Wife 22: A Novel

by Melanie Gideon

  “A medical condition?”

  Doesn’t she understand I’m trying to give her an out?

  “Yes—plenty of people use marijuana for medical reasons; it’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Minor things, like anxiety or depression.”

  “I am neither anxious nor depressed, Ms. Buckle, and I appreciate your concern—but if you insist on continuing to harass me I’ll have to do something about it.”

  Mrs. Norman hangs up.

  After work I drive to McDonald’s and throw the baggie full of pot into the Dumpster behind the restaurant. Then I drive away like a fugitive, by which I mean obsessively looking into my rearview mirror and driving twenty miles an hour in a forty-mile-an-hour zone, praying there wasn’t a video camera in the McDonald’s parking lot. Why is everybody so rude? Why won’t we help each other? And when was the last time I felt truly cared for by my husband?

  51

  KED3 (Kentwood Elementary Third Grade Drama Parents’ Forum) Digest #129

  KED3ParentsForum@yahoogroups.com

  Messages in this digest (5)

  1. Was it fair of Alice Buckle to give the geese no lines? Weigh in, people! Posted by: Queenbeebeebee

  2. RE: Was it fair of Alice Buckle to give the geese no lines? Look, I know this will likely be an unpopular position, but I’m just going to come right out and say it. It’s not realistic to think that every kid in the play will have a line. It’s just not possible. Not with thirty kids in the class. Some years your kids will get lucky and get a good role. And some years they won’t. It all balances out in the end. Posted by: Farmymommy

  3. RE: Was it fair of Alice Buckle to give the geese no lines? No! It’s not fair. And it doesn’t all balance out. Alice Buckle is a hypocrite! Do you think she ever cast her children as geese? I think not and I can prove it. I have all the school play programs dating back ten years. Her daughter Zoe was Mrs. Squash, Narrator #1, Lion Tamer with Arm in Cast and Lazy Bee. Her son Peter was Fractious Elf, Slightly Overweight Troll, Bovine Buffoon (everybody wanted that role) and Walnut. Alice Buckle has just gotten lazy. How hard can it be to make sure each child has at least one line? Perhaps Mrs. Buckle has been teaching drama for too long. Perhaps she should think of retiring. Posted by: Helicopmama

  4. RE: Was it fair of Alice Buckle to give the geese no lines? I have to agree with Helicopmama. Something is very off with Mrs. Buckle. Shouldn’t she be keeping track of each class? The plays they’ve done and the roles each kid has performed over the years? That way she could make sure everything was equitable. If your child had a one-line role last year, well, then this year they should have a lead. And if they have no lines—well, don’t even get me started. That is simply unacceptable. My daughter is heartbroken. Heartbroken. Posted by: Storminnormandy

  5. RE: Was it fair of Alice Buckle to give the geese no lines? May I make an observation? I’m pretty sure that how many lines your child has in his or her third-grade play will have no bearing on his future. Absolutely none. And if, in fact, I’m wrong, and it does, I would ask you this: consider the possibility that a small role might be a good thing. Perhaps those children who had only one-line roles (or perhaps, no lines at all) will end up with higher self-esteem. Why? Because they will have learned from an early age to deal with disappointment and to make the best of a situation and to not quit or throw a tantrum when something doesn’t go their way. There are plenty of things going on in this world right now that are worthy of being heartbroken over. The third-grade play is not one of them. Posted by: Davidmametlurve182

  52

  54. “Hi, Mama,” she shouted cheerfully, when we pulled up to the curb. It was nearly midnight, and William and I were picking her up from the last dance of the school year.

  She stuck her head in my window and giggled. “Can we give Jew a ride home?”

  “Who?” I said.

  “Jew!”

  “Jude,” interpreted William. “Goddammit, she’s wasted.”

  William quickly rolled the car windows up, just seconds before she threw up on the passenger-seat door.

  “Got your phone?” asked William.

  We knew this moment would come, we had discussed our plan, and now we sprung into action. I bolted out of the car, my iPhone in hand, and started taking photos. I got some classic shots. Zoe, leaning against the car door, her fleur-de-lys crinoline splattered in vomit. Zoe, climbing into the backseat, shoeless, her sweaty hair stuck to the back of her neck. Zoe on the drive home, her head lolling on the seat; her mouth wide open. And the saddest one: her father carrying her into the house.

  We had gotten this advice from friends. When she got wasted—and she would get wasted, it wasn’t a matter of if, but when—we should document the whole thing because she’d be too drunk to remember any of the details.

  It may sound hard core but it worked. The next morning when we showed her the photos she was so horrified that, to the best of my knowledge, she hasn’t ever gotten drunk again.

  55. I had William all wrong. He wasn’t some blue-blood, entitled, silver-spoon, Ivy League elitist. Everything he had he’d worked his ass off for, including a full scholarship to Yale.

