The After Wife

by Gigi Levangie Grazer

  “It’s time for the tough to get cash,” Jay said. “I’d heard that from an auntie who lived through the Great Depression.”

  “And all we get is Douple-Dip Recession,” I said, “which sounds like dessert.”

  “The ‘Super-Fucked Recession’ rolls right off the tongue,” Jay said, out of Ellie’s hearing range. He grabbed my hand. He’d gotten a new tattoo of a pair of lips on his forearm. “Come on, movie’s about to start—little purple aliens will help you forget your troubles.”

  The next morning, I drove my car down Montana and spotted a sign in the window at Caffe Luxxe (slightly concealed by the beautiful people and their shimmery auras): NOW HIRING BARISTI

  I could baristi, I thought. I pulled over, nose-checked myself in the rearview mirror, then went inside, where I spotted Mr. Scary Redhead, the tatted guy behind the counter.

  “Hi,” I said, quavering before his freckles and piercings. “Who do I talk to about the baristi job?”

  “You mean barista,” Evil Redheaded Monster said. “Baristi is plural.” Are all redheads evil? Think about it. Hitler was a redhead. Stalin. Dahmer. John Wayne Gacy. Yes, they were all redheads. Don’t argue with me right now.

  “You mean like octopi?” I asked.

  “Talk to Melissa,” he said, nodding in the direction of an average-looking girl, but for the giant nose hoop piercing the space between her nostrils, like a bull. A nose hoop. For when a nose ring isn’t enough.

  I walked over to where Melissa was seated. “I was told by—” Evil Redhead—“the man behind the counter … I’m looking for a barista job.”

  “Good timing,” she said. “We’re in a lull right now. Have a seat.”

  I looked around as I sat. Usually, the place was packed, with a line that stretched from Ed O’Neill to a Desperate Housewife. Whenever I stood in that morning lineup, I was the only person I didn’t recognize.

  I played a game with myself. If I were able to get through the interview without staring at Melissa’s nose hoop, I would later give myself a Drumstick as a reward.

  “Foam art is really important,” she said. “I can’t stress that enough. We take our foam very seriously.”

  “Of course, you do,” I said. “Um. Exactly what is foam art?”

  Melissa pointed at a lovingly framed coffee portrait hanging on the far wall. “The espresso designs in the foam,” she said, in a somber tone.

  “Oh,” I said. “Yes. Wow. How do you even do that?”

  “We have a rigorous training program,” she said, lowering her voice. “I mastered the leaf and heart quickly, but I was unusually dedicated.”

  “Does one get paid during training?”

  “Tips. In this location, that’s plenty.”

  “I’m in.”

  “I have to warn you,” she said, “Santa Monica Caffe Luxxe is supercompetitive with the Brentwood Caffe Luxxe. We don’t even talk to each other. And we would never set foot in their shop. We are only looking for the most loyal baristi.”

  “I understand,” I said, taking a deep breath. “I’m ready to face my foam.”

  A week or so later, Melissa had a sour expression on her face. The source of her unhappiness? You’re looking at her. I had just put the finishing touches on a latte. “Give me another chance,” I said. “I can foam better. I know I can.” I’d been having trouble focusing—the spirit world hearts a good coffee place. Every other customer seemed to have a grandparent, parent, family pet, sister … something or someone who absolutely needed to communicate to them that very second. I felt like AT&T but with better service. I did my best to ignore the spirits, or reassure them without frightening my customers, but as a result I was not the Michelangelo of foam art. What could a budding barista do when distracted by celestial beings?

  “I had such high hopes,” Melissa said, muttering something else under her breath.

  “What is that?” Mean Horrible Evil Redhead asked, staring at my latest creation. “It looks pornographic.”

  I ignored him and told the customer, “It’s a leaf.” This clean-cut lawyer came in every morning precisely at 8:35, bringing with him his dead grandmother who desperately wanted him to get married and settle down. “With seductive undertones,” I admitted. My foam art looked like a vagina.

  The lawyer left, shaking his head.

  “Ooh, look who’s foaming,” Dee Dee Pickler said, as she breezed to the front of the line, packed in lululemon tights, a yoga mat tucked under her arm. Her breasts looked like a butt. Butt-boobs.

