The Wife of Reilly

by Jennifer Coburn

  “How do you know you don’t like L.A.? You’ve seen the inside of Rick’s house and the freeway.”

  “My whole life is in New York,” I said.

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “With you there, it will be complete. You’ll love New York,” I assured him.

  “It’s so damned cold,” Matt said.

  “Matt, I met you in Michigan. We just went skiing for two days. Since when do you have an aversion to cold weather?”

  “Actually, you met me in Florida.”

  “Matt. We were in Florida for one week. The rest of our time together was in Michigan.”

  “Hey Malone, what do you think about getting married in Ann Arbor?” Matt asked. Suddenly, we were planning our wedding instead of our life together. At least we had ended our battle of the coasts and we agreed on the perfect site for our nuptials. We were dreamily discussing the wedding when the phone rang. It was Rick telling Matt that he had to meet with a potential investor in the film.

  “We’re supposed to go to the Getty tomorrow,” I whispered.

  “Yeah, yeah, I know,” Matt said to Rick. “He can only do it tomorrow? Shit, Malone and I were going to go to the museum tomorrow.” Matt paused, obviously interrupted by Rick. Then he hung up the phone solemnly. “Bad news.”

  “No!” I shouted.

  “Tomorrow’s the only day this guy can meet, and if we get him in as a producer, we’ve just about got the funding to finish the picture and the clout to really market it as a mainstream film.”

  A mainstream documentary? A mainstream documentary about Louis Pasteur?!

  “Come on, give me a break on this one. I feel bad enough about this, but we can go another day.”

  “I’m leaving tomorrow night,” I reminded him.

  “All the more reason to move to L.A.,” Matt said.

  “Never mind. I’ll go on my own,” I pouted.

  After a few minutes, I realized that Matt was in a terrible dilemma and I was making it worse for him. He had a dream of finishing this film and this meeting was probably the answer to his money issues. Certainly I could let him go to the meeting without giving him a guilt trip about it. “I can go to the Getty on my own tomorrow,” I told Matt who was sulking in bed.

  “Really? You’re not pissed?”

  “I hope you’re not angry at me for being so selfish,” I said. “I can find the museum on my own, and then we’ll meet up here in the afternoon and have the rest of the day together. Where do I catch the bus?”

  “You’re the coolest, Malone,” Matt said.

  And don’t you forget it.

  The next morning, I struggled to balance in the shower while hanging on to Matt’s curtain rod. “You sure you don’t need help in there?” Matt called in.

  “You’re late already. Just get ready and go, honey.”

  “There are some bagels in the freezer,” Matt pulled back the curtain to tell me. “Damn, woman, you look good.”

  “When will you be back?”

  He shook his head. “Forget this funding bullshit, I’m staying here,” he said. He imitated himself at the meeting. “Oh, okay, no money. Too bad, see ya. Gotta run.”

  I raised my eyebrows to ask him again.

  “Noon,” he smiled. “I’ll be home around noon, then I’m all yours, baby. You’re all mine,” he growled. Ah, domestic bliss.

  Chapter 29

  When I arrived at the Getty, there was a sign at the guard booth that read, “Closed Mondays.”

  Of course it’s closed Mondays, half-wit. Most museums are, Miss Art Lover.

  I actually hitchhiked back to Matt’s house in Santa Monica with a soccer mom driving a minivan. “Normally I don’t pick up hitchhikers,” Norma told me. “But I felt sorry for you standing out there with your crutches and all.”

  At noon, Matt hadn’t returned from his meeting yet. At a quarter of two, he still wasn’t back, so I turned on the television and was immediately absorbed into A Passion for Life. A perfectly coifed older woman in a red silk business suit was telling her young lover, Lance, that she would no longer tolerate playing second fiddle to his work. Lance was supposed to be a cancer researcher, but I’m sure he was cast because he looked absolutely stunning in the lab coat. The white coat against his tan skin and blond highlighted hair was enough to make me break out my checkbook and make a big fat donation to the American Cancer Society.

