“No,” I say.
She frowns.
“You’ll thank me later.”
“Bastard.”
We exit the car and stand for a minute, both awed by the beauty of the house and the maze of a path leading up to it. We stand at the edge of the path for a full minute, holding hands, not speaking. It’s very possible that we are on the wrong path; unfortunately, turning around is not an option.
45
In hindsight, I suppose it was fast: Alice and I had only known each other for a little over a year when we decided to purchase a house together. Buying property in San Francisco, of course, is insanely difficult. Alice and I spent less than twenty minutes in the house before we offered a million and change, with 20 percent down, no contingencies. That was a couple of years ago, when houses were still “attainable.”
Months after moving in, I noticed a power line going up and under one of the walls in the garage. It puzzled me, so I pulled back on all of the plywood, one piece at a time. At first I was just expecting to find the innards of the wall, electrical stuff, whatever. But there, behind the plywood, was a tiny room, complete with a chair in the middle and a built-in desk. On the desk there was a packet of photos. They appeared to have all been taken on a family vacation to Seattle in the 1980s. How could we not have known about the secret room when we first moved in?
I think of Alice that way sometimes. I keep searching for the small, hidden mystery. Usually, Alice is exactly who I think she is, but every now and then, when I’m really paying attention, I find that hidden room.
She doesn’t talk about her family, so I was surprised recently when she commented about a trip her father had taken. The television was on, an old episode of Globe Trekker, and the hosts were working their way through the Netherlands. “Amsterdam’s a great city,” she said, “but I can never get out of my own head when I’m there.”
“Why?”
She told me about how, soon after her mother died, her brother joined the Army. I don’t know much about the brother, beyond the fact that in his teens he suffered depression and became an addict, demons that plagued him until his suicide in his early twenties. Alice told me that no one had expected him to enlist, and that it seemed absurd that the Army would let him in, with his documented history of depression. Alice’s father went to see the recruiter and tried to talk him out of it, explaining all the reasons why it was a terrible idea. But the recruiter had quotas, and once he had gotten the signature, it was clear that he wasn’t letting go of the stat.
Alice’s brother shocked the whole family by making it through basic training. They were proud of him but worried when he was shipped off to Germany. “I told my father maybe it was a good thing,” Alice said. “Maybe it would straighten him out. And my father just gave me a look like I was an idiot. ‘There is no magic cure for things,’ he said.” Ten weeks later, when the family got the call that Alice’s brother had gone AWOL, no one was really surprised.
“So close on the heels of my mother’s death,” Alice said, “Brian’s disappearance struck my dad and me like a ton of bricks. When I woke up the next morning, my father was gone too. He left me some cash, a fully stocked kitchen, the keys to the car, and a note saying that he’d gone to find Brian. The world seemed enormous to me then, and so the idea that my father was just going to wander around, expecting to find Brian, seemed crazy.”
Alice’s father called her that night. And every night for the next three weeks. When she asked where he was, he would simply say that he was finding Brian. Then one night he didn’t call. “I cried,” Alice told me. “I’d never cried like that before, and I’ve never cried like that since. I’d lost my mother and my brother, and now I thought I’d lost my father too. You have to understand, I was seventeen. I felt so alone.”
The next day, she didn’t go to school. She stayed home, miserable on the couch, watching TV, not sure what to do or whom to call. She made macaroni and cheese for dinner and was eating in the kitchen, over the stove, when she heard a taxi pull up. She raced to the window.
“It was crazy,” Alice told me. “I see my father get out one side, my brother get out the other. They come in, and we all sit down and eat the mac and cheese.”
Alice said that she always assumed that Brian had gone back to the Army and her father had gotten him discharged. It wasn’t until years later that she learned the amazing truth. Her father had spent those three weeks wandering around Amsterdam, hundreds of miles from where Brian had last been seen—going to cafés, hostels, train stations, wandering around at night looking for him. Her brother and father had always had an intense connection, like her father could almost read Brian’s mind, Alice said. Although Brian had never been to Amsterdam, somehow their father just knew that he would be there, knew exactly where to look.
