast”
About 30,600,000 results (.19 seconds)
FAT LOSS for Imbeciles
I have lost twenty-five pounds! The fact that I feel like fainting most of the time is a small price …
GOOGLE SEARCH “Happy Marriage?”
About 4,120,000 results (.15 seconds)
Hunting for the Secrets of a Happy Marriage—CNN
No one can truly know what goes on inside a marriage except the two people involved, but researchers are getting increasingly good glimpses …
Thin Wife Key to Happy Marriage! Times of India
Researchers have revealed the secret of a happy marriage—wives weighing less than their hubbies.
INGREDIENTS FOR A HAPPY MARRIAGE
1 cup kindness, 2 cups gratitude, 1 tablespoon daily praise, 1 secret carefully concealed.
4
SPAM Folder (3)
From: Medline
Subject: Cheap, cheap Vicodin, Percocet, Ritalin, Zoloft discreet
Date: May 1, 9:18 AM
To: Alice Buckle
DELETE
From: Hoodia shop
Subject: New tapeworm diet pills, tiny Asian women
Date: May 1, 9:24 AM
To: Alice Buckle
DELETE
From: Netherfield Center for the Study of Marriage
Subject: You’ve been selected to participate in a marriage survey
Date: May 1, 9:29 AM
To: Alice Buckle
MOVE TO INBOX
5
It occurs to me that I am the Frank Potter of my own small world. Not the social-climbing Frank Potter, but the in-charge Frank Potter—I am the chief drama officer of Kentwood Elementary. The anxious Alice Buckle that showed up at William’s vodka launch is not the Alice Buckle who is currently sitting on a bench out on the playground while a fourth-grader stands behind her and attempts in vain to style her hair.
“Sorry, Mrs. Buckle, but I can’t do anything with this,” says Harriet. “Maybe if you combed it once in a while.”
“If you combed my hair it would be nothing but frizz. It’d be a rat’s nest.”
Harriet gathers up my thick brown hair and then releases it. “I’m sorry to tell you, but it looks like a rat’s nest now. Actually, it looks more like a dandelion.”
Harriet Morse’s bluntness is a typical fourth-grade girl trait. I pray she won’t outgrow it by the time she gets to middle school. Most girls do. Myself, I like nothing better than a girl who says what she thinks.
“Maybe you should straighten it,” she suggests. “My mother does. She can even go out in the rain without it curling up.”
“And that’s why she looks so glamorous,” I say, as I see Mrs. Morse trotting toward us.
“Alice, I’m sorry I’m late,” she says, bending down to give me a hug. Harriet is the fourth of Mrs. Morse’s children to have cycled through my drama classes. Her oldest is now at the Oakland School for Performing Arts. I like to think I might have had something to do with that.
“It’s only 3:20. You’re fine,” I say. There are still at least two dozen kids scattered on the playground awaiting their rides.
“The traffic was horrible,” says Mrs. Morse. “Harriet, what in the world are you doing to Mrs. Buckle’s hair?”
“She’s a very good hairdresser, actually. I’m afraid it’s my hair that’s the problem.”
“Sorry,” Mrs. Morse mouths silently to me, as she digs in her handbag for a hair tie. She holds it out to Harriet. “Honey, don’t you think Mrs. Buckle would look great with a ponytail?”
Harriet comes around from the back of the bench and surveys me solemnly. She lifts my hair back from my temples. “You should wear earrings,” she pronounces. “Especially if you put your hair up.” She takes the hair tie from her mother and then reassumes her position behind the bench.
“So what can I do to help out this semester?” asks Mrs. Morse. “Do you want me to organize the party? I could help the kids run lines.”
Kentwood Elementary is filled with parents like Mrs. Morse: parents who volunteer before they’re even asked and who believe fervently in the importance of a drama program. In fact it’s the Parents’ Association at Kentwood that pays my part-time salary. The Oakland public school system has been on the verge of bankruptcy for years. Art and music programs were the first to go. Without the PA, I wouldn’t have a job.
There’s always some grade that has a cluster of high-maintenance parents who complain and are unhappy—this year it’s the third—but most of the time I consider the parents co-teachers. I couldn’t do my job without them.
“That looks lovely,” says Mrs. Morse, after a few minutes of Harriet pulling and tugging on my head. “I like the way you’ve given Mrs. Buckle a little pouf at the crown.”
Harriet chews her lip. The pouf was not intentional.
“I feel very Breakfast at Tiffany’s,” I say, as Carisa Norman comes flying across the playground and hurls herself on my lap.
“I’ve been looking all over for you,” she says, stroking my hand.
“What a coincidence. I’ve been looking all over for you,” I say, as she snuggles into my arms.
“Cal
l me,” says Mrs. Morse, holding a pretend phone up to her ear as she and Harriet leave.
I take Carisa inside to the teacher’s lounge and buy her a granola bar from the vending machine, then we go sit on the bench again and talk about important things like Barbies and the fact that she’s embarrassed that she still has training wheels on her bike.
At 4:00 when her mother pulls up to the curb and beeps, I watch with a clenched heart as Carisa runs across the playground. She seems so vulnerable. She’s eight years old and small for her age; from the back she could pass for six. Mrs. Norman waves from the car. I wave back. This is our ritual at least a few days every week. Each of us pretending there’s nothing out of the ordinary about her being forty-five minutes late to pick up her daughter.
6
I love the hours between 4:30 and 6:30. The days are getting longer, and this time of year I usually have the house to myself; Zoe has volleyball practice, Peter, either band or soccer, and William rarely pulls into the driveway before 7:00. As soon as I get home, I do a quick run through the house, de-cluttering, folding clothes, going through the mail—then I get dinner ready. It’s Thursday, so it’s one-dish-meal night: things like lasagna and shepherd’s pie. I’m not a fancy cook. That’s William’s department. He does the special-occasion dinners, the ones that get lots of oohs and ahs. I’m more of a line chef; my meals aren’t flashy and are not very memorable. For instance, nobody has ever said to me, “Oh, Alice, remember that night you made baked ziti?” But I am dependable. I have about eight meals in my repertoire that are quick and easy that I have in constant rotation. Tonight, it’s tuna casserole. I slide the pan into the oven and sit down at the kitchen table with my laptop to check my email.
Wife 22: A Novel Page 2
