“Well,” Kieran says, “I appreciate you showing up, that was admirable, and even a little gutsy—but that’s not how it works.”
“She’d be here if she could.”
He looks down at his watch, scans the email on his cell. The whole thing seems to have him confused. “Let me get this straight. She’s really not coming?”
“No.”
“Okay, nice to meet you, Jake. Good luck to that wife of yours. She’ll need it.” The pilot pivots and gets into his plane. Watching his small silver rig pull up through the fog, I have a sick feeling in my gut.
34
On my way back into the city, I get a call from Huang. He tried to cancel my eleven o’clock with the Boltons, but the missus wanted none of it.
“Mrs. Bolton is scary,” he says.
The Boltons, Jean and Bob, have been married for more than forty years. They were the first clients Evelyn signed up when she started the marriage counseling side. I later figured out why—the Boltons had already burned their way through every other therapist in the city.
I dread the hour I spend with them each week. They’re a miserable pair, made more miserable by the fact of their union. The hour slips by at such a glacial pace, I suspect the clock on the wall is broken. The Boltons would have been divorced decades ago if not for the pushy pastor at their church who demands they attend counseling. Usually I give a client six months, then evaluate how things are going. If I feel we’re not getting anywhere, I make a referral to another therapist. It’s probably not a great business model, but I think it’s best for the clients.
With the Boltons, somewhere around our third week I asked if they had ever considered divorce. Bob immediately responded, “Every single fucking day for the past forty fucking years.”
It was the only time I’ve ever seen his wife smile.
“Okay,” I tell Huang, “tell them I’ll meet with them. The usual time. I’ll be back in the office by ten-thirty.”
“You’re not sick anymore?”
“Define what you mean by sick.”
The Boltons show up at eleven on the dot. I don’t really hear anything they say—or rather, anything Jean says, as she’s the one who does all the talking—but neither of them seems to notice that I’m out of it today. I’m pretty sure Bob is sleeping through most of it too, with his eyes open, like a horse. He actually seems to be snoring. At straight-up noon, I tell them our time is up. They lumber out of the office, Bob complaining about the fog. Last week, the weather was beautiful and he complained about the sun. Once they’re gone, Huang wanders through the office spraying air freshener and opening windows. He’s trying to get rid of the smell of Jean’s terrible perfume.
At 1:47, I get a call from Alice. “We won!” she cries, ecstatic.
“That’s fantastic! I’m so proud of you.”
“I’m taking the team to lunch. Want to join us?”
“Enjoy this victory with your team. We’ll celebrate tonight. Where are you eating?”
“They want to go to Fog City.”
“I hope you don’t run into Vivian.”
“If I disappear, know that my car is parked near the corner of Battery and Embarcadero. It’s all yours.” The levity in her voice makes everything seem so normal, but in my heart I know that nothing is normal. I don’t tell her about my visit to the Half Moon Bay Airport. I want to let her enjoy her victory before burdening her with the news.
After we hang up, I sit at my desk, halfheartedly checking email, trying to make sense of my interaction this morning with Kieran. What would have happened if Alice had been there? Would Kieran have put her on the plane and flown away? Where would they have gone? When would she have come back? Would she have fought with him, or accepted her fate and stepped onto the plane? I remember an eerie photo I saw years ago in Life magazine. It showed a group of men inside a fenced area in Saudi Arabia. The caption indicated that they all had been convicted of stealing, and they were waiting to have one of their hands chopped off. The most disturbing thing about the photo was that all of the men seemed so calm, sitting there passively, waiting for the inevitable horror.
I walk back to our house and drive down to the Peninsula. Destination: Draeger’s. One of the clerks, a short, plump woman named Eliza, gives me a wave as I walk through the door. By now they must consider me a regular. “I love a man who does the shopping,” Eliza says every time I go through her checkout lane.
In all of these trips, I still haven’t succeeded in encountering JoAnne, and today is no different. I buy Alice flowers and a bottle of Veuve Clicquot to celebrate her victory. I buy myself some cookies.
