“We’re going to be okay. I have to admit I was worried. I wasn’t sure,” says William, tucking my hair behind my ears. “But I think we’re going to be okay.”
“I hope so.”
“Don’t hope so. Believe it. If there was anytime you needed to believe, it’s now, Alice.”
He takes my face in his hands and tilts it up. His kiss is tender and sweet and doesn’t last a second longer than it should.
“Whoa. I’m dizzy.” I untangle myself from him and sit down on the bed. “All that twirling.” And kissing. And gazing. And being gazed at. I feel breathless.
“I’ll need to make a few hires. I was thinking about Kelly Cho.”
“Kelly? Wow. Well, I guess that would be a really nice gesture.”
William goes on, musing out loud. I haven’t seen him so animated in months. He does a two-step around the bedroom. He doesn’t notice when I open my laptop.
From: Alice Buckle ‹[email protected]›
Subject: VP Food and Beverage: William Buckle
Date: August 17, 10:10 AM
To: Helen Davies ‹helendavies@D &DAdvertising.com›
Dear Helen,
You are one class act.
Thank you. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.
Alice
100
John Yossarian
Adrift on a little yellow raft
10 minutes ago
Lucy Pevensie
Mothballs and fur
15 minutes ago
You’re back in the wardrobe?
I’m afraid so.
Time passes differently in Narnia then IRL.
Look at you, using acronyms like IRL.
You’ll only have been gone for five minutes when you return.
A lifetime on the Internet.
Your husband won’t even know that you left.
That’s the hope, anyway. I’ll miss you, Yossarian.
What will you miss?
Your paranoia, your complaining, your salty brand of sanity.
I’ll miss you, too, Lucy Pevensie.
What will you miss?
Your magic cordials, your bravery-your ridiculous blind faith in a talking lion.
Do you believe in second chances?
I do.
I can’t help thinking it was fate that brought us together.
And fate that kept us apart. Forgive me for complicating things, for falling for you, Wife 22.
Don’t apologize. You reminded me I was a woman worth falling for.
GTG. I see land.
GTG. I see light through the crack of the wardrobe door.
101
I’m about to close my Lucy Pevensie account for good, but before I do, I poke around on John Yossarian’s wall one last time. It’s been such an intense couple of months and Researcher 101 has played such a big part in my daily life. Even though I’m ready to say goodbye, and I know it’s the right thing to do, I still feel bereft. It’s a last-day-of-camp feeling. I’m bittersweet, but ready to pack it up and go home.
On Yossarian’s information page, I see a link to a Picasa album, which contains his profile photos. Suddenly I wonder if he’s disabled his geotag function. I open the album and click on the yeti photo. A map of the United States pops up with a red pushpin stuck smack in the middle of the Bay Area. No, he has not disabled his geotag function. I zoom in on the pushpin. The photo was taken on the Golden Gate Bridge. I exhale with pleasure. This is dangerous. This is titillating. There’s a part of me that’s still curious, that will always be curious. Even though we had a certain kind of intimacy, in truth I know nothing about him. Who is he? How does he spend his days?
I repeat the same process with the photo of the horse and once again the pushpin is stuck in San Francisco, but the location is Crissy Field. He’s got to be athletic. He probably runs and bikes. Maybe he even does yoga.
I click on the photo of the dog, but this time the red pushpin appears on Mountain Road in Oakland. Wait a second. Is it possible he lives in Oakland? I just assumed he lived in San Francisco, based on the Netherfield Center’s proximity to UCSF.
I click on the photo of the labyrinth and the pushpin again shows his location as Oakland. But this photo was taken minutes from my house. In Manzanita Park.
I click on the photo of his hand, my heart thudding. Stop this, Alice Buckle, stop it right now. You extracted yourself. You just said goodbye. A map of my neighborhood pops up. I enlarge the map. It zeros in on my street. I drag the icon of the little yellow man onto the pushpin, wanting more detail, and an actual photo of an actual house appears. 529 Irving Drive.
