Wife 22: A Novel

by Melanie Gideon

  One week before opening night, the lead quit. The first dress rehearsal was a disaster; the second just a little bit better, and finally, in the eleventh hour I saw The Barmaid through Bunny’s eyes and was horrified. She was right. The play was a caricature. A bold, shiny surface, but little substance beneath. All curtain but no stage.

  At that point it was too late to make any changes. I had to let the play go. It would catch a stiff wind or founder all on its own.

  Opening night went well. The theater was packed. I prayed it would all come miraculously together that evening and judging by the enthusiastic crowd, that appeared to be the case. William was by my side the entire night. I had a small baby bump now, which brought out his protective instincts; his hand was a constant presence on the small of my back. The next morning came a rave review from the Portland Press Herald. The entire cast celebrated by taking a cruise on a lobster boat. Some of us got drunk. Others of us (me) threw up. None of us knew this was the single moment in the sun The Barmaid would get, but does anybody ever suspect that the magic is about to end just when the magical thing is unfolding?

  I won’t say that William was happy that the play flopped, but I will say he was happy to have me home, getting ready for the baby. He didn’t go so far as to say I told you so, but anytime Bunny emailed me another bad review (she was not one of those directors who believed in ignoring your reviews—quite the opposite, she was in the you-get-enough-bad-reviews-you-become-inoculated camp) he got this grim look on his face that I could only read as embarrassment. Somehow my public failure had become his. He didn’t have to advise me not to write another play; I came to that decision all on my own. I convinced myself there was a three-act structure to pregnancy, a beginning, middle, and end. I was in essence a living play, and for now that would have to be enough.

  65. I know “roommate” is a taboo word, but here’s a thought: what if being roommates is the natural stage of the middle part of marriage? What if that’s the way it’s supposed to be? The only way we can be while getting through the long, hard slog of raising kids and trying to save money for retirement and coming to terms with the fact that there is no such thing as retirement anymore and we’ll be working until the day we die?

  66. Fifteen minutes ago.

  59

  “Yum,” says Caroline.

  “That hits the spot,” says William.

  “Is it supposed to taste like soil?” I ask, looking down into my smoothie.

  “Oh, Alice,” says Caroline. “You’re such a truth-teller.”

  “You mean she’s got no filter,” says William.

  “You should really run with us,” says Caroline.

  “Yes, why don’t you?” asks William, sounding completely disingenuous.

  “Because somebody has to work,” I say.

  “See, no filter,” says William.

  “Okay—well, I’ve got to take a shower and get ready. I’ve got a second interview at Tipi this afternoon. It’s an intern position, but at least it’s a foot in the door,” says Caroline.

  “Wait, what’s Tipi?” I ask.

  “Microfinance. It’s this amazing company, Alice. They’ve only been around for a year but they’ve already given out over 200 million dollars in loans to women in third-world countries.”

  “Have you told your mom you’re going on a second interview? She must be thrilled.”

  “I haven’t told her. And believe me, she’ll be far from thrilled,” says Caroline. “She thinks I’m wasting my computer science degree. Now if it were Paypal or Facebook or Google, she’d be doing cartwheels.”

  “That doesn’t sound like your mother.”

  Caroline shrugs. “That is my mother. Just not a part of my mother most people ever see. I’m off.” She pops a strawberry into her mouth and leaves the kitchen.

  “Well, good for her. She’s out there hustling,” I say.

  “Meaning I’m not out there hustling?” says William. “I’ve been on ten interviews. I just don’t talk about it.”

  “You’ve been on ten interviews?”

  “Yes, and not one callback.”

  “Oh—William, God, ten interviews? Why haven’t you told me? I could have helped you. This is overwhelming. It’s bad out there. It’s not just you. Let me help. I can help you. Please.”

  “There’s nothing to help with.”

