The Marriage Pact

by Michelle Richmond

  Isobel scowls at the book in disgust. “Why should we read that scary fascist propaganda?”

  “It is scary, but not for the reason you think. The scary part is that you might find yourself agreeing with some of it.”

  “If you say so,” Conrad says. But the eye roll he gives Isobel is a clear signal that they’re in this together. When did I become the face of authoritarianism?

  56

  Every time I hear a bike coming down the street, I find myself tensing up, thinking of all the things I’ve done wrong. Usually, as I hold my breath, I hear the wheels, the chain, the gears, flying past the house and down toward Cabrillo. Today, however—Wednesday—the bike stops at our house. I hear the telltale click of bike shoes pattering up our front steps.

  It’s the same messenger as last time. “Dude,” he says, “you guys are getting my legs in shape.”

  “Sorry. Want something to drink?”

  “Sure.” And then he’s in the house. He places the envelope facedown on the console in the entryway, so I can’t see whose name is on the front.

  In the kitchen, I pour him a glass of chocolate milk. I pull out a bag of cookies and he sits down at the table. To be polite, I sit down too, but all I really want to do is go over and check the name on the envelope.

  He launches into a long story about how his girlfriend just moved out here from Nevada to be with him. I don’t have the heart to tell him it probably isn’t going to work out. There is a whole range of telltale signs, and I’ve been subconsciously checking the boxes as he talks. Because of the outrageous rental prices, she moved in with him. He admits it’s too fast, that he wasn’t yet ready for that step, but she’d given him an ultimatum. If she didn’t move to San Francisco, she told him, the relationship was over. I can already tell that the premature cohabitation, combined with the fact that he feels pushed into it and that she’s the kind of person who feels comfortable giving ultimatums, can’t lead anywhere good.

  As soon as he’s out the door, I pick up the envelope. I flip it over and my gut hurts. It’s for me. And then I’m ashamed, because I should be happy it’s for me. I remember what JoAnne said: Spread the blame, don’t let them get too focused on Alice. The only thing I can figure is that they know I forgot Alice’s present. Of course, I think, shuddering, it could be worse. It could involve my trip to the Hillsdale mall.

  I dial Alice’s number. I’m surprised when she picks up on the second ring, but then I recall The Manual: Always answer when your spouse calls. Today, they’re doing the deposition of an infamous tech executive who assaulted an intern last year. Apparently, in a room full of people, the executive started screaming at the intern for not being fast enough with the PowerPoint. The exec pushed the intern out of the way, and the poor girl fell and hit her head on the table. Blood everywhere.

  There’s noise in the background. “We just took a five-minute break from the shitshow,” Alice says. “Be quick.”

  “The bike messenger came by.”

  Long pause. “Fuck. I hate Wednesday.”

  “It’s for me.”

  “That’s weird.” Is it just me, or does she not sound as surprised as she should?

  “I haven’t read it yet. I wanted to wait until I had you on the phone.” I tear open the envelope. Inside, there’s a single sheet of paper. In the background, I can hear Alice’s associate telling her something.

  “Read it.” Alice sounds impatient.

  “Dear Jake,” I read aloud. “Periodically, Friends are invited to travel to participate in inquiries both broad and specific. An inquiry is an opportunity for the board to obtain and evaluate information related to a subject of relevance to one or more members of the organization. While your attendance is optional—this is an invitation, not a directive—you are strongly encouraged to attend and assist the Reeducation Committee in this matter. The goals of each individual Pact member are the goals of all members.”

  “It’s a subpoena,” Alice says, her voice tense.

  I read the fine print at the bottom of the page. “They want me at the Half Moon Bay Airport tonight at nine.”

  “Are you going?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  There’s another commotion in the background. I’m waiting for Alice to talk me out of this, to tell me it’s a very bad idea, but instead she says, “No, not really.”

  I toss the letter onto the table and walk back to my office. I wish I hadn’t come home for lunch.