Eventually I give up waiting for JoAnne and go to the register. “I love a man who does the shopping,” Eliza says. Then, as she’s scanning the cookies, she looks at me and says, “You need to get some protein in your basket, friend.”
“What?” I stammer.
“Protein.” She smiles. “You know, beef or pork or something that doesn’t contain hydrogenated oils.” I can’t tell if it’s a genuine smile, or a smile of warning. It’s Eliza, I tell myself. Sweet, friendly Eliza. What she just said—that was friend with a lowercase f, not an uppercase F. “That stuff will kill you,” she adds with a wink.
I grab the bag and rush out the door, scanning the parking lot for anything troubling. But how would I even know what’s troubling? It’s the usual mix of Teslas and Land Rovers, the occasional Prius hanging out by a BMW 3 series. Stop being paranoid, I scold myself. Or don’t.
Alice arrives home a few minutes before six. I’ve thrown away the note I wrote to her this morning, telling her I was going to Half Moon Bay. I decide the news can wait until tomorrow. She’s still wired from the victory, tipsy from the long, celebratory lunch. Her giddiness is infectious, and for the first time in months, I’m able to push away that clinging sense of unease—not obliterate it, but shove it to the side of my mind, for Alice’s sake. I arrange cheese and crackers on a plate, and Alice pops the champagne. We move out to the tiny balcony off of our bedroom. The sun is about to set, and the fog is starting to move in, yet we can still see our sliver of the ocean. It’s this tiny, perfect ocean view that inspired us to buy the house we couldn’t afford. It isn’t just the ocean that makes the view so special but the rows of squat 1950s houses, the funky backyards, the beautiful trees lining Fulton Street where our neighborhood meets Golden Gate Park.
We linger on the balcony, the champagne bottle empty. Alice replays the entire court appearance, even doing hilarious imitations of each of the opposing lawyers, as well as the crusty judge. Her performance is brilliant, and I almost feel like I’m there in the courtroom with her. She has put so much work into this case, and I’m insanely proud of her.
The disturbing encounter with the pilot, the toxic session with the Boltons, and the failed, paranoid trip to Draeger’s fade. I realize that I am making a very conscious effort to be in the moment—to be mindful, as the popular terminology goes. This relaxed, private moment with Alice—celebrating her success, enjoying each other’s company—is the very essence of marriage in its most perfect sense. I wish I could bottle it; I wish I could replicate it each day. I imagine holding this moment in my mind, storing it up for when I need it most. I want to urge Alice to do the same—but that’s a contradiction, isn’t it? If I were to tell her to hold this moment close and remember it, wouldn’t I only be reminding her that this happiness is fleeting, that at any moment things could change for the worse?
And then Alice’s cell rings, and I am snapped out of my reverie. Just as I’m about to say, “Don’t answer,” Alice clicks on her phone.
She smiles, and I breathe a sigh of relief. It’s her client Jiri Kajanë, calling from his dacha along the Albanian coast. He’s just heard the good news about their victory. Alice laughs and puts her hand over the phone to tell me that he has named a character after her in his sequel to Sloganeering. “I’m Alice the typist who solves the case of the missing page in the all-important U’Ren file. Kaj
anë says you can be the attendant at the Hotel Dajti bocce court. It’s a small part, but important.”
She winks at me. “Will Alice the typist and Jake the bocce attendant find love and happiness?” she asks Kajanë.
Long pause. Apparently, the answer is complicated. Then Alice turns to me. “True love is elusive, but they will try.”
35
I startle awake in the middle of the night, certain that someone has been banging insistently on our front door. I wander around the house, peering out all of the windows, checking the Dropcam, seeing nothing. Late at night, our neighborhood is crazy quiet; the ocean breeze and the thick fog deaden all sound. I shine the flashlight out toward the yard. Nothing. Scanning the back fence, I see the red eyes of four raccoons reflected eerily in the glow of the flashlight.
In the morning, Alice appears dead to the world, not having moved an inch from the spot in the bed where she fell asleep. I put on coffee and start to make bacon and waffles.