  “Well, let me support you. Behind the scenes. I’m a good commiserater. Top-notch, in fact—”

  He cuts me off. “I don’t need commiseration, Alice. I need a plan. And I need you to leave me alone while I come up with it. I’ll figure it out. I always do.”

  I bring my glass to the sink and rinse it out. “Fine,” I say slowly. “Well, here’s my plan. I sent off that letter to the Parents’ Association asking if they’d consider making my position full-time in the fall. Six plays every semester should be a full-time job.”

  “You want to be a drama teacher full-time?” asks William.

  “I want us to be able to send our kids to college.”

  William crosses his arms in front of his chest. “Caroline’s right. You should start running again. It would be good for you.”

  “You seem to be doing okay with Caroline.”

  “I’d rather run with you,” he says.

  He’s lying. I wonder if Researcher 101 is a runner.

  “What?” he asks.

  “What do you mean ‘what’?”

  “You had this strange look on your face.”

  I stack my glass in the dishwasher and slam the door shut. “That’s just the way I look when I’m leaving you alone so you can figure things out.”

  “California geese, we’re unforgettable. Goslings, gaggles, ganders on top. White feathers so soft you’ll want to pet us. Honk, honk, honk honk. Honk, honk, honk honk.”

  Ganders on top. You’ll want to pet us? What was I thinking? I’m standing in the wings of the stage at Kentwood Elementary, second-guessing my decision to have the geese do a parody of Katy Perry’s “California Gurls” as the closing number for Charlotte’s Web. The lavender wigs I got at the costume store make the geese look slutty (as does their prancing and hip-wiggling) and judging by the jealous faces of Wilbur and Charlotte and the rest of the cast, I’m pretty sure I went too far in my attempt to make up for the geese having no lines. It seemed like such a brilliant idea at three in the morning when I was mucking around on YouTube and convinced myself that Katy Perry naked, draped in nothing but a cloud covering her ass, was a post-postfeminist statement.

  I start thinking up excuses for why I have to leave before the play is over. For some reason, they are all tooth-related. I was eating caramels and my crown just fell off. I was eating a bagel and a piece of crust impaled my gum.

  I can hear twitters and whispers coming from the parents as the geese wind up their number, which includes lining up like the Rockettes, arms slung around each other and seductively blowing kisses to the audience. The geese finish their song, adding a cheeky little butt swivel. Limp applause and the geese prance off the stage. Oh, Jesus, God. Helicopmama is right; I have been doing this for far too long. Then I see the boy who played Wilbur holding a bouquet of carnations. Next I am pushed onstage, where the bouquet is shoved in my arms. I turn to face an audience of mostly disapproving faces, except for three: the mothers of the geese, one of whom is a beaming Mrs. Norman, who seems to have forgiven me for accusing her of being a pothead.

  “Well,” I say, “Charlotte’s Web. Always a favorite. And didn’t we have a wonderful Charlotte this year? You might think Charlotte’s Web is a bit inappropriate—Charlotte dying in the end and all—but in my experience the theater is a safe place to experiment with difficult issues like death. And what it feels like. What death feels like.”

  It feels like this.

  “I want to thank you for trusting me to look after your children. It’s not always easy being a drama teacher. Life isn’t fair. We aren’t all equal. Somebody has to have the bit part. And somebody has to be t
he star. I know we live in a time where we try and pretend this isn’t true.”

  Parents are packing up their video cameras and leaving.

  “We try and shield our kids from disappointment. From seeing things they shouldn’t see before their time. But we must be realistic. There are bad things out there. Especially on the Internet. Why, just the other day my son—my point is you can’t let them watch a movie and then fast-forward through the scary parts. Am I right?”

  The auditorium is nearly empty now. Mrs. Norman waves at me from the front row.

  “Okay, so thank you all for coming. Um—have a great summer and see you next year!”

  “When will the DVD be available?” asks Mrs. Norman. “We’re so proud of Carisa. Who knew she was such a little dancer? I’d like to order three copies.”

