Wife 22
Page 2
“What about you, Alice? Googled yourself lately?” asks Urminder.
William shakes his head. “There’s no need for Alice to Google herself. She doesn’t have a public life.”
“Really? And what kind of a life do I have?” I ask.
“A good life. A meaningful life. Just a smaller life.” William pinches the skin between his eyes. “Sorry, kids, it’s been fun, but we’ve got to go. We have a bridge to cross.”
“Do you have to?” asks Kelly. “I hardly ever see Alice.”
“He’s right,” I say. “I promised the kids we’d be home by ten. School night and all.”
Kelly and the three young men head for the bar.
“A small life?” I say.
“I didn’t mean anything by it. Don’t be so sensitive,” says William, scanning the room. “Besides, I’m right. When’s the last time you Googled yourself?”
“Last week. 128 hits,” I lie.
“Really?”
“Why do you sound so surprised?”
“Alice, please, I don’t have time for this. Help me find Frank. I need to check in with him.”
I sigh. “He’s over there, by the windows. Come on.”
William puts his hand on my shoulder. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
There’s no traffic on the bridge and I wish there was. Heading home is usually something I relish: the anticipation of getting into my pajamas, curling up on the couch with the clicker, the kids asleep upstairs (or pretending to be asleep but likely texting and IM’ing away in their beds)-but tonight I’d like to stay in the car and just drive somewhere, anywhere. The evening has been dislocating, and I’m unable to shake the feeling that William is embarrassed by me.
“Why are you so quiet? Did you have too much to drink?” he asks.
“Tired,” I mumble.
“Frank Potter is a piece of work.”
“I like him.”
“You like Frank Potter? He’s such a player.”
“Yes, but he’s honest. He doesn’t try and hide the fact. And he’s always been kind to me.”
William taps his fingers on the steering wheel in time to the radio. I close my eyes.
“Alice?”
“What?”
“You seem funny lately.”
“Funny how?”
“I don’t know. Are you going through some sort of a midlife thing?”
“I don’t know. Are you going through some sort of a midlife thing?”
William shakes his head and turns up the music. I lean against the window and gaze out at the millions of lights twinkling in the East Bay hills. Oakland looks so festive, almost holidayish-it makes me think of my mother.
My mother died two days before Christmas. I was fifteen. She went out to get a gallon of eggnog and was struck by a man who ran a red light. I like to think she never knew what was happening. There was a screech of metal hitting metal, and then a gentle whooshing, like the sound of a river, and then, a peachy light flooding into the car. That’s the end I’ve imagined for her.
I’ve recited her death story so many times the details are stripped of their meaning. Sometimes when people ask about my mother I’m filled with a strange, not entirely unpleasant nostalgia. I can vividly summon up the streets of Brockton, Massachusetts, that on that December day must have been garlanded with tinsel and lights. There would have been lines of people at the liquor store, their carts packed with cases of beer and jugs of wine, and the air would have smelled of pine needles from the Christmas tree lot. But that nostalgia for what came immediately before is soon vanquished by the opaque after. Then my head fills with the cheesy opening soundtrack to Magnum, P.I. That’s what my father was watching when the phone rang and a woman on the other end gently informed us there had been an accident.
Why am I thinking about this tonight? Is it, as William asks, a midlife thing? The clock is certainly ticking. This September when I turn forty-five, I will be exactly the same age my mother was when she died. This is my tipping-point year.
Up until now I’ve been able to comfort myself with the fact that even though my mother is dead, she was always out in front of me. I had yet to cross all the thresholds she had crossed and so she was still somehow alive. But what happens when I move past her? When no more of her thresholds exist?
I glance over at William. Would my mother approve of him? Would she approve of my children, my career-my marriage?
“Do you want to stop at 7-Eleven?” asks William.
Ducking into 7-Eleven for a Kit Kat bar after a night out on the town is a tradition for us.
“No. I’m full.”
“Thanks for coming to the launch.”
Is that his way of apologizing for how dismissive he was tonight?
