“It isn’t. I promise. Besides, you read ‘A Good Man Is Hard to Find.’ The misfit murders the family one by one. That was much worse than this.”
“That’s different. It’s a short story. There are no visuals or scary soundtracks. I don’t want to watch this anymore,” he says.
“You’ve made it this far. You have to watch the rest. Besides, you haven’t seen the twist yet. The twist redeems everything.”
Fifteen minutes later, after the big twist is revealed (with much clapping of my hands and exclamations of “Isn’t that incredible, do you get it? You don’t get it-let me explain it to you. I see dead people? Bruce Willis is actually dead and has been dead the entire time!”).
Peter says, “I can’t believe you forced me to watch that movie. I should report you.”
“To who?”
“To whom. Dad.”
It’s a very bad beginning to my mother-son short-story book club.
“I’m going to sleep on the couch,” says William that night. “I may be contagious. I don’t want you to get it.”
“That’s very considerate of you,” I say.
William coughs. Coughs again. “Could be a cold, but could be something more.”
“Better to be safe,” I say.
“Which one are you reading?” he asks, pointing to the stack of books on my bedside table.
“All of them.”
“At once?”
I nod. “They’re my Ambien. I can’t afford to become a sleep-eater.”
I read one page of one book and fall asleep. I’m awakened a few hours later by Peter shaking my shoulder.
“Can I sleep in your bed? I’m scared,” he snuffles.
I switch on the light. “I see alive people,” I whisper.
“That’s not funny.” He’s near tears.
“Oh, sweetheart. I’m sorry.” I flip back the covers on William’s side of the bed, feeling surprisingly sad that he isn’t there. “Climb in.”
45
John Yossarian changed his profile picture
John Yossarian added Relationship Status
It’s Complicated
John Yossarian added Interests
Piña Coladas
You’re still being blurry, Researcher 101.
I thought you’d be pleased. I’m filling in my profile.
It’s complicated is a given in any relationship.
Facebook only gives you so many options. I had to choose one, Wife 22.
If you could write your own Relationship Status, what would it be? I suggest you answer this question without thinking about it too much. I’ve found this kind of rapid-fire response results in the most honest answers.
Married, questioning, hopeful.
I knew you were married! And I believe all of those adjectives fall under the category It’s Complicated.
If you could write your own Relationship Status, what would it be?
Married. Questioning.
Not hopeful?
Well, that’s the strange thing. I am hopeful. But I’m not sure the hope is directed toward my husband. For the moment, anyway.
What’s it directed toward?
I don’t know. It’s sort of a free-floating hope.
Ah-free-floating hope.
You’re not going to lecture me about redirecting my hope toward my husband?
Hope isn’t something you can redirect. It lands where it lands.
True. But it’s nice you feel hopeful about your marriage.
I didn’t say that, exactly.
What did you say?
I’m not sure.
What did you mean?
I meant that I’m hoping to have hope. Sometime in the future.
So you don’t have it now?
It’s a little up in the air.
I see. Up in the air like you in your profile photo?
I hope we can have more of these conversations.
I thought you didn’t like chatting.
I like chatting with you. And I’m getting used to it. My thoughts come faster, but at a price.
What’s that?
With speed comes disinhibition: i.e. see first sentence in previous comment.
And that worries you.
Well, yes.
With speed comes truth, as well.
A certain sort of truth.
You have a need to be very precise, don’t you, Researcher 101?
That is a researcher’s nature.
I don’t like to think of you as being a fan of sickly sweet frozen drinks.
A lost opportunity for you, Wife 22.
46
“Is that Jude?” I ask.
“Where?”
“In the hair products aisle?”
“I doubt it,” says Zoe. “He doesn’t pay any attention to his hair. It’s part of his singer-songwriter vibe.”
Zoe and I are in Rite-Aid. Zoe needs pontoons and I’m trying to find this perfume I wore when I was a teenager. There’s a flirtatious undertone to my Researcher 101 chats that’s making me feel twenty years younger. I’ve been fantasizing about what he looks like. So far he’s a cross between a young Tommy Lee Jones and Colin Firth-in other words, a weathered, slightly banged-up, profane Colin Firth.
