The Wife of Reilly

by Jennifer Coburn

  * * *

  As Reilly was in the shower getting ready for Chad and Daniel’s New Year’s Eve party, Matt called. He was at his friend Rick’s house, and all I could hear was horns and Matt’s drunken slur that this was our year. “Our year, Malone!” he repeated several times.

  A woman named Kyara grabbed the phone to say hello to me. “We can’t wait to meet you, honey,” she said, obviously drunk herself. “We got a ton of wild shit planned for you when you come out.” Then someone hooted and shouted “Happy New Year!” Matt reminded me to call him, which I wondered how I would pull off with Reilly by my side.

  We arrived at Chad and Daniel’s party at quarter after eleven. Sophie and Jennifer immediately pulled me into the bedroom so they could talk to me without Reilly hearing about their plan. Jennifer wrapped her red-sequined arm around my neck and led me into the bedroom where Sophie was sitting on a fuchsia velvet beanbag chair, leaning her head back and staring at the ceiling.

  “We’ve been talking about your M.O. for dating,” Jennifer began. “We knew there had to be a better way.” She sounded like an infomercial introduction. “We’ve got an idea that’s quicker and more cost-effective. Interested?” she asked. Then she paused for me to respond.

  “It depends what it is,” I answered. I’ve known Jennifer for too many years not to realize when she’s trying to close the deal by asking leading questions.

  “When’s Reilly’s next trip out of the country?” Sophie took over, leaning her face in what had to be the stiffest black sleeve I’d ever seen. It was like she decided to liven up a simple gray top by sticking her wrists through vinyl records with the labels cut out.

  “The second week in January he goes to Germany,” I told them. “What are you guys getting at?”

  Jennifer swept her arm overhead, from one side of the room to the other. “Imagine hundreds of women for you to screen all at once.”

  “A cattle call?” I asked.

  “A party,” Sophie corrected.

  Chad and Daniel walked into their bedroom, letting in a cow bell solo from the bell jazz (don’t ask) trio that was playing in the living room. Catching Sophie’s last response, Chad shuddered. “You two aren’t still thinking about the singles party, are you?” Daniel lowered his brow as if to ask us to fill him in. “These two Ethel Mertzes want to put together a party to find Reilly’s next wife. In our gallery, no less!”

  Daniel laughed.

  “You think this is funny?” Chad asked. “I’ll tell you one thing. If you ever want to break it off with me, just dump me. I don’t care how nasty a breakup you want to make it, just do it and get it over with. Don’t have a party and try to auction me off to the highest bidder.”

  “Anyway,” Jennifer resumed her place as chief spokesperson. “I’ll enlarge photos of Reilly, mount them on foam board, and write little blurbs about him so people can learn about him as they view the exhibit.”

  “We’re going to make an exhibit of Reilly?” I asked.

  “Stop the insanity right here, love,” Chad begged.

  It did sound like an extreme plan, but the best part about it was that it was a one-shot deal. One big blitz and we’d be through with the hunt for Reilly’s bride. No more coffee runs, exorbitant bar tabs and dreadfully dull evenings of smiling and nodding my head at women who are never going to click with Reilly.

  “Come on, Prudence,” Jennifer urged when she realized I was actually giving her idea consideration. “I’ll do everything. You just show up, pick your favorites and be done with this.”

  Sophie joined in. “Your penance will be done and you can enjoy your life with Matt without all the fun-sapping guilt of knowing you broke your first husband’s heart.”

  “Why would you want to do all this extra work?” I asked.

  “Prudence!” Jennifer said, insulted. “This is what friends do for each other.”

  “I can see the bumper sticker now,” Chad said. “I don’t know if I’m ready to turn my gallery into the Reilly boutique. It’s one thing to store his briefs in the office, but hosting a party like this….” He shook imaginary dirt off himself. “I’ll drive the get-away car, but don’t ask me to hold the gun.”

  The self-appointed brains of the operation, Jennifer snapped, “Chad, we’re doing this with or without you.”

  We are?

  “It’s a simple question,” Jennifer continued. “Do we bring several hundred women to your gallery, or the one down the block?”

