The Marriage Pact

by Michelle Richmond

  About five miles up the coastline path, we find a bench, and I turn on the phone with the new SIM card: no blinking P. We both leave messages for our offices—rushed excuses about how we’re going to be out of town for a while. I feel bad for the couples I’m supposed to be meeting and especially bad for my weekly teenager group. I know I’m letting everyone down, but there’s no way around it.

  “Crash and burn,” Alice says, hanging up. It’s hard for her, I know. If and when we go back home, Ian and Evelyn and Huang will welcome me with open arms. Cutting out on a corporate law firm in the middle of a huge case is a different story.

  In the evening, I fry the rest of the rock cod while Alice finishes her book. Later, on the deck, looking up at stars, I’m amazed at how quickly the two of us have adapted to this beautiful new location, the relaxed pace of coastal life. It occurs to me that we could live here, we could so easily settle into this rhythm.

  Beside me, tilted back in her Adirondack chair, Alice seems truly relaxed for the first time in ages.

  “We could afford a place here,” I say. “Easily, if we sell our house in the city.”

  “You wouldn’t get bored?”

  “No. Would you?”

  She glances at me, surprised, it seems, by her own realization. “No. It would be good.”

  That night, I sleep soundly, the waves crashing in the distance. I dream of Alice, the two of us in a cottage overlooking the ocean. There isn’t much to the dream; it’s more just a feeling of happiness and security. I wake and take in a deep breath—the cold sea air fills my lungs. It hits me then: a strong, certain belief that it is truly possible for us to create something new, something entirely different.

  When Alice and I were getting married, my only concern was how I was going to integrate this wonderful marriage into the framework of our lives. Lying in bed, it occurs to me that the old lives are no longer necessary—for me at least—and I can live on the marriage alone, whatever it is, however it develops. What happened in the past seems irrelevant. For the first time, I know that Alice and I will grow together, our marriage will evolve in ways I may or may not understand. For the first time, I know that we will be all right.

  I roll over in bed to kiss Alice, to tell her my dream, to describe this overwhelming sense of optimism that I have, only to realize that she’s gone.

  She must be in the living room, at the telescope, looking for her whale friends.

  “Alice?” I call.

  Nothing.

  As I swing my legs out of bed, my feet come to rest on something hard and cold. It’s my phone, lying upside down on the floor. Immediately, I am overcome with fear and dread, but then I remember the new SIM card. There’s no way they could have tracked us. I pick it up and realize that in the fall from the nightstand, the phone must have turned itself on. There are twenty-eight text messages waiting, nine voicemails. Then, in the upper right-hand corner, I see the blinking blue P.

  85

  I bolt out of bed, still in my underwear, and run down the hall. A million questions race through my brain. How long has the phone been on? How long has the little blue P been flashing, betraying our exact location? And how is it even possible? We’ll have to leave. I need to pack our things right now, load up the car, get as far away as possible. There’s only one road out of Sea Ranch, and the only way to go is north, toward Oregon, because if we go south we’ll surely cross paths with Declan as he makes his way up the coast.

  Still, part of me believes that as soon as I turn the corner, I’ll see Alice in her chair, curled in a blanket, peering through the telescope. She’ll mock me for racing around the house like a madman in my underwear. She’ll call me over to her, and I’ll pull her up from the chair and tug her back to bed. We’ll make love.

  Later, we’ll have another long walk along the coast. We’ll drink a whole bottle of wine. We’ll sit in the sauna, sweating out all the pain and fear.

  But she isn’t at the telescope. There are the massive windows, the path down to the ocean, the waves, the dark clouds sweeping south down the coast; no Alice.

  I hear a sound in the kitchen, and I take a shaky breath, relieved. She’s making coffee, trying to figure out the house’s newfangled machine.

  But no, she’s not in the kitchen. There’s a coffee cup on the counter, nearly full, still steaming. Next to it, the Lyall Watson book is open to a page about blue whales. The page is ripped. A gash stretches from the top right corner to the bottom, almost severing the page from the book.

  Surely it’s nothing. So many guests have been through this house, so many kids have pawed at that book.