“Excuse me,” I say to a clerk who’s restocking a shelf. “Do you carry a perfume called Love’s Musky Jasmine?”
“We have Love’s Baby Soft,” she says. “Aisle seven.”
“No, I’m not looking for Baby Soft. I want Musky Jasmine.”
She shrugs. “We have Circus Fantasy.”
“What kind of an idiot would name a perfume Circus Fantasy?” asks Zoe. “Who would want to smell like peanuts and horse poop?”
“Britney Spears,” says the clerk.
“You shouldn’t wear that synthetic stuff anyway, Mom. It’s selfish. Air pollution. What about people with MCS? Have you given any thought to them?” says Zoe.
“I like that synthetic stuff, it reminds me of when I was in high school, but apparently they don’t make it anymore,” I say. “What’s MCS?”
“Multiple chemical sensitivity.”
I roll my eyes at Zoe.
“What? It’s a real affliction,” says Zoe.
“How about Gee Your Hair Smells Terrific?” I ask the clerk. “Do you carry that?”
When did tampons get so expensive? It’s a good thing I have a coupon. I look at the fine print and squint, then hand it to Zoe. “I can’t read this. How many boxes do we have to buy?”
“Four.”
“There were only two boxes on the shelf,” I say to the clerk when we get to the counter. “But your coupon is for four.”
“Then you need four,” he says.
“But I just told you there were only two.”
“Mom, it’s okay. Just get the two,” whispers Zoe. “There’s a line.”
“It’s two dollars off a box. It’s not okay. We’re using the coupon. We are a coupon-using family now.”
To the clerk I say, “Can I get a rain check?”
The clerk snaps his gum and then gets on the loudspeaker. “I need a rain-check coupon,” he says. “Tampax.” He picks up a box of tampons and studies it. “Are there sizes on these things? Where does it say it? Oh-okay. There it is. ‘Tampax, super plus. Four boxes,’ ” he announces to the entire store.
“Two,” I whisper.
Zoe groans with embarrassment. I turn around and see Jude a few people back. It was him. He holds up his hand sheepishly and waves.
After the clerk has tallied up our purchase and given me a rain-check coupon, Zoe practically sprints out of the store.
“I bet your mother never did anything like that to you,” she hisses, walking five feet in front of me. “Cheap plastic bags. They’re practically see-through. Everybody knows exactly what you’ve bought.”
“Nobody is even looking,” I say as we reach the car, thinking how I would give anything to have had my mother around to humiliate me by buying too many boxes of tampons at th
e drugstore when I was Zoe’s age.
“Hi, Zo,” says Jude, catching up with us.
Zoe ignores him. Jude’s face falls and I feel sorry for him.
“It’s a bad time, Jude,” I say.
“Unlock the car,” says Zoe.
“I heard about your father’s job,” says Jude. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”
I’m going to kill Nedra. I made her swear she wouldn’t tell anybody but Kate about William getting laid off.
“We’re in a hurry, Jude. Zoe and I are going to lunch,” I say, tossing my bag into the backseat.
“Oh-nice,” says Jude. “Kind of a mother-daughter thing.”
“Yup, a mother-daughter thing,” I say, climbing into the car. Even though the daughter wants nothing to do with the mother.
Once I get into my seat, I adjust my rearview mirror and watch Jude walking back to the drugstore. His shoulder blades jut poignantly through his T-shirt. He’s always been bony. He looks like a six-foot-tall boy. Oh, Jude.
“I’m not hungry,” says daughter.
“You’ll be hungry when we get there,” says mother.
“We can’t afford to eat out,” says daughter. “We are a coupon-using family.”
“Yes, let’s just go home and eat crackers,” says mother. “Or bread crumbs.”
Ten minutes later we’re sitting in a booth at the Rockridge Diner.