“Uh-huh.”
“Did you have fun?”
“Sure.”
William pauses. “You’re a very bad liar, Alice Buckle.”
3
April 30
1:15 A.M.
GOOGLE SEARCH “Alice Buckle”
About 26 results (.01 seconds)
Alice in Wonderland Belt Buckles
Including the Mad Tea Party buckle, Tweedle Dee, Tweedle Dum buckle, the White Rabbit buckle, Humpty Dumpty buckle…
Alice BUCKLE
Boston Globe archive… Ms. Buckle’s play, The Barmaid of Great Cranberry Island, Blue Hill Playhouse “wan, boring, absurd”…
Alice BUCKLE
Alice and William Buckle, parents of Zoe and Peter, enjoying the sunset aboard the…
GOOGLE SEARCH “Midwife crisis”
About 2,333,000 results (.18 seconds)
Urban Dictionary: Midwife crisis
The act of dropping a newborn on its head shortly after birth.
GOOGLE SEARCH “MidLIFE crisis”
About 3,490,000 results (.15 seconds)
Midlife Crisis-Wikipedia the Free Encyclopedia
Midlife crisis is a term coined in 1965…
Midlife Crisis: Depression or Normal Transition?
Midlife transitions can mark a period of tremendous growth. But what do you do when midlife becomes a crisis that develops into depression?
GOOGLE SEARCH “Zoloft”
About 31,600,000 (.12 seconds)
Zoloft (Sertraline HCl) Drug Information: Uses, Side Effects
Learn about the prescription medication Zoloft (Sertraline HCl), drug uses, dosage, side effects, drug interactions, warnings, and patient labeling…
Sertraline… Zoloft
Let me tell you about my experience with Zoloft. I was released from the psych ward yesterday afternoon…
GOOGLE SEARCH “Keys in refrigerator Alzheimer’s”
About 1,410,000 results (.25 seconds)
Alzheimer’s Symptoms
The Alzheimer’s Association has updated its list of the… putting the keys in the egg tray in the door of the refrigerator.
GOOGLE SEARCH “Lose weight fast”
About 30,600,000 results (.19 seconds)
FAT LOSS for Imbeciles
I have lost twenty-five pounds! The fact that I feel like fainting most of the time is a small price…
GOOGLE SEARCH “Happy Marriage?”
About 4,120,000 results (.15 seconds)
Hunting for the Secrets of a Happy Marriage-CNN
No one can truly know what goes on inside a marriage except the two people involved, but researchers are getting increasingly good glimpses…
Thin Wife Key to Happy Marriage! Times of India
Researchers have revealed the secret of a happy marriage-wives weighing less than their hubbies.
INGREDIENTS FOR A HAPPY MARRIAGE
1 cup kindness, 2 cups gratitude, 1 tablespoon daily praise, 1 secret carefully concealed.
4
SPAM Folder (3)
From: Medline
Subject: Cheap, cheap Vicodin, Percocet, Ritalin, Zoloft discreet
Date: May 1, 9:18 AM
To: Alice Buckle ‹alicebuckle@r
ocketmail.com›
DELETE
From: Hoodia shop
Subject: New tapeworm diet pills, tiny Asian women
Date: May 1, 9:24 AM
To: Alice Buckle ‹alicebuckle@rocketmail.com›
DELETE
From: Netherfield Center for the Study of Marriage
Subject: You’ve been selected to participate in a marriage survey
Date: May 1, 9:29 AM
To: Alice Buckle ‹alicebuckle@rocketmail.com›
MOVE TO INBOX
5
It occurs to me that I am the Frank Potter of my own small world. Not the social-climbing Frank Potter, but the in-charge Frank Potter-I am the chief drama officer of Kentwood Elementary. The anxious Alice Buckle that showed up at William’s vodka launch is not the Alice Buckle who is currently sitting on a bench out on the playground while a fourth-grader stands behind her and attempts in vain to style her hair.
