The After Wife

by Gigi Levangie Grazer

“So, you’re getting married?”

  “Well, not yet. But I like her a lot. She’s good for me. She’s not like anyone I’ve ever met before.” Color flooded his cheeks.

  “You’re beaming,” I said. “That’s just … gross. I’m kidding. It’s so nice. Keep that look. I miss it. I really miss it.”

  “Thank you for being so supportive,” Brandon said. “It’s time to go out and earn a living. I just wanted you to know I’d be looking for something else.”

  “Life goes on, my boy,” I said, and gave him a hug. He kissed my forehead, then shuffled out of the kitchen, leaving me alone with a box of Drumsticks.

  Dangerous times at Casa Sugar.

  “Life goes on,” I said, ripping open the box. “How incredibly annoying.”

  I went outside. I had a bone to pick with my dead husband. (Trust me, you get used to this kind of thing.)

  “John!” I yelled. “JOHN!”

  “What?” he replied. He sat on top of the tree, looking ever so nonchalant.

  “Get down here this instant,” I said.

  “I didn’t mean to hit him,” he said.

  “Oh, but you did,” I said. “You hit him right in the head with an avocado.”

  “It was ripe,” he pointed out.

  “I don’t care. You don’t hit people in the head with vegetables—that’s terrible. You’re not a poltergeist.”

  “How many times have I told you, Hannah?” John said. “An avocado is a fruit.”

  “How many times have I told you I don’t care?”

  “Did you ever care?” John asked.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “What are you doing, flirting with the manny?”

  “I wasn’t flirting. I was … mentoring.”

  “Any more mentoring and you’d be picking out baby names. And, by the way, no one that tall is smart.”

  “That’s enough. He’s a sweet boy and I need him. Ellie needs him.”

  “Great. Hurt me some more. It’s not like I’m dead or something.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I really am.”

  I listened to the breeze, and the sound of a neighbor’s son’s garage band eviscerating “My Sharona.”

  “John? Is it quiet in … where you are?”

  “In heaven?”

  “I didn’t want to ask. I don’t want to believe in heaven because then I have to believe in hell.”

  “Well, we don’t actually call it heaven,” he said. “It’s called Philadelphia.”

  “What?”

  “I’m kidding. Ben likes to say that.”

  “Ben …”

  “Franklin. You know he died of syphilis?”

  “He told you that?”

  “You should see all the women this guy had—they are still all over him.”

  “Is it better up there?”

  “Never. My family is down there,” John said. “But I don’t want you to be up here with me. It’s not your time. So I have to sit here and wait, still madly, deeply in love.”

  I sniffed, and wiped a tear from the end of my nose.

  “Also, I miss my pans.” He sighed.

  “Don’t be mean,” I said, “although, they miss you, too.”

  “Hey, did you track down the Range Rover?”

  “Honey, I’m sorry, I haven’t.”

  I waited. No response.

  “John?”

  I wondered why I hadn’t told him about Casa Sugar, about selling our home. Perhaps the pain would be too much to process. The dead grieve, too, you know.

  I sat back in my chair, drank the rest of my wine … and sleep made its move.

  20

  It’s About Fucking Time

  Six forty-five in the morning and someone was pounding on my front door. I had awakened moments before, and was busy negotiating with the coffeemaker when the banging started. “Death” was my immediate thought, followed by “impending nuclear holocaust.” No one bangs on doors in NoMo.

  I ran to the door and opened it. A man stood there, all gut, full facial hair, wearing mirrored sunglasses. They’re expensive.

  I’m wondering what the Mafia wants with me. And what kind of Mafia. The Italian Mob is old school. There’s the Mexican Mafia, the Gay Mafia (they specialize in media, fashion, and bitchy asides), the Armenian Mafia, the Hungarian Mafia, the Russian Mafia …

  “I have appointment. You are Hannah?” the man said, with an unfamiliar foreign accent. I started to close the door. He stuck his foot in it.

  “Dee Dee made the appointment,” he said. “I need to see house.”

  “Dee Dee?” I said. “Dee Dee Pickler? Oh, are you the Turk?”

  “My name is Jerry,” he said.