“Does it bother you? Jude acting like nothing ever happened. Following you around. Can I have a sip of your tea?” I ask.
Zoe hands me her mug. “Don’t blow on it. I hate when you blow on my tea when it’s already cool. You don’t get to have an opinion on me and Jude.”
“Hair gel and tweezers.”
“What?”
“That’s what was in his bag.”
Zoe snorts.
“Grilled ham and cheese and PB and J,” says the waitress, putting down our plates, smiling at Zoe. “Never too old for a good PB and J. You want a glass of milk, too, honey?”
Zoe looks up at the waitress, who looks to be in her mid-sixties. We’ve been coming to the Rockridge Diner forever, and she always waits on us. She’s seen Zoe at every stage of her life: milk-drugged infant, french-fry-smashing toddler, Lego-building preschooler, Harry Potter-reading fifth grader, dour adolescent, and now thrift-shop-attired teenager.
“That would be really nice, Evie,” says Zoe.
“Sure,” says the waitress, touching her on the shoulder.
“You know her name?” I ask, once Evie has disappeared behind the counter.
“She’s been waiting on us for years.”
“Yes, but she’s never told us her name.”
“You never asked her.” Zoe’s eyes suddenly fill with tears.
“You’re crying, Zoe. Why are you crying? Over Jude? That’s ridiculous.”
“Shut up, Mom.”
“That’s one. You get one shut-up a month and that’s it. You’ve used it up. I can’t believe you’re crying over that boy. In fact, I’m furious you’re crying over him. He hurt you,” I say.
“You know what, Mom,” she snaps. “You think you know everything about me. I know you think you do, but you know what? You don’t.”
My phone chimes. Is it a new message from Researcher 101? I try and mask the hopeful look on my face.
Zoe shakes her head. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” I say, reaching into my bag and grabbing the phone. I glance at the screen quickly. It’s a Facebook notification alerting me that I’ve been tagged in a photo. Oh, goodie. I’m probably wearing a djellaba.
“Sorry.” I shut my phone off.
“You’re so jumpy,” says Zoe. “It’s like you’re hiding something.” She stares plaintively at my phone.
“Well, I’m not, but why shouldn’t I be? I’m allowed to have a private life. I’m sure you’ve got secrets, too,” I say, looking plaintively at her sandwich. Two bites, maybe three-that’s what I’m betting she’ll eat.
“Yes, but I’m fifteen. I should have secrets.”
“Of course you’re allowed to have secrets, Zoe. But not everything has to be a secret. You can still confide in me, you know.”
“You shouldn’t have secrets,” says Zoe. “You’re way too old. That’s disgusting.”
I sigh. I’m not going to get anything out of her.
“Here’s your milk,” says Evie, returning to the table.
“Thanks, Evie,” whispers Zoe, her eyes still moist.
“Is everything okay?” Evie asks.
Zoe shoots a dirty look across the table at me.
“Evie, I owe you an apology. I never asked you your name. I should have. It’s a terribly rude thing that I never did and I’m really, really sorry.”
“Are you saying you’d like a glass of milk, too, sweetheart?” she asks me gently.
I look down into my plate. “Yes, please.”
47
John Yossarian added Favorite Quotations
Omit needless words.-E. B. White
Just saying hello, Researcher 101.
Hello.
Lunchtime-grilled ham and cheese.
Grilled ham & cheese. Never use “and” when an ampersand will do. 2nd Favorite Quotation: Omit adverbial dialogue tags.-Researcher 101
Sunny here, she said sunnily.
Cloudy here.
I’m a bad mother.
No you aren’t.
I’m a tired mother.
Understandable.
I’m a tired wife.
And I’m a tired husband.
You are?
Sometimes, he said, disinhibitingly.
