Jennifer Johnson Is Sick of Being Married

by Heather McElhatton

  Finally it’s time to go. I take the elevators up to Brad’s office, where Brad introduces me to the store’s new head of finance, Todd Brockman. Todd’s a big broad-shouldered guy with a blocky head and blindingly white teeth. He wears a shiny blue suit and has a short frosted crew cut. He looks like your average TV anchor or high-end car salesman. He says I should call him what all his friends do: The Brock. I smile and tell him to call me Mrs. Keller.

  Brad leaves us to take a call and Todd shows me his new office, which has a bookcase loaded with football trophies. “So, kiddo!” Todd grins. “Welcome back! Hey, I got a question for ya. Big bad Brad and I are working on this spiffy new deal with a foreign investment group, buncha nice guys. Great suits. Anyway, we’re trying to raise a little capital-cashola and they’re looking to invest in a retail chain. We’re hoping to get them on board here at Keller’s and the upshot-a-rino is . . . we’d like you to throw a little dinner for them.”

  “You want me to throw a dinner?”

  “Heck yeah, you don’t want us fellas microwaving frozen fish sticks for ’em! We need a real nice home-cooked meal. They love that crap. Take me to a steak house, but these fellas want a ‘mi casa es su casa’ scenario. Fine by me, as long as I don’t have to cook!”

  “But you want me to cook.”

  “No way! We want a caterer to cook and you to be your super-charming self!”

  “Oh. Okay . . . I guess that’s—”

  “Great! Emily has the deets. Hey, Em! Grab that Jap-dinner file for Jen! All righty then, the Brock has to bolt. Emily’ll shoot you some intel on that dinner and you call me if you need anything, got it? Hey, Em! Grab those files for Jen to sign too! Em’s got some papers for you to sign. Just employee file stuff. All righty then, we good?”

  “Um . . . we’re good.”

  “Super-great to meet you, Jen!”

  Todd leaves and Emily the executive secretary hurries in, dropping files all over the floor.

  “Oh no!” she gasps, kneeling down to retrieve them. “I’m so stupid!” she mutters. “I’m such a klutz!” Then she looks up with tears in her eyes. “Oh! I didn’t know you were in here, Mrs. Keller! I’m so sorry . . .” She’s all flustered and continues to spill files even as she picks them up. I adore her. She reminds me of when I started working at Keller’s. Uncertain of anything except that everything’s her fault. Actually, that still sounds like me.

  I kneel down and help her.

  “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Keller, Mr. Brockman’s always telling me to think before I do something stupid.”

  “Well, that’s not very nice.”

  “Oh, he’s just trying to help me improve.”

  “I’ll bet.” I ask her if she’d tell me to think first if I dropped papers all over the floor, if she thought that would that help me carry files better, and her eyes go wide. “No,” she says. “I’d tell you it’s no big deal and . . . not to worry about it!”

  “Exactly, and that’s what this is. No big deal. Right?”

  “Right.” She nods, blushing. We get the files picked up and Cute Emily says, “Thank you so much, Mrs. Keller! I’m so glad I met you. Everybody said you were nice!”

  “Please.” I smile at her. “Call me Jennifer.”

  Emily gives me a pile of papers to sign. Health insurance, employee benefits, tax crap, just basic information, but I’m useless of course; I can’t remember our new address or our new telephone number. She pulls out a tax ID form and I write down both my social security numbers. “This is the one I use, but this one pops up from time to time and it’s a total pain.”

  Emily looks impressed. “How’d you get two?”

  “When I was a baby my mom took me to Denmark and left her purse in a cab. Lost all my ID. Then when we got home, the government issued me a new card with a new number. No idea why, maybe because I was a baby, but that stupid first number still pops up from time to time, so just keep an eye out for it. Otherwise things can get confusing.”

  “Oh!” Her eyes fly open. “I almost forgot the investor dinner packet! I’m sorry, wait here, I’ll be right back. Mr. Brockton will kill me if you leave without it.” She brings me a manila envelope and says everything I need should be inside. As I’m leaving she apologizes for dropping the files again. She says she hasn’t been sleeping well lately because she’s getting married in the spring. “There’s so much to do, everything is just spinning!”