  What’s that smell? The oven is on, and I open it to find a tray of burning cinnamon rolls. My heart rate triples. My gut heaves. I grab a towel, pull out the pan, and slide it onto the counter.

  What did I hear? A bumping sound.

  I open the cutlery drawer and pull out a knife. It’s a chef’s knife, German steel.

  I wander through the breakfast room, gripping the knife, but Alice isn’t there either.

  More noise. It came from the garage, I think. Shuffling, feet against the floor. Maybe she went out to get something from the car and forgot about the rolls. That’s what I tell myself.

  I head farther down the hallway of the cavernous house, toward the garage. Another sound, but no, it isn’t the garage. It’s coming from the mudroom that separates the house from the guest cottage.

  I move more cautiously now, clutching the knife. My heart hammers. Something isn’t right.

  “Alice?”

  No response.

  “Alice?”

  The noise is definitely coming from the mudroom.

  Shuffling again, then a scraping sound, then nothing. Just the ocean, the waves crashing. Why won’t she answer me?

  Then I hear a door opening. I’m pretty sure it’s the side door, from the mudroom to the outside.

  I know where I have to go now. Whoever it was has gone out the door, and I need to get there before he disappears. That’s what I’m thinking, for a couple of stupid, foolish seconds.

  But as I turn the corner toward the mudroom, I see Declan. He seems so much larger than I remember. Behind him, at the door, is his partner Diane. She is not alone. She’s shoving someone in front of her. Even with her hands tied behind her back, a black bag over her head, I know, of course, that it is Alice. She’s barefoot, wearing only the T-shirt she slept in last night.

  “Friend,” Declan says.

  I lunge toward him with the knife.

  “Hey.” His huge arm flashes in front of me, and suddenly the knife is on the floor, my right arm twisted painfully behind my back. A trickle of blood seeps through a tear in Declan’s shirt. He touches the gash, surprised. “Not a good way to start, Jake. I’m not hurt, but you’ve really pissed me off.”

  “Alice!” I shout, thrashing.

  The door of the mudroom closes, shutting me off from Alice.

  “Now, Jake,” Declan scolds. “You know you shouldn’t have done this. I’ve always treated you with respect.” His fist is digging into the small of my back. I try to move my arm, but his grip is relentless. I reach back to punch at him with my left arm. He releases his fist from my back, grabs the elbow of my left arm, and yanks so hard I scream in pain, flailing wildly.

  “It was a stupid thing to do, Jake. Running away like this. Why would you think you could escape The Pact?”

  He kicks my legs out from under me and I crumple onto my knees. For a second, I want to explain to him my dream, the feeling it gave me, the promise of starting over.

  “Jake, seriously, don’t push me. I’ve had a long night cleaning up other people’s messes, and a tough drive—I’m not in the mood.”

  “Please take me instead,” I say.

  Declan releases my arm and I struggle to get up. My face is at the level of his waist, and his jacket is pulled back. I can see the gun in its holster. If I could just get the gun.

  “That’s not how it works. Open your f
ucking eyes to what’s going on.” He sounds more exasperated than angry. “And don’t worry,” he adds, walking away. “Your time will come.”

  Outside, I hear a car door slam.

  “What is she accused of?” Ashamed to ask, but I have to know. “At least tell me that.”

  Declan opens the door, then looks back at me. He seems almost pleased to deliver the news: “Adultery in the First Degree.”

  The words are swirling through my head as he walks out into the fog. “You’re not the law!” I shout, stumbling after him. “None of you are! You’re just a fucking cult!”

  He doesn’t even turn to acknowledge me. Declan gets into the driver’s seat of the black SUV, slams the door. The engine turns. Through the tinted windows, I can barely make out Alice in the backseat, hooded. I pound on the driver’s side window. “I’m calling the police!”

  Declan powers down the window. “You do that.” He smiles, pure disdain. “Tell my friends at the department I said hello.”

  “You’re bluffing.”

  “Believe that at your own risk.” Declan winks. “Eliot and Aileen thought the same thing.” The window powers up. I drop to my knees in the sand as the vehicle makes its way up the road, turns onto the highway, and vanishes.

