Secret Lives Of Husbands And Wives

by Josie Brown

  Paradise Heights Market, 2pm in back. Mojo knows.

  The caller ID says CyBerGuy.

  I am intrigued, to say the least. “Gotta run! See you at pickup!” There’s no guarantee that Brooke heard me. The smacks are now coming fast and furious, as are her yelps of pleasure.

  Mr. Qi can’t see my concern for my friend, but he can feel it in my aura. “Not to worry. You know what they say: ‘No pain, no gain.’”

  2:06 p.m.

  Behind the Paradise Heights Market is the part of the shopping experience few ever get to witness: the shuffle and jive of produce delivery via big trucks and beefy men. Most of them are swarming around a small balding guy who sports a full-body apron embroidered with the market’s logo. After perusing the goods being delivered, he begrudgingly signs the bills of lading handed to him.

  I stand behind the last deliveryman, not knowing exactly what I should say to him. When it’s finally my turn, he gives me a cool once-over with one eye shut. “You lost or something?”

  “I was told to pick something up here, something called, er, ‘mojo’?”

  His guffaw covers a bad cough. “I’m Mojo. So, you’re Lyssa?” Reassured by my nod, he points to a small trailer. “Then that’s for you.”

  “What is it?”

  He sighs, then nudges me over with him, swinging one of the doors open in the back. I can’t believe my eyes. On one side it’s stacked to the ceiling with cans, while the other side holds bags of rice, boxes of stuffing mix, and about twenty turkeys.

  Yes! I am now so beyond my quota!

  “For your little cause. I had the stock boy pull cans that are close to their expiration dates, or are too dented for the swells. And we overbought on Butterballs. Your crowd prefers free-range birds anyway. Now, if you’ll sign this donation receipt . . .”

  I do so with a happy flourish. “Oh, my goodness! Thank you, thank you! But how did you know?”

  “Bev Bullworth called. She’s our biggest advertiser”—he points to a row of abandoned shopping carts; all of them have Bev’s face, name, and motto plastered on the back of the toddler bench—“and we appreciate it. When she asked if we could help out, of course we said yes.”

  “This is so great! Well, let me give you the address for the delivery—”

  “Nope, sorry, lady. You’ll have to tow it out of here yourself.”

  “But . . . I don’t have a hitch.”

  “Your husband has already taken care of that.”

  “My . . . husband?” How did Ted know about this? Except to complain about “all the junk”—that is, the cans—filling the garage on the side where I usually park, he didn’t even seem to be aware of my project.

  “He said to tell you he’ll be back with the U-Haul. That was an hour ago, so he should be—yeah, okay, here he is now.”

  It’s not Ted behind the wheel of the rental truck, but Harry. He waves with one hand while turning the steering wheel with the other until the truck is positioned perfectly in front of the trailer, then jumps out to hitch the vehicles together.

  “Isn’t this your day to be in the office? You took off to help me?”

  “No, not exactly. I was home anyway, when Cal called to tell me about his score.” He shrugs. “My partners feel I’m too distracted to be in the office. They’ve asked that I consider a sabbatical.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a good thing.”

  “Financially, it’s not, really. But better now than later, right? At least I can enjoy all of the Thanksgiving break with the kids.”

  “Wow! That’s super you’ve got them for the four days.”

  “Yeah, well, DeeDee needs to ‘find herself.’ I presume her journey of self-discovery will take her somewhere she can get an allover tan.” He jiggles the door of the trailer. Finding it unlocked, he slams it closed with more force than is needed. “I hope she and her secret lover get a bad case of sunburn.”

  Obviously Harry has had a change of heart over the issue that has stymied the rest of Paradise Heights:

  Did DeeDee take a lover before she left Harry?

  “But you said you’re sure it had nothing to do with anyone else. The breakup, I mean.”

  “That was before Temple walked in on DeeDee and some guy doing the nasty, one night when the poor kid was staying over there. At least, that’s what she told Jake. DeeDee insists it was just a bad dream. And she blames me for our daughter’s reversion to a baby bottle. Apparently Temple swiped one from a toddler when Miss Judith wasn’t looking.”