An hour later, Alice walks in. “Bacon!” She kisses me. Then she sees that I’ve washed and folded all of her laundry. “Have I been asleep for weeks? What day is it?”
“Eat your bacon,” I say.
“I guess we were worried for no reason,” she says over breakfast. “I didn’t show up at the airport, and nothing happened.”
That’s when I tell Alice about my encounter with the pilot. I held off last night, not wanting to spoil her joy from the court victory. But she has to know. I worry that Vivian or Dave is going to call—or worse, Finnegan—and I don’t want her to be surprised. I tell her about the pilot’s accent, his impatient demeanor; his incredulity that she wasn’t there. I recount our brief conversation.
“He mentioned Finnegan by name?” She’s frowning.
I nod.
She puts her hand on the back of my neck, twirling her fingers in my hair. “It’s so sweet that you went in my place.”
“We’re in this together.”
“Well, did it seem like he was there to tell me something? To deliver a package or something?”
“He wasn’t holding a package.”
“He was going to take me somewhere?”
“Yes.”
Alice takes a soft breath. The worry line between her brows deepens. “Okay.”
“Let’s go for a walk,” I say. I want to talk, but after the bracelet, after yesterday, I’m not even certain it’s safe to talk in our own house.
She goes to our bedroom and returns in jeans and a sweater, her puffy coat. Outside, she scans the street. So do I. We turn left, our usual path down to Ocean Beach. Alice walks quickly and with purpose. Neither of us says anything. When we finally get onto the sand, she relaxes a bit. We walk side by side toward the waterline. “You know,” she says, “I’m very happy that I married you, Jake. I wouldn’t change it for anything. And this will sound strange, but I’ve been thinking about that moment when we were all in the conference room, after Finnegan’s victory. The partners called me in. The room was packed, and all of a sudden I’m standing shoulder to shoulder with Finnegan himself. When Frankel mentions I’m getting married, Finnegan puts his arm around me so tenderly and says, ‘I love weddings.’ And I reply, ‘Would you like to come to mine?’
“I didn’t even know that I was going to invite him until the words were out of my mouth. I wasn’t entirely serious. Everyone in the room laughed. When he said, ‘I would be honored,’ there was a weird hush. Everyone had been working their asses off to get his attention, to be noticed by the Amazing Finnegan, this legend who always seemed to hold himself apart, and it was as if they were all stunned at what had just transpired, by the generosity of his comment to me, although, of course, I’m sure no one thought he meant it. I didn’t. Afterward, when he was leaving, he stepped inside my cubicle. The wedding invitations had just been delivered, and the box was sitting on top of my desk, and when Finnegan said, ‘Where are the nuptials to take place, my dear?’ I just pulled one off the top and handed it to him. It all seemed so natural. Like an extension of a joke neither of us was willing to admit was a joke. Or at least that’s what I thought. It wasn’t until after he left that I realized that it hadn’t been a joke to him. And, Jake, here’s the weird part: It was as if he knew it was going to happen, as if he willed it.”
“He couldn’t have.”
“Are you sure?”
We’re standing by the water’s edge now. Alice takes off her shoes and tosses them behind us, into the sand, and I do the same. I take her hand, and we step into the surf together. The water is freezing.
“Here’s the thing, Jake. Our wedding was such a magical day that I don’t regret any of it. I don’t regret meeting Finnegan, and believe it or not, I don’t regret The Pact.”
I’m struggling to process this, and I think I understand what she’s saying. It’s like when Isobel told me that her existence depended upon her father’s unhappiness. Sometimes, two things cannot be separated. Once they’re enmeshed, they just are. Turning back the clock wouldn’t only unravel the bad but the good too.
“You’ve been so good to me, Jake, and I just want to be worthy.”
“You’re more than worthy.”
A few yards away, a surfer is zipping up his wet suit, attaching his ankle strap. His dog stands beside him, panting. Alice and I watch as the surfer pats his dog on the head and wades out into the water. The dog follows him a little way, and then the surfer says, “Go back, Marianne,” pointing to the shore. The dog obeys and swims back. Marianne, what a strange name for a dog.