  “Well, you’re not the new owner yet,” I said, calmly as I could. “Dee Dee did not contact me. And … Jerry’s a Turkish name?”

  “You need to sell house to me, yes?” he said. I nodded. “I need to see house first.”

  “Can you … just come back? My daughter doesn’t know.” Poor Ellie. How could I lose the only home she’d ever known? I’d lost everything—our tree, our swing, our backyard, our bathtub, our memories. My guilt receptacle overfloweth.

  “I don’t have time. I need to see house now.”

  “Please, she’s not awake yet. I don’t want to scare her.”

  “Hey, buddy.” A sleepy-eyed Brandon padded up behind me, wearing shorts and a rumpled T-shirt. “Is there a problem?”

  The Turk looked up, way up, at Brandon. “No, no,” the Turk said, smiling. “Not at all. I thought I had appointment.”

  “Apparently, you didn’t,” Brandon said, smiling back. “Maybe you’d like to make one.”

  “Yes. Good idea,” the Turk said. “I go to make appointment.” The Turk scampered away to the black Hummer blocking my driveway.

  “You’re selling Casa Sugar?” Brandon asked. “Why?”

  “You make it sound like I want to. I don’t want to. I have to.”

  “I see,” he said. “Does Ellie know?”

  I shook my head, afraid I was going to cry as Ellie walked in, her morning face bright with curiosity.

  “Hi, baby!” I said to Ellie, then turned to Brandon. “Keep an eye on her while I jump in front of a Santa Monica blue line.”

  “At least those buses are electric,” Brandon said, teasing me, as he grabbed Ellie and carried her off toward the kitchen.

  An hour later, Detective Ramirez was on my front steps. I had already dropped Ellie off at school, and Brandon had donned his best (and only) suit for a job interview. I’d tied his tie for him like a proud mother. John never wore ties. Not even to our wedding.

  Standing behind Detective Ramirez on my steps was the Turk.

  “Is your boyfriend here?” Ramirez asked.

  “My boyfriend,” I said, thinking. “Do you mean my manny?”

  “He’s not your boyfriend?” Ramirez asked.

  “No, but why are you asking me that?” I said. “I don’t feel like sharing my personal life with either of you, especially when it comes to boyfriends or lack thereof.”

  “Your manny allegedly threatened Mr. Mansour,” Ramirez stated.

  “Threatened him how?”

  “Called him a name,” Ramirez said, then looked at his notepad. “Did your manny call Mr. Mansour a ‘titty baby’?”

  It took me a while to stop laughing. “He said nothing of the sort. If there was threatening going on, it was a one-way street from … Jerry.” I pointed at the Turk. “He banged on my door at six forty-five in the morning.”

  “I have appointment,” the Turk said. “I have rights.”

  “Is he buying the house?” Detective Ramirez asked. “Mrs. Bernal, is Mr. Mansour buying your house?”

  Dee Dee had explained to me that it was too late to sell it through proper channels. I’d have to make a direct sale or risk being foreclosed on. The price she quoted to me had been fair. In the short term, I would have enough to tide me over.

  “We’re in a n
egotiation phase,” I said. “I haven’t signed any papers yet.”

  “So that’s almost a yes, but he hasn’t been able to look at the property,” Detective Ramirez said. “Would you mind if he took a look around?”

  “No,” I said, finally. “Please. Don’t touch anything.”

  “He won’t,” Detective Ramirez said. “Hear that? Don’t touch anything.”

  I stepped aside and watched as the Turk strode through Casa Sugar. I felt as though he were walking on my heart.

  “Titty baby is what passes for crime in Santa Monica? I feel infinitely safer,” I said to Ramirez. “Isn’t this the kind of thing a patrolman checks into?”

  “I wanted to see you,” he said, then retreated. “I mean, I’ve been checking up on Range Rovers.”

  “You found it?” I said, my heart skipping a beat.

  “No. The D.A. wants to proceed with a trial. We’re interviewing possible witnesses.”

  “You’re trying an innocent man,” I said. “How do you sleep at night?”

  Detective Ramirez changed the subject. “Have you seen him lately—my partner?”