When Alice told me the story, it felt like that mystery room in our garage. It resonated and made me see Alice in a new light. Brian was obsessive, driven in all the wrong ways, the world outside fading as he pursued something only he could see. Alice’s father, unwilling to accept that his son was gone, was equally obsessive, undeterred in his unlikely search. The genetic foundation of Brian’s illness certainly began somewhere. It was the full spectrum of obsessive behavior, both the best and the worst of it, all in one family. Seen in that light, Alice’s obsessive need to succeed at any pursuit, to follow a plan through to the very end, no matter where it might lead, somehow makes sense.
46
I take Alice’s arm in mine and we walk up the lit path. The trail winds through a grove of fragrant trees that end at the entrance to the majestic home. Glass, wood, steel beams, polished concrete, indoor-outdoor living, a pool, and an unexpected view out across Silicon Valley.
“Nice house,” Alice says, deadpan.
Gene steps out through the massive, heavy front door. “Friends.”
I hand him the bottle, and he says, “You shouldn’t have.” Then he glances down at the label. “Oh, you really shouldn’t have! But I’m glad you did.”
Turning toward my wife, he says, “Alice, Friend, you truly sparkle.” Gene is old enough to get away with saying something like that, and he’s apparently familiar enough with The Pact not to be surprised by the Focus Collar.
“Thank you, Gene. I love your house.”
From across the patio, Vivian appears. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite couple!” She gives Alice a big hug. Like Gene, she doesn’t acknowledge the collar. Then Vivian turns to kiss me on both cheeks, as though our conversation at Java Beach never happened, as though I never told her we wanted out of The Pact. “Friend,” she whispers in my ear, “I am so happy to see you.” Perhaps I’m wrong, but I suspect this is her way of telling me that the unpleasant business is now behind us, my sins washed away.
Gene leads us through the house, stopping for a moment at the bar, where two glasses of champagne are waiting. A dozen bottles of Cristal are lined up behind the bar. He holds his glass up to ours, toasting, “To Friends.”
“To Friends,” Alice repeats.
Gene notices me looking at the painting above the concrete fireplace. In college, my roommate had a poster of this painting over his desk, something he purchased when he wanted to be “more adultlike.”
I’m mesmerized once again by the three stripes, the brilliant colors, complementing and contrasting one another, all evoking a specific feeling, both together and separate. Somehow I am transported back to that dorm room, only now I really am more adultlike.
Alice turns her gaze upward. “That is not a freaking Rothko!”
Gene’s wife, Olivia, joins us. She’s wearing an apron over her dress, though she carries herself so gracefully I doubt she’s ever spilled anything on her clothes. Like Vivian, she has an air of almost eerie calm about her.
Olivia slides her arm around my waist and shepherds me closer to the painting. “Rothko recommended that the painting be viewed from eighteen inches. He believed his works needed companionship.” She leaves her arm around m
y waist long enough that I begin to feel uncomfortable, unsure what to do with my arms. So I cross them and stand as still as possible. “This painting is a pain in the ass,” she remarks.
“Why?”
“It was a gift from Gene for our tenth anniversary. But the accountant made us have it appraised, and now all I do is worry about it.” Olivia tugs at my hand. “Come, let’s join the others outside. They’re all waiting to see you.”
At regular parties, people tend to show up fashionably late. Not here. It’s six-ten, and it appears that all of the guests have arrived, parked, and begun drinking champagne and enjoying the hors d’oeuvres. Unlike at the first party, the food isn’t fancy. Apparently, not everyone can pull off a canapé in their sleep. I’m relieved to see the simple platters of cheese and fruit, along with basic crudités and some shrimp wrapped in bacon. When it comes our turn, Alice and I might actually be able to pull off this kind of spread.
Everyone greets us with smiles and hugs, addressing us as “Friend.” It gives me the creeps, but in a warm kind of way, if that’s possible. They all seem to remember everything about us, and I try to recall the last time anyone at Alice’s firm remembered anything about me. These people pay attention. Maybe too much attention, but still there’s something flattering about it. Men I only vaguely recognize walk up and pick up exactly where we left off in our conversation three months ago.
