“I wasn’t happy,” she told me once, a few months into our courtship. “Things had gotten out of control with the band. With”—she hesitated—“my relationships.” I knew from articles I’d found online that difficulties in her relationship with the bass player, Eric Wilson, had caused problems for the band. The ugliness of their breakup made its way into the music, she said. The whole thing felt tainted. She decided it was time to grow up. That’s why she started law school.
The melody is haunting, and it’s nice to hear her voice echoing through the living room. When she finishes the song, she doesn’t say hello or tell me about her day, she simply picks up the keyboard at the end of the couch and starts in on Leonard Cohen’s “Dance Me to the End of Love.” Throughout the song—a hymn to love and loss written when Cohen was well into middle age, at the height of his lyrical power—she is looking at me, flashing her wry smile.
I drop my bag onto the table, take off my coat, and curl up at the other end of the couch. Watching her—so clearly in her element—I can’t help but think what she’s given up. Did she do it for herself? Or did she do it for me? Eventually, she puts the keyboard aside and slides down to my end of the couch.
“You’re so warm,” I say. I can’t bring myself to tell her about the conversation with Vivian. This moment is so perfect. I just want it to last. I just want to go back to the time before The Pact.
We sit in silence. And then she slides her hand into the pocket of her sweatshirt. She pulls out a crumpled piece of paper.
“What’s this?”
It looks like a telegram. On the front, it has Alice’s name but no address. “It was hand-delivered today,” she says. It reads:
Dear Friend, You are hereby directed to appear this Friday at nine A.M. at the Half Moon Bay Airport. You will be met by our representative and provided further instructions at that time. It is not necessary to bring clothes or sundry items. Please do not bring any valuables, personal effects, or electronics. This is a directive, not a request. Failure to comply with a directive, as you are aware, is addressed at length in Section 8.9.12–14. We look forward to seeing you. Vty, a Friend.
Everything inside me sinks, dread welling up.
“I finally started to think that I’d been wrong about Dave. I almost decided it was all nothing, that I took what was really a pretty ordinary conversation and transformed it in my mind to something sinister.”
“It’s not nothing,” I say. I tell her about the meeting with Vivian.
Her eyes fill with tears.
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” I pull her into my arms. “I should have never let us get involved with this.”
“No, I’m sorry. I’m the one who invited Finnegan to our stupid wedding.”
“You can’t go to Half Moon Bay. What can they do?”
“A lot. If they push me out at the firm, if they…” I can see her mind fast-forwarding, panic setting in. “We have all those loans, there will be no glowing references, no new job, the mortgage…Vivian is right. Finnegan’s influence reaches far and wide. And not just Finnegan, all the other Pact members we don’t know.”
A thought occurs to me. “How much does that matter? You looked so happy just now, playing your music. What would happen if you just took your bonus and left?”
“They haven’t given the bonuses out yet. There’s no check. We really need that money.”
“We can do without it,” I insist, although the truth is we’re stretched thin with the new investments in my practice, with the mortgage on the Victorian, the mortgage on this house, just the expense of life in one of the most overpriced cities in the world.
“I don’t want to be poor again; that’s no way to live.”
“Are you saying you should go to Half Moon Bay?”
“I think I have to. But there’s a problem. This Friday I have a court appearance. We’re set to argue my motion for summary judgment. I worked months on it. This is where we can win the entire thing. If we lose on Friday, it’s all downhill—thousands of hours of work, pointless work, no chance of winning. I can’t believe it. I wrote the damn motion, no one else can do it for me.”
“The telegram mentions consequences. What are they?”
Alice gets up and pulls her copy of The Manual from the bookshelf. She turns to Section 8.9.12–14. “Punishments are meted out according to the severity of the crime and calculated, similar to the CCCP, on a point system outlined below,” she reads. “Recidivism, as noted, is calculated at 2x. Cooperation and voluntary confessions are afforded appropriate concessions.”
“Well, that’s helpful,” I say.
“We could run away,” Alice offers. “We could move to Budapest, change our names. Get jobs in that great market by the bridge, eat goulash, grow fat.”
“I do love goulash.” We’re trying to keep it normal, but there is no levity in the air. It seems that we are truly and royally fucked. “There’s always the police.”
“And what, exactly, do we tell them? That a woman with a really nice handbag gave me a bracelet? That I’m worried I might lose my job? They’d laugh us out of the station.”
“Dave threatened you,” I remind her.
“Imagine telling this story to a cop. There’s no way they would take us seriously. ‘No one leaves The Pact’? Come on. And if they talked to Dave, which obviously they wouldn’t, he’d tell them it had been a joke. And then he’d offer them a tour of Pin Sur Mer.”
It’s quiet for a while as Alice and I struggle to come up with a solution. I feel as if we’re two little rats trapped in a cage, both still convinced there must be some way out.
“Fucking Finnegan,” she finally says. She picks up her keyboard and plays another song, a moody tune from her band’s final album, the one she and the boyfriend wrote together while they were in the process of breaking up.
“Budapest isn’t a bad idea,” I say, when the song comes to an end.