  “Beer?” his father, Hal, said to me, holding the refrigerator door open.

  “Would you like Bud Light, Bud Light, or Bud Light?” asked William.

  “I’ll take a Bud Light,” I said.

  “I like her,” said Hal. “The last one drank water. No ice.” Hal gave me a huge grin. “Helen. She didn’t stand a chance once you came into the picture, right, slim? You don’t mind if I call you slim?”

  “Only if you called Helen that, too.”

  “Helen was not slim. Zaftig, maybe.”

  I was in love with Hal already.

  “I see where William gets his charm.”

  “William is lots of things,” said Hal. “Driven, ambitious, smart, arrogant, but charming he is not.”

  “I’m working on that,” I said.

  “What are you making for dinner?” asked Hal.

  “Beef stroganoff,” said William, unpacking the bag of groceries we’d brought.

  “My favorite,” said Hal. “I’m sorry Fiona couldn’t make it.”

  “Don’t apologize for Mom. It’s not your fault,” said William.

  “She wanted to come,” said Hal.

  “Right,” said William.

  William’s parents divorced when he was ten and his mother, Fiona, very quickly remarried a man with two other children. Hal and Fiona had a split custody agreement at first, but by the time William was twelve he was living with his dad full-time. William and Fiona weren’t close and he saw her infrequently, on holidays and special occasions. Another surprise. Both of us un-mothered.

  56. I saved you an egg.

  57. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of that.

  53

  John Yossarian changed his profile picture

  So cute, Researcher 101! What’s her name?

  I’m sorry but I can’t divulge that information.

  Okay. Can you divulge what you like most about her?

  Him. The way he touches his cold nose to my hand at six every morning. Just once. Then sits at attention by the side of the bed waiting patiently for me to wake.

  So sweet—what else?

  Well, right now he’s pushing his snout under my arm as I attempt to chat with yousdfsfd. Sorry. He gets jealous when I’m on the computer.

  You’re very lucky. He sounds like a dream dog.

  Oh, he is.

  I do not have a dream dog. In fact, our dog is so ill behaved my husband wants to give him away.

  It can’t be that bad.

  He peed on my husband’s pillow. I’m afraid to have guests come over.

  You should do some training.

  Training is not the issue.

  Of your husband.

  Ha!

  I’m not kidding. Loving an animal doesn’t come naturally to everybody. Some people have to be taught.

  I don’t agree. You shoul
dn’t have to teach love.

  Spoken by somebody to whom love comes easily.

  What makes you say that, Researcher 101?

  I can read between the lines.

  The lines of my answers?

  Yes.

  Well, I’m not sure love comes easily, but I will say it is my default setting.

  I’ve got to go. I’ll be emailing the next survey in a few days.

  Wait—before you leave I wanted to ask you. Is everything okay? This is the first time you’ve been on Facebook in days.

  Nothing’s wrong, just busy.

  I was worried you might be angry.

  This is what I hate about communicating online. There’s no way to judge tone.

  So you’re not angry.

  Why would I be angry?

  I thought I might have offended you in some way.

  By doing what?

  Not answering your revised #48.

  You’re allowed to take a pass on any question.

  So I haven’t offended you?

  You’ve done nothing to offend me—quite the opposite, actually—that’s the problem.

  54

  Shonda Perkins

  PX90 30 days in!!

  12 minutes ago

  William Buckle

  Dog. Yours for free. Must like being bitten.

  One day ago

  William Buckle

  Recent Activity

  William Buckle and Helen Davies are now friends

  Two days ago

  “Mail,” announces Peter, dropping an AARP magazine on my desk. He peers over my shoulder. “What’s with all the Dad postings? And who’s Helen Davies?”

  “Somebody we used to work with.”

  “Did she friend you, too?”

  No, Helen Davies, Helen of Troy, did not friend me, too. She only friended my husband. Or he friended her. Does it matter who friended whom? Yes, it probably does.

  I glare at the silver-haired couple on the cover of the AARP magazine. Damn it! I do not want to take advantage of a special offer for cataract drops, nor do I care to consider my line of sight above the steering wheel because I am NOT fifty and I won’t be fifty for another six years. Why do they keep sending me copies of their magazine? I thought I had taken care of this. Just last month I called AARP to explain that the Alice Buckle who recently turned fifty lived in Charleston, South Carolina, in a lovely old house with a huge wraparound porch. “And how did I know this?” they asked. “Because I Google Earthed her,” I told them. “Google Earth Alice Buckle in Oakland, California, and you will find a woman standing in her driveway hurling an AARP magazine back at her mailman.”

  Old girlfriends resurfacing. Getting retirement magazines before your time. This is not a good way to start off my Saturday. I Google Monkey Yoga. There’s a class in twenty minutes. If I hurry I can make it.

  “And—shavasana, everybody.”