  “No,” I said. “The dead usually accompany someone they were connected to in life.”

  Detective Ramirez glanced over his shoulder, and I followed his gaze. All I saw was the neighbor’s wisteria, draped over the lattice divider like a purple shawl; a sight I passed every day with nary a thought, yet appeared more beautiful than anything Monet could come up with on a very good day.

  “If you see him, can you tell him something for me?” he asked.

  “Of course,” I said.

  “Tell him … I’m sorry,” he said, sucking in his breath.

  “He knows,” I said. Ramirez wiped his nose with the back of his hand. I felt like hugging him, but that could be seen as an attempt to grab his gun from his holster. Did I feel like getting shot? No. Maybe.

  The Turk reappeared, grinning. “I’m done,” he said. “This is good-size lot. Maybe two days to take down house. Easy.”

  “You’re just going to take down the house? Isn’t Casa Sugar on the Historical Registry?”

  The Turk looked at me. “Historical? I pay the city, no more historical! But first, I have to take out tree.”

  “You have to … what?”

  “Thanks,” he said to Detective Ramirez, then walked off to his Hummer.

  “He can’t murder my tree! Can he?”

  “If he’s buying the place,” Ramirez said, “he can do what he wants with it. Unless it’s a California Oak. Those are protected.”

  “Oh my God,” I said. “This can’t be …”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Bernal,” Detective Ramirez said. “I’m sorry.”

  I closed the door as he stood there, then slid to the floor, grabbed my sides, and wept.

  * * *

  In the back of my brain, I remembered the girl with the frilly name who tied herself to an ancient redwood in Northern California to prevent loggers from chopping it down. I was going to be that girl, sans youthful glow. As I scoured the house looking for rope, I thought about how she’d sat in that tree for a year. I was going for a week.

  Or until I got really hungry.

  I found a long piece of rope in a forgotten drawer, climbed up the avocado tree, tied the rope around my waist to the trunk, and waited for news crews. (Wait! Did I call them?)

  Five minutes passed. I heard someone yelling my name.

  “That was quick,” I said. “I’m back here!” I wasn’t afraid. I’d faced death, taxes, unemployment, a floundering real estate market. What else could they do to me?

  Tom DeCiccio came into view, decked out head-to-toe in biking gear. He made ridiculous look delicious.

  “Hey,” I said. “How’ve you been?” I gripped the branch I was sitting on. I hadn’t eaten breakfast so I was woozy. I’d forgotten to bring up a pillow to sit on. I’d forgotten to pee. Hi, bright, shining moment.

  “Hannah,” Tom said, “what are you doing?”

  “I’ve tied myself to my tree. I don’t care what happens. I don’t care if the police or the fire department come. I’m not coming down.”

  “But you’re only a few feet off the ground,” he helpfully pointed out.

  “Did you want something? Besides mocking my foray into environmental justice?”

  “I know you’re selling your house,” he said. “We’re starting the paperwork on it.”

  “So?”

  “So, I wanted to check up on you. I figured you’d be upset. But all in all, it’s the right move.”

  “I’m not upset,” I said, trying to be strong.

  “Then … what are you doing in that tree?”

  He had me there. Tom was brighter than he looked, despite the beanie.

  “The Turk’s taking the tree down,” I said, choking up. “It’s just too much for me. It’s all just too much.”

  “Please, can you come down here?” Tom said. “Please?”

  “Why?” I said. “What do you care?”

  “Hannah, I care about you. I’d like to comfort you.”

  “No,” I said, “I’m fine.” My chest heaved. “I’m really fine. Just go away.”

  “Hannah,” he said, “I’ve missed you.”

  “The Happy Widower missed me?” I said. “Between assignations? When would you have time?”

  “Hannah … come on,” Tom said. “I have a right to date.”

  “I know, I know,” I said. “I just thought … I don’t know what I thought. What does it matter?”

  “Will you please come down?”

  “No,” I said. “I have my convictions … plus, I’m afraid to come down.”

  Tom stepped over, stood beneath me, and held his hands out for me to jump.

  I untied the rope and leapt into his arms. He fell back onto the ground. I thought I heard his spine crack. I leap into a man’s arms and paralyze him for life.