  “Look who’s … cutting the line,” I said. You should see me play tennis—Just. As. Good.

  “You work here? That’s so … what’s the word … open-minded.”

  “Hi. Two words. I’m not working. I’m researching.”

  “Well, how about researching my next cappuccino?” Dee Dee ordered.

  Melissa had a sharp eye on me. Her nostrils were flaring; the nose hoop vibrated.

  I felt like a matador. And now, I was trying to ignore an old chestnut mare that had wandered into the shop, dropping the temperature around me by about a hundred degrees. Melissa had already asked me not to wear a wool hat and scarf to work; as a result, I was freezing all the time.

  “Absolutely,” I said, shivering as I turned to the espresso machine.

  “Think leaf, be leaf,” Melissa hissed.

  The old horse rubbed her nose up against Melissa’s sleeve.

  “I got this,” I said, motioning for her to back off. I expelled a shot of espresso from the machine, poured steamed milk over it, manipulating the foam into my leaf. I presented my cappuccino, placing it on the counter next to the tip jar.

  Dee Dee and Melissa bent over the counter to study my foam as Evil Redhead stood behind us, arms crossed. Finally, I had perfected the leaf. I could feel it in my soul. Evil Redhead returned to his station.

  “It looks …,” Dee Dee said, then tilted her head. “Wait …”

  “It’s changing,” Melissa said, as Evil Redhead turned back. I gazed at the foam. She was right. My leaf was shifting into a …

  “Penis?” Evil Horrible Redhead said.

  “I’ll take it,” Dee Dee said, dropping a dollar into the tip jar, and grabbing the drink. “Ring me, Hannah,” she said, before sauntering outside.

  “I’m sorry, Hannah.” Melissa sighed. “You’re just not barista material.”

  “I was distracted. I can do better,” I insisted. Melissa just shook her head. Evil Redhead fluttered his fingers at me as I took off my apron and handed it to her. The old mare shimmied and neighed.

  “Do you miss your horse?” I finally asked Melissa. “She misses you.”

  Melissa eyed me warily. “What horse?”

  “You must have had a horse—maybe when you were a child?”

  “I never had a horse,” she insisted.

  “A chestnut mare. There’s some sort of connection …” I knew, by now, that I couldn’t be mistaken. It was odd for me to discover this talent at this stage of my life—but I knew enough to believe in it.

  Melissa’s hand suddenly went to her mouth. “So long ago,” she said, barely above a whisper. “My dad started drinking, my parents divorced, we lost our farm. But it was ages ago … I was five or six, I would ride with my mom. What was her name?”

  Melissa looked away, then grabbed my arm. “Nutmeg,” she said. A lone tear appeared, making a trail down the side of her cheek. Now I understood … the nose hoop, the attitude, everything.

  “Nutmeg still thinks about those rides,” I said. “You made her very happy.” I gave Melissa a long hug, and walked out with my head held high, past Dee Dee and her ass-boobs. She followed me to my car, sipping her latte. “This ‘dirty latte’ is delicious, by the way.”

  “I just got fired,” I said.

  “Hannah, you don’t have to do this,” Dee Dee said. “You know the Turk has a firm offer on the table.” I listened and watched the perfect young mothers and the perfect babies and the perfect sitcom star drinking the
perfect cappuccino with the perfect espresso leaf drawn into the perfect head of foam.

  This was never my reality, I thought. This is their show. This always belonged to them. I was just a tourist here.

  “Hannah? Are you okay?”

  “Goodbye, NoMo,” I whispered. I had to let go.

  After sitting down and sorting out the gory details with Dee Dee at her office on Montana, and starting to make my peace with downsizing, I came home to find Aimee weeping on my front door step.

  “What happened?” I asked. “I haven’t seen you in forever.” I was exhausted. I’d walked home, passing every useless jewelry, clothing, and sustainable furniture shop on Montana. They seemed foreign, as though I’d never noticed them before. What had I been holding on to?

  “I lost the role,” Aimee said, through her tears. I sat down and put my arm around her, staring up the street that I would no longer call my own. The palm trees that looked like dignified old women. The new marble mansions and old plaster bungalows. The shiny cars, the French racing bikes.