  “The DVD?” I ask.

  “Of the play,” she says. “You did have it professionally taped, didn’t you?”

  She can’t be serious. “I saw lots of parents taping the performance. I’m sure somebody will be happy to send you a copy of the tape.”

  She shakes her head gravely. “Carisa, go get your backpack. I’ll meet you out front.”

  We both watch as Carisa sashays away.

  “That wig was a mistake, I’m sorry.”

  “What are you talking about? The geese stole the show,” says Mrs. Norman. “The wigs were brilliant. As was the song choice.”

  “You didn’t think it was a bit—mature?”

  Mrs. Norman shrugs. “It’s a new world. Eight is the new thirteen. Girls are getting breasts in fourth grade. She’s already begging me for a bra. They make them in very small sizes, you know. Tiny. Padded. So cute. So, look, I want to apologize for what happened the other week. You took me by surprise. I wanted to thank you. I’m very grateful you did what you did.”

  Finally, some gratitude!

  “You’re very welcome. I’m sure any mother would have done the same thing had they been in my shoes.”

  “So where and when can I meet you? I know we shouldn’t do this at school.”

  “I think we’re okay,” I say. The auditorium is empty. “Nobody can hear us.”

  “You want to do this now? You’ve been carrying it around? In your purse,” she points to my shoulder bag. “Great!” She holds out her hand and then retracts it quickly. “Maybe we should go backstage.”

  This woman thinks I still have her pot? “Uh, Mrs. Norman? I don’t have your—stuff. I got rid of it. The day I called you about it, in fact.”

  “You threw it away? That was nearly a thousand dollars’ worth!”

  I look at her indignant, entitled moon face and I think of Researcher 101, which gives me confidence to speak plainly.

  “Mrs. Norman, I’ve had a very difficult day. It was wrong of me to have the girls perform ‘California Geese.’ I apologize for that and really, really hope you don’t buy Carisa a bra. She’s far too young and as far as I can see has no breasts whatsoever. Perhaps you should have a conversation with your daughter about the trauma she incurred in finding your stash of illicit drugs instead of talking with me about how you can get it back. She’s a really sweet kid, and she’s confused.”

  “What gives you the right?” Mrs. Norman hisses.

  “Tell her something. Anything. Just address it. She won’t forget about it. Believe me.”

  Honk, honk, honk, honk, honk, says Mrs. Norman, meaning “you piece-of-crap teacher.”

  Honk, honk, honk, honk, honk, I say, meaning “you pothead mother, goodbye.”

  I play my music at top volume in the car to calm myself down, but I dream a dream of days gone by doesn’t work today. When I get home I’m still amped up from the afternoon’s events, so I do something I know will likely only add to my anxiety: I steal into Zoe’s room to check the Hostess product inventory, something I do every week in hopes it will bring me some understanding as to how my daughter can consume thousands of Ding Dong calories a week and never gain an ounce.

  “I don’t think she’s bulimic,” says Caroline, poking her head into the room. “You’d know if she were purging.”

  “Yes, well, there are two Yodels missing,” I say.

  “You’ve been counting them?”

  “And I always hear the water running in the bathroom when she’s in there.”

  “That doesn’t mean she’s throwing up. She probably doesn’t like people to hear her pee. I’ve been watching her. She’s not a puker. I don’t think she’s bingeing on Yodels, I really don’t, Alice. She just doesn’t fit the profile.”

  I give Caroline a hug. I love having her here. She’s smart, funny, brave, creative, and kind: exactly the sort of young woman I hope Zoe will grow up to be.

  “Ever had a Yodel?” I ask.

  Caroline shakes her head. Of course she hasn’t.

  I toss her one.

  “I’ll save it for later,” says Caroline, frowning at the packaging.

  “Give it back. I know you’re not going to eat it.”

  Caroline wrinkles her nose. “You’re right, I’m not going to eat it, but my mother will—you know how she loves junk food. She and my dad are coming to visit. Yodels have no expiration date, right?”