  I am left kneeling alone in the cold, in my underwear. Utterly useless to my wife and to myself.

  Alice. Oh, Alice.

  Until the moment I saw Declan, I didn’t know for certain that my wife had been unfaithful. Yes, the signs were there, so I suppose I knew, but I shoved my suspicions aside—the two wineglasses by the couch; the two plates in the sink.

  Somehow, when we escaped through the backyard that morning, I assumed The Pact had come for me.

  Adultery. First-degree.

  Suffering under the sudden crush of loneliness, a new feeling overtakes me. A new certainty. Despite all of this, I need to save Alice. I need to figure out how to do that. I am all she has. Whatever she has done, she is still my wife.

  86

  I’m sore and bruised, but nothing is broken. I pick up the landline and dial 911. But there’s something wrong. A recorded voice intones, “Your call is being redirected.”

  Moments later, a male voice comes on the line. “Is this an emergency?”

  “I need to report a kidnapping,” I blurt.

  “Friend,” the voice says. “Are you certain?”

  I slam the phone down. Shit.

  I dress, throw our meager belongings into the car, toss the burned cinammon rolls into a trash bag, and quickly wipe down the kitchen counters. It feels important to keep my promise. I leave no signs that we have been here, no signs of the new life that only an hour earlier seemed so possible.

  When I turn in the keys at the office, the girl doesn’t seem surprised to see me. She’s wearing a Sloganeering T-shirt. The TV is playing behind her.

  “I have to check out early,” I say, placing the keys on the desk.

  “Right.” She pulls my card out of the envelope and runs it, then hands it back to me. “Next time, I have a different place for you. It’s a talent I have. I match people with places. The more I know you, the easier it is. That place seemed right, but it wasn’t. Give me another chance.”

  “Okay.” But all I can think is that I’m out of chances.

  87

  Back home, packages are piled on the doorstep. For the first time, I notice weeds growing through cracks in the sidewalk. When did we let things go? I’m reminded of the photos of Jonestown, before and after, a strange utopia so swiftly and completely swallowed up by the jungle, gone and nearly forgotten. I think of Jim Jones, his makeshift throne, and the sign above it: Those who do not remember the past are condemned to repeat it.

  The house is freezing. At this moment it seems that all I have left of our marriage is this: our little house in the Avenues. I must restore it to order. I must not let it be reclaimed by the elements. In a fever of activity, I clean, organize, bring in the mail, run the dishwasher, fold the laundry. I’m terrified that this thing that Alice and I are building together will be swept away, overtaken by a jungle we can’t possibly hope to control.

  When order is returned, I set about with the real work—the only work that might bring Alice and me back together.

  Online, I do a search. I locate a small island off the coast of Ireland. Rathlin. I chart a course. I buy a series of airline tickets, far too expensive, then grab my passport from the safe, throw things into a suitcase, and call a cab.

  On the way to the airport, I power on my phone. The P is there again, blinking. A text message from an unknown number links to SFGate. On the home page, buried between the opening of a new restaurant and a tenants’ rights dispute, is the headline “Local Musician Missing.” I shudder, my thumb hovering over the headline.

  I click through to the article.

  Former Ladder bassist Eric Wilson was reported missing on Monday night after his car was found abandoned at Ocean Beach. He was last seen early Sunday morning after a memorial show at Bottom of the Hill for former bandmate Damian Lee. A search has been under way at Kelly’s Cove, where Wilson often surfs.

  The article lists each of his bands and albums. And because the Ladder album was his most successful, it mentions Alice by name. There is a comment from one of his biology students, who had no idea he was a musician, and one from a former bandmate, who had no idea he was a professor. There is a video of Ladder performing twelve years ago, Alice at his side. I don’t watch it. His parents and sister have flown in from Boston to help with the search. I nervously read the article two more times, as if more details might magically appear. But there is nothing.

  Should I feel sad that he is missing? Should I feel anything other than relief?

  I think of Eliot and Aileen. What had JoAnne said? “They just disappear without a trace.”