  LANCE: I would love to spend my days drinking champagne with you and dancing beneath the stars like we did in Barcelona. But we are so close to finding a cure for the rare type-four bone cancer that poor little Austin Houston was struck with last year. I must find a cure for the boy. I must, you see, because he is my brother.

  Dramatic revelation music.

  FIONA: Your brother? But how is that possible, Lance?

  I had trouble following the lineage, but Fiona seemed to accept that it was possible so I did too. They began discussing the possibility of transplanting a grown woman’s entire skeleton into little Dallas-Fort Worth, when I found myself oddly sucked into this improbable drama.

  “Hi honey, I’m home,” Matt said as he came through the door.

  “Shhh, one sec, babe,” I said. “They’re cooking up a plan to kill Natalie for her bones, which is good news for the Texas kid, but is going to be a disaster for the Regents family diamond mines, not to mention poor Natalie who’s done nothing but love that fuckhead Lance. She put that bastard through med school and this is the thanks she gets?”

  “Are you watching A Passion for Life?” Matt asked. “My buddy is a writer for that show.”

  The show ended a few minutes later and I sat down with Matt in the kitchen.

  “I didn’t know you were such a soap fan,” Matt said.

  “Neither did I,” I sheepishly admitted. “I’m sorry about that. How did your meeting go? Does the guy like the project? Is he in?”

  Matt nodded his head with excitement. “He loves it. We told him about our approach and he thinks it’s completely cutting-edge.”

  “I have got to see this film, Matt,” I said, matching his enthusiasm. “My plane takes off in eight hours. You absolutely need to show me the film right now.”

  Matt turned on the television and started attaching wires from his digital camera to it. “It’s not done yet,” he apologized. “It’s going to look a lot more professional when it’s done.”

  “Let’s pop some popcorn,” I suggested. “And drink milk!”

  * * *

  At the end of the film, all I could think was what a horrible person Louis Pasteur was. And all anyone really knows about this abusive, slave-beating whore-monger is that he came up with the pasteurization process. It just goes to show you how we simplify the lives of these historical characters. Matt hadn’t finished editing the end of the film yet, but I already knew that there was no way for Louis Pasteur to ever redeem himself after all the havoc he had wreaked on people’s lives.

  “Shocking,” I said to Matt. “The part when he poisoned the banker’s horses and burned the village mercantile was horrible. And why was he so cruel to those prostitutes?! God, I always thought he was some sort of hero who saved people from bad milk. To think he was such a brutal man is just a real eye-opener. Those poor slaves,” I said, nodding my head.

  Matt laughed. “So, you bought it?”

  “Bought what?”

  “All that stuff about Louis Pasteur being a prick. You believed it, right?”

  “You mean it’s not true?” I asked.

  “No, we researched his life extensively and he was a pretty nice guy. He didn’t even own slaves. And he certainly didn’t burn down the village store,” Matt laughed.

  “I don’t get it,” I said. “Why the hatchet job on Pasteur if he was such a nice guy?”

  “Why anyone, Prudence?” he asked. “The whole point of the film is to show how anyone can be vilified or anointed by the media. The film has nothing to do with Louis Pasteur, really. It’s about how we create heroes and villains in toda
y’s culture. See how you jumped on him and thought he was a terrible person just after two hours of this bullshit?”

  “Oh, so in the end you’re going to explain that Louis Pasteur didn’t really do any of these things, right?”

  He shook his head. “No way. Do the media do that when they get a news story wrong?”

  “I think they do. You remember the whole Gore won Florida, Bush won Florida, no one won Florida fiasco a few years ago?”

  “Very rare,” Matt said. “Usually they sweep their mistakes under the carpet and leave people’s lives in shambles.”

  “I don’t get it, Matt. The way you’re making a statement about how wrong this is is by doing it to Louis Pasteur.”

  “Yeah. I mean, what does he care? Hey, what did you think of the score? Mad Cow playing the music is pretty fucking brilliant, don’t you think?”

