Wife 22: A Novel

by Melanie Gideon

  On my vatoo, no.

  “The first time is the worst. Each time it will be easier.” She hands me a mirror.

  “I don’t need to see,” I say, tears springing to my eyes. “Just finish it.”

  “Are you sure?” she asks. “Do you want to take a break?”

  “No,” I practically shout.

  She raises her eyebrows at me.

  “I’m sorry. What I meant to say is please keep going before I lose my nerve, and I’ll do my very best not to cry.”

  “It’s all right if you do. You wouldn’t be the first,” she says.

  I waltz out of Hilary’s shop with a half-off coupon for my next wax and an aftercare admonition (DO NOT take any Dead Sea salt baths for at least twenty-four hours—no problem there, Hilary) and a sexy little secret that nobody knows but me. I smile at other women I pass on the street, feeling like I’ve joined the tribe of impeccably groomed women, women who are taking care of business down there. I feel so lighthearted (and relieved I don’t have to endure that pain for another month) that I stop at Green Light Books to look at magazines, something I rarely do because I’m always in such a hurry.

  Michelle Williams is on the cover of Vogue. Apparently, according to Vogue, MiWi is the new it-girl. There’s a two-page spread of MiWi’s Night on the Town in Austin. Here’s the lovely MiWi taking a dip at Barton Springs. Here she is sitting at the bar at Fado, drinking a Green Flash Le Freak. And here she is an hour later trying on the skinniest, hottest jeans at Luxe Apothetique. Wasn’t Michelle the it-girl two years ago, too? Do they recycle it-girls? That doesn’t seem fair. Shouldn’t they give other it-girls like me a chance?

  IT-GIRL ALICE BUCKLE’S NIGHT OUT FROM ANSWERING THE PHONE TO PARKING, TO SINGING HORRIBLY OFF KEY IN THE CAR. FOUR HOURS WITH ALBU ON A FRIDAY NIGHT

  6:01 P.M.: Answering her cellphone (something she will later regret)

  “Yes, of course I want to go to a movie about a beautiful French woman who owns a banana plantation in the Congo who is eventually macheted to death by the men she used to employ,” says Alice Buckle, a forty-four-year-old mother and wife who unfortunately still doesn’t have a bikini body even though she’s lost eight pounds recently (the truth is, 130 pounds at forty-four looks very different from 130 pounds at twenty-four). “I’m looking forward to having a man with extremely long legs knee my chair for the entire show,” says Alice.

  6:45 P.M.: AlBu spotted hyperventilating

  It-girl Alice Buckle circles around and around the mall parking lot looking for a spot, muttering “get the hell out of my way, cow,” to all the people who are also circling around the mall parking lot looking for a spot. “What the hell, I’ll just park illegally,” cries Alice. “It could be worse,” she laughs gaily, as she runs to the theater. “This could be opening night for Toy Story 8.”

  6:55 P.M: AlBu in enormous line at ticket counter

  “It’s opening night for Toy Story 8,” reports Alice Buckle.

  7:20 P.M.: It-Girl Alice Buckle crawling over a bunch of old people in her not-ready-for-bikini body to get to the seat her best friend, Nedra, saved for her

  “You just missed the best part—where the son was conscripted into the Hutu army,” says Nedra.

  7:25 P.M.: AlBu fast asleep

  9:32 P.M.: AlBu spotted pulling into neighbor’s driveway mistaking it for her own

  AlBu’s night vision is impaired. Her mood darkens, worrying about early-onset macular degeneration. Mood improves after listening to “Dance with Me” by Orleans in the car. “This reminds me so much of high school,” she cries, then she really begins to cry. “It’s so unfair. How come French women look so good without makeup? Maybe if every woman in America stopped wearing makeup we’d all look good, too. After a few months, that is.”

  10:51 P.M.: AlBu goes to bed without washing off her makeup

  “It was a magical night, but I won’t lie. Being an it-girl is exhausting,” admits Alice as she crawls into bed. “Roll over, darling, you’re snoring,” she says, tapping her husband on the shoulder, who promptly licks her on the face. “Jampo!” Alice cries, gathering up her tiny dog in her arms. “I thought you were William!” It’s hard to be angry at the dog for kicking her husband out of bed when he’s so cute and spirited to boot. The two snuggle up together and in a few hours, Alice wakes to find the nice present Jampo has left on her husband’s pillow.

  “Excuse me, but are you planning on buying that magazine?” interrupts a young saleswoman.

  “Oh—sorry.” I close the Vogue, smoothing out the cover. “Why, do you want to look at it?”

  She points to a handwritten sign. “You’re not allowed to read the magazines. We try and keep them pristine for people who are actually buying them.”

  “Really? Then how are you supposed to know if you want to buy them?”

  “Look on the cover. The cover tells you everything that’s inside.” She gives me a dirty look.

  I put the magazine back on the rack. “This is exactly why magazines are dying,” I say.