“Sorry, Mrs. Buckle, but I can’t do anything with this,” says Harriet. “Maybe if you combed it once in a while.”
“If you combed my hair it would be nothing but frizz. It’d be a rat’s nest.”
Harriet gathers up my thick brown hair and then releases it. “I’m sorry to tell you, but it looks like a rat’s nest now. Actually, it looks more like a dandelion.”
Harriet Morse’s bluntness is a typical fourth-grade girl trait. I pray she won’t outgrow it by the time she gets to middle school. Most girls do. Myself, I like nothing better than a girl who says what she thinks.
“Maybe you should straighten it,” she suggests. “My mother does. She can even go out in the rain without it curling up.”
“And that’s why she looks so glamorous,” I say, as I see Mrs. Morse trotting toward us.
“Alice, I’m sorry I’m late,” she says, bending down to give me a hug. Harriet is the fourth of Mrs. Morse’s children to have cycled through my drama classes. Her oldest is now at the Oakland School for Performing Arts. I like to think I might have had something to do with that.
“It’s only 3:20. You’re fine,” I say. There are still at least two dozen kids scattered on the playground awaiting their rides.
“The traffic was horrible,” says Mrs. Morse. “Harriet, what in the world are you doing to Mrs. Buckle’s hair?”
“She’s a very good hairdresser, actually. I’m afraid it’s my hair that’s the problem.”
“Sorry,” Mrs. Morse mouths silently to me, as she digs in her handbag for a hair tie. She holds it out to Harriet. “Honey, don’t you think Mrs. Buckle would look great with a ponytail?”
Harriet comes around from the back of the bench and surveys me solemnly. She lifts my hair back from my temples. “You should wear earrings,” she pronounces. “Especially if you put your hair up.” She takes the hair tie from her mother and then reassumes her position behind the bench.
“So what can I do to help out this semester?” asks Mrs. Morse. “Do you want me to organize the party? I could help the kids run lines.”
Kentwood Elementary is filled with parents like Mrs. Morse: parents who volunteer before they’re even asked and who believe fervently in the importance of a drama program. In fact it’s the Parents’ Association at Kentwood that pays my part-time salary. The Oakland public school system has been on the verge of bankruptcy for years. Art and music programs were the first to go. Without the PA, I wouldn’t have a job.
There’s always some grade that has a cluster of high-maintenance parents who complain and are unhappy-this year it’s the third-but most of the time I consider the parents co-teachers. I couldn’t do my job without them.
“That looks lovely,” says Mrs. Morse, after a few minutes of Harriet pulling and tugging on my head. “I like the way you’ve given Mrs. Buckle a little pouf at the crown.”
Harriet chews her lip. The pouf was not intentional.
“I feel very Breakfast at Tiffany’s,” I say, as Carisa Norman comes flying across the playground and hurls herself on my lap.
“I’ve been looking all over for you,” she says, stroking my hand.
“What a coincidence. I’ve been looking all over for you,” I say, as she snuggles into my arms.
“Call me,” says Mrs. Morse, holding a pretend phone up to her ear as she and Harriet leave.
I take Carisa inside to the teacher’s lounge and buy her a granola bar from the vending machine, then we go sit on the bench again and talk about important things like Barbies and the fact that she’s embarrassed that she still has training wheels on her bike.
At 4:00 when her mother pulls up to the curb and beeps, I watch with a clenched heart as Carisa runs across the playground. She seems so vulnerable. She’s eight years old and small for her age; from the back she could pass for six. Mrs. Norman waves from the car. I wave back. This is our ritual at least a few days every week. Each of us pretending there’s nothing out of the ordinary about her being forty-five minutes late to pick up her daughter.
