I open my car door. “We’re not going anywhere. The leftovers need to be eaten or they’ll rot.”
That night I can’t sleep. I wake at 3 a.m. and just for kicks decide to weigh myself. Why not? What else do I have to do? 130 pounds-somehow I’ve lost eight pounds! I’m shocked. Women my age don’t just magically lose eight pounds. I haven’t been on a diet, although I am still paying monthly dues for my online Weight Watchers program, which now I really should cancel. And other than my pathetic attempt to run with Caroline, I haven’t done any exercise in weeks. However, other people in my household are exercising like mad. Between Zoe’s 750-sit-ups-a-day regimen and William’s five-mile runs with Caroline, maybe I’m burning calories by osmosis. Or maybe I have cancer of the stomach. Or maybe it’s guilt. That’s it. I’ve been on the Guilt Diet and I haven’t even known it.
What a brilliant idea for a book! Diet books sell millions of copies. I wonder if anybody else has thought of it.
GOOGLE SEARCH “Guilt… Diet”
About 9,850,000 results (.17 seconds)
Gilt Groupe
Luxury designers and fashion brands at up to 70% off…
Working Moms… Guilt
I may feel a tiny twinge of guilt when the maid is washing my sheets and I’m eating an expensed lunch at Flora…
Guilt-Free Sushi
Guilt-free sushi eating may be complicated…
I’m not in the market for discount designer clothes and though I am a working mom, I’ve never felt guilty for having a job, and Zoe doesn’t allow me to eat sushi-well, certain kinds of overfished sushi like the common octopus, which is not a hardship for me-but hurrah!-there’s no Guilt Diet on Google.
“We’re in business!” I relay to Jampo, who is sitting at my feet. I write myself a note to look into the Guilt Diet in more depth once it’s morning, when I’m pretty sure it will reveal itself to be the most ridiculous idea ever, but you never know.
I log on to Facebook and go to William’s wall. He has no new update, which oddly disappoints me. What did I expect him to post?
William Buckle
Wife forced me to listen to Susan Boyle, but I got myself fired so I deserve it.
William Buckle
Wife looks mysteriously skinnier-suspect she’s ingesting tapeworms.
Or more likely something along the lines of-
William Buckle
“The past has no power over the present moment.” Eckhart Tolle
42
43. After that night celebrating William’s Clio, a torturous three weeks went by. Three weeks in which William ignored me. Our lunchtime runs abruptly stopped. If he had to talk to me he avoided eye contact and looked at my forehead, which was deeply unsettling and made me blurt out stupid things like according to our focus groups what people (women) really want to know about toilet paper is that it doesn’t tear while you’re in the middle of using it due to the fact that men wash their hands far less than women and if they do wash them most of the time they don’t use soap. He also reverted to calling me Brown, and so I could only conclude he (like me) was drunk that evening and had absolutely no memory of the knuckle-grazing incident outside the bathroom. Or after sobering up was totally embarrassed having stared at me all night long and was doing everything he could to pretend it never happened.
Meanwhile, he and Helen were inseparable. At least three times a day she flounced into his office and shut the door, and every night she collected him and off they went for Rob Roys at the Copley Hotel, or to attend some fancy event at the Isabella Gardner Museum.
And then, just when I’d accepted an invitation from a friend to be set up on a blind date, I got this email.
From: williamb ‹[email protected]›
Subject: Tom Kah Gai
Date: August 4, 10:01 AM
To: alicea ‹[email protected]›
As you’ve probably noticed, I’ve been home sick for the past two days. I’m craving Tom Kah Gai. Would you bring me some? Make sure it’s from King and Me, not King of Siam. Once a mouse ran across my feet while eating at King of Siam. Thanks very much. 54 Acorn Street. 2nd Floor. Apt. 203
From: alicea ‹[email protected]›
Subject: Re: Tom KHA Gai
Date: August 4, 10:05 AM
To: williamb ‹[email protected]›
Bangkok Princess has the best Tom KHA Gai on Beacon Hill. King and Me a far second. I can forward your craving for soup to Helen, who surely said request was meant for.