  “Wow, that’s pretty darn serious!” I feel sorry for Harry. “Well, if you need any tips on roasting a turkey, I’m at your disposal. . . . Hey, speaking of turkey, why don’t you and the kids eat with us?”

  I don’t know what I’m thinking. The words just came out before I had a chance to consider the consequences. Not that the kids would mind. In fact, they’ll probably appreciate the company. But Ted still takes Tammy’s point of view on Harry, no matter what I say.

  “No, I could never put you out that way.” But the way Harry licked his lips shows he’s tempted. “Besides, you’ve inspired me to greater heights of volunteerism. Thanksgiving morning the kids and I are going to help prep the meals in the homeless shelter. I think it will be good for them to see that, even with the divorce, they have a lot to be thankful for.”

  “You’re absolutely right. Collecting food makes you feel good, but it’s still an abstract experience.” I look at the trailer. “In fact, maybe we’ll join you. We can eat our own meal afterward. And I insist that you and the kids join us for that.”

  “Well . . . okay, yeah, that sounds like a plan. I look forward to meeting Ted, finally.”

  Oh yeah, Ted.

  I turn away before Harry can see my frown. As much as I want to tell myself that watching a few bowl games together with their sons is the perfect way for Ted and Harry to get to know each other better, I’m kidding myself.

  I don’t know which will make Ted groan the loudest: my invitation to get up early to feed a bunch of people whom he feels deserve the hand fate dealt them, or the news that he’ll be breaking bread with the one guy in the neighborhood he can’t stand.

  25

  “Where there’s marriage without love,

  there will be love without marriage.”

  —Benjamin Franklin

  10:41 p.m.

  You’re kidding me, right? You’ve invited that guy here, for THANKSGIVING?” Ted is so shocked that he quits brushing his teeth and sprays me with a fine sheen of toothpaste. “Just what the hell were you thinking?”

  “Well, actually I was thinking how much fun it would be for Olivia and Tanner to share Thanksgiving with two of their closest friends. And how sweet of you to be neighborly to a very nice guy who just so happens to be going through a pretty bad divorce.” I wipe off his spittle with deliberation in the hope that he will take the hint that I’m just as miffed at his reaction as he is at my invitation to Harry. “What’s the harm in that?”

  “It’s an invasion of my privacy.” Ted is brushing so hard that I’m surprised his gums aren’t bleeding.

  “Oh, get real, Ted.” I could easily have ambushed him into this decision by mentioning it at dinner in front of the kids, who would be ecstatic and beg him to change his mind. But no, I waited until we were alone, until after we had made love—with the television on, so that he could watch the Lakers trounce the Clippers, again. I even pretended to believe that his groan during our lovemaking had everything to do with him being in sync with my faux-orgasm, and nothing at all to do with Pau Gasol missing an easy layup. “Seriously, what is your problem?”

  “My problem?” He stares at me as if suddenly I’ve grown two heads. “Look, let’s just call it what it is: Harry Wilder’s got a crush on you, and for whatever reason, you’re egging him on.”

  “Harry . . . and me? What? Oh, boy! You’re crazy.”

  “Tammy didn’t think so.”

  “Well, Tammy is a horny bitch! She just said that
because Harry Wilder wouldn’t ask her to go to bed with him. Spreading cruel, petty rumors is her way of getting back at him.” My brush is stroking my hair so quickly that a few strands have taken flight.

  “Why won’t he sleep with her? He’s separated, so that’s not an issue.”

  I pause with my strokes. “He won’t sleep with her because . . . well, because—”

  “Because he’s got the hots for you.” Ted’s eyes meet mine in the bathroom mirror.

  “No! That’s not it at all. Harry . . . well, if you must know, Harry is still in love with his wife.” I let that sink in. “So you have nothing to worry about, you see?”

  He thinks about that for a moment, then gives me a curt nod. “Yeah, all right, I’m fine with you inviting your new friend.” He trades his toothbrush for his razor. “But if you think I’m getting up at the crack of dawn to feed a bunch of drunks and druggies, you’ve got another think coming. I’m sleeping in. End of story.”

  I should be happy about finally getting the two of them together, but suddenly I feel hollow: not because I lied to Ted about Harry’s feelings for me, but because I didn’t.

  I truly believe Harry is still in love with DeeDee.

  If you’re looking for proof, all you have to do is look at the wedding band he still wears on his left hand.

  So, no, he’s not in love with me. Not even a little.

  Wednesday, 27 Nov., 1:06 p.m.

  I am no Martha Stewart, but when it comes to Thanksgiving, I make a mean pecan pie, if I do say so myself. How bad can it be, with a little Tia Maria splashed in?

  When it comes to this holiday, I am its queen. To me, it is the epitome of the word family, and I work hard to make it perfect for my own.

  It’s the day before Thanksgiving, which means my day is fully regimented for the prep work that goes into this meal. Right now in my kitchen, the turkey is brining, pies are baking, and I’ve been one with my Cuisinart since daybreak. Veggies of all shapes, sizes, and harvest hues are being chopped, diced, sliced, grated, or zested for side dishes that will leave my family—oh, yes, and Harry’s—as stuffed as the turkey they will have just devoured. Idaho potatoes have been whipped into a frenzy and flavored with garlic, while the top of my sweet potato soufflé has been liberally sprinkled with marshmallows, which will be crisped to a golden brown in the broiler just before the turkey is presented.

  All is well in my world.

  The aroma of pies permeates the air. Perfect half-moon slices of apples, scented with cinnamon, simmer under a browning lattice crust, while the allspice, which was sprinkled liberally in a pumpkin pulp drenched with dollops of triple sec, lives up to its name.

  If we weren’t passing on the Paradise Heights Women’s League’s Friday-After Potluck, I would have baked a second pumpkin pie.

  Or perhaps a pie stuffed with crow, specifically for Margot. And while she ate it, I’d remind her that I beat her record by twenty turkeys and eighty-six cans. YES! YES!

  My kitchen duties are timed right down to the second I’ll leave for after-school pickup, at which point the pies will be cooling on a large rack and the vegetables arranged in casserole dishes of varying sizes and shapes, depending on whether they’ve been grilled, roasted, blanched, toasted, sautéed, or creamed.

  Last week I purchased a bottle of a very nice Gloria Ferrer Sonoma Brut for us to toast at the gathering. Maybe we’ll allow the older boys to take a sip too. What a perfect way to cap off a perfect holiday event. . . .

  I have my head deep in the oven, where I’m wrapping aluminum foil around my pumpkin crust so it won’t brown too fast, when I hear the phone ring. I burn a finger on one hand as I reach for it with the other. “Shit! Ouch . . . Sorry! Hello?”

  “Lyssa, it’s Carla Liotta.”

  Ah, Tanner’s principal. I await her accolade, one of many I’ve received since word got out about the food drive’s success—

  “You have to come down to the school immediately. I’ve got Tanner in my office, and—well, he’s drunk.”

  “I . . . I beg your pardon?”

  “Unfortunately, your son is looped. I think you should come and get him. Of course, this means suspension, through the full week after Thanksgiving. A shame, what with exams and all the following week—”

  “But—but that can’t be! He doesn’t drink—”

  “Tell me: are you missing a bottle of champagne?”

  I run to the fridge. Yep, the Gloria Ferrer is AWOL, so she’s got me there.

  “What, he finished a whole bottle by himself?”

  “Oh no, he’s in fine company. Jake Wilder helped him out. His parents are on their way, too.”

  I grab my keys and run out the door.

  1:33 p.m.

  Even before I open the door to Principal Liotta’s office, I can hear DeeDee pricking Harry with well-placed barbs. “This is exactly what I’m talking about! You are absolutely oblivious to the needs of our children!”

  “Me—oblivious? How dare you, DeeDee! It sure is easy passing judgment from where you are, which is essentially out of their lives—”

  “No, I’m not out of their lives, Harry. I’m out of your life. And you just better get used to it.”

  “Oh, I’m used to it, all right! At this point, I have no regrets about your desertion.”

  “Why did you say that? Just because our son is here with us?”