  “Let’s go inside,” I said.

  We sat in my kitchen and I ran my fingers along the chopping block. Our home was going to be lost to me and Ellie. Another death in a family so small.

  “I had the Mamet role, Hannah,” she said. “I got the call on Thursday.”

  “Wait—you had it, then you lost it? Why didn’t you tell us when you got the role?” I asked. “We could have celebrated, at least for a couple days.”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I wanted this role for so long. My entire life, really. Then I got it—and it was like—is this it? Is this the feeling?”

  I nodded, listening.

  “I thought about what I’d given up to get this part. I’d given up my life, Hannah. I’ve given up chances for love, for true happiness. I felt so sick, I couldn’t get out of bed.”

  “So what happened?” I asked.

  “I didn’t pass my physical,” Aimee said. “I had even showed up to the set.”

  “Are you okay?” I asked. “Was it the radiation? How could you not pass a physical?”

  “It’s all a mistake, but they’ve already hired someone else,” Aimee said.

  “They went younger?” Jay asked, holding Ralph and wearing huge sunglasses, as he came into the kitchen. Chloe tagged along behind him, with a couple of dogs in her wake, of course.

  “Bigger,” Aimee said. “They went with Kirstie Alley. My manager said they wanted ‘real.’ Real? This is not a world I want to live in. All I’ll ever be is the shampoo girl.”

  “Well, my crisis trumps your crisis,” Jay said, sniffling. He took off his sunglasses. His eyes were red. “After all the excitement, Hidalgo went back to his wife. All he left me with was an Indian headdress.”

  “I’m sorry, honey, but you knew he was married,” I said.

  “She trapped him,” Jay said. “Women are so lucky.” All you have to do is get knocked up. I wish I had a uterus.”

  Chloe looked up. “Billy told me I had purposefully trapped him,” she confessed. “But it was an accident. I got married in my fourth month. I was one big breast.”

  “I thought you were a nun, Chloe,” Aimee said. “You act like one. Except around paramedics.”

  “Aimee, that is so mean,” Chloe said. “You know, bitterness causes wrinkles.”

  “Everyone else in this kitchen is allowed to get married,” Jay said. “How does that work?”

  “It’s not that simple, Jay,” Aimee said. “Put yourself in Hidalgo’s wife’s place.”

  “You’re telling me this? You, who has a heart of stone.”

  “I’m an actress. I empathize for a living.”

  “No, you don’t,” Jay said. “You wash your hair for a living.”

  Aimee just looked at Jay, her mouth open. Then, she slowly stood and walked out. I heard the front door slam.

  “Hi, Andy DICK,” I said to Jay.

  “Well, she said it first.” Jay sulked.

  “I’m leaving,” Chloe said. “Dogs don’t care if I have a harmless flirtation with nine-one-one. Or premarital sex. They don’t judge.”

  “All I want is marital sex,” Jay said, to her retreating figure, “but people like you won’t let me!” Jay sprang from his barstool and I listened to the bang, bang, bang of Louboutin loafers and the jingling of his squirrel tail keychain as he slammed the front door.

  I was left alone.

  “I’m selling Casa Sugar,” I said to no one. “Hannah doesn’t live here anymore.”

  Brandon, Ellie, and I ate takeout from A Votre Sante on San Vicente. Ellie had her usual tempeh and grilled vegetables (no, I’m not kidding), I had a thin Margherita pizza. Yes, I ate the whole thing, but I’ve mentioned it’s thin, have I not? Brandon ate a turkey burger.

  (Perhaps you have to live in L.A. to understand the prior paragraph. I apologize.)

  Neither Brandon nor I were in a talkative mood. He’d become quieter in the last week or so. I’d find him at the kitchen table, staring off into space, looking very Men’s Vogue layout, like something Tom Ford might order for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

  I sat at my center island, seeing everything through new, sad eyes; the way the light falls on the kitchen table in the evening, it was so … Ansel Adams.

  Those old shelves were small, the doors don’t close and never will, but boy, are they solid. My avocado tree was perfectly framed in my French windows.

  I inhaled that pizza and sighed it out.