  “Oh, honey.” I smile gently. “It’ll be . . . what it is. The most important thing is you’re marrying someone you love, right?”

  “Right!” She grins and I think to myself, Christ, is that the most important thing?

  “And, Mrs. Keller,” she says. “I wonder if . . . I might ask you to lunch sometime? For, um . . . wedding advice and that kind of thing?”

  “Wedding advice?”

  “Oh . . .” She blushes awkwardly. “It’s just that my mother died when I was kind of young. I don’t have anyone to help me with . . . I don’t even know what I need help with! Stuff you already know. Advice for brides, I guess.” Her sweet heart-shaped face has gone pink and I pat her on the shoulder.

  “Lunch we shall have, my dear. It would be my pleasure.”

  Brad appears in the doorway. It’s time for the pep rally and we leave the office together, riding down in the elevator to the first floor. “We first met on an elevator,” I remind him.

  “How could I forget?” he snorts. “You threatened to pepper-spray me.”

  “Yep. Say what you will, babe, we’ve always had chemistry.”

  The elevator doors open onto the wide white marble lobby, and the smell of roses and gardenia perfume washes over us. I start to feel nervous as we cross the crowded lobby and head for the stage. People make way for us and start smiling. I feel like a contestant on The Price Is Right. It’s worse when we get up onstage and have to stand there like idiots smiling, waiting for Mr. and Mrs. Keller to arrive. Sarah and Bill are already there, along with a very hyper Trevor, who hops back and forth from one foot to the other while his mother tells him to stop. “Auntie Jen!” Trevor whispers. “I got tap shoes today!”

  “Really? Sweet.”

  “And where did Mommy say you could use your tap shoes?” Sarah whispers tightly.

  “The basement!” Trevor grins.

  “That’s right. Only the basement.”

  Suddenly the crowd starts to clap as the Kellers come in. Ed’s wearing a dark gray suit with a red tie and Mother Keller’s in a complementary slate-gray shantung silk dress with a large gemstone-and-pearl brooch. They join us onstage smiling, smiling, smiling. Mother Keller practically beams at me, and I actually look over my shoulder thinking her affectionate face must be for someone behind me.

  Ed begins his speech. I stand beside Brad like a wax statue riveted in position, a smile frozen on my face and staring off at an unfixed point in the crowd. I feel like an idiot up here. It hurts to smile this much. And speaking of pain, my no-problem pumps start to feel like bear traps biting into my feet. I feel progressively more awkward with every second that ticks by. Horrible thoughts cloud me. What if I have spinach in my teeth? What if I pass out suddenly? What if I get a nosebleed? What if I develop Tourette syndrome right here and now, uncontrollably blurting out foul language? I burst out into a cold sweat. Great. Now I’ll have pit stains. Shit! Suddenly I hear my name and Mother Keller’s hugging me, kissing me on both cheeks. The audience is clapping and someone’s handing me a huge bouquet of roses.

  What the hell is happening?

  “Isn’t she great, folks?” Ed beams. “We really hit the jackpot! Welcome to the Keller family, Jennifer! We wouldn’t want anyone else for a daughter-in-law! Now . . . we just need to start making some junior Kellers, all right?” The audience laughs and my head starts swimming. Trevor gives me a big drawing he made of the whole family and Sarah kisses my cheek. I can hardly see anything now, because I’m holding a bouquet of red roses so big, it’s more like a shrub. Ed thanks everyone for coming and suddenl
y . . . we’re all leaving. It’s only as we’re leaving the stage that I notice the banner that’s been unfurled for who knows how long behind me that says WELCOME, JENNIFER, TO THE KELLER FAMILY!

  I’m thunderstruck.

  I can’t believe it. This pep rally was to welcome me . . . and I managed to miss almost the whole thing by nonstop speed-worrying. I feel completely ashamed. They were trying to do something nice for me. I get teary as Brad kisses me good-bye and say, “It was just so nice of them to do this for me.” He says they should’ve thrown me a big dinner. They did that for Bill when he married Sarah. I kiss Brad and tell him I don’t want a big dinner. All I want is him.