Alice seems to be considering the proposal. I meant it as a joke, but maybe it doesn’t have to be. It occurs to me that I’m good with whatever she decides. I love Alice. I want her to be happy. I don’t want her to be afraid.
My heart sinks when she whispers, “They would find us, wouldn’t they?”
31
Although I follow my usual pattern today—waking up, walking to work, meeting patients—my brain isn’t really in it. If Alice is supposed to report to the airport on Friday, we need to come up with a plan.
Last night, Alice wanted to clear her head, so we watched Sloganeering. It was a funny episode about the Minister of Slogans and his efforts to buy a smelly car from Italy. It was nice to curl up, think about something else. After turning off the TV, we went to bed and slept deeply. This morning, the usual mess of papers and printouts and legal books littered the kitchen table. The Manual sat on the arm of the big blue chair. Alice had placed a bookmark at the start of Section 9: Procedures, Directives, and Recommendations.
Between patients, I keep trying to come up with a way around this thing. While some people get increasingly paranoid when they ruminate too much on a problem, I usually go the other way. By three in the afternoon, I’ve almost convinced myself that the situation isn’t as dire as it seemed yesterday. I’m thinking about this when Evelyn steps into my office and drops a white envelope on my desk. No stamp. Gold writing on the outside, just my name, no address. I stare at it, sweating.
“A bike messenger just dropped it off,” she says.
Inside, there is a white card with a handwritten message, also in gold ink:
We appreciate the honor of your presence at the quarterly meeting of the Friends at 6 P.M. on March 10. The address is 980 Bear Gulch Road in Woodside. The security code for the gate is 665544. Do not under any circumstances share the address or the code with anyone.
There’s no signature or return address.
32
On Thursday morning, I sit on the bed in my T-shirt and boxer briefs, watching Alice dress for work. “What are we going to do?
” I ask.
“I’m going to go do my job,” she answers. “You’re going to do yours. Whatever the consequences are, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Vivian’s threat was about Finnegan and the firm, but if I’m a no-show for the court appearance, I’ll be on seriously thin ice at the firm anyway.”
“And the part about the long reach of The Pact’s influence?”
“I don’t know.” Alice says it firmly, without even a touch of the dread that I’m feeling. Is her confidence real, or is she faking it for my benefit? Still, just the fact that Alice is herself right now, ready to go into battle, makes me feel better. If the musician Alice is a delicate, mystical creature I wish I could see more of, the lawyer Alice is a tough, smart, entirely competent woman I’m glad to have on my side.
“I’ll be thinking about you all day,” I promise, watching her brush her hair. She puts on her subtle plum lipstick and her small gold hoop earrings.
“Right back at you.” She kisses me, long but soft, carefully so as not to smear her lipstick.
For some complicated reason involving road construction and parking, she’s catching a ride into work this morning with a colleague. A gray Mercedes pulls up to the curb at six, and Alice is gone.
At a quarter to nine, I’m at work, brooding about our unsolvable problem. All day, I’m in knots, going through the motions with patients, waiting for the other shoe to drop, wondering what form it will take. “What’s gotten into you, Jake?” Evelyn wants to know. “You’re not yourself. Are you coming down with something?”
“Not sure.” I toy with the idea of telling her, but what good would it do? I imagine her wavering between hilarity and disbelief. She wouldn’t immediately grasp the depth of The Pact and the threat it poses. I am certain, though, her involvement would lead to more trouble for Alice and me.
At two, my phone dings. It’s a text from Alice, a perfectly ordinary text. I won’t be home till midnight.
Let me give you a ride, I text back. I’ll be out front around 11:30. Come down when you’re ready. After yesterday, I want to hold Alice, see with my own eyes that she’s all right.
I arrive in front of her office early. The neighborhood is quiet, the night chilly. I’ve brought two sandwiches, a bottle of cream soda for Alice, and a couple of mini Bundt cakes. I leave the heater on, and I try to read the new Entertainment Weekly. Even though the cover story is on the viral growth of Sloganeering, I can’t concentrate. I keep glancing up at the lit windows of the law firm, looking for Alice’s silhouette, wishing she’d come down.
At midnight, the door opens. That guy from the party is with Alice, the tall, curly-haired one—Derek Snow. I roll the window down a crack, and I can hear him asking if she’d like to get a drink, but she says, “No, thanks, my sweet husband came to pick me up.” I’m absurdly happy to see her. I lean over the passenger seat to open the door and she slides into the car, turning around to drop her briefcase and purse into the backseat. She gives me a lingering, passionate kiss, and I feel silly for the sliver of concern that just passed through my mind. Clearly, the guy is not her type; I am.
She sees the bag on the console. “Sandwiches!” she exclaims.
“Yep.”
“You are the world’s greatest husband.”
I pull a U-turn on California Street as Alice tears into her dinner, recounting her day. Her team found some strong new evidence, and their chances with the summary judgment are looking good. It’s not until we make the turn down Balboa that I bring up the subject we’re clearly avoiding.
“What are your thoughts on tomorrow?”
“I called Dave,” she answers. “It didn’t go well. He insisted a directive is a directive. He said your stunt with Vivian didn’t help. And then he repeated the same thing: We have to make peace with The Pact.”