  Ellie bounced in and talked schoolyard politics, a new girl named Chase (really? Chase?), and why caterpillars are so delightful. Meanwhile, I saw all that would no longer exist for us. In our bleak future, Brandon, I imagined, would also be gone.

  I should be used to this, I reasoned to myself. “Come on, Hannah—things disappear—you know that—keys, sunglasses, jobs, financial security, husbands …”

  Brandon and I continued to eat in silence as the little girl with the glasses sat up on her stool, oblivious to our mood, feeding our souls with her voice. It seems that Ellie is here to save me. I know it’s unfair to put the onus on someone who’s not tall enough to ride roller-coaster rides at Universal Studios, but it’s the truth.

  Later, Brandon and I, in our nightly ritual, took turns saying good night to Ellie—first I say good night, and read a book, then Brandon comes in to say good night and tell her a story about his brothers and sister growing up. Tonight, we’d grunted good night to each other and went our separate ways—not far in a 900-square-foot house.

  Then I did what I normally do under these or any other circumstances. I cracked open the Russian River pinot I’d found for $7.99 (Von’s Card), poured a glass, poured a little more, and headed outside to sit under my avocado tree. I wanted to soak in the night and the next thirty-to-sixty days or however long escrow lasted.

  The back door swung open, and Brandon emerged.

  “Can I talk to you?”

  “As long as I don’t have to respond,” I said. “One of those days.”

  “Raise a finger,” he said. “One is yes, two is no.”

  “You’ve been dealing with three-year-olds for too long,” I said.

  He smiled, and raised a finger. Under the veil of our kitchen lights, he was backlit like a six-foot-six angel.

  “You’re quitting,” I said.

  “No,” Brandon said. A small thought wiggled its way into my aged cerebellum.

  Brandon was in love with moi. The signs were everywhere. More than once, I caught Brandon staring as I unpacked groceries. He couldn’t be that crazy about Granny Smith apples. The poor boy was head-over-heels in love with his grandmother.

  “Brandon,” I said, “I don’t know how to say this … I’ll just come out and say it. My parts are over forty years old. You and I could never work out.”

  Brandon looked at me.

  “We’re too different. For one thing, you’re tall and blond. That’s a combination I’ve never understood.”

  Were his eye
s welling up?

  “You’re upset,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”

  Brandon broke out laughing, then leaned over and gave me a bear hug, which lasted long enough to make me miss John’s bear hugs more than I would miss oxygen or chocolate or the grape. Hardly an embrace of the romantic kind—I guess the kid wasn’t madly in love with me—but nevertheless, welcome.

  An avocado fell from the top of the tree, hitting Brandon on the head.

  “Ow!” Brandon said, rubbing the top of his head. He looked up.

  “John!” I said.

  “What?” Brandon asked.

  “What?” I said.

  “You just said ‘John,’ ” Brandon said, his gray-blue eyes of youth clear as HDX.

  Another avocado fell from the top of the tree.

  “Why don’t we go inside?” I said, escorting Brandon into the kitchen. “That wind is really picking up!”

  We stepped inside the kitchen. “Hannah,” Brandon said, “I do love you. I love the way you stay so strong even when you’re so lost. I love the way you listen to people, and how everything is funny to you, even death. I love the way you’ve survived. I’ve learned so much about how to live from you.”

  “Stop, I feel like Oprah—without the money and the Gayle.”

  “You have your Gayle. You’ve got Chloe, Jay, and Aimee.”

  “Not anymore. We broke up. It was like Friends when they ran out of story lines. You know, Phoebe got pregnant with twins and Monica got jealous.”

  “What’s Friends?” Brandon asked.

  “Wow,” I said. “You’re younger than my Paxil prescription.”

  “Aimee’s mad at you?”

  “Aimee’s mad at everyone,” I said, “but now even more so than usual. Just when I sensed her bright and sunny side.”

  Brandon looked down at his feet. I guess a size fourteen and a half can be pretty interesting.

  “You okay?” I asked. “Can I get you anything? Drumstick, no nuts?”

  “Hannah,” he said, “I need to find a real job.”

  “I knew it. I knew it.” I felt like I’d been punched in the stomach.

  “I won’t leave right away. Something’s changed. I’m … involved with someone, Hannah. It’s pretty serious.”