  A session in the afternoon with my preteen trouble-diversion group keeps my mind off of the matter for a few minutes, at least. Preteens are always the most difficult to assess, so I have to focus intensely on every comment and every nonverbal cue. Adults’ motivations are generally easier to discern; with kids, it can be difficult to pinpoint motives they usually don’t consciously recognize themselves.

  Afterward, I’m exhausted, so I go for a walk in the neighborhood. I buy the last lemon chocolate chip scone at Nibs. By the time I get back to the office, I already know that I’m going to the airport tonight. With The Pact, the best policy is to always do the thing that will attract the least amount of attention. There’s no question that I love Alice, but if The Pact were to comb through my actions or nonactions as a husband, I’m certain they could paint me as a one-man crime wave. Evelyn frowns when I tell her I won’t be in tomorrow. I feel terrible canceling on clients again, but what choice do I have?

  At home, I pack an overnight bag with toiletries and a change of clothing, something nice but not too formal. When Alice gets home at 7:03, I’m sitting in the blue chair, the packed bag at my feet.

  “You’re going,” she says.

  “Every bit of logic tells me not to answer their beck and call. On the other hand, I don’t want to deal with the consequences of not showing up.”

  Alice stands in front of me, biting a nail. I want some acknowledgment that she’s proud of me, or at least grateful, for the sacrifice I’m about to make, but instead she seems irritated. Not with The Pact, but with me. “You must have done something,” she says.

  “The gift was late,” I say. Then I throw a bomb into the whole situation: “How do you think they knew?”

  “Jesus, Jake. You think I ratted you out? It’s clearly something else.” She gives me an accusing look, as if she’s waiting for me to confess to some grand crime, but I just smile and say, “I’m clean.”

  She hasn’t even taken off her coat or shoes. No hug or kiss. “I’ll give you a ride.”

  “You want to change first?”

  “No,” she says, glancing at her watch. “We better go.” I have the strange feeling that she just wants to get rid of me.

  Traffic is light on Highway 1, so we have time to stop for a burrito in Moss Beach. “Please tell me you had a bad day at work,” I say, setting guacamole and two beers on the table between us. “I can’t stand it if all this coldness is about me.”

  She scoops up guacamole with a chip and chews it slowly before answering. “The freaking deposition was hell. The executive called me petulant. I hate that bitch. Let me see the letter.”

  I pull the letter out of my bag. While she’s reading it, I go over to the counter and grab our burritos. When I get back, she’s wiping up the last of the guacamole with the last chip. It’s a small thing, but it’s unlike her. She knows how much I love guacamole.

  She folds the letter into thirds and slides it back across the table. “How bad could it be? They didn’t send some big guy in an SUV to frisk you and drag you out to the desert.”

  “Jesus, Alice, you almost sound disappointed.”

  “Like you said, you haven’t done anything. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “After all, if you’d done something, I would know.” She takes a long swig of her beer. Then she looks me in the eye, smiles, and says the next part in this funny James Earl Jones voice that we’ve each been using whenever quoting The Manual: “The rules of The Pact come down to one essential rule: no secrets, tell your spouse e
verything.”

  “You’ve told me everything, right?” she asks.

  “Of course.”

  “Then you’ll be fine, Jake. Let’s get out of here.”

  At the Half Moon Bay Airport, all of the lights are off. Alice and I sit in the car in the dark and talk as we wait. Gone is the edge in her voice, the accusation. It’s as if my Alice has come back to me, and I’m grateful. I start to wonder if I misconstrued everything she’s said for the past few hours. At 8:56, a light in the office building comes on and then the landing strip flashes and ignites the night sky. I roll the window down a crack, and I can hear the sound of a plane turning over the water and angling toward the runway. Across the parking lot, the light comes on inside a car. It’s a Mazda hatchback.

  “Isn’t that Chuck and Eve’s car?” Alice says.

  “Shit. Who do you think is more likely to be in trouble?”

  “Chuck, for sure.”

  The plane lands and taxis down the runway just outside the gate. We watch as Chuck and Eve get out of the car. They stand and give each other an awkward hug, then Eve gets into the driver’s seat. We get out of our car. I kiss Alice, and she holds on tight to me for a minute before letting go.

