“Who?” I’m desperate to know if there are real facts and names behind what she’s saying.
“You know Dave and his wife, Kerri?”
“Of course. Alice has been meeting with Dave once a week.”
“I know.”
“How?” I ask, but she just waves her hand in the air as if this is an irrelevant detail.
“Dave and Kerri were both married before,” she says.
“You’re saying their spouses died?”
“Yes. Years ago, around the time that Neil and I joined The Pact.”
“They seem so young.”
“They are. They actually met through The Pact. Maybe it was just a coincidence, their spouses dying within three months of each other. Kerri’s husband, Tony, had a boating accident on Lake Tahoe.” She shudders. “Dave’s wife, Mary, fell off a ladder at her house while cleaning the second-floor windows and hit her head on the stone pavers of their driveway.”
“It’s horrible,” I say, “but these things happen.”
“Mary didn’t die right away. She was in a coma. Dave decided two months in to take her off life support.” That vein in JoAnne’s forehead, throbbing.
“Do you have proof?”
“Look, both Dave’s wife and Kerri’s husband had made multiple visits to Fernley. Both of them had ‘wrong thinking,’ Neil told me. According to rumors, their crimes ranged from obfuscation to misrepresentation of Pact doctrine to adultery. I went to Dave and Kerri’s wedding—it took place so soon after the deaths of their spouses. At the time, I was happy for both of them. They’d both been through so much. I thought they deserved something good in their lives. Neil and I were new, and I was still pretty gung ho. I didn’t think twice about the timing and the coincidence. But I do remember one strange thing about the wedding.”
“What’s that?”
“Well, normally you’d think that this happy occasion would be tinged with sadness, right, because of all they’d lost? And you’d think that the spouses’ names would come up in the toast, or in conversation, that somebody would fondly mention the dead wife and the dead husband. After all, everyone at the wedding knew both of the former spouses. But it was as if Mary and Tony had been entirely forgotten. No—not forgotten—erased.”
“But what you’re accusing The Pact of goes way beyond threats and slander. You’re talking about murder.”
JoAnne looks away. “Right before I saw you at the Villa Carina party, something else happened,” she says softly. “A couple joined just a few months before you and Alice. Eli and Elaine, hipsters from Marin. Nine days before the Villa Carina party, their car was found out near Stinson Beach. I tried to press the issue with Neil, but he refused to talk about it. I scoured the newspapers and couldn’t find anything. They vanished. Jake, when Eli and Elaine joined, Neil made some comments. It was strange—people in The Pact just didn’t like them. I don’t know why. They seemed nice. Elaine was a little overly affectionate with the husbands, maybe, but nothing serious. They dressed a little different, and they were into Transcendental Meditation, but so what? Anyway, when they disappeared, I started thinking about Dave’s and Kerri’s spouses, and all the inter-organization weddings that have happened over the years. I’ve even heard of cases in which The Pact deems a nonmember to be a threat and takes steps against that individual in order to prevent damage to the marriage.”
JoAnne leans back in her seat and sips the green lemonade. She’s staring at me, but I have absolutely no idea what she’s thinking. A mother and her two kids are next to us, eating Panda Express. The kids are giggling over their fortune cookies. I look at JoAnne’s phone. It has been on the table between us this whole time.
JoAnne sets her cup down. One by one, she touches the tip of each nail underneath the nail on her thumb. Then she repeats. It’s subtle but a little manic. “They just disappear without a trace, Jake.”
Whenever I meet with new patients, the first thing I do is try to figure out their normal states. We all live within a range of emotions; we all go up and down. With teenagers, the range can swing wildly. I always want to know where each person’s “normal” lies, because it allows me to more quickly recognize when someone is especially up or, more important, especially down. With JoAnne, I’m still trying to find her normal. She’s clearly riddled with anxiety. I want to know how to interpret this fear, I want to understand the context for the stories she’s telling me. Are they the product of an unbalanced mind? Should I trust her perception? Looking down at her phone, I’m worried. What if Neil finds out we’ve met?
JoAnne is rubbing her nails slowly along her palm.
“You used to wear them short.” I reach over and touch one of the long, slick nails.
“Neil wants them this way, so I do it.” She holds them up in front of me, in a faux-glamorous sort of way. I notice that her ring fingers are longer than her index fingers. There’s actually a correlation between finger length and the likelihood of infidelity. According to a fairly convincing study, when the ring finger is longer than the index finger, the person is more likely to be unfaithful. The explanation has to do with testosterone levels. After reading the research, I found myself staring at Alice’s hands, inordinately relieved to discover that her ring fingers are shorter than her index fingers.
“Should I be worried for our safety?” I ask.
JoAnne thinks for a moment. “Yes. They don’t know what to make of you. You make them nervous. Alice is different. They either really like her, or they really don’t. Either way is probably bad for you.”
“So what should I do?”
“Be careful, Jake. Fit in. Be less interesting. Be less argumentative. Don’t give them reason to think about you; give them even less reason to talk about you. Don’t write anything you can say, don’t say anything you can whisper, don’t whisper anything you can nod. Don’t wind up at Fernley. Don’t ever wind up at Fernley.”
JoAnne reaches for her purse. “I need to go.”
“Wait,” I say. “I have more questions—”
“We’ve already stayed too long, Jake. This wasn’t smart. Let’s not leave together. Stay here for a few minutes, then go out a separate entrance.”
I point to her phone, which still sits on the table between us. “That thing makes me nervous.”
JoAnne looks down at the phone. “Yes, but turning it off or leaving it at home might be more problematic.”
“Can we meet again?”
“It seems like a bad idea.”
“Not meeting seems like a worse idea. Last Friday of the month?”
“I’ll try.”
“Leave your phone at home next time.”
JoAnne picks up the phone and turns away from me without saying goodbye. I watch her walk all the way across the food court. She’s wearing tall shoes. The shoes don’t seem like the JoAnne I once knew, and it occurs to me that maybe they’re Neil’s idea too. Marriage is a compromise; so says section two of The Manual.
I sit at the table for another ten minutes, running through the conversation in my mind. I don’t know what to make of it. When I came to meet JoAnne, I’d been secretly hoping that one of two things would happen; either we were going to commiserate about all of The Pact’s weird rules and punishments, or I was going to discover that she fell somewhere on the spectrum for paranoia. And maybe she is paranoid. Maybe I am too. But paranoia must be considered in context. Fear of a group is only paranoia if the group is not out to get you.
I walk back through the mall. I need to get Alice a gift for this month. In Macy’s, I select a scarf. I like her in scarves, even though she never wore them before we met. I decide that the bright blues will go well with her complexion. On the train back to the city, I pull the scarf from the bag and run my hands over the silk, suddenly ashamed. The first time I gave Alice a scarf, she said she loved it. But she wore it only when I asked her to. With the second scarf, it was the same, as well as the third. What if I’m no better than Neil, dolling my wife up according to my own
tastes, my own inclinations? I shove the gift back into the bag and leave the bag on the train. What compromises has Alice made, already, for this marriage? What unfair things do I demand of her, and she of me?
50
The following week, Alice and I celebrate my fortieth birthday with a low-key dinner at my favorite neighborhood restaurant, The Richmond. She gives me a beautiful watch that must have cost a whole paycheck, with the inscription TO JAKE—WITH ALL MY LOVE. ALICE—on the back. The week after that, I end up working late, writing session reports, editing an academic paper an old colleague talked me into co-authoring. On the way home, I stop to get a couple of burritos for dinner. As I walk up the steps to our house, I feel the vibration of music coming from our garage.
When Alice and I moved into the house, she had recently finished law school. The gilt had rubbed off of the idea of a life in law, and she was a little depressed, slogging through a clerkship for a local judge. She often worried that the whole idea had been a mistake. She missed her music, her freedom, her creativity, and maybe, I suspected, she missed her old life. If she hadn’t already committed to a law career by taking on so many outrageous loans, I think she might have quit.
During one of her low periods, while she was upstairs studying through an entire Sunday, I worked downstairs in the garage to build a special music area for her. It seemed important to give her that outlet, a small door into her old life. I sectioned off one large corner in the back, put some mattresses against the walls, and layered shag rugs on the floor. I gathered up the many musical instruments, stands, amps, and microphones that had been hiding in boxes, some stored away in the tiny secret room. At dusk, taking a break, Alice came down to see what all the racket was. When she saw the cozy little studio, she was so happy she actually cried. She gave me a hug, and then she played for me.
Since then, I’ve heard her down there a bunch of times. Usually I respect her privacy. I just let her play her music, and wait for her to come upstairs. I like that she has such an outlet, and I like that she always comes back upstairs to me.
Tonight, as I walk into the house, I notice that the music coming from the garage is different. At first, I assume she has the stereo on, but then it occurs to me that it is indeed live music, but she isn’t the only one playing. I change and put the burritos on plates, expecting the music to stop, expecting her and the guests to come upstairs—I wish I’d bought more burritos—but it doesn’t happen. Eventually, I open the kitchen door to get a better listen. It sounds like there are three or four people down there. I take a few steps down toward the garage, not enough to be seen, just enough to hear the music better.
The next few songs are from Ladder’s first album. I recognize the male voice blending with Alice’s. I’ll be honest: Over the past couple of months, it’s possible that I may have done some more Internet surfing related to Eric Wilson. It’s also possible that I noticed he and his new band were playing the Great American Music Hall this week.
A few songs in, the noise gives way to acoustic guitars, organ, and the Grateful Dead’s “Box of Rain.” I sit on the stairs, listening to the guitars build. Alice’s voice works its way through the cacophony, always finding the melody and the groove. It makes me shiver. The way Eric’s rich baritone voice intertwines with Alice’s voice is seductive and disturbing.
I love music, but I can’t carry a tune in a bucket, as my mother used to say. Hearing them, I feel like an outsider, a foreigner eavesdropping on a private conversation between the locals. Still, I want to hear the entire song. I don’t want to tug Alice away from this thing she is so clearly enjoying. Their voices work superbly together, hers circling around his, then coming together at the right moment, hitting the perfect harmony. I’m not sure why, but sitting here in the dark, on the stairs, as the song finds its way to the final reveal, tears well up in my eyes.
I’ve thought far more about marriage in recent months than I ever did before. What is the marriage contract? The general assumption we have about marriage is that it involves two people building a life together. But what I wonder is this: Does it require each person to give up the life they built before? Must we shed our former selves? Do we have to give up that which was once important to us as a sacrifice to the gods of marriage?
For me, the transition into marriage with Alice was nearly seamless. The house, the wedding, our life together, flowed naturally from the life I’d been living before. My education, my job, and the practice I was building would, I knew, provide a fertile support system for this new life. For Alice, I imagine it was different. In the space of a few years, she went from being an independent artist, a single woman who reveled in her freedom, to being an attorney weighed down by responsibility, constrained by a newly inherited set of limitations. Although I often encouraged Alice to hold on to the person she used to be, when I’m honest with myself, I’m not sure I pushed as hard as I could have. Sure, I supported her in the small ways, like creating the garage studio. But when it came to the larger things—like encouraging her to do cameos when musicians asked her to join them in the studio, I never said no, but maybe I sent the wrong signals. “Isn’t that the weekend we’re going to the Russian River?” Or “Aren’t we having dinner with Ian that night?” I would say.
I resolve to walk down the stairs. I move quietly, so as not to distract them. At the bottom, I realize the cavernous garage is pitch-black except for the corner where they’re playing. Alice has her back to me, facing the others, and the drummer and keyboard player seem lost in the music. Eric, though, is facing me, and he sees me. He doesn’t acknowledge me and instead mumbles something to the others. Immediately, the four of them launch into “Police Station,” a Red Hot Chili Peppers song about an on-again, off-again relationship between the narrator and the woman he loves. Eric’s bass line sets the windows rattling.
Alice leans toward him, sharing a microphone, their faces so close they could kiss. She’s still wearing her navy suit and pantyhose, though her shoes are gone and she is jumping up and down, her sweat-soaked hair bouncing. I realize that Eric chose the song as much for me as for Alice.
The verses end, but the music goes on. Eric is no longer looking at me. He is gazing at Alice and, as I quietly move to a better angle, I see that she is gazing at him. She is watching his hands, following the notes. The drummer’s eyes are closed, and the keyboardist gives me a slight nod. Every time the song is about to end, Eric leads it into another refrain. And though I can see exactly what he’s doing, trying to provoke me, I don’t want to be the kind of guy who can’t handle it. I don’t want to be the jealous husband. Alice has told me that one of the things she loves about me is my confidence. It’s important to me to be the man Alice believes I am.
Eventually, the song ends. Alice looks up, surprised to see me, sets down her guitar, beckons me over, and gives me a kiss. I can feel her sweat on my skin. “Fellows, this is Jake,” she announces happily. “Jake, this is Eric, Ryan, and Dario.” Ryan and Dario nod and quickly set about packing their things.
“So this is the guy,” Eric says, looking at Alice, not at me. His hand grips mine painfully. I grip back just as hard. Okay, maybe harder.
He pulls his hand away and turns to hug Alice. “Join us tonight at the show,” he says, not a question, exactly, but a command, and I see how it might have been with them, when she was much younger. How he was the one to make the decisions.
But my Alice isn’t that Alice. “Not tonight. I have a hot date with this guy,” she says, putting her arms around me.
“Ouch,” Eric says.
“News flash,” Ryan says good-naturedly. “Alice is married.”
51
The following day is Alice’s last day with Ron—watching the sunrise, doing squats and push-ups, running up and down the sand dunes at Ocean Beach. She’s up and out of the house before I even realize she has left our warm bed. Surprisingly, she has come to enjoy her time with Ron. She likes the stories of his past boyfriends, she likes following the soap opera of
his chaotic life, which seems to be equal parts hardcore sports and hardcore partying. Mostly, though, she likes that he is not, apparently, a part of The Pact. He was hired by Vivian to train Alice, and it is Vivian who pays him weekly—in person, with cash.
Alice has lost seven pounds and developed serious new muscles. Her stomach is hard, her arms defined, her legs lean. Her clothes don’t fit properly anymore, skirts sagging where they used to hug her curves, and one afternoon she asks me to help her carry all her suits out to the car. She’s bringing them to the tailor to be taken in. To me, she seems unnecessarily bony, and her face has lost its softness, reverting to harder edges I never knew were there. For that, I blame The Pact. Still, she seems happy.
She also seems to have worked through her annoyance with Dave; she appears to actually like him now. She has to meet him two more times, and then she’s finished with probation, fully rehabilitated. I think of JoAnne’s crazy stories—the couples who never divorced but ended up married to a better partner. What if Alice is becoming a better person, while I’m just staying the same? What if this is all part of a plan to transform Alice, while leaving me behind? I shake off the thought that someone on high has already decided to make Alice a widow.
52
The month has passed quickly. On the agreed-upon date, I find myself back at the Fourth Street station, waiting for the train to take me down the Peninsula to the Hillsdale mall. I’ve done research—hours and hours of research—but I can’t find any reference to Eli and Elaine, the disappeared couple JoAnne mentioned the last time I saw her. A couple vanishes, leaving only an empty car, yet there are no blog posts, no news articles, no conspiracy theories, no Facebook page devoted to finding them. How is that possible? But then I’m often surprised by which news stories make it big and which ones fail to linger. Still, I begin to wonder if it was all a figment of JoAnne’s imagination.
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