  He has more meetings, so he stays behind at the store while I drive home alone. I promise to pick him up something delicious for dinner. Later that night I take a big bubble bath and pour myself a glass of wine. I put music on so no one can hear me and I let myself have one hell of a cry. Am I happy? Am I sad? Am I worried that I can’t pull this whole marriage thing off?

  Absolutely. All of it.

  I stay in the bathtub for another hour, adding hot water as needed. I dry my eyes and open the manila envelope I got from Cute Emily. Inside the envelope I find a schedule, a contact list, a guest list, and a Xeroxed article titled “How to Throw a Party for Japanese People!”

  I call Emily.

  “Um . . . Is this really all I need to know for the foreign-investor dinner?” I ask her. “I mean, I don’t see any phone numbers for a caterer or a florist or—”

  “Oh, that’s all been taken care of for you, Mrs. Keller. Did you see the caterer’s schedule? She was supposed to list all the setup times.”

  “I have it. It says the rental place delivers dinnerware and linens at nine in the morning, then the catering staff sets up at ten thirty and the florist delivers orchids at noon. Guests come for cocktails at six and dinner is served at seven.”

  “Sounds perfect,” she says.

  “Yes, because it won’t be me in the kitchen. I seriously can’t cook anything.”

  “Oh, of course you can, Mrs. Keller!”

  “Call me Jennifer, sweetie, and no, I literally once set fire to tap water.”

  I stay up and read the article on entertaining Japanese people. I make copious notes and commit to memorizing everything. I want this to dinner to go perfectly.

  I climb into bed around ten and take my journal with me. There, tucked into the covers, I take out a pen and make my very first list for Emily, starting with the basics.

  Top Five Things Virgins Should Remember

  1. Nine out of ten penises are ugly.

  2. The art of foreplay was lost with the Incas.

  3. Sex feels like being hit by a shopping cart.

  4. You might be shaved and waxed, but he’ll still be hairy. Be prepared when he takes his sweater off; it might look like he’s still wearing a sweater.

  5. You’ll never appreciate the word “deflowering” again.

  It’s just for fun. Obviously I would never show this to her, even if it is accurate and potentially helpful. Sex is no ballet. The faster you accept that, the better.

  When Brad finally comes home, it’s late. I’m already in bed, having fallen asleep with all the lights on. Brad gently shakes my shoulder. “Babe? You up? I have something to tell you!” He’s terribly excited. I manage to put on my bathrobe and reheat his dinner—takeout from D’Amico—as he explains the situation.

  Apparently, Ed Keller is putting both Brad and Sarah on “probation” until next spring, and at the end of that time whoever proves to be the better candidate will get the job. He says it’s the way to get everything he wants. To run the company without his sister. Brad says our entire future depends on what we do in the next several months. How we act. Who we are. How we seem. “We have to become the obvious candidates for the position,” Brad says. “Dad wants to see which of us handles the pressure and the responsibility better. He’s going to watch us and test us, and whoever does better gets everything.”

  I can’t believe Ed’s pitting his own children against each other. What am I saying? Of course he is. When Great-Grandpa Keller built the company, he designed the bylaws so that no individual family member could own the company outright. He made it impossible for any one family member to own more shares than the others. He knew what a pack of jackals they could be. The rule was to prevent hostile takeovers among loved ones.

  Smart guy.

  “Right now, I can’t own more shares of the company than Sarah does,” Brad explains, “and vice versa, but if I become the president, I’ll have veto power. I can petition for and even force a board member’s removal.”

  “You’d get rid of your sister?”

  “Jen, I’m not trying to sound dramatic . . . but she’s evil. She buried me alive once. Literally. She buried me in a cave up at the cabin. Then she told my parents I ran away. It took them three days to find me.”

  “You know she tells that story differently. In her version you’re evil.”

  “Todd says once I replace her—and enough of the board members—I can petition to change the bylaws themselves, which means I can own the whole thing!”

  “Todd?”

  “I like the Brock,” he says. “The Brock is on our side.”

  I want to say the Brock is on my hit list . . . but I don’t want to dampen the mood.