  Chuck and I reach the gate at the same time. I’m carrying my bag; he’s carrying nothing. “Friend,” he says, motioning me through the gate.

  “Friend,” I reply. The word sticks in my throat.

  As we approach the plane, a stairway descends. “Mates,” the pilot says with an Australian accent. I climb the steps and take the first seat behind the cockpit. Chuck goes one row behind me. The plane is remarkably nice—a row of leather seats on each side, a beverage bar in the back, magazines and newspapers in the seat pockets.

  “Could be a bumpy one,” the pilot warns as he pulls the stairs up and closes the hatch. “Want a Coke? Water?”

  We both decline, Chuck with a silent wave of the hand.

  Chuck grabs a New York Times and begins reading, so I take it as permission to close my eyes and nod off. I’m glad I had that beer. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be able to sleep. I wake up an hour later at the hum of the landing gear. The plane touches down on a bumpy runway.

  “Well rested?” Chuck asks me. His mood seems to have improved.

  “Is this what I think it is?”

  “The one and only Fernley. Good thing you slept. You’re going to need your strength.”

  Shit.

  57

  We taxi down the runway and pull up alongside an electric fence. After a couple of minutes, the door of the airplane opens and the stairs flip down. “And so it begins,” Chuck says.

  On the tarmac, a man and woman approach us, both dressed in a navy shirt and navy pants. The man motions Chuck to step to one side. He asks him to stand on a yellow line and put his hands up. He runs a metal-detector wand over him and conducts a surprisingly thorough search. Chuck stands there, expressionless; I can tell this is not his first visit to Fernley. When the search is complete, the guy pulls out handcuffs and leg restraints, all attached to a wide leather belt that he snaps around Chuck’s waist. I brace myself, waiting for the same thing to happen to me, but it doesn’t. “Ready!” the guard yells. I hear a loud buzz. The gate slides open. Chuck walks through, as if he knows the drill; the guy follows about six paces behind. The woman and I just stand there watching. I sense there is some sort of protocol, but I don’t have a clue what it is.

  Chuck walks up the long yellow line that stretches from the landing strip to a massive concrete building. The guard towers, double fences, barbed wire, and floodlights indicate that it was and is a prison. I shudder. One more buzz and Chuck disappears into the building, followed by his minder. The door slams shut behind them.

  The woman turns to me and smiles. “Welcome to Fernley,” she says in a friendly voice. Somehow, it doesn’t put me at ease.

  She motions to our left, where a golf cart is waiting. I throw my bag into the back. She doesn’t say a word as we drive the length of the runway, around the entire prison complex, and up a long paved path. Alice said it was large, but I’m still stunned at the size of this place. We pull up in front of an ornate building that looks more like a mansion than a prison. The other side of the complex is all electric fences and concrete yards. On this side though, there is a row of green trees, a patch of brilliant grass, a tennis court, and a pool. The woman hops out of the golf cart and grabs my bag.

  Inside, the mansion feels like a resort hotel. A clean-cut young man stands behind a gleaming mahogany desk. He’s in uniform—a double-breasted navy suit with absurd-looking epaulets.

  “Jake?”

  “Guilty as charged.” I instantly regret my choice of words.

  “I’ve got you in the Kilkenny Suite.” He slides a typed sheet across the desk. “Here’s your schedule for tomorrow, with a map of the grounds and amenities. Mobile service is extremely limited, so if you need to make a call, let me know and I can set you up here in the conference room.” He sketches a map on a sheet of paper and then points the way to my room. “We’re here 24/7, so don’t hesitate to come down and ask for anything you might need.”

  “The key?” I ask.

  “You won’t be needing a key, of course. There are no locks in the luxury suites.”

  I want to ask what the hell I did to deserve a luxury suite, but I can tell that’s not the sort of thing you’re supposed to ask. This whole experience is beyond bizarre. If they’d led me away in handcuffs like Chuck, I’d be less freaked out than I am now.