A guy named Harlan is asking me about my therapy practice, his wife quizzing Alice about law, when I notice JoAnne talking to a couple by the pool. I try to catch her eye but fail. Just then, Neil appears at my side. “JoAnne looks lovely tonight, doesn’t she?” he says, so quietly that only I can hear.
“Certainly,” I say. But the way he squeezes my shoulder—too hard, not exactly friendly—makes me think it was the wrong answer.
He glances at Alice, his eyes lingering on the collar. “I must say, Friend, you look stunning.”
She touches the collar. “I can’t take credit for the accessory.”
I’m biting into a brownie, trying to think of something to say to Neil, when our host from last time appears. “You might want to hold off on that,” Kate teases. I stop midbite, uncertain. “Hello, Friend,” she says. “Nice to see you again!”
“Hello, Friend,” I echo. Alice glances at me, startled.
Kate leans in and gives me a kiss on the lips. I taste her earthy lipstick and smell the vanilla in her fragrance. There is nothing sensual about the kiss, but it does tell me that we are far closer friends than I realized. It seems to be this way with all of the members.
“Are you two ready for your weigh-in?”
Alice and I stare at her blankly.
Kate laughs. “Clearly you haven’t read all of the attachments and appendices.”
“I don’t recall any attachments.”
“Each year the Guiding Committee puts out updates and new regulations,” Kate explains. “Your manual should have contained them. They would have been loose papers in the back of the book.”
“I’m sure there were no loose papers.” Alice is frowning.
“Really?” Neil says, surprised. “I’ll have to talk with Vivian.”
I’m secretly pleased. Apparently, Vivian has screwed up. I wonder what the punishment will be.
“Oh well,” Kate says. “Oversights are unusual, but they do occur. The new regulations came out right before you two joined, which might explain it. For our group, first-quarter meeting is the annual weigh-in. We do the fit test during the third quarter. Better to split them up, I think.”
Kate turns to Alice. Unlike the others, she acknowledges the Focus Collar. “Ah, I trust you’ve found this enlightening,” she says, running her finger over the smooth gray finish. She confides, “Just between us, Friend, I had one too, years ago. This new model is certainly an improvement. These days, they use a three-D printer, I hear, so each one fits perfectly. It’s expensive, of course, but as you probably know, the investment team had a spectacular year.”
“Investment team?” Alice asks.
“Of course!” Kate says. “Those three members from the London School of Economics and our friends from Sand Hill Road have certainly changed things for all of us. There’s funding for pretty much anything The Pact deems necessary. My collar was so heavy, even a few rough edges. No foam.” Her fingers flutter to the scar on her chin.
Then she shakes her head, as if coming out of a trance. “So, should we head to the bedroom and get this done? You two are my last.” She takes us arm in arm and marches us toward the house. Alice awkwardly turns her body sideways to shoot me a quick glance. She doesn’t seem the least bit afraid, just amused.
Kate leads us into a palatial bedroom with floor-to-ceiling windows. On the wall, there’s a large canvas print signed by Matt Groening. It’s a drawing of Gene, in the style of The Simpsons. The character is dressed exactly the way Gene is dressed tonight. He is also holding a champagne glass. Underneath, there’s sloppy writing: Gene, the house is marvelous. Thank you.
“The bathroom is through there,” Kate says, pointing. “Strip as far as you like. Don’t be modest; I went the full monty myself. Every ounce counts. The requirement is that you must always remain within five percent of your weight on the day of your wedding.”
“What if I was fat on the day of my wedding? I wouldn’t be allowed to lose more than five percent of my body weight?” I wasn’t, but it’s a fair question.
“Oh, that never happens,” she says, smiling. “All of our members, as you know, are vetted thoroughly before being invited into the fold. Anyway, the penalty for the first violation is a Misdemeanor Six. After that, things get a little sticky. You two really need to do your homework.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” I say jovially, trying to play along.
“Who’s my first victim?” Kate asks.