  Finally, corpse pose! My favorite part of yoga. I roll over onto my back. Usually by the end of the class I’m nearly asleep. Not today. Even my fingertips are pulsing with energy. I should be running with Caroline—not doing sun salutations.

  “Eyes shut,” says the teacher, walking around the room.

  I stare up at the ceiling.

  “Empty your mind.”

  What the hell is happening to me?

  “For those of you that want a mantra, try Ong So Hung.”

  How can she say that with a straight face?

  “This means ‘Creator, I am Thou.’ ”

  I don’t need a mantra. I have a mantra that I’ve been repeating obsessively for the past twenty-four hours. You’ve done nothing to offend me—quite the opposite, actually—that’s the problem.

  “Alice, try to stop fidgeting,” the teacher whispers, stopping at my mat. I close my eyes. She squats and puts the palm of her hand on my solar plexus.

  That’s the problem? Let’s tease that sentence apart for the fiftieth time. The problem is I don’t offend him. The problem is he wishes I would offend him. The problem is he wishes I would offend him because I’m doing the opposite. What’s the opposite of offend? To please. To give pleasure. The problem is I’m giving him pleasure. Too much pleasure. Oh, God.

  “Breathe, Alice, breathe.”

  My eyes snap open.

  I’m in the dressing room, changing out of my yoga gear, when a naked woman walks by on her way to the shower. Nudity is not something I’m comfortable with. Of course I might feel differently if I had a fabulous body like this woman, perfectly groomed, manicured, pedicured, her pubic hair completely waxed off.

  I stare for a moment—I can’t help it; I’ve never seen an actual live woman with a Brazilian. Is this what men like? Is this what gives them pleasure?

  After my yoga class, Nedra and I meet for lunch. Just as she’s biting into her burrito I ask, “Do you wax down there?”

  Nedra puts down her burrito and sighs.

  “Of course it’s fine if you don’t. There might be different pubic-hair rules for lesbians.”

  “I wax, darling,” says Nedra.

  “How much?”

  “All of it.”

  “You’ve been getting Brazilians?” I cry. “And you didn’t tell me I should be getting them, too?”

  “Technically, it’s called a Hollywood if you take everything off. You want the number of the place I go? Ask for Hilary. She’s the best and she’s quick; it barely hurts. Now can we talk about something else? Perhaps a topic more suitable for daylight?”

  “Okay. What’s an antonym for ‘offend’?”

  Nedra stares at me suspiciously. “Have you lost weight?”

  “Why, do I look like I have?”

  “Your face is skinnier. Are you working out?”

  “I’m working too much to work out. School ends in two weeks. I’m juggling six plays.”

  “Well, you look good,” says Nedra. “And you’re not wearing fleece for once. I can actually see your body. I like the tank-and-cardi look. It suits you. You have a very sexy neck, Alice.”

  “A sexy neck?” I think of Researcher 101. I think I should show Nedra Lucy Pevensie’s Facebook page.

  Nedra picks up her cellphone. “I’m going to call Hilary and make you an appointment because I know you’ll never do it.” She punches in the number, has a quick conversation, utters a thank you darling, and snaps her cell shut. “She had a cancellation. She can take you in an hour. My treat.”

  “Nedra said you’re quick. And painless.”

  “I do my best. Have you considered vajazzling? Or vatooing?” asks Hilary.

  Does this woman really expect me to have a conversation about vajazzes when she’s about to apply hot wax to my vatoo?

  Hilary stirs the pot of wax with a tongue depressor. “Let’s take a look, shall we?” She lifts the paper thong and tsks. “Someone hasn’t been keeping up with their waxing.”

  “It’s been a while,” I say.

  “How long?”

  “Forty-four years.”

  Hilary’s eyes widen. “Wow—a waxing virgin. We don’t get too many of those. Never even had the bikini line waxed?”

  “Well, I keep things tidy. I shave.”

  “Doesn’t count. Why don’t we start with a Brazilian with a two-inch strip? More of an American, really. We’ll ease you into it.”

  “No—I want a Hollywood. That’s what everybody does these days, right?”

  “A lot of younger people do. But most women your age tend to just neaten things up.”

  “I want it all off,” I say.

  “All right,” says Hilary.

  She folds one side of the paper thong back and I close my eyes. The hot wax drips onto my skin. I tense up, expecting it to burn, but surprisingly it feels good. This isn’t so bad. Hilary lays down a cloth strip and smooths it.

  “I’m going to count to three,” she says.

  I grab her wrist, suddenly panicked. “I’m not ready.”

  She looks at me calmly.

  “No, plea
se. Okay, wait, wait, just give me a sec—I’m almost ready.”

  “One,” she says and rips off the strip.

  I shriek. “What happened to ‘two’?”

  “It’s better to be surprised,” she says, surveying the area, frowning. “You don’t use retinol products, do you?”