My house.
What? The photo was taken from my house? I try and process this information.
Researcher 101 has been inside my house? He’s been stalking me? He’s a stalker? But this makes no sense. How could he have gotten into my house? Somebody is always home, between school being out and Caroline working only part-time, and Jampo would have barked his head off if somebody broke in, and William never-William… Jesus.
I zoom in on the photo of the hand. And when the familiar details of that hand come into focus-the big palm, the long, tapered fingers, the little freckle on the top of the pinkie, I feel sick because-it’s William’s hand.
“Alice, can I borrow some conditioner?” Bunny stands in the doorway wrapped in a towel, clutching her toiletry bag in her hand. Then she looks at my face. “Alice, dear God, what happened?”
I ignore her and go back to my computer. Think, Alice, think! Did Researcher 101 somehow hack into our family’s photo library? My brain feels folded over, like an omelet. Researcher 101 is a stalker, Researcher 101 has been stalking me, has been stalking William, William stalking, William is a stalker, Researcher 101 is a stalker is William is Researcher 101. Oh, my, God.
“Alice, you’re mumbling. You’re scaring me. Did somebody get hurt? Did somebody die?” she asks.
I look up at Bunny. “William is Researcher 101.”
Bunny’s eyes widen, and then, to my surprise, she throws back her head and laughs.
“Why are you laughing?”
“Because of course it’s William. Of course! It’s too perfect. It’s-delicious.”
I shake my head in frustration. “You mean duplicitous.”
Bunny steps into the room and peers over my shoulder as I frantically scroll back through our emails and chats, seeing them in an entirely different light this time.
Me: I can have the weather delivered every morning to my phone by weather.com. What could be better?
101: Getting caught in the rain?
“I can’t believe it. The nerve of him. The Piña Colada song?” I shriek.
“My God, that’s clever,” says Bunny. “I guess he was tired of his lady; they’d been together too long.” She winks at me and I scowl back at her.
Me: You’re very lucky. He sounds like a dream dog.
101: Oh, he is.
“Oh, yes, very funny, so funny, so terribly funny, William, ha-ha,” I say.
“Do you recognize that dog?” asks Bunny.
I look at the photo more closely. “Goddammit. That’s our neighbor’s dog. Mr. Big.”
“Your neighbor is Mr. Big?”
“No, the dog is Mr. Big.”
“How could you have missed that?” asks Bunny. “It’s almost like he wanted you to know, Alice. Like he was giving you clues.”
Me: Yes, please change my answer. It’s more truthful. Unlike your profile photo.
101: I don’t know about that. In my experience, the truth is frequently blurry.
“That son of a bitch,” I say.
“Mmm. Sounds like he’s been reading a bit too much Eckhart Tolle,” says Bunny.
Me: If we had met? If you had showed up that night? What do you think would have happened?
101: I think you would have been disappointed.
Me: Why? What are you keeping from me? Do you have scales? Do you weigh 600 pounds? Do you have a comb-ove
r?
101: Let’s just say I would not be what you had expected.
I groan. “He was toying with me the entire time!”
“One person’s toying is another person’s dropping clues and waiting to be discovered. Maybe you were just slow on the uptake, Alice. Besides, I have to tell you that so far, I haven’t read one thing he’s written that wasn’t true.”
“What? Everything was a lie. Researcher 101 was a lie. He doesn’t exist!”
“Oh, but he does exist. William couldn’t have made him up if Researcher 101 wasn’t somehow a part of him. Or a him he wanted to be.”
“No. He played me. He just told me what I wanted to hear.”
“I don’t think so,” says Bunny, chuckling.
“What is wrong with you, Bunny? Why do you seem so delighted about all of this?”
“Why aren’t you delighted? Don’t you understand, Alice? You can carry on with both Researcher 101 and William. Forever. Because they’re one and the same!”
“I feel so humiliated!”
“Again with the humiliation. There’s no reason to feel humiliated.”
“Of course there is. I said things. Things I never would have. Things he had no right to know. Answers he cheated out of me.”
“Well, what if he had asked you those things to your face?”
“William never would have asked me.”
“Why not?”
“He wasn’t interested. He stopped being interested a long time ago.”
Bunny tightens the towel under her arms. “Well, all I can say is that he went to an awful lot of trouble for a husband who wasn’t interested in knowing what his wife thought or wanted or believed. And now I just have one question for you.” She gestures to the Ann Taylor suit that I’ve spread out on the bed. “You aren’t planning on wearing that to dinner, are you?”
“You got something from your father,” says William, walking into the bathroom. “I had to sign for it.”
I’ve been upstairs for an hour, stewing, and avoiding William, trying to will myself into a positive frame of mind for dinner. But the sight of him infuriates me all over again.
“You look great,” he says, handing me an envelope.
“I don’t look great,” I snap.
“I’ve always loved that suit.”
“Well, you’re the only one, then.”
“Jesus, Alice. What’s going on? Are you mad at me?”
“Why would I be mad at you? Should I be mad at you?”
My phone chimes. It’s a text from Nedra. Hope you’re getting that toast ready! Practice, practice, practice. So excited about tonight. Xoxoxo.
“Damn toast,” I say. “That’s the last thing I want to do.”
“Oh-that’s why you’re so snappish. Nerves,” says William. “You’ll do fine.”
“No, I won’t do fine. I can’t do it. I just can’t do it. I can’t be expected to do everything. You do the toast!” I cry.
“Are you serious?”
“Yes, I am. You’re going to have to do it. I’m not doing it.”
William looks at me aghast. “But Nedra will be so disappointed. You’re the maid of honor.”
“It doesn’t matter who gives the toast. You. Me. It just has to be somebody from this family. Get Peter to do it. He’s good at those sorts of things.”
“Alice, I don’t understand.”
“No, you don’t. And you never have.”
William shrinks away from me, as if I’ve hit him.
“I’ll come up with something,” he says softly. “Let me know when you’re done in here so I can take a shower.”
After William’s gone, I don’t know what to do with myself, so I open the envelope. There are two items inside: a card from my father and an old hankie folded carefully into a square. The hankie belonged to my mother. There are three little violets embroidered on the white cotton along with my mother’s initials. I press the hankie to my nose. It still smells of her Jean Naté body splash. I pick up the card.
Sometimes things we lose come back to us. Not usually, from this old man’s experience, but sometimes, they do. I found this in the pawnshop in Brockton. The owner said it’s been sitting in the case for over two decades, but that won’t be a surprise to you. I know you’ve made some mistakes and done some things you wish you could take back. I know you’re feeling lost and you’re not sure what to do. I hope this will help you make up your mind. I love you, honey.
I carefully unfold the handkerchief and there, nestled in the white cotton, is my engagement ring: the one I threw out the car window when William and I had the argument about inviting Helen to our wedding. Somebody must have found it and brought it to the pawnshop. The jewels have darkened with age and it needs a good cleaning, but there’s no mistaking the tiny diamond flanked by two even tinier emeralds-the ring that my grandfather gave to my grandmother so many years ago, the ring that I so cavalierly tossed away.
I try and make out the engraving on the inside of the ring but the type is too small. I can’t think about what it all means now. If I do, I’ll lose it. We have an hour before we have to leave for dinner. I slip the ring into my pocket and go downstairs.
The dinner is being held at a new trendy restaurant called Boca.
“Is that Donna Summer playing?” asks William, when we walk in the door.
“Jude told me Nedra was hiring a deejay,” says Zoe. “I hope they don’t play seventies music all night long.”
“I love this song,” says Jack to Bunny. “I sense your dance card will be full tonight, ‘Bad Girl.’ ”
“Did you take your baby aspirin?” Bunny asks.
“I took three,” Jack says. “Just in case.”
“In case of what?” asks Bunny.
“This,” he says, kissing her on the lips.
“You two are cute,” says Zoe.
“You wouldn’t think it was cute if that was your mother and me,” says William.
“That’s because between the ages of thirty and sixty, PDA is gross,” says Zoe. “And after sixty it’s cute again. You’re older than sixty, right?” Zoe whispers to Jack.
“Just a squidge,” says Jack, pinching his thumb and forefinger together.
“There’s Nedra,” says William. “At the bar.” He gives a low whistle.
Nedra is wearing a forest-green silk wrap dress with lots of cleavage showing. She rarely shows décolletage; she thinks it’s déclassé. But tonight she made an exception. She looks stunning.
“We should probably tell her,” says William. “Do you want to or should I?”
“Tell her what?” asks Peter.
I sigh. “That your father is doing the toast, not me.”
“But you’re the maid of honor. You have to do the toast,” says Zoe.
“Your mother isn’t feeling well,” says William. “I’m standing in for her.”
“Right,” says Zoe, whose face tells me everything she’s thinking: her mother is running away-once again. I should care, I’m setting a very bad example for my daughter, but I don’t. Not tonight.
“Darling! Have a Soiree,” cries Nedra, when she sees me approaching. She holds out a martini glass filled with a clear liquid. Little purple flowers skitter across the surface.
“Lavender, gin, honey, and lemon,” she says. “Give it a try.”
I summon the bartender. “Chardonnay, please,” I say.
“You’re so predictable,” says Nedra. “That’s one of the things I love about you.”
“Yes, well, I predict you’re about to not love my predictability.”
Nedra puts the martini glass down. “Do not put a damper on my evening, Alice Buckle. Do not even think about it.”
I sigh. “I feel terrible.”
“Here we go. What do you mean you feel terrible?”
“Sick.”
“Sick how?”
“Headache. Stomachache. Light-headed.”
The bartender gives me my wine. I take a big sip.
“T
hat’s just nerves,” says Nedra.
“I think I’m having a panic attack.”
“You are not having a panic attack. Stop being so dramatic and just say what you need to say.”
“I can’t give the toast tonight. But don’t worry, William’s going to take my place.”
Nedra shakes her head. “That is a hideous suit.”
“I didn’t want to upstage you. But I shouldn’t have worried. All this-” I say, waving at her breasts. “Wow.”
“I asked one thing of you, Alice. One thing most women would be thrilled about. For you to be my maid of honor.”
“There’s a reason. I’m a mess. I can’t think straight. Something’s happened,” I cry.
“Really, Alice?” She looks at me incredulously.
“I got some bad news tonight. Some really, terrible, horrible bad news.”
Nedra’s face softens. “Christ, why didn’t you open with that? What’s happened? Is it your father?”
“Researcher 101 is William!”
Nedra takes a dainty sip of her Soiree. She takes another little sip.
“Did you hear me?”
“I heard you, Alice.”
“And?”
“Are you about to get your period?”
“I have evidence! Look. This is one of Researcher 101’s profile photos.” I take out my phone, go to Facebook, click on his photo album, and then click on the photo of his hand. “First of all, it’s geotagged.”
“Hmm,” says Nedra, looking over my shoulder. I drag the icon of the little yellow man onto the red pushpin and when the photo of our house pops up on the screen, she claps her hand over her mouth. “Wait, it gets better.” I zoom in on the photo. “It’s his hand. He could have used any hand. Any hand from the Internet. A clip art hand, even. He used his own.”
“That bloody, fucking idiot,” says Nedra, grinning.
“I know!”
“I can’t believe it.”
“I know!”
She shakes her head in disbelief. “Who knew he had it in him? That is the single most romantic thing I’ve ever heard of.”
“Oh, God, not you, too.”
“What do you mean not me, too?”
“Bunny had the same reaction.”
“Well, that should tell you something, then.”
Wife 22 Page 29