From: williamb ‹[email protected]›
Subject: Re: Tom KHA Gai
Date: August 4, 10:06 AM
To: alicea ‹[email protected]›
The request was meant for you.
From: alicea ‹[email protected]›
Subject: Re: Tom KHA Gai
Date: August 4, 10:10 AM
To: williamb ‹[email protected]›
So let me get this straight. Because you have a craving for Tom Kha Gai, I’m to leave work in the middle of the day, traipse across the bridge, and hand-deliver your soup?
From: williamb ‹[email protected]›
Subject: Re: Tom KHA Gai
Date: August 4, 10:11 AM
To: alicea ‹[email protected]›
Yes.
From: alicea ‹[email protected]›
Subject: Re: Tom KHA Gai
Date: August 4, 11:23 AM
To: williamb ‹[email protected]›
Why would I do that?
He didn’t answer and he didn’t have to. Why was very clear to both of us.
Forty-five minutes later, I knocked on his door.
“Come on in,” he called out.
I nudged the door open with my foot, clutching a paper bag filled with two plastic containers of Tom Yung Goong. He was sitting on his couch, hair wet, barefoot, wearing a white T-shirt and jeans. I’d never seen him in anything but a suit or running shorts, and in casual attire he looked younger and somehow cockier. Had he showered for me?
“I have a fever,” he said.
“Yes, and I have Tom.”
“Tom?”
“Tom Yung Goong.”
“Tom Kha Gai couldn’t make it?”
“Stop complaining. It’s a Thai soup that begins with Tom that I walked over half a mile to bring you. Where are your utensils?” I asked.
I brushed past him on the way to the kitchen and suddenly he grabbed my arm and pulled me down on the couch next to him. Startled (he seemed just as startled), we both looked intently forward as if we were attending a lecture.
“I don’t want to get sick,” I said.
“I’ve broken it off with Helen,” he said.
He moved his leg slightly and our knees bumped together. Was that intentional? Then he moved his thigh so it was pressing up against mine. Yes, it was.
“It doesn’t look like you’ve broken it off,” I said. “She’s practically been living in your office.”
“We’ve been negotiating the terms of our breakup.”
“What terms?”
“She didn’t want to break up. I did.”
“We can’t do this,” I said, by which I meant press your thigh harder against mine.
“Why?”
“You’re my boss.”
“And-”
“And there’s a power differential.”
He laughed. “Right. A power differential-between us. You’re such a weak, submissive little creature. Tiptoeing around the office.”
“Oh, Jesus.”
“Tell me to stop and I’ll stop.”
“Stop.”
He put his hand on my thigh and a shiver went through me.
“Alice.”
“Don’t screw with me. Don’t say my name unless you mean it. What happened to Brown?”
“That was to keep me safe.”
“Safe?”
“Safely away from you. You, Ali
ce. Goddammit. You.”
Then he turned and leaned in to kiss me and I could feel his fever and I thought no no no no no until I thought yes, you son-of-a-bitch, yes.
It was at that precise moment that the door opened and Helen walked in carrying a plastic bag of takeout from the King of Siam; apparently she hadn’t gotten the message about the restaurant’s rodent problem. I was so surprised, I gave a little shriek and jumped to the other side of the couch.
Helen looked just as surprised.
“You son-of-a-bitch,” she said.
I was confused. Had I called William a son-of-a-bitch out loud? Had she heard me?
“Is she talking about me?” I asked.
“No, she’s talking about me,” said William, rising to his feet.
“Your assistant said you were sick. I brought you Pad Thai,” said Helen, her face contorted with anger.
“You told me you had broken up,” I said to William.
“He told me you had broken up,” I said to Helen.
“Yesterday!” yelled Helen. “Not even twenty-four hours ago.”