  88

  At the airport, flights are backed up due to weather on the East Coast. I find myself hopping across the country. SFO to Denver to O’Hare to EWR to Gatwick to Northern Ireland. When I finally arrive in Belfast, hungry and stiff, I’m not sure what day it is. I’m desperate for news of Alice. Is she in a dark cell or a bright one? Is she handcuffed? Is she being interrogated? What is her punishment? Does she have a good attorney?

  The line at customs feels endless. Businesspeople in suits all seem in a hurry to get to some important meeting. A customs agent with a spattering of freckles takes a long look at my passport, then back up at my face. “Difficult flight, then, sir?”

  “Long.”

  She looks back at the passport. “That’s a fine Irish name you’ve got.”

  It’s true. My family is Irish. We ended up in San Francisco four generations ago when my great-great-grandfather, a streetcar driver with a drinking problem, killed a woman in this very city. He fled to the United States on a steamer to avoid prison. Until now I’ve never been here. I guess you could say I’m finally returning to the scene of the crime. Maybe it’s still part of me, that genetic predisposition for murder.

  The freckled border guard flips my passport to the final page, and then with a definitive thud leaves a large red stamp. “Welcome home,” she says.

  I find an ATM and take out a wad of cash. Outside, I step into a taxi and head toward the train station. I take off my watch to sync it to the local time. Before putting it back on, I turn it over to read the simple inscription: TO JAKE—WITH ALL MY LOVE. ALICE.

  My brain is spinning, my body exhausted. The morning bustle, the congestion, and the traffic don’t help. At the station, I realize that getting to my destination will be more complicated than I had expected. A train will only take me part of the way, if I could even get a train. But the station is blocked by a picket line, more than a dozen workers holding signs declaring, OFFICIAL DISPUTE.

  I walk over to the hotel Malmaison. The receptionist is a puffy guy in a wrinkled suit. I ask about the train and he responds with a long, convoluted explanation. As far as I can understand, I’m in Northern Ireland at a b
ad time. The buses are on strike, the trains are on strike, and there is apparently some major soccer tournament just getting started.

  “Do you like football?” he asks.

  “Um…”

  “Neither do I. If you wait until noon, I can give you a ride as far as Armoy.” He hands me a paper that appears to be a ticket of some sort. “Free English breakfast, if you want.” He points toward a sad, cavernous room that looks like an abandoned elementary school cafeteria. Immediately, a waiter is on me, insisting on pouring some weird brown tea. I thank him, then head up to the buffet with a plastic plate.

  There are bowls of sweaty eggs, skinny sausages, and a few unidentifiable casseroles, piles of thin white toast. I force down two boxes of something called Fruity Sugar Surprise soaked in skim milk. I watch the tourists, soccer fans, and English honeymooners—mostly young, glowingly happy—juggling cameras, maps, and umbrellas. I envy them.

  At noon the guy from the reception desk taps my shoulder. We climb into a car so small our arms touch every time he has to shift gears.

  He talks all the way to Armoy, though I only catch about half of it. He’s going to his ex-wife’s house to pick up his son to take him to a birthday party. The son is ten and they haven’t seen each other in a month. He says he would’ve driven me all the way to Ballycastle if he weren’t already late. His ex-wife will be angry, the kid will be mopey, he has to hurry.

  Armoy is a nothing town, just a blip on the road. It’s ten kilometers to Ballycastle, he tells me. He suggests a taxi if I can find one, but I tell him I’m going to try walking. He starts laughing. “This is Northern fucking Ireland—it’ll rain four times before you get there, and that’s the easy part. The wind alone may fucking blow you back to Belfast.”

  Out front of his ex-wife’s house, we go our separate ways. I walk twenty or thirty feet, but I turn back and peer through the hedge to see him walking up to the door. The ex-wife answers, a pretty woman who looks bone-tired. Of life, maybe; of him, certainly. Even from a distance, I can sense the sad, complicated ball of love and hate that she presents him with at the front door. The kid, tall and lanky, tremendously dumb haircut, darts outside to hug him, and I turn away.