  The elevator has a chandelier. I glance up, looking for the camera. There it is, mounted in a corner of the ceiling. I’m in room 317, at the end of a long hallway with red carpeting. The spacious room has a king-sized bed, a flat-panel television, and a view out over the tennis courts and swimming pool. With the lack of light pollution, I can see a billion bright stars. Guiltily, I realize it couldn’t be any more different from Alice’s experience here.

  I lie on the bed and turn on the television. It takes me a few trips through the channels to realize that the entire complex is connected to a European satellite. Eurosport, BBC One through BBC Four, a documentary on the potato famine, a special on the Baltic Coasts, Monty Python reruns, and some giant slalom contest from Sweden.

  I check the itinerary and realize I’m supposed to be in the lounge downstairs at ten tomorrow morning. After that, it simply says “meeting” from ten to noon, then lunch, then two more hours of meetings. I’d be more comfortable if they had included a line that said “return flight: three P.M.”

  I watch lame UEFA soccer for two hours before I finally fall asleep. Terrified of being late, I get up at six. Five minutes after I step out of the shower, there is a knock at the door. I open it to find a tray with French toast, a mug of hot chocolate with lots of whipped cream, and the International New York Times.

  I want to explore the grounds, the whole complex, but I’m too jittery, so I just sit in my room. I wonder what Alice is doing right now. I wonder if she misses me.

  At 9:44, I take the elevator down to the lobby, dressed in slacks and a dress shirt. The desk clerk hurries over with another mug of hot chocolate and invites me to have a seat. I sink into a plush leather chair and wait. At exactly ten, a man walks into the lobby.

  “Gordon,” he says, holding his hand out to me. He’s medium-build, his hair black with gray at the temples. He’s wearing a very nice suit.

  I stand to greet him.

  “Pleased to finally meet. I’ve read so much about you.”

  “I hope it was all good.” I force a smile.

  He winks. “There’s good and bad in all of us. Did you get a chance to explore the grounds?”

  “No,” I say, regretting my hours in the room.

  “Too bad. It really is a remarkable place.”

  Gordon is difficult to gauge, in temperament as well as age. He looks like a healthy fifty-five, but he could be much younger. His accent is Irish, but his tan tells me that he hasn’t seen Ireland in quit
e a while.

  We walk through a maze of hallways and up four staircases. At the top of the final staircase is a corridor with windows on both sides. The walkway, which goes on for about a hundred yards, appears to bridge two worlds. On one side, you can see only the resort portion of the complex—trees, grass, pool, driving range, something that looks like a spa. The resort area is bordered on three sides by a high wall painted top to bottom with an elaborate mural of bucolic beaches, sea, and sky. The wall is so tall that, from my vantage point, I can’t see beyond the resort. On the other side, the view is the complete opposite: a sprawling prison complex, electric fences, guard towers, concrete inner courtyards, people in gray jumpsuits walking slowly around a dirt track. Beyond that, the desert stretches for miles. The prison is ugly and frightening, but the desert beyond is somehow more terrifying and forbidding. It’s the sort of prison that you probably wouldn’t escape even if the guards and walls all fell away.

  Gordon punches a long code into a keypad and the door pops open. The plush carpeting and remarkable views give way to concrete walls painted institutional green. Gordon punches a code into another keypad and motions for me to step inside. Suddenly, a younger man in a gray uniform steps out of the shadows. I shudder, feeling his breath on my neck. We keep moving deeper into the concrete building. I walk several paces behind Gordon, and the younger man walks several paces behind me. Every hundred feet or so, we come to a new set of doors. Each time, Gordon enters a code and the door opens. Each door closes behind us with a loud electronic clang. It is as if we are on a journey deep into the heart of this cold building. With the sound of each closing door, I’m battling an increasing sense of hopelessness.

  Eventually, we descend a steep staircase. I count thirty-three steps. At the bottom, we turn right, then left, then right. I try to memorize our turns, but we go on and on through more doors, more hallways. Is Gordon using the same code for every door, or has he memorized dozens of them? At this point, even if I had the codes, there’s no way I could find my way out of the building. I’m trapped.