  “Bunny’s coming to Oakland?”

  “We spoke this morning. They just decided.”

  “Where are they staying?”

  “I think they’re planning on renting a house.”

  “Absolutely not. That’s too expensive. They can stay here. You can sleep in Zoe’s room and they can have the guest room.”

  “Oh, no, she won’t want to impose. You’re already putting me up.”

  “It’s no imposition. Actually, it’s selfish on my part—I want to see her.”

  “But don’t you need to ask William first?”

  “William will be fine with it, I promise.”

  “Okay. Well, if you’re sure, I’ll tell her. She’d love that. So Alice, I had a thought. What about if you and I went running? We could do it secretly. Take it slowly. Run at your pace. And eventually get you to the point where you and William could run together again.”

  “I don’t think William is interested in running with me.”

  “You’re wrong. He misses you.”

  “He told you that?”

  “No, but I can tell. He talks about you all the time when we’re running.”

  “You mean he’s complaining.”

  “No! He just talks about you. Stuff you’ve said.”

  “Really?”

  Caroline nods.

  “Well—that’s nice, I guess.”

  Actually, it irritates me. Why can’t William act like he misses me to my face?

  I take the Yodel out of Caroline’s hands. “Your mother’s favorite is Sno Balls.”

  I can just see Bunny sitting in the back of the Blue Hill Theater, peeling the pink marshmallow skin off the chocolate cake while instructing an actor to go deeeeeeper. There’s something about the theater and simple carbohydrates.

  “When I was a kid these used to come wrapped in foil,” I say. “Packaged up like it was a surprise. A gift that you didn’t know was coming.”

  Like the Yodel, Bunny’s visit feels like fate.

  Three days later, summer officially arrives. The kids are out of school and I am, too. Because of our finances we’re not doing much of anything this summer (except going on a camping trip to the Sierras in a few weeks). Everybody will be home all the time, except Caroline, who scored a part-time intern position at Tipi.

  I take Caroline up on her offer to train with me and am now standing in the middle of the street, panting, bent over like an old lady, my hands on my knees, deeply regretting my decision.

  “That’s a twelve-minute mile,” says Caroline, looking at her watch. “Good, Alice.”

  “Twelve minutes? That’s pathetic. I can walk faster,” I gasp. “Tell me again why we’re doing this.”

  “Because you’ll feel great afterwards.”

  “And during I’ll feel li
ke dying and curse the day I ever let you come stay with us?”

  “That’s about right,” she says, bouncing on her toes. “Come on, keep moving. You don’t want the lactic acid building up in your calves.”

  “No, noooo lactic acid for me. Just give me a second to catch my breath.”

  Caroline squints distractedly into the distance.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “Nothing,” she says.

  “Are you looking forward to your parents coming?”

  Caroline shrugs.

  “Did you tell Bunny about Tipi?”

  “Uh-huh.” Caroline does a quick stretch and then takes off at a trot. I groan and stagger after her. She spins around and runs backwards. “William told me you used to run a nine-minute mile. We’ll get you back there again. Pump your arms. No, not like a chicken, Alice. Tucked under your shoulders.”

  I catch up to her, and after a few minutes she looks at her watch and frowns. “Do you mind if I sprint the last quarter mile?”

  “Go, go,” I huff, waving her away.

  As soon as she’s out of sight, I slow to a walk and take out my cell. I click on the Facebook app.

  Kelly Cho

  Thanks for the add, Alice!

  5 minutes ago

  Nedra Rao

  Prenups, people. Prenups!!

  10 minutes ago

  Bobby Barbedian

  Robert Bly says it’s all right if you grow your wings on the way down.

  2 hours ago

  Pat Guardia

  Is dreaming of Tita’s lumpia. Hint-hint.

  4 hours ago

  Phil Archer

  I read my daily fortune cookie!