6
I love the hours between 4:30 and 6:30. The days are getting longer, and this time of year I usually have the house to myself; Zoe has volleyball practice, Peter, either band or soccer, and William rarely pulls into the driveway before 7:00. As soon as I get home, I do a quick run through the house, de-cluttering, folding clothes, going through the mail-then I get dinner ready. It’s Thursday, so it’s one-dish-meal night: things like lasagna and shepherd’s pie. I’m not a fancy cook. That’s William’s department. He does the special-occasion dinners, the ones that get lots of oohs and ahs. I’m more of a line chef; my meals aren’t flashy and are not very memorable. For instance, nobody has ever said to me, “Oh, Alice, remember that night you made baked ziti?” But I am dependable. I have about eight meals in my repertoire that are quick and easy that I have in constant rotation. Tonight, it’s tuna casserole. I slide the pan into the oven and sit down at the kitchen table with my laptop to check my email.
From: Netherfield Center
‹netherfield@netherfieldcenter.org›
Subject: Marriage Survey
Date: May 4, 5:22 PM
To: alicebuckle ‹alicebuckle@rocketmail.com›
Dear Alice Buckle,
Thank you for your interest in our study and for filling out the preliminary questionnaire. Congratulations! We’re happy to inform you that you have been selected to participate in the Netherfield Center Study-Marriage in the 21st Century. You have successfully met three of the initial criteria for inclusion in this study: married for more than ten years, school-age children, and monogamous.
As we explained to you in the preliminary questionnaire, this will be an anonymous study. In order to protect your anonymity, this is the last email we will send to you at alicebuckle@rocketmail.com. We’ve taken the liberty of setting up a Netherfield Center account for your use. Your email address for the purposes of the study is Wife22@netherfield
center.org and the password is 12345678. Please log on to our website and change the password at your earliest convenience.
From this point on, all correspondence will be sent to the Wife22 address. We apologize if the pseudonym sounds clinical, but this is done with your best interest in mind. It’s only by striking your real name from our records that we can offer you complete confidentiality.
A researcher has been assigned to your case and you will be hearing from him shortly. Rest assured all our researchers are highly credentialed.
The stipend of $1,000 will be paid upon completion of the survey.
Once again, thank you for your participation. You can take pride in the fact that you, along with a carefully selected group of men and women from across the country, are participating in a landmark study that may very well change how the world looks at the institution of marriage.
Sincerely,
The Netherfield Center
I quickly log on to the new Wife 22 account.
From: researcher101 ‹researcher101@netherfieldcenter.org›
Subject: Re: Marriage Survey
To: Wife 22 ‹Wife22@netherfieldcenter.org›
Dear Wife 22,
Allow me to introduce myself-I’m Researcher 101 and I will be your point person for the Marriage in the 21st Century Study. First, my credentials. I have a PhD in Social Work and a Master’s in Psychology. I have been a researcher in the field of marriage studies for nearly two decades.
I’m sure you’re wondering how this works. Basically, I’m on a here-if-you-need-me basis. I’m happy to answer any questions or address any concerns you may have along the way.
Attached is the first questionnaire. The questions will be sent to you in a random order; this is done intentionally. Some of the questions you may find atypical, and some of the questions are not about marriage per se, but of a more general nature (about your background, education, life experiences etc.); please strive to complete all the questions. I suggest you fill out the questionnaire quickly, without thinking too much about it. We’ve found this kind of rapid-fire response results in the most honest responses. I’m looking forward to working with you.
Sincerely,
Researcher 101
Before I took the preliminary survey, I’d Googled the Netherfield Center website and found out it was affiliated with the UCSF Medical Center. Because of UCSF’s stellar reputation, I filled it out and emailed it off with little thought. What could answering a few questions hurt? But now that I’ve been formally accepted AND assigned a researcher, I’m having second thoughts about participating in an anonymous survey. A survey I’m probably not supposed to tell anybody (including my husband) I’m taking part in.
My heart ca-cungs in my chest. Having a secret makes me feel like a teenager. A young woman with everything still in front of her-breasts, strange cities, the unfurling of hundreds of yet-to-be-lived summers, winters, and springs.
I open the attachment before I lose my nerve.
1. Forty-three, no, forty-four.
2. Bored.
3. Once a week.
4. Satisfactory to better than most.
5. Oysters.
6. Three years ago.