  “Um, well, I’m not really a heavy metal fan, but I guess if you’re going to defame Louis Pasteur, Mad Cow would be the band to do it with.”

  I did not get this project at all. I love radical art that makes a bold — even strident — statement, but everyone who sees this film will walk away thinking that Louis Pasteur was an unbelievable bastard. There was no indication that this was a commentary on the media. And, as a filmmaker, wasn’t Matt part of the media he was indicting?

  On the way to the airport, I kept thinking about poor Louis Pasteur. Dead, with no way to defend the false charges that Matt and his friends were about to file against him on screen.

  As we waited for the boarding call for my plane, Matt was silent. He had a few false starts, then finally said what was on his mind. “Look, I know this trip didn’t turn out exactly the way we planned. You and Rick hated each other; the whole deal with your knee. I know you had a bad time.”

  Is he breaking up with me?!

  “No, Matt,” I protested. “I had a good time. I think it’s important for us to see what it’s like to deal with not-so-great times together, you know? It can’t be sex on the Empire State Building every night of our lives. It’s good for us to see how we are when the going gets rough,” I said, hoping that my desperation wasn’t too obvious. I took a breath and proceeded more calmly. “Look, if this is the worst it gets between us, I’d say we’re pretty damn lucky.”

  “Settle down, Malone,” Matt laughed. “I was just saying that next time we’ll do more stuff that you want to.”

  Thank God! What did he mean by “settle down”?

  On the plane a young man sat next to me tapping away at his laptop computer and muttering curses. Finally, I was too curious to ignore his profane tirade any longer. “Do you mind if I ask what the problem is?”

  “Huh?” He snapped into the world of the living. “Oh, sorry, lady. I’m just pissed ’cause I got this stock that’s been diving since I bought it. My friend told me, ‘Buy ten thousand worth of this company and in ten years you’ll be a millionaire.’ ”

  “How long have you had it?” I asked.

  “Six months.”

  “Well, you’re friend did say ten years. Long-term investments dip every now and then,” I assured him. “A million does sound a little high, but give it some time. What’s it worth now?”

  “About twenty-five hundred,” he said with pain in his voice.

  “Ouch,” I commiserated. “You want my advice?”

  “It depends,” he said. “No offense, but do you invest?”

  I nodded. “Quite a bit, my friend.”

  “High-risk stuff?”

  I laughed. “About a third of my portfolio is high-risk, but I definitely like to hang on to my steady performers too. Listen, do you want my advice or not?” I raised my brows as if to say, “Listen kid, do I look poor to you?”

  “Yeah. What do I do?”

  “You’ve invested a lot already. Hang on to the stock and stop checking the market. Every month or so, see how it’s doing, but don’t stress out about every little blip in the market. Think long-term. This isn’t your only investment, is it?”

  He nodded.

  “Now that’s a mistake,” I said. “When you get a little cash, put some money in your blue-chip stocks. The next time around, you can go back to the riskier stuff, but buy yourself some peace of mind with a proven earner, okay?”

  “That’s just what my dad said,” he told me.

  Upon that comment, I flagged down the airline attendant. “Scotch and soda, please.”

  Chapter 30

  There were six consecutive messages from Father on the answering machine when I returned to New York. First he called to tell me what a great time he had last weekend. Then another asking if I was free this weekend. Then he called to ask why I wasn’t calling him back. Next he left a message saying that he remembered I was out of town for the weekend and to disregard his last message. The next one was to let me know he forgot if I was returning Sunday or Monday night, but that I should give him a call either way. Then he called Sunday. “Okay, I guess it’s Monday that you’re due back. Call me when you get home.” Then Monday. “Must be a late flight you’re coming in on. In any case, call me back, please.”

  “Yes, Father, what is it?” I said when he answered. “Is there an emergency?”

  “No, I just wanted to talk to my little girl,” he said. “How was Los Angeles?”

  “Okay. Listen, I’ve really got to unpack and get to sleep. I’ve got to be back at work in a few hours.”