  Chad and Daniel looked at each other, and had a discussion through their facial expressions.

  You sure you don’t want to hold the gun just this once? Daniel’s eyebrows asked.

  Well, if they’re going to do it anyway, Chad furled his lip.

  Could be good for the gallery.

  “Tell you what,” Jennifer piped in. “Each of these women is going to need to fill out an application. We’ll share the info with you for your mailing list.”

  “Deal,” Chad shot.

  After any negotiation that left Jennifer and Chad on the same side, I didn’t want to object. And frankly, a party didn’t sound like a bad idea, so I told the group we could schedule the event for the day Reilly left for Berlin.

  After we set the date, Jennifer told me to leave the details to her. “This is my business,” she assured.

  We returned to Chad and Daniel’s living room just in time to watch the ball drop in Times Square. Horns blew. Confetti was tossed. Champagne was drunk and spilled.

  “Happy New Year!” shouted Daniel.

  “Happy New Year, Prudence,” Reilly said, leaning in to kiss me.

  I sneaked into their Dick Van Dyke room and called Matt from my cell phone. The phone rang until it rolled over to voice mail, which was a relief. Matt would know I called, as I promised to do. At the same time, I eliminated the risk of trying to talk to the future husband while the un-dead one was in the next room. Reilly walked into the room just as I said goodbye to Matt’s voice mail. “Hey stranger,” he said, wrapping his arms around my waist. “What do you say we head home and ring in the new year?”

  “Don’t you think it would be rude to leave so early?” I asked.

  Sometimes it’s worse to stay too long, I thought. “Okay,” I gave in. “Let’s say goodbye to everyone and get going.”

  I decided in the spirit of the holidays I would have sex with Reilly. Not that I’m such a gift, especially these days. He looked so eager, it was hard to deny him. It wasn’t as though I didn’t love Reilly. And it wasn’t as though I’d never had meaningless sex before, so it really wasn’t a big deal, I rationalized. I could just zone out and pretend it was Matt. No harm, no foul. Reilly was a decent guy who deserved a little warmth from his emotionally estranged wife.

  I don’t know what women are talking about when they say they pretend they’re having sex with someone else when they grow bored of their husbands. How is this possible?! They feel different. They smell different. And Reilly was whispering so much, I couldn’t possibly pretend he was anyone else. I don’t know what was worse, feeling like I was cheating on Matt, or feeling like I was a complete fraud with Reilly. He kept muttering that he loved me and that it had been so long, and I was wondering why sex without love felt like such a violation. In simply lying there like a half-dead fish, I was cheating on Matt, lying to Reilly and completely betraying myself. Never was being passive such an act of self-aggression.

  The next morning, Reilly lay in bed with his arms folded behind his head, his stock post-sex look, and asked what my New Year’s resolution was.

  Finding you a new wife.

  “I’m not sure I’m going to make one this year,” I told him. “What about you?”

  “You know, I’ve been giving this some thought lately, and I think I may be missing out on a lot that life has to offer by being so entrenched in my routine. You may have been drunk on Thanksgiving, but you did have a point. Here I get to travel all over the world, and never venture out and see the sights, or taste the food, or
meet the people. It’s been a long time since I’ve tried anything new and different from what I’m used to, Prudence. So that’s my resolution. I’m going to be open to new things this year.”

  You’re going to love what I have in store for you, my friend.

  “That sounds like a good plan, Reilly.”

  “You know what else, Prudence? I’m going to take you to Italy.”

  “Oh Reilly, that’s not necessary.”

  “No, it really is. You’ve wanted to go for years now, and I’ve been dragging you off to resorts that I want to go to. It’s time we do something for you.”

  Oh Reilly, I’ve been doing plenty for me.

  “You’re very sweet, Reilly. Why don’t you take a shower and we’ll talk about it later?” I said. Just then my cell phone rang, and I was sure it was Matt.

  “Aren’t you going to get that?” Reilly asked.

  “No, I want to focus on you,” I smiled and poked Reilly’s nose with my fingertip. Even I hated myself for that one. Cutesy liars are the worst. Can’t trust a damn thing they say. And they’ll make you gag while they’re saying it.