  We put together the perfect plan for becoming the perfect couple right then and there. It’s a concept I’ve been working on all along, but it’s nice to have my husband on board. Brad is determined to show his parents that we are worthy of running Keller’s and I’m so glad/honored/relieved to be in on one of Brad’s schemes for once, I pour cup after cup of coffee and eagerly agree to all his ideas. I promise to be the most perfect wife around. Ed Keller will see our amazing, awesome life and he’ll have no choice but to hand Brad the store. Like all strong military campaigns, ours has a name. We call our plan Operation Hotdish.

  I’m to become a trophy wife, a beautiful, poised, and gracious goddess of all domestic skills. We’ll go to the Kellers’ house for supper; we’ll attend church and show up at the country club for all the right social occasions. Brad will work strict hours at the office; he’ll have dinners, drinks, and regular tee times with investors, importers, clients, and key customers, not to mention with the dusty old white-haired board members. We’ll both attend any and all company functions, parties, picnics, and employee pep rallies. And since Horrible Todd Brockman holds the keys to Keller’s financial kingdom, we’ll befriend him as well.

  Joy.

  We’ll be disciplined and learn to live the way his parents want us to. We’ll have to work hard because Sarah has the upper hand right now. She’s older, she’s been working at the company longer, and she’s not a recovering alcoholic, like Brad is. “Also she has a kid, which is massive points for the grandparents.” Brad looks over at me and says, “Babe, we need a kid.”

  I melt. I smile at him and say, “I thought you’d never ask.” Then we head back upstairs and have sex for the rest of the night. Brad’s so excited and happy right now, I don’t have the heart to tell him that the whole plan to act like people we aren’t in order to dupe his parents into trusting us sounds a little evil. Every time I think I might mention it he gives me a long deep kiss and I see fiery stars. I’ve never been so happy.

  This must be how Eva Braun felt.

  4

  Operation Hotdish

  The perfect woman is actually three women rolled into one: Mrs. Howell, Mary Ann, and Ginger from Gilligan’s Island. Three women who when combined become the whole package. The refined lady, the demure sweetheart, and the sultry sex kitten, all in one. A woman who can bake coconut pies, charm cannibals, and cavort on white-sand beaches in six-inch stilettos.

  Simply put, the perfect woman is a sweet rich slut.

  Being a trophy wife is something I know nothing about. Yes, I have a wealthy husband, a beautiful house, three dozen matching wineglasses, and a legal cable con
nection . . . but how any of this happened is a mystery. I come from more of a Spam-and-spray-cheese set. My people polka. They drink Bud Light and spend more money on their snowmobiles than their life insurance, because as Lenny says, if you got one, you really don’t need the other.

  I turn to Christopher for help, because let’s face it, he knows more about being a woman than I do. I tell him about Operation Hotdish and Brad’s plan to become the perfect couple, and he’s 100 percent behind it. “This is the dream challenge of a gay bee’s lifetime!” he says. “To transform a plain lump-of-coal midwestern girl into a sparkling grande-dame diamond.”

  “I don’t know. I hate hair spray.”

  “Fear not,” he says. “We will tame you, my little shrew.”

  “Easy on the shrew metaphors, Petruchio.”

  “We’ll turn you into the bitchiest of bitchy divas. You’ll be magnificent! And just think, you already have the bitchy part down perfectly!”

  Top Ten Traits of a Trophy Wife

  1. Gorgeous/sexy/big boobs/small waist

  2. Is seen and not heard

  3. Without too many opinions of her own

  4. Skinny/loves working out

  5. Always elegantly dressed and immaculately groomed, even when sick, sleeping, or giving birth

  6. Elicits high-five signs from other men

  7. Elicits true hatred from other women

  8. Skilled in the domestic arts, or at least in delegating to maids

  9. Appreciates fine wine, fast cars, and her husband’s Viagra prescription

  10. Sexually advanced: expert at oral/open to anal

  We begin researching other attributes of the perfect trophy wife, skimming almost a dozen online articles, glancing over at least two advice columns, and mostly watching tens of hours of television, including such classic trophy-wife-centric shows as Desperate Housewives, Dallas, The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, and Falcon Crest. What we learn is: Every group has a different set of rules. One man’s trophy wife is another man’s white trash. For example: