Now, this wasn’t a ring from Zales, this was my mother’s engagement ring that had been in her family for years, brought over by her mother from Ireland. It wasn’t worth much-it was one small diamond flanked by two tiny emeralds. What was priceless about the ring was its history and the fact that my father had given it to William to give to me. There was an engraving inside the band. Something terribly sweet, probably bordering on saccharine, that I can’t recall. All I can remember is the word “heart.”
The problem was we were in the car when I threw the ring out of the window. We had just left my father’s house and were driving past the park in Brockton when William made the comment about me having won. I just wanted to scare him. I hurled the ring out the window into the park and we proceeded to speed by, both of us in shock. We drove back and tried to pinpoint the spot where I had thrown it, but even though we searched through the grass methodically we couldn’t find it. I was devastated. Each of us secretly blamed the other. He blamed me, of course, for throwing the ring. I blamed him for being so coldhearted. The loss of the ring deeply unsettled both of us. Losing, or in my case, throwing away, something so priceless before we had even started our lives together-was this a bad omen?
I couldn’t bear to tell my father the truth, so we lied and told him our apartment was robbed and the ring stolen. We even planned what to say if he asked why I hadn’t been wearing it at the time. I took it off because I was giving myself a facial and didn’t want to get the green gunk caught in the delicate filigree setting, which I would then have to root out with a toothpick or a dental probe. I have since learned that when lying, it’s best not to offer up any details. It’s the details that do you in.
60. “Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta.”
61. Long, tapered fingers. Big palms. Cuticles that never needed to be pushed back. Chet Baker on the tape player. He was cutting peppers for the salad. I looked at those hands and thought, I am going to have this man’s children.
62. What would you do if you ever stopped communicating? I wrote “That would NEVER EVER happen. William and I talk about everything. That won’t be our problem.” And no, it does not hold true today.
63. In the backyard of my cousin Henry’s apartment in the North End, which overlooked Boston Harbor. It was in the evening. The air smelled of the sea and garlic. Our wedding bands were simple and plain, which felt right after the engagement ring debacle. If my father was upset about the ring, he didn’t say anything. In fact, he said very little that night, he was so overcome with emotion. Every five minutes or so before the ceremony started he would clasp my shoulders vigorously and nod. When it was time to give me away, he walked me to the arbor, lifted my veil, and kissed me on the cheek. “Off you go, honey,” he said, and that’s when I began to cry. I proceeded to cry through the entire ceremony, which understandably threw William off. “It’s all right,” he kept mouthing to me while the priest did his part. “I know,” I kept mouthing back to him. I wasn’t crying because I was getting married, I was crying because my history with my father had come down to those four, perfectly chosen words. He could only say something that appeared to be so mundane precisely because our life together had been the opposite.
56
Did u read article advising everybody eat more cheese, Alice?
Why you ignore my texts, Alice?
HonE?
Sorry Dad. End of the school year. 2 busy 2 text. 2 busy to read. 2 busy to eat.
I worry u not eating enuf cheese. Women yr age need protein and calcium. Hope you not turn vegan out there Cali.
Trust me. U needn’t worry about my cheese intake.
News. Think might B falling in love.
What??? With who??
Conchita.
Conchita Martinez, our neighbor Conchita whose son Jeff I dated and then dumped my senior year?
Yes! That the one. She remember you fondly. Jeff, no so much. He harbor long grudge.
Why you sound like Indian in The Great Sioux Uprising? Are u spending a lot of time together?
Ever night. Hr house or mine. Mostly mine due to fact Jeff still live at home. Loser.
Oh, Dad-so happy for u.
Happy u, too. U hippily married all these years. Very proud. All turned out okay, for us, but do me favor-eat wheel of Brie today. Afraid u will collapse. U delicate flower u.
57
John Yossarian
Speaking plainly is underrated.
23 minutes ago
Okay, I’m worried that I’m becoming a problem for you, Researcher 101.
How so, Wife 22?
I’m not offending you enough.
I can’t disagree with that.
Fine. I’ll do my best to offend you more in the future because according to antonym.com pleasure is the opposite of offense, and I wouldn’t inadvertently want to give you pleasure.
One cannot be held responsible for the way one is received.
To give you pleasure was never my intention.
Is this your idea of speaking plainly, Wife 22?
You know it’s strange. The way our conversations go on and on. It’s like a river. We just keep jumping in and diving under the water. When we surface we may find we’ve drifted miles from where we were last time we spoke but it doesn’t matter. It’s still the same river. I tap you on the shoulder. You turn around. You call out. I answer.
I’m sorry you lost your engagement ring. It sounds like a very traumatic event. Did you ever tell your father the truth?
No, and I’ve always regretted it.
Why not tell him now?
Too many years have passed. What’s the point? It will just upset him.
Did you know that according to synonym.net, the definition of problem is a state of difficulty that needs to be resolved.
Is this your idea of speaking plainly, Researcher 101?
After communicating with you all these weeks I can definitively say you, Wife 22, are in need of some resolution.
I can’t disagree with that.
I can also say (a little less definitively for fear of putting you off) I would like to be the one that resolves you.
58
64. Three months into my pregnancy with Zoe, I was wretchedly sick but doing a good job of hiding it. I had actually lost five pounds from morning sickness, so nobody at the theater could tell I was pregnant-except of course for laser-eyed Bunny, who guessed my secret the instant she saw me. We had only met once before in Boston after she contacted me with the incredible news that The Barmaid won the contest. She immediately let me know that even though my script had won, it needed work. She asked if I was willing to do some rewriting. I said I was, of course, but assumed the changes would be minor.
I arrived in Blue Hill on a September afternoon. The past few weeks hadn’t been easy. William did not want me to go-certainly not when I was so sick. We had a fight over breakfast and I had stormed out, accusing him of trying to sabotage my career. I felt awful for the entire ride, but now that I stood in the doorway of the theater looking down at the stage I was light-headed with excitement. Here it was, spread out before me; my life as a real playwright was about to begin. The Blue Hill Theater smelled exactly the way a theater should smell, the top notes of dust and paper, the base notes of popcorn and cheap wine. I hugged my script to my chest and walked down the aisle to greet Bunny.
“Alice! You’re pregnant,” she said. “Congratulations! Hungry?” She held out a box of Little Debbie snack cakes.
“How did you know? I’m only twelve weeks along. I’m not even showing.”
“Your nose. It’s swollen.”
“It is?” I said, touching it.
“Not hideously. Just the eensiest bit. Happens to most women, but they don’t notice because the membranes swell over the course of the pregnancy, just not all at once.”
“Look, I’d appreciate if you didn’t tell anybody-”
The cloying
ly sweet smell of Bunny’s open snack cake drifted into my nostrils and I clapped my hand over my mouth.
“Lobby, take a right,” Bunny instructed, and I ran back up the aisle and to the bathroom to throw up.
Those weeks of rehearsal were intense. Day after day I sat beside Bunny in the darkened theater, where she tried to mentor me. At first, most of Bunny’s suggestions were along the lines of encouraging me to move beyond cliché. “I just don’t believe it, Alice,” she’d often say of a scene. “People don’t talk this way in real life.” As the rehearsals went on, she got tougher and more insistent, because it was clear to her something was not working. She kept pushing me to find the nuance and shading she believed the characters were missing. But I didn’t agree. I thought the depth was there; she just wasn’t seeing it yet.
One week before opening night, the lead quit. The first dress rehearsal was a disaster; the second just a little bit better, and finally, in the eleventh hour I saw The Barmaid through Bunny’s eyes and was horrified. She was right. The play was a caricature. A bold, shiny surface, but little substance beneath. All curtain but no stage.
At that point it was too late to make any changes. I had to let the play go. It would catch a stiff wind or founder all on its own.
Opening night went well. The theater was packed. I prayed it would all come miraculously together that evening and judging by the enthusiastic crowd, that appeared to be the case. William was by my side the entire night. I had a small baby bump now, which brought out his protective instincts; his hand was a constant presence on the small of my back. The next morning came a rave review from the Portland Press Herald. The entire cast celebrated by taking a cruise on a lobster boat. Some of us got drunk. Others of us (me) threw up. None of us knew this was the single moment in the sun The Barmaid would get, but does anybody ever suspect that the magic is about to end just when the magical thing is unfolding?
I won’t say that William was happy that the play flopped, but I will say he was happy to have me home, getting ready for the baby. He didn’t go so far as to say I told you so, but anytime Bunny emailed me another bad review (she was not one of those directors who believed in ignoring your reviews-quite the opposite, she was in the you-get-enough-bad-reviews-you-become-inoculated camp) he got this grim look on his face that I could only read as embarrassment. Somehow my public failure had become his. He didn’t have to advise me not to write another play; I came to that decision all on my own. I convinced myself there was a three-act structure to pregnancy, a beginning, middle, and end. I was in essence a living play, and for now that would have to be enough.
65. I know “roommate” is a taboo word, but here’s a thought: what if being roommates is the natural stage of the middle part of marriage? What if that’s the way it’s supposed to be? The only way we can be while getting through the long, hard slog of raising kids and trying to save money for retirement and coming to terms with the fact that there is no such thing as retirement anymore and we’ll be working until the day we die?
66. Fifteen minutes ago.
59
“Yum,” says Caroline.
“That hits the spot,” says William.
“Is it supposed to taste like soil?” I ask, looking down into my smoothie.
“Oh, Alice,” says Caroline. “You’re such a truth-teller.”
“You mean she’s got no filter,” says William.
“You should really run with us,” says Caroline.
“Yes, why don’t you?” asks William, sounding completely disingenuous.
“Because somebody has to work,” I say.
“See, no filter,” says William.
“Okay-well, I’ve got to take a shower and get ready. I’ve got a second interview at Tipi this afternoon. It’s an intern position, but at least it’s a foot in the door,” says Caroline.
“Wait, what’s Tipi?” I ask.
“Microfinance. It’s this amazing company, Alice. They’ve only been around for a year but they’ve already given out over 200 million dollars in loans to women in third-world countries.”
“Have you told your mom you’re going on a second interview? She must be thrilled.”
“I haven’t told her. And believe me, she’ll be far from thrilled,” says Caroline. “She thinks I’m wasting my computer science degree. Now if it were Paypal or Facebook or Google, she’d be doing cartwheels.”
“That doesn’t sound like your mother.”
Caroline shrugs. “That is my mother. Just not a part of my mother most people ever see. I’m off.” She pops a strawberry into her mouth and leaves the kitchen.
“Well, good for her. She’s out there hustling,” I say.
“Meaning I’m not out there hustling?” says William. “I’ve been on ten interviews. I just don’t talk about it.”
“You’ve been on ten interviews?”
“Yes, and not one callback.”
“Oh-William, God, ten interviews? Why haven’t you told me? I could have helped you. This is overwhelming. It’s bad out there. It’s not just you. Let me help. I can help you. Please.”
“There’s nothing to help with.”
“Well, let me support you. Behind the scenes. I’m a good commiserater. Top-notch, in fact-”
He cuts me off. “I don’t need commiseration, Alice. I need a plan. And I need you to leave me alone while I come up with it. I’ll figure it out. I always do.”
I bring my glass to the sink and rinse it out. “Fine,” I say slowly. “Well, here’s my plan. I sent off that letter to the Parents’ Association asking if they’d consider making my position full-time in the fall. Six plays every semester should be a full-time job.”
“You want to be a drama teacher full-time?” asks William.
“I want us to be able to send our kids to college.”
William crosses his arms in front of his chest. “Caroline’s right. You should start running again. It would be good for you.”
“You seem to be doing okay with Caroline.”
“I’d rather run with you,” he says.
He’s lying. I wonder if Researcher 101 is a runner.
“What?” he asks.
“What do you mean ‘what’?”
“You had this strange look on your face.”
I stack my glass in the dishwasher and slam the door shut. “That’s just the way I look when I’m leaving you alone so you can figure things out.”
“California geese, we’re unforgettable. Goslings, gaggles, ganders on top. White feathers so soft you’ll want to pet us. Honk, honk, honk honk. Honk, honk, honk honk.”
Ganders on top. You’ll want to pet us? What was I thinking? I’m standing in the wings of the stage at Kentwood Elementary, second-guessing my decision to have the geese do a parody of Katy Perry’s “California Gurls” as the closing number for Charlotte’s Web. The lavender wigs I got at the costume store make the geese look slutty (as does their prancing and hip-wiggling) and judging by the jealous faces of Wilbur and Charlotte and the rest of the cast, I’m pretty sure I went too far in my attempt to make up for the geese having no lines. It seemed like such a brilliant idea at three in the morning when I was mucking around on YouTube and convinced myself that Katy Perry naked, draped in nothing but a cloud covering her ass, was a post-postfeminist statement.
I start thinking up excuses for why I have to leave before the play is over. For some reason, they are all tooth-related. I was eating caramels and my crown just fell off. I was eating a bagel and a piece of crust impaled my gum.
I can hear twitters and whispers coming from the parents as the geese wind up their number, which includes lining up like the Rockettes, arms slung around each other and seductively blowing kisses to the audience. The geese finish their song, adding a cheeky little butt swivel. Limp applause and the geese prance off the stage. Oh, Jesus, God. Helicopmama is right; I have been doing this for far too long. Then I see the boy who played Wilbur holding a bouquet of carnations. Next I am pushed onstage, where th
e bouquet is shoved in my arms. I turn to face an audience of mostly disapproving faces, except for three: the mothers of the geese, one of whom is a beaming Mrs. Norman, who seems to have forgiven me for accusing her of being a pothead.
“Well,” I say, “Charlotte’s Web. Always a favorite. And didn’t we have a wonderful Charlotte this year? You might think Charlotte’s Web is a bit inappropriate-Charlotte dying in the end and all-but in my experience the theater is a safe place to experiment with difficult issues like death. And what it feels like. What death feels like.”
It feels like this.
“I want to thank you for trusting me to look after your children. It’s not always easy being a drama teacher. Life isn’t fair. We aren’t all equal. Somebody has to have the bit part. And somebody has to be the star. I know we live in a time where we try and pretend this isn’t true.”
Parents are packing up their video cameras and leaving.
“We try and shield our kids from disappointment. From seeing things they shouldn’t see before their time. But we must be realistic. There are bad things out there. Especially on the Internet. Why, just the other day my son-my point is you can’t let them watch a movie and then fast-forward through the scary parts. Am I right?”
The auditorium is nearly empty now. Mrs. Norman waves at me from the front row.
“Okay, so thank you all for coming. Um-have a great summer and see you next year!”
“When will the DVD be available?” asks Mrs. Norman. “We’re so proud of Carisa. Who knew she was such a little dancer? I’d like to order three copies.”
“The DVD?” I ask.
“Of the play,” she says. “You did have it professionally taped, didn’t you?”
She can’t be serious. “I saw lots of parents taping the performance. I’m sure somebody will be happy to send you a copy of the tape.”
Wife 22 Page 15