“Omit invented words.” -Wife 22
48
47. Ages: 19-27: Three plus days a week (the plus being active sex life, actually a bit of a slut). Ages 28-35: Two minus days a week (the minus being pregnancy, infants, no sleep=no libido). Ages 36-40: Seven plus days a week (the plus being desperate, the big 4-0 looming, making an effort to have active sex life so don’t feel like sex life is over). Ages: 41-44: One minus days a month (the minus being when asked by doctor say five days a week, even doctor not fooled, she says five days a week doing what? Chair dancing?).
48. This is an utterly annoying question-pass!!!
49. Shah Jahan and Mumtaz Mahal, Abigail and John Adams, Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward.
50. Ben Harper. Ed Harris (I have a thing for bald men with beautifully shaped heads). Christopher Plummer.
51. Marion Cotillard (but not in Edith Piaf movie where she shaved her hairline). Halle Berry. Cate Blanchett (especially in Queen Elizabeth movie). Helen Mirren.
52. Frequently.
53. I put my key in the lock and opened the door. William was working. He held up his hand. “Don’t move,” he said. He picked up his pad of paper and began to read out loud.
P EAVEY P ATTERSON B RAINSTORMING S ESSION
C LIENT : A LICE A
C REATIVE : W ILLIAM B
T OPIC : T HINGS A LICE S HOULD N EVER W ORRY A BOUT
1. If her hair is too long (only too long if down to ankles and impedes ability to walk)
2. If she forgot to put on lipstick (doesn’t need lipstick-lips a perfectly lovely shade of raspberry)
3. If you can see through her dress (Yes)
4. If she should have worn a slip to work today (No)
“You ass! I’ve been walking around all day with my underwear showing? Why didn’t anybody tell me?”
“I just told you.”
“You should have told me earlier. I’m so embarrassed.”
“Don’t be. It was the highlight of my day. Come here,” William said.
“No,” I said, pouting.
He dramatically swept the table clean of all his papers. Who did he think he was? Mickey Rourke in 9½ Weeks? God, I loved that movie. After I saw it I bought a garter belt and stockings. I wore them for a few days, feeling very sexy, until I experienced a garter malfunction. Have you ever had a stocking suddenly po
ol around your ankle while you’re in the process of boarding a bus? There is no quicker path to feeling like an old lady.
“Alice.”
“What?”
“Come here now.”
“I’ve always fantasized about having sex on a table but I’m not sure I’d recommend it,” William said half an hour later.
“I concur, Mr. B.”
“What did you think about the pitch?”
“I’m not sure the client will go for it.”
“Why not?”
“The client thinks it’s a bit too on-the-nose. Can we move this into the bedroom now?” In order to lie next to each other on the table, each of us had a leg and an arm dangling off.
“I’ve changed my mind. I like the table.”
“Well,” I said. “It’s hard. I’ll give you that.” My hand traveled down his chest to his waist.
“That’s the nature of a table,” he said, covering my hand with his own, guiding it south.
“Always have to be in charge, don’t you.”
He groaned softly when I touched him. “I’ll come up with a new pitch, Ms. A. I promise.”
“Don’t be stingy. Five new pitches. The client would like some choices.”
In deference to Helen, not wanting to rub it in her face (this was my idea), we’d decided it was best if our relationship stayed secret at work. Keeping up the masquerade was both thrilling and exhausting. William passed by my cubicle at least ten times a day, and because I could see directly into his office (and whenever I looked, he was looking right back at me) I was in a constant state of arousal. Nights, I came home and collapsed from the effort of having to sublimate my desire all day. Then I sat around and thought about his Levi’s. And how he looked in those Levi’s. And when we did venture out, for a walk in the Public Garden or to a Red Sox game, or to the hinterlands of Allston to hear some alternative band, it was like we’d never done any of those things before. Boston was a new city with him by my side.
I’m sure we were extremely annoying. Especially to older couples that did not walk down the sidewalk hand in hand, who often didn’t even seem to be speaking, a three-foot distance between them. I was incapable of understanding that their silence might be a comfortable, hard-won silence, a benefit that came from years of being together; I just thought how sad it was they had nothing to say to one another.
Wife 22 Page 12