  “Blah blah blah, ‘our son’ boo-hoo, blah blah!” Jake’s impression of his mom sets Tanner off into convulsions of tipsy giggles. Both he and Jake fall to the floor laughing.

  Tiny Carla is a woman who, by nature, is as demure as a dewy-eyed Southern belle, but fully in touch with her inner middle-school principal. In one second flat her voice drops an octave and a half, leaving her young charges in no doubt that she means it when she tells them to cease and desist with all their drunken tomfoolery.

  Unfortunately, Harry’s next instincts are his worst. He lunges at Jake, yanking him to his feet and drawing him close, so close that the two are nose-to-nose. “You stupid little jerk! How dare you say that to your mother—”

  “Harry, NO!” Somehow I’ve leaped between him and his son. Jake, frozen in fear, trembles into sobriety. As he registers me, Harry’s anger deflates and he falls back. Unconsciously he places his hand on my shoulder.

  He needs me to prop him up in so many ways.

  DeeDee sees this too. Her eyes dampen in the realization that she truly has what she wants: she is free of Harry.

  And he is free of her.

  With death come the five stages of grief for the survivors: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. For DeeDee, stage two has my name written all over it. She doesn’t know my role in her soon-to-be ex-husband’s life, but whatever it is, she has already made up her mind she doesn’t like it.

  So that she will see I’m not a threat to her, I hold out my hand. “I want to apologize for Tanner’s stupidity. He raided our fridge and brought the wine to school. I’ll make sure that he’s punished.”

  “Mom, really it was Jake’s idea—” He shuts his mouth when he reads the look in my eye.

  DeeDee smirks. “Your hooligan son has the nerve to blame it on Jake? Now, that’s rich!”

  I can feel my head shaking in anger. “My son is not a hooligan! Look, I’ve already apologized—”

  “Gee, Lyssa, how big of you.” DeeDee practically spits out my name. “But you don’t need to cover for him. Or for Harry, either.”

  “I’m not! Why would I cover for Harry?”

  “Oh, come on already!” She laughs out loud. “It’s so obvious. You’re one of those lonely little housewives who prey on any man within flirting range—”

  “I beg your pardon—”

  “Ladies, please!” It has suddenly dawned on Carla that she may have a grown-up fight on her hands. To put her at ease, I sit down.

  Harry puts his hand on my arm. “DeeDee, quit being such a bitch. Lyssa and I are friends. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
>
  “Just friends? Frankly, Harry, I don’t care who your friends are, but I do care about who our children hang out with.” She glares at Jake. “And the Harper boy shouldn’t be one of them. Come on, Jake, we have to get your sister.”

  “The kids are spending Thanksgiving with me, remember? You have plans to go out of town.” Harry motions Jake to his side. Jake stands there helplessly.

  DeeDee laughs raucously. “And what were you planning on feeding them, frozen turkey dinners?”

  “Hell, no, Mrs. Wilder. My mom’s a great cook.” All eyes turn to Tanner. Realizing how much he doesn’t like the attention, he shuts his mouth quickly and stares back down at the floor.

  “You’re taking them—to her house?”

  “Yes.” Harry’s smile is not triumphant, but weary. “Lyssa—and Ted—were gracious enough to invite us. We’ll be serving at the shelter first—”

  DeeDee’s gaze turns to stone. “No. The kids are going with me. NOW.”

  “You have no right—”

  “Don’t I? Principal Liotta, did you not just witness my husband threatening my child with bodily injury? Shouldn’t you call Child Protective Services?”

  “Well—I think, in the heat of the moment—”

  DeeDee turns on her, teeth bared. “I’d hate for you to lose your job just because you broke state law and didn’t report the incident.” She flips a hand in my direction. “And I’m sure Mrs. Harper won’t lie under oath about what we all saw, either. Not even for a ‘good friend.’”

  Harry shakes his head in defeat. “Why are you doing this, DeeDee?”

  “You put it so well, Harry: my children need me.” She pushes Jake toward the door, but looks back at Harry. “Don’t worry. You’ll get them back on Friday. Come on, Jake, you can help pick out the turkey. Just try not to throw up on it.”

  Thanksgiving

  26

  “Love: A temporary insanity curable by marriage.”