“When I was a child,” Alice says, “I was so independent and strong-willed, my mother used to say that she pitied the man I married one day. As I got older, she started saying that she didn’t think I ever would marry. Once, she told me that even though she enjoyed being married to my father, that didn’t necessarily mean marriage was for me. I needed to find my own way, she told me. I needed to create my own happiness. But I also remember reading between the lines, thinking that she meant I would disappoint anyone who married me. Until quite some time after you and I met—probably longer after we met than you might want to hear—I still knew in my heart I would never marry.”
Her confession comes as a shock. The surfer is paddling out now, his strong arms stroking against the current. The dog is barking on the shore as the fog swallows her master.
“But, here’s the funny part,” Alice continues. “When you asked me, it seemed right. I wanted to marry you, but I was worried I would let you down.”
“Alice, you haven’t. You won’t—”
“Let me finish,” Alice says, tugging me deeper into the surf. The frigid water sloshes up my ankles, soaking my jeans. “When Vivian came that first day and gave us those papers to sign, I was happy. What she described sounded like a cult, or a secret society, or something that normally would have scared the shit out of me and made me run in the opposite direction. But I didn’t want to run. Her whole speech about The Pact, the box, the papers, Orla—all of it made me think, ‘This is a sign. This is meant to be. This is the tool that will help me succeed at marriage. It’s exactly what I need.’ As we got dragged deeper into The Pact, I still appreciated the gift. Even the bracelet, the afternoons with Dave, didn’t bother me the way they would have bothered you. I found some sort of purpose in it. Those two weeks when I wore the bracelet were so mind-blowingly intense. I know it sounds odd, but I felt such a strong connection to you, deeper than anything I’d ever felt with anyone. That’s why, despite everything, I can’t truthfully say that I wish The Pact had never happened. What we’re going through seems like a test we need to pass, Jake—not for The Pact, not for Vivian or Finnegan, but for us.”
The surfer has completely disappeared now. Marianne has stopped barking and is whimpering pathetically. I think about something I read about toddlers, too young to process the idea that a person or thing that is not in front of them still exists. When a very young child’s mother leaves the room, and the child cries, it’s because he doesn’
t know that his mother will come back. All of his experience with her, all of the hundreds of times that she has left his side and returned, mean nothing to him at that moment. All he understands is that his mother is gone. He is quite literally hopeless, because he cannot fathom a future in which he is with his mother again.
A wave comes crashing up, soaking my calves and Alice’s thighs, and we turn and run from the surf, laughing. I pull her close and feel her slender body beneath her big, puffy coat. I feel tears sting my eyes—tears of gratitude. In the past few minutes, Alice has revealed more to me about our relationship, about what it means to her, than she has in all the years I’ve known her. It occurs to me that right now, despite the threats hanging over us, the uncertainty, the dark chasm of the unknown looming before us, I am as happy as I have ever been.
“I guess what I’m saying, Jake, is that I’m happy I’m on this road with you.”
“Me too. I love you so much.”
Back home, at the bottom of our steps, Alice kisses me. Lost in the moment, I close my eyes for just long enough that I don’t see the black Lexus SUV pull into our driveway. When I open my eyes, it is there. I put my mouth against her ear and whisper, “Please—just tell them it was all my fault.”
36
Subtracting sleep, the average married American couple spends barely four minutes a day alone together.
The word bride comes from the root of an old German word meaning “to cook.”
More than half of all marriages end in divorce by the seventh year.
Three hundred couples get married in Las Vegas every day.
The average wedding costs the same as the average divorce: twenty thousand dollars.
The arrival of children decreases happiness in over 65 percent of marriages. Oddly enough, children also substantially reduce the likelihood of divorce.
One of the best predictors of a marriage’s success in the modern day is whether the wife feels that the household chores are divided evenly.
The Marriage Pact Page 13