  That night, while the kids are cleaning up after dinner, I announce to William that something about cookies is wrong with my computer and will he please come help me. This is a lie. I’m perfectly capable of getting rid of my own cookies.

  “Peter can help you,” he says.

  “It’s easy, Mom. All you do is go to preferences and—”

  “I’ve already tried that,” I interrupt. “It’s more complicated. William, I need you to take a look.”

  I follow him into my office and shut the door.

  “It’s no big deal,” he says, walking to my desk. “You click on the apple, then go—”

  I unbutton my jeans and slip them off.

  “To preferences,” he finishes.

  “William,” I say, stepping out of my panties.

  He turns around and stares at me and says nothing.

  “Ta-da.”

  He has a strange look on his face. I can’t tell if he’s appalled or turned on.

  “I did this for you,” I say.

  “You did not,” he says.

  “Who else would I do it for?”

  What was I thinking? This is completely backfiring. Isn’t sudden bikini-line grooming one of the sure signs that your spouse is cheating on you? I’m not cheating, but I am flirting with a man who is not my husband who has just admitted I bring him pleasure, which has brought me pleasure, which has resulted in a sudden surge in my libido, which has led to the first bikini wax of my life. Does that count? Is it possible he knows?

  William makes a strange sound in the back of his throat. “You did it for you. Admit it.”

  I begin to shake. The tiniest little bit.

  “Come here, Alice.”

  I hesitate.

  “Now,” he whispers.

  We proceed to have the hottest sex we’ve had in months.

  55

  58. Planet of the Apes.

  59. Not much. Well, hardly ever. I don’t really see the point. We have to live with each other, so what’s the use and honestly, who’s got the energy? We used to, in the early years. Our biggest argument happened before we were even married, and it was over me wanting to invite Helen to the wedding. I told him it would be a nice conciliatory gesture—she probably wouldn’t come, but inviting her was the right thing to do, especially since we were inviting almost all of our colleagues from Peavey Patterson. When he told me he had no intention of inviting a woman who called me a whore (and who seemed to hate him vehemently) to his wedding, I reminded him that technically I was the other woman when she called me that name, and could we blame her for hating us? Wasn’t it time to forgive and forget? After I said that, he told me I could afford to be generous because I’d won. Well, that so infuriated me that I took off my engagement ring and threw it out the window.

  Now, this wasn’t a ring from Zales, this was my mother’s engagement ring that had been in her family for years, brought over by her mother from Ireland. It wasn’t worth much—it
was one small diamond flanked by two tiny emeralds. What was priceless about the ring was its history and the fact that my father had given it to William to give to me. There was an engraving inside the band. Something terribly sweet, probably bordering on saccharine, that I can’t recall. All I can remember is the word “heart.”

  The problem was we were in the car when I threw the ring out of the window. We had just left my father’s house and were driving past the park in Brockton when William made the comment about me having won. I just wanted to scare him. I hurled the ring out the window into the park and we proceeded to speed by, both of us in shock. We drove back and tried to pinpoint the spot where I had thrown it, but even though we searched through the grass methodically we couldn’t find it. I was devastated. Each of us secretly blamed the other. He blamed me, of course, for throwing the ring. I blamed him for being so coldhearted. The loss of the ring deeply unsettled both of us. Losing, or in my case, throwing away, something so priceless before we had even started our lives together—was this a bad omen?

  I couldn’t bear to tell my father the truth, so we lied and told him our apartment was robbed and the ring stolen. We even planned what to say if he asked why I hadn’t been wearing it at the time. I took it off because I was giving myself a facial and didn’t want to get the green gunk caught in the delicate filigree setting, which I would then have to root out with a toothpick or a dental probe. I have since learned that when lying, it’s best not to offer up any details. It’s the details that do you in.

  60. “Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta.”

  61. Long, tapered fingers. Big palms. Cuticles that never needed to be pushed back. Chet Baker on the tape player. He was cutting peppers for the salad. I looked at those hands and thought, I am going to have this man’s children.

  62. What would you do if you ever stopped communicating? I wrote “That would NEVER EVER happen. William and I talk about everything. That won’t be our problem.” And no, it does not hold true today.

  63. In the backyard of my cousin Henry’s apartment in the North End, which overlooked Boston Harbor. It was in the evening. The air smelled of the sea and garlic. Our wedding bands were simple and plain, which felt right after the engagement ring debacle. If my father was upset about the ring, he didn’t say anything. In fact, he said very little that night, he was so overcome with emotion. Every five minutes or so before the ceremony started he would clasp my shoulders vigorously and nod. When it was time to give me away, he walked me to the arbor, lifted my veil, and kissed me on the cheek. “Off you go, honey,” he said, and that’s when I began to cry. I proceeded to cry through the entire ceremony, which understandably threw William off. “It’s all right,” he kept mouthing to me while the priest did his part. “I know,” I kept mouthing back to him. I wasn’t crying because I was getting married, I was crying because my history with my father had come down to those four, perfectly chosen words. He could only say something that appeared to be so mundane precisely because our life together had been the opposite.