“Look-Helen,” said William.
“You slut,” said Helen.
“Is she talking about me?” I asked.
“Yes, now she’s talking about you,” sighed William.
I’d never been called a slut before.
“That’s not very nice, Helen,” he said.
“I’m so sorry, Helen,” I said.
“Shut up. You went after him like a dog in heat.”
“I told you it was an accident. Neither one of us was looking for this,” said William.
“That’s supposed to make me feel better? We were practically engaged,” shouted Helen. “There’s a code between women. You don’t steal another woman’s man, you whore,” she hissed at me.
“I think I’d better go,” I said.
“You’re making a big mistake, William,” said Helen. “You think she’s so strong, so sure of herself. But that won’t last. It’s all an act. She’ll hit one bad patch and she’ll run away. She’ll disappear.”
I had no idea what Helen was talking about. Running away and disappearing was something drug addicts or people going through midlife crises did-not twenty-three-year-old women. But later I would look back on this moment and realize Helen’s words were eerily prescient.
“Please come sit down,” said William. “Let’s talk.”
Helen’s eyes filled with tears. William walked to Helen, put his arm around her shoulder, and led her to the couch. Come back tonight, he mouthed to me.
I quietly slipped out the door.
44. Plucking eyebrows. Flossing teeth. Picking things out of teeth. Paying bills. Talking about money. Talking about sex. Talking about your kid having sex.
45. Grief.
46. Of course I do. Doesn’t everybody? You want particulars, I know. Okay, that I changed the sheets (when really I’ve just changed the pillowcases). That I wasn’t the one who put the nice knives in the dishwasher instead of hand-washing them and by the way, I don’t need anybody to tell me the nice knives are the knives with black handles-I’m not a dolt, just somebody who’s in a hurry. That I’m not hungry for dinner (if I’m not hungry it’s because I ate an entire package of Keebler Fudge Stripes an hour before everybody came home). That it took me five nights to finish that bottle of wine (then why are there two bottles in the recycling bin?). That somebody must have sideswiped my side mirror when I parked at Lucky’s-those inconsiderate jerks-it did not happen when I was backing out of the garage. But no, not the obvious one. We’ve never had a problem there.
43
John Yossarian added his profile picture
You bear a striking resemblance to a yeti, Researcher 101.
Why thank you, Wife 22. I was hoping you’d say that.
However, it looks like you have a very un-yeti-like ear hanging from your head.
That’s not an ear.
Actually, it’s more like a bunny ear.
Actually, it’s a hat.
I’m revising my opinion. You bear a striking resemblance to Donnie Darko. Has anybody ever told you that?
This is precisely why I didn’t post a photo in the first place.
Can we talk about the orange pants?
No, we may not.
Okay, let’s talk about #45. I can’t stop thinking about it. This was a tough one.
Tell me more.
Well, at first I thought it would be easy. The answer would be grief, of course. But upon further reflection, I’m wondering if stasis isn’t the correct answer.
You might be interested to know that subjects often answer in much the same way you did, first stating the obvious and then struggling to come up with something more nuanced. Why stasis?
Because in some ways stasis is a cousin of grief, but rather than dying all at once, you die a tiny bit every day.
Hello?
I’m here. Just thinking. That makes sense to me, especially given your answer to #3- once a week-and to #28-once a year.
You’ve memorized my answers?
Of course not, I have your file here in front of me. Would you like me to go ahead and change your answer to stasis?
Yes, please change my answer. It’s more truthful, unlike your profile photo.
I don’t know about that. In my experience, the truth is frequently blurry.
Wife 22?
Sorry-my son’s calling me. GTG.
44
Alice Buckle
Sick boy.
1 minute ago
Caroline Kilborn
Arches hurt. 35 mile week!!
2 minutes ago
Phil Archer
Wishes his daughter would SLOW DOWN and text him once in awhile.
4 minutes ago
John F. Kennedy Middle School
Also keep in mind that what fit last year might be indecent this year due to exponential physical growth.