  “Oh God, are you okay?” I asked, as I heard him groan beneath me. “I can’t believe I did that.”

  Tom opened his eyes, pulled my face toward his, and kissed me. My head started spinning as his tongue pushed its way into my mouth. All over my body, switches turned on; the entire rusty machine was whirring to life. Even with him wearing Lycra bike shorts, I was a goner. But then, so was he.

  Wow. So. Grief Sex. How to describe? You know, different types of sex match different emotional states.

  There’s Make-up Sex. Or Sad Sex. There’s Sex just to get it over with Sex. There’s Guilt Sex. Anger Sex. Happy Sex. Embarrassed Sex. Anxiety Sex. Bliss Sex. There’s I’d Rather Be Doing Anyone Else, but You’re Here Sex.

  Those are all Grief Sex’s bitches. Yep, that’s right. Those sexes couldn’t hold Grief Sex’s jockey strap.

  Grief Sex with Tom may have been the best sex I’ve ever had. And no, haters, it wasn’t because I hadn’t had sex in forever. Okay, maybe it was. I’m not going to get into details. But when we emerged, our legs and arms wrapped around each other, we were laughing and crying.

  “That’s not normal,” I said.

  Tom shook his head. “I know,” he said.

  “It’s my first time,” I said.

  “Really?”

  “Well, I mean, not my first, first time. I am a mother.”

  He pulled me closer, and held me tight in his arms, as I cried. I cried because I had sex, I cried because I missed sex. I cried because I was grateful and because I was guilty. I cried because I was happy (which made me feel shitty). I cried because I was lonely, and maybe, just maybe, I wouldn’t be lonely anymore.

  That’s a lot of crying, let’s face it.

  After Tom left for work, I stared at myself long and hard in my bathroom mirror. I had to see if this experience, making love for the first time since John’s death, had changed me. Was I in love? I don’t think so. But I was definitely, solidly, in interest. The truth was, my heart had been so damaged, so traumatized by John’s death, that maybe from here on in, love would feel different, unrecogni
zable in its new, subdued form.

  All of a sudden, I felt old beyond my years. Too wise, even for my forties. In the quiet, bells started going off around me, the air cooled, and the toilet seat suddenly dropped.

  “Not now!” I said. “Can’t you see I’m having a moment?”

  Surrounded as I was by death, I decided that life was too short and precious (even if it weren’t short enough in some cases) and I needed my disgruntled, estranged, and strange best friends in the world now more than ever.

  Also, I needed to brag.

  * * *

  Jay’s small, tidy craftsman house, in a row of other small, tidy craftsman houses, was situated on a small, tidy street west of Main, just off Santa Monica beach. I overpaid for beach parking and headed to his home, organic dog biscuits in hand. I knew my audience.

  I heard the music a half block before I reached Jay’s home. George Michael, the lean years. Which predates George Michael, the surgery years. Whatever was happening with Jay required immediate attention.

  I rang, and after a drawn-out moment, Jay opened his front door, clutching Ralph to his chest.

  “Hi,” I said. “I brought you a present, and I just had amazing sex.”

  “Well, hello, Merry Widow,” he said, looking at his watch. “That was quick.”

  “No, it wasn’t,” I said, feeling defensive. “It’s been months.”

  “In my grandmother’s day, if a woman were widowed, she’d never have sex again.”

  “Do you want the biscuits or not?” I asked, waving the bag in his face.

  Jay grabbed the biscuits and motioned me in. “Details” was all he said, as he sank down on the couch.

  I sat facing him, our knees touching, mirroring each other’s posture. “Okay, I was tied to my tree and then I fell on top of him, and then we kissed.”

  “Wait,” Jay said, “who are we talking about, here?”

  “Tom the banker.”

  “Nice. Waxed?”

  “No!”

  “Trimmed?”

  I had to think. “I guess so.”

  “Circumcised?”

  “Yes,” I said, sitting on his living room couch. “Who isn’t circumcised these days?”

  “Dominicans,” Jay said. “We call those ‘hooded anteaters.’ ”

  “Enough. Why are you listening to George Michael, circa mid-eighties?” I asked.