“What do you think will happen?” I ask, after a moment.
She’s silent.
“I wish you hadn’t even told Dave about your court date. We should just go with what JoAnne said: You need to blame it on me, spread it out.”
“After your episode with Vivian,” Alice warns as we pull into the garage, “I have a feeling you’ll see your share of the blame.”
33
On Friday, I wake at dawn. Without saying a word, I sneak into the kitchen and make breakfast. Bacon and waffles, orange juice and coffee. I want Alice to have energy, I want her to do well in court. More important, though, I want to show her how much I love her. Whatever the day holds, I need her to know that I’m on her side.
I put the breakfast on a tray and bring it to Alice. She’s sitting on the blue chair in her pantyhose and underwear, focused on her work. She looks up and smiles. “I love you.”
At six, she races out the door. I clean up, shower, and it’s not until I’m on the phone with our receptionist, Huang, that I realize what I’m going to do. I tell him I’m feeling sick and may or may not make it in today. “Food poisoning,” I lie. “Can you cancel my appointments?”
“Sure,” he says, “but the Boltons won’t be happy.”
“True. I’m sorry. Want me to call them?”
“No, I’ll handle it.”
I leave a note in case I’m not here when Alice gets home. Gone to the Half Moon Bay Airport. It’s the least I can do. Love, J. Then I add a postscript that seems melodramatic even as I’m writing it but expresses just what I feel: Thank you for marrying me.
On the drive down the coast, I make peace with my decision. The Half Moon Bay Airport is nothing more than one long runway lost among acres and acres of artichoke plants. In the dense fog, I can just make out a few covered Cessnas and the small building that houses the 3-Zero Cafe. I park in the nearly empty lot. Inside the restaurant, I take a table with a view of the runway. There is no security, no ticket counters, no baggage claim, just an unlocked glass door separating the runway from the café. A slender woman in an old-fashioned waitress uniform walks over.
“Coffee?”
“Hot chocolate, if you have it.”
“Sure.”
I scan the airport for anything out of the ordinary. There are only three cars in the parking lot: mine, an empty Ford Taurus, and a Chevy truck with a guy in the driver’s seat. He looks like he’s waiting for someone. I catch myself tapping on the table, an old nervous habit. The unknown has always scared me much more than any actual danger. Is someone planning to meet Alice here and give her more tough talk? Another bracelet, perhaps? Or are they coming to take her somewhere? Neither Vivian nor Dave ever mentioned plane trips. I should have paid more attention that day Vivian removed the Martin Parr photo and shined her PowerPoint on our living room wall.
A plane swoops in over the hills. I watch it make a big turn and come in for a landing in the swirling fog. The plane is a small, private affair, though larger and fancier than the Cessnas near the hangar. I check my watch—8:54. Six minutes to go. Is that the guy?
The plane glides up to the area near the fuel hose. A worker runs out, he and the pilot talk for a second, then the worker begins to fuel the plane. The pilot approaches the restaurant. I see him shiver and glance around the parking lot. Clearly, he’s looking for something or someone. He steps inside and scans the room, hardly noticing me. He checks his cell, frowns, and heads to the restroom.
There are no other people in sight, and no more planes coming in for a landing—just me, the waitress, the worker, the man in his Chevy, and the pilot. It’s nine on the dot. I put a five-dollar bill on the table and stand. The guy comes out of the restroom and scans the area again before walking out the front door to the parking lot. He’s very tall, early forties, red hair, good looking, dressed in a denim shirt and khakis.
I step outside. “Good morning,” I say.
“Hi there.” He has a faint accent. I can’t quite place it.
“Are you by any chance looking for Alice?”
He turns to face me, sizing me up. I extend my hand. “Jake.” He looks at me skeptically, then shakes my hand.
“Kieran.” The accent is Irish. Instantly, I think of Vivian’s story of Orla and the island in Ireland. “Do you know Alice? She was supposed to be here.” He seems a little irritated.
“I’m her husband.”
“Great. Where’s Alice?”
“She couldn’t make it.”
He smirks, like I must be putting him on. “But she will be here, right?”
“No. She’s an attorney. She’s stuck in court. It’s a very important case.”
“Well, this is a first.” Kieran laughs. “That wife of yours has some moxie.” He takes a stick of gum out of his pocket, unwraps it, and slides it between his teeth. “Maybe not a lot of brains, but definitely moxie.”
“I’ve come in her place,” I say.
He shakes his head. “You two are a trip.”
I’m battling a whole tangle of feelings, trying not to let any of it show, certain that it does. “She couldn’t come, and I didn’t want you to be waiting here for her, so I’ve come in her place. As a courtesy.”
“A courtesy? Seriously? I’m not sure how I’ll explain this to Finnegan.”
“Finnegan told you to come?”
Kieran narrows his eyes. He seems surprised at how dumb I am. Or how naïve.
“All of it is really my fault,” I insist. It’s true; I got Alice into this mess. Sure, Finnegan was her contact, and she alone invited him to our wedding. Still, the marriage was my idea. Alice would have been happy to continue living together, secure in our relationship, indefinitely. Like I said, I love her, but that’s not why I married her.
The Marriage Pact Page 12