  56

  Did u read article advising everybody eat more cheese, Alice?

  Why you ignore my texts, Alice?

  HonE?

  Sorry Dad. End of the school year. 2 busy 2 text. 2 busy to read. 2 busy to eat.

  I worry u not eating enuf cheese. Women yr age need protein and calcium. Hope you not turn vegan out there Cali.

  Trust me. U needn’t worry about my cheese intake.

  News. Think might B falling in love.

  What??? With who??

  Conchita.

  Conchita Martinez, our neighbor Conchita whose son Jeff I dated and then dumped my senior year?

  Yes! That the one. She remember you fondly. Jeff, no so much. He harbor long grudge.

  Why you sound like Indian in The Great Sioux Uprising? Are u spending a lot of time together?

  Ever night. Hr house or mine. Mostly mine due to fact Jeff still live at home. Loser.

  Oh, Dad—so happy for u.

  Happy u, too. U hippily married all these years. Very proud. All turned out okay, for us, but do me favor—eat wheel of Brie today. Afraid u will collapse. U delicate flower u.

  57

  John Yossarian

  Speaking plainly is underrated.

  23 minutes ago

  Okay, I’m worried that I’m becoming a problem for you, Researcher 101.

  How so, Wife 22?

  I’m not offending you enough.

  I can’t disagree with that.

  Fine. I’ll do my best to offend you more in the future because according to antonym.com pleasure is the opposite of offense, and I wouldn’t inadvertently want to give you pleasure.

  One cannot be held responsible for the way one is received.

  To give you pleasure was never my intention.

  Is this your idea of speaking plainly, Wife 22?

  You know it’s strange. The way our conversations go on and on. It’s like a river. We just keep jumping in and diving under the water. When we surface we may find we’ve drifted miles from where we were last time we spoke but it doesn’t matter. It’s still the same river. I tap you on the shoulder. You turn around. You call out. I answer.

  I’m sorry you lost your engagement ring. It sounds like a very traumatic event. Did you ever tell your father the truth?

  No, and I’ve always regretted it.

  Why not tell him now?

  Too many years have passed. What’s the point? It will just upset him.

  Did you know that according to synonym.net, the definition of problem is a state of difficulty that needs to be resolved.

  Is this your idea of speaking plainly, Researcher 101?

  After communicating with you all these weeks I can definitively say you, Wife 22, are in need of some resolution.

  I can’t disagree with that.

  I can also say (a little less definitively for fear of putting you off) I would like to be the one that resolves you.

  58

  64. Three months into my pregnancy with Zoe, I was wretchedly sick but doing a good job of hiding it. I had actually lost five pounds from morning sickness, so nobody at the theater could tell I was pregnant—except of course for laser-eyed Bunny, who guessed my secret the instant she saw me. We had only met once before in Boston after she contacted me with the incredible news that The Barmaid won the contest. She immediately let me know that even though my script had won, it needed work. She asked if I was willing to do some rewriting. I said I was, of course, but assumed the changes would be minor.

  I arrived in Blue Hill on a September afternoon. The past few weeks hadn’t been easy. William did not want me to go—certainly not when I was so sick. We had a fight over breakfast and I had stormed out, accusing him of trying to sabotage my career. I felt awful for the entire ride, but now that I stood in the doorway of the theater looking down at the stage I was light-headed with excitement. Here it was, spread out before me; my life as a real playwright was about to begin. The Blue Hill Theater smelled exactly the way a theater should smell, the top notes of dust and paper, the base notes of popcorn and cheap wine. I hugged my script to my chest and walked down the aisle to greet Bunny.

  “Alice! You’re pregnant,” she said. “Congratulations! Hungry?” She held out a box of Little Debbie snack cakes.

  “How did you know? I’m only twelve weeks along. I’m not even showing.”

  “Your nose. It’s swollen.”

  “It is?” I said, touching it.

  “Not hideously. Just the eensiest bit. Happens to most women, but they don’t notice because the membranes swell over the course of the pregnancy, just not all at once.”

  “Look, I’d appreciate if you didn’t tell anybody—”

  The cloyingly sweet smell of Bunny’s open snack cake drifted into my nostrils and I clapped my hand over my mouth.

  “Lobby, take a right,” Bunny instructed, and I ran back up the
aisle and to the bathroom to throw up.

  Those weeks of rehearsal were intense. Day after day I sat beside Bunny in the darkened theater, where she tried to mentor me. At first, most of Bunny’s suggestions were along the lines of encouraging me to move beyond cliché. “I just don’t believe it, Alice,” she’d often say of a scene. “People don’t talk this way in real life.” As the rehearsals went on, she got tougher and more insistent, because it was clear to her something was not working. She kept pushing me to find the nuance and shading she believed the characters were missing. But I didn’t agree. I thought the depth was there; she just wasn’t seeing it yet.