  I couldn’t decide what disgusted me more, the fact that lying was becoming easier or that Reilly didn’t seem even remotely tuned into the fact that I had already left him. Maybe I would just tell Reilly the truth. Tomorrow. Tomorrow I would tell him, I decided. If not then, definitely after the party.

  * * *

  “Hey, are you there?” Reilly’s voice snapped me back to our bedroom.

  “Of course,” I said. “I was just thinking about how we should spend our day together. Go take your shower.”

  “Okay. But when I get out, let’s have food delivered and just laze around together. Remember how we used to do that when we were first dating? You’d brew that wicked potent coffee and we’d read the newspaper while eating leftover Chinese food out of the boxes.”

  I’d forgotten about those days in my apartment in Philadelphia. I loved watching him read the business section so intently as he sat at the kitchen table in his pajamas and robe. He looked like the quintessential solid citizen. When he looked up from the paper and smiled at me, my heart skipped a beat at the thought that such a good man was in love with me. Then we’d watch back-to-back political shows that Reilly called the “food fights.” The ones where newspaper writers, political pundits and elected officials sit on a small panel together and yell at each other for a half-hour. Reilly would shout at the television the way my grandmother used to interact with the characters of One Life to Live. “Like you have any right to talk,” Reilly would yell at the screen. “Oh sure, you’ll vote for the bill all right, but not before you get the most restrictive rules possible so there are no debates or amendments, then attach a rider that gives a tax break for green fees, then you’ll go to a conference committee with the Senate and sell out everything you stumped for on the campaign trail, you phony bastard!”

  “Those days were fun,” I smiled, remembering. “Hey, do you want to go to the newsstand and buy papers from around the country like we used to? God, remember those awful op-eds in the Dallas Fort Worth Star?”

  “Yes,” Reilly said. “What was that guy’s name? That gun nut, right?”

  “Yes, that’s the one.”

  Reilly stepped into the shower, and for a moment I forgot that I’d fallen out of love with him.

  Since I’d planned to spend the entire day with Reilly, I knew I had only one chance to call Matt. Ring. “Pick up, pick up,” I urged. Ring. “Pick up the phone.” Ring. “Pick it up already!” Ring. “Come on, I can’t —”

  “Hello,” Matt answered groggily.

  “Are you still in bed?” I asked, my entire being illuminating as I heard his voice answer the phone.

  “Hey,” he said. “How’s it going?”

  “Rough night?” I laughed.

  “Yeah,” he stretched. “Listen, can I call you back later?”

  “Of course,” I told him. “Oh shit, no. I’m going to be out all day.”

  “I talked to you the other day while you were at your dry cleaner. Cell phone,” he reminded me.

  Think, think. “I am going to a Dixie jazz band today and I won’t hear the phone. We’ll just talk tomorrow.”

  “What time is the concert over?” he asked. “Just call me when you’re done with that.”

  “Well, after that, Jennifer and I are going to an, um, amusement park. Great Adventure. That’s actually where the Dixie jazz band is playing, but then we’re going to spend the rest of the day there. It’s a work thing, you know? I’ve got to act like I’m totally into the whole adventure thing or my client will be insulted. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”

  “Okay.” I could see Matt shrug his shoulders. “Whatever.”

  Whatever? That verbal blast from the past was like someone tossed a medicine ball through a cannon and hit the bull’s eye of my gut. “Hey, I love you,” I said. “Only forty-two more days and we’ll be together.”

  There was a momentary silence before Matt responded to me. “Yeah, that’ll be great.”

  “So what are your big, wild plans for me when I get there?”

  “What?”

  “Your friend last night said you had all kinds of wild plans for me when I got there.”

  “Oh that,” Matt said. “We’re just going skiing, that’s all. Listen, can we talk about that later? Someone’s knocking on my door right now.”

  “Love you.”

  “Same here,” Matt said.

  I heard Reilly’s shower turning off, and the stillness that was surely his toweling himself dry. Scrub, scrub, scrub. Spit. Stream of water. Gargle. Spit. Repeat. Then came the humming, which meant Reilly was rolling deodorant on his armpits.