  “Can we get together this weekend, Prudence? We can hang out at your apartment again. Whatever you want.”

  “Don’t you have some sort of Easter egg hunt thing I’m coming to soon?”

  “Prudence, that’s nearly two months away.”

  “Okay, let’s catch a movie together in the first week of March, okay? No, wait, I can’t do it then. How’s the second week for you?”

  “Prudence, I’m retired. Every week is good for me.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that. It was as if Father were only taking an interest in me now that it was easy to fit me into his schedule. This overture would have been appreciated a lot more if it had been made during the height of his busy career.

  “Every week is not good for me, Father. I happen to have an extraordinarily busy schedule,” I snapped.

  “Prudence, I realize that. That is why I’m telling you to pick any date. My calendar is wide open for you.”

  For me? Or just wide open?

  “Okay, let’s say the second week in March. I know that’s a few weeks out, but it’s the best I can do, okay Father?”

  “You can’t see me any sooner than that?” he asked.

  “Please, Father,” I clipped. “I enjoyed our day together, but this is too much for me right now.”

  “Why, what’s going on? Is everything okay?” he asked.

  “Everything is fine,” I said. “I just, I don’t know, it’s just too much. Can you give me some space?”

  “I thought that was my capital offense with you, Prudence. Giving you too much space.”

  No need to get sarcastic about it.

  “You’ve got to let me —” I stopped. “I don’t know, Father. I’ve got a shitload of mail to open and I still need to unpack. Can we talk about this another time?!”

  The next day during lunch, I went to the post office to close my box and pick up Reilly’s mail. The matronly postal clerk remembered me from my first visit.

  “We’ve been waiting for you to come around,” she said with both hands on her hips.

  “Really? Why is that?” I asked. “Did I get any more letters?”

  “You could say that,” she answered. She opened a door to the back room and shouted, “She’s here!” She rolled three full crates of letters out on a moving dolly.

  “Oh my God!”

  “This isn’t the half of it,” she said. Postal workers brought out box after box of letters to Reilly. “We had a pool to guess how many letters you got here. I won a hundred bucks last week for guessing closest to the actual number.”

&n
bsp; “How many are there?” I asked.

  “Twenty-eight hundred and forty two,” she said. “I guessed twenty-eight fifty and Billy over there eyeballed ’em at three thousand.”

  I stood in the lobby of the post office for my entire lunch hour tossing each letter into the trashcan. I felt like as long as I was going to discard these people, I’d at least have the decency to look them straight in the envelope before doing it. I imagined each of these women sitting down writing hopefully to their anonymous Prince Charming. I found myself humming the old Beatles song, “All the lonely people, where do they all come from?” I felt heaviness as I tossed their swirling script handwriting, their pink envelopes, their computer-generated labels into the trash can. But there were simply too many to respond to. I wondered how Reilly’s ad from November was still generating so much interest. “Shit!” I said aloud as I remembered Jennifer telling me that the ad would continue running until I called the paper to cancel it. I was nearly hit by a taxi as I ran on my crutches across the street to the newsstand. I scanned The Post, The Times, even Newsday before I saw a copy of the Village Voice. Sure enough, the ad was still running.

  When I returned to my office, I closed the glass door and dialed the phone number listed on the Voice masthead. Reilly’s personal ad had run for four months now and yet I was treating it like a bomb about to detonate. With each ring of the phone I became more anxious, more desperate to get Reilly’s ad out of the paper. When the receptionist told me that Reilly’s ad would no longer run, I was so relieved I didn’t even flinch when she told me how much I owed. It wasn’t the ad I was paying for; it was withdrawing it.

  The ad never mentioned Reilly by name, and there weren’t any recognizable details that would reveal his identity. But for the first time, I felt that my putting a personal ad in the paper on Reilly’s behalf was a humiliation.

  I dreaded the call I had to make to him. Surely I could put it off until the next day, I thought. I was scheduled to have dinner with Jennifer that night, and seeing her would give me the boost I needed before I had my first post-blowout conversation with Reilly.