“That would be me.” Alice moves toward the bathroom. “I need every last ounce I can shed. The collar puts me at a disadvantage.”
“Don’t you worry about that,” Kate says. “It’s three pounds, two ounces, we have it in your records. The weight of the collar is subtracted.”
While we wait for Alice to return, Kate fiddles with a sleek scale on the floor, then opens a laptop on the dresser. I watch her access a website featuring a blinking blue P and a log-in bar. She types quickly, and in an instant a spreadsheet appears on the screen. On the left of the spreadsheet is a row of photographs—Alice and me among them. Next to the photos is a series of numbers. I move toward the dresser to get a better look, but Kate snaps the laptop closed.
When the bathroom door opens, Alice is standing there in just the collar, her bra, and underwear. She steps onto the scale. Kate reads the number and punches it into the laptop. “Your turn,” she says to me. I follow Alice into the bathroom.
When the door is closed, I whisper, “This is so freaking weird.”
“If I’d known, I would’ve skipped those beers beforehand. I was in here trying to pee as much as I could.”
“Good idea,” I say, standing in front of the toilet with the heated Japanese seat. “Should I fully strip down? And how the hell do they know what I weighed on our wedding day?”
Alice puts her clothes back on as I take off my shoes, pants, and belt. I leave the underwear, shirt, and socks on. “Honey,” Alice says, “you might want to lose the rest of it if you think it’s going to be close.”
I think for a second, then strip off my shirt and socks. “The boxer briefs stay,” I insist. Laughing, Alice opens the door, and Kate looks up from her computer and winks at Alice as if they’re in on some private joke.
I step on the scale and suck in my stomach, not that it will make a difference, but still. Kate reads the number aloud and punches it into the computer. While I’m getting dressed in the bathroom, I can hear Alice and Kate talking in the bedroom. Alice asks how we did.
“Oh, that’s not in my duties; I just punch in the numbers.”
“How did you become responsible for th
e weigh-in?”
“It was like any other directive. One day I received a package by messenger. It contained instructions, some access codes, the glass scale, and this laptop. As far as Pact jobs go, it’s not a bad one.”
“Does everyone have a job? I haven’t heard anything about that.”
“Yes. Soon, you and Jake will be assigned duties according to your abilities and skill sets, as determined by the Work Committee.”
Alice raises her eyebrows, surprised. “What about my actual job?”
“I’m certain you’ll find your duties in The Pact are an actual job. I assure you, the Work Committee never gives a member more than he or she can handle.”
I step out of the bathroom. “And what if someone refuses?” I ask.
Kate gives me a slightly disapproving look. “Friend” is all she says.
We head back to the party. The dinner is a salad and a small slice of tuna on a bed of rice. Bland but serviceable. I’ll try to talk Alice into stopping for a burger on the way home. After everyone has helped clear the plates away, Gene and Olivia appear from the kitchen carrying a three-tiered birthday cake, lit with dozens of candles. All of the members who have had birthdays this month stand up as we sing “Happy Birthday.”
JoAnne approaches the cake; apparently she recently turned thirty-nine. I haven’t talked to her all night. For some reason, whenever I look for her, she is on the far side of the party. The assigned dinner seating had me between Beth, a scientist, and Steve, her news anchor husband. JoAnne was on the other side of the table at the far end. Now, as she walks past, she doesn’t even acknowledge me. I suddenly realize that she’s the only one who hasn’t greeted me with an overly generous hug and the words “Hello, Friend.”
JoAnne is wearing a conservative blue dress. She looks thin and pale. On the back of her calves, I notice marks, maybe bruises.
Later, Alice and I are talking to a couple, Chuck and Eve, on the patio, when I see JoAnne heading inside the house. Her husband, Neil, is standing with Dave, Alice’s counselor, at the far end of the yard, where a big screen has been set up to broadcast tonight’s Warriors game. They’re leaning against a wide, low concrete wall, about four feet high, that seems more sculptural than functional. I slip away from the conversation and follow JoAnne inside. I don’t think she’s seen me, but as I round the corner to the bathroom she’s standing there waiting for me.
The Marriage Pact Page 17