  “I’m not going to shave today,” Reilly shouted from the bathroom. “That okay with you?”

  I’m leaving you for another man soon. Is that okay with you? I shouted back silently. “Sure,” I returned instead. “Whatever.”

  Skirted in a thick white towel, Reilly reached into our menu drawer and began dialing the phone. “Yes, I’d like an order for delivery, please,” Reilly said to the person on the phone. “One order of pot stickers, vegetable chow fun, moo shoo pork and sesame puffs.” He paused. “Cash.” Again he paused before giving our address. “Oh, I don’t know, I’ve never tried your Peking duck.” Reilly listened. “Yes, that’s the right address. No, you must have me confused with another customer, there’s no Matt living here.”

  My head whipped around, and my lower intestine jumped into my throat like the spring of a jack-in-the-box.

  “No, I’m certain I’ve never tried your Peking duck,” Reilly said.

  * * *

  When Lin arrived, Reilly met him at the door and exchanged forty dollars for the brown bags of Chinese food. Lin peeked his head in the door and scanned the loft. Then he caught a glance of me. He lowered his head and went down the stairs looking betrayed.

  You’re just the delivery boy, Lin. Don’t take it so hard!

  Chapter 18

  On the afternoon that Reilly left for Berlin, a thick blanket of snow covered New York. By five o’clock, it was a blizzard outside, with thick pellets of ice whipping pedestrians and wind mercilessly snapping umbrellas inside out. Still, the gallery was filled to capacity with single women, and a line was forming outside.

  Each guest was greeted by the flash bulb of a Polaroid camera. Jennifer hired three women from a temp agency to staff the event. “Smile,” ordered the temp. Another staffer then jotted the women’s names in Sharpie pen at the foot of the photo and pinned it to the right side of their tops or jackets. A third temp handed each woman a pen and clipboard with an application to fill out.

  “What the hell is all of this?” I asked Jennifer.

  “We’ve got to keep track of all the applicants,” she said. “Look at this turnout!”

  Applicants?

  There were more than a hundred women milling around the gallery reading the captions beside the
enlarged mounted photos of Reilly. Another forty or so stood patiently in the blizzard waiting their turn.

  Jennifer announced that the women had thirty minutes before we had to boot them out for the second seating.

  “What did you say in your ad?” I asked.

  “You know, marriage-minded attractive international businessman soon-to-be divorced. Six-figure income. Caring, kind and wounded, blah blah blah. Just the facts. Here, let me take you around and show you how it works.”

  Wounded? Did she really think Reilly was wounded?

  “Do you think I’ve wounded Reilly?” The words fought their way out from my crowded throat. “You do, don’t you? Oh my God, you’re right. You’ve all been telling me this from the start, but I refused to listen. I was so convinced that it was a brilliant plan that I didn’t even consider the irreparable damage I’m going to do to this man. He’s going to be in therapy for years, this is going to fuck him up so badly. Yasmine was right, he’s going to be damaged goods when he finds out about this. Shit, no one’s going to want him. Holy shit. Get these women out of here! Call this off right now.” I turned and shouted, “Go home, everyone. The party’s —”

  Jennifer snapped me back to face her with one word and a firm hand on my shoulder.

  “Hey!” barked Jennifer. “Hey,” she said, much kinder this time. “Calm down. No one thinks you’re damaging Reilly. Wounded was Sophie’s idea. She said women love a project, and if Reilly sounds like he was a bit of a fixer emotionally, like he’s got some mild intimacy disorder or something, we thought it would add a little something to his new single persona.”

  Now he needs a persona?

  “Let’s try this again,” Jennifer said, turning me toward an enormous photo of Reilly as a newborn. “Here’s where we start.” The gallery lights were positioned perfectly above each of the sixteen larger-than-life mounted photographs.

  In bold print a sign next to the photo read, Reilly was born July 14, 1963, to Fred and Millicent Sheehan at Allegheny General Hospital. Reilly soon returned to his family home in Moon Township to meet big brothers Philip and Brian.