3 hours ago
John F. Kennedy Middle School
Parents: please make sure your child’s private parts and undergarments aren’t visible when leaving the house. This is your responsibility.
4 hours ago
William Buckle
“The dangers in life are infinite and among them is safety.”-Goethe
One day ago
Some of my best memories as a kid are of being sick. I’d go from the bed to the couch, my pillow in hand. My mother would cover me with an afghan. First I’d watch back-to-back episodes of Love, American Style, then The Lucy Show, then Mary Tyler Moore, and finally The Price Is Right. For lunch my mother would bring me toast with butter, ginger ale with no bubbles, and cold apple slices. In between shows I’d throw up in a pail my mother conveniently put beside the couch in case I couldn’t make it to the bathroom.
Thanks to modern medicine, a flu now usually passes in twenty-four hours, so when Peter wakes with a fever it’s like I’ve been granted a snow day. Just as we’re snuggling in on the couch, William wanders into the living room in his sweats.
“I don’t feel so good, either,” he says.
I sigh. “You can’t be sick, Pedro’s sick.”
“Which is probably why I’m sick.”
“Maybe you gave it to me,” says Peter.
I put my hand on Peter’s forehead. “You’re burning up.”
William grabs my other hand and puts it on his forehead.
“Ninety-nine degrees. One hundred, tops,” I say.
“If Dad’s sick does this mean we have to watch the cooking channel?” asks Peter.
“First one sick gets the clicker,” I say.
“I’m too sick to watch anyway,” says William. “I have vertigo. Wonder if it’s an inner-ear thing. I’m going to take a nap. Wake me when Barefoot Contessa comes on.”
I have a vision of the way the days will soon be passing. William sitting on the couch. Me thinking up reasons to leave the house without him, which all have something to do with lady parts. In desperate need of sani
tary pads. Going for a Pap smear. Attending a lecture on bio-identical hormones.
“Could you bring me some toast in about half an hour?” William calls out as he’s walking up the stairs.
“Would you like some orange juice, too?” I yell, feeling guilty.
“That would be very nice,” comes the disembodied voice.
The Sixth Sense is one of my absolute favorite movies. I don’t like horror movies, but I do love psychological thrillers. I am a big fan of the twist. Unfortunately, until this very moment there was nobody in my household who was willing to watch them with me. So when Peter was in fourth grade and reading the Captain Underpants series for the eleventh time I started a mother-son short-story club, which was really in my mind a mother-groom-your-son-to-watch-creepy-thrillers-with-you club. First I had him read Shirley Jackson’s “The Lottery.”
“ ‘The Lottery’ is about small-town politics,” I explained to William.
“It’s also about a mother getting stoned to death in front of her children,” said William.
“Let’s let Peter decide,” I said. “Reading is such a subjective experience.”
Peter read the last line of the story aloud-“and then they were upon her”-shrugged, and went back to The Big, Bad Battle of Bionic Booger Boy. That’s when I knew he had real potential. In fifth grade I had him read Ursula Le Guin’s “The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas” and in sixth, Flannery O’Connor’s “A Good Man Is Hard to Find.” With each short story he grew a thicker skin and now, in the spring of his twelfth year, my son is finally ready for The Sixth Sense!
I begin downloading the movie from Netflix.
“You’ll love it. The kid is so creepy. And there’s this unbelievable twist at the end,” I say.
“It’s not a horror movie, right?”
“No, it’s what’s called a psychological thriller,” I tell him.
Half an hour later I say, “Isn’t that cool? He sees dead people.”
“I’m not sure I like this movie,” says Peter.
“Wait-it gets even better,” I tell him.
Forty-five minutes later Peter asks, “Why is that boy missing the back of his head?”
Twenty minutes later he says, “The mother is poisoning her daughter by putting floor wax into her soup. You told me this wasn’t a horror movie.”
Wife 22 Page 11
