The Starter Wife

by Grazer, Gigi Levangie

  “He did.”

  “Were you ever really married to that asshole?” Joan asked.

  “I still am,” Gracie answered.

  Joan put her arm around her. “It’s time for us to move on to our next mistakes, isn’t it?”

  Gracie just nodded. But she knew one thing: She did not want another mistake in her life. She wanted simplicity. She wanted normalcy. She wanted a life without a moving soap opera. She did not want a security code.

  And she wanted to kiss Sam again.

  GRACIE RAN into him, as she knew she would, the next morning in front of the street entrance to the beach. He was standing in his bright orange shorts, facing north toward Point Dume, which rose heroically through the fog; the Labrador was at his feet, making headway into a recalcitrant old tennis ball.

  She could feel that he felt her presence, even though he didn’t turn as she walked up to him.

  He didn’t flinch when she put her hand on his arm. He reached his hand across his chest and placed it over hers. The warmth of his skin shifted into her hands, up through her arms, into her body, into places which had been quarantined. He was so alive, this man. She could feel that every cell of his being was at the ready. He was fight-or-flight—the adrenaline response—personified.

  But what was he fighting? Or fleeing from? She knew she should care, but she didn’t. She was like a teenage girl who gets on the back of a motorcycle. She was exhilarated. She was happy.

  Jesus Christ, she was horny.

  He turned to face her and, once again, put his hands on her face and drew her mouth toward his.

  Oh, that kiss, Gracie thought, there it is, again. That once-in-a-lifetime kiss is happening twice!

  They separated, just as an older couple made their way past, pausing momentarily as they spied Sam and Gracie and the intimacy of their posture.

  Gracie didn’t care; she thought, let them look. Let them see what new love is like. Let them remember and take it home with them.

  “Is this what I think it is?” Gracie said, admonishing herself even as the words became whole outside her subconscious. How could she be such a girl?

  “Never mind!” she said, almost immediately. Why, she wondered, did she need a running narration, a commentary—why couldn’t she just let things happen, mature, take shape without the burden of language?

  Because she couldn’t, that’s why.

  Sam was looking at her. She wondered if she confused him as much as she confused herself. He looked like a man who was confused about little. He looked like a man who knew his place in the world and was content with it—who made decisions and lived with them, and didn’t second-guess every little thing. He looked confident and secure.

  She wondered what the hell he saw in her.

  “What do you think it is?” Sam asked. His head was bent toward hers. The crowns of their foreheads almost touching.

  She could taste his breath, unencumbered by flavors—no coffee, no mint toothpaste. Just health.

  That’s what it is, Gracie thought, finally putting a mental finger on the word that seemed to fit him most—unencumbered.

  How does one get to be unencumbered?

  “Pure animal lust,” Gracie said, finally answering her Prince in Orange Shorts. “And I’m okay with that.”

  “You mean, you don’t love me for my mind?” Sam looked at her, his eyes filled with feigned worry.

  “I have enough mind,” Gracie said. “What I need is a body.” She didn’t really mean it, but it sounded clever enough. And right now, she needed someone to think she was clever.

  “I can live with that,” Sam replied.

  “A body with a heart,” she said as he kissed her again, reaching her in places where no man had ever been before. He was a hunter, she was the Heart of Darkness.

  “Careful,” she said, as they paused for breath, “you’re going on an intrepid excavation.”

  He laughed. God, she loved those crow’s-feet that appeared at his eyes.

  Even his wrinkles were masculine.

  How would she ever survive this much passion? She would be a mere puddle when he got through with her. People would walk over her and say,“Oh, there’s Gracie Pollock—remember when she was a full human being? Before she had sex with that man who turned her into a mass of jelly?”

  “Oh,” Gracie said, remembering that little thing called “breathing.” “I almost forgot. Are you available Friday night?”

  Sam looked at her. Something passed quickly over his face, then disappeared into its recesses. What was it? she thought.

  Oh my God, he’s married, Gracie thought. He’s married and he’s kissing me—in front of old people!

  I’m a slut, Gracie thought. I’m a wayward slut and I’m going straight to hell.

  “I’m available,” Sam said, and then proceeded to wipe out any possible guilt the minx Gracie had about prying this innocent man from his wife and ten children by pressing his warm, full lips to her neck, thereby rendering her a quivering, helpless mess. She felt like that goo Jaden played with, the stuff that came in a plastic egg that stuck to carpets, even though it came with a piece of paper that proclaimed it “nontoxic and easy to clean!”

  Why did they lie? Gracie thought, those mendacious, heartless goo manufacturers?

  “I’m going in,” Sam said, finally breaking from their last, earth-shattering kiss. He touched her cheek with his hand and then turned and walked off toward the water, followed by the dog, leaving her shattered remains behind.

  Why am I so dramatic? Gracie asked herself. It certainly doesn’t serve me well, she thought as she watched Mr. Unencumbered dive over the waves.

  And then she thought of Lou, diving over those same waves. Her mind spun forward—what were his final moments like? What was he feeling when he walked in? When he dove? When he chose not to take another breath?

  She wiped away the one tear she would allow herself that day.

  It was soon followed by others. Her effort was mocked. Her tear ducts were staging a mutiny against her mind. Why was she always being betrayed by her body?

  “Screw it,” Gracie said to the wind, as she sat in the sand and cried.

  22

  MY FIRST DATE IN HOW MANY YEARS

  HOW DOES a guy my age get ready for a date? Sam Knight thought. At least he thought he was getting ready for a date. The woman had asked him to dinner. A dinner party. A group of people. Why had he said yes? Had he said yes?

  Sam walked to the security gate to have a talk with Lavender. He needed to know particulars. What to wear, what to talk about. He hadn’t had a conversation about anything substantial with a person for a long time. Mrs. Kennicot, she only commented on the weather, which was always the same, or the temperature of the water, which, like the weather, seldom changed. The Pacific was always cold, the coast was always temperate. Some days started out foggier than others. Other than that, she would ask him things: Can you fix the faucet on the bathroom sink? Can you grout that tile? The old station wagon’s making a funny noise. What’s that funny noise?

  Occasionally, he would talk to the men who gathered on the outskirts of the Starbucks hoping for a free coffee, some change. But he was a snob, he was the first to admit it. He wasn’t on his own because of alcohol, drugs, because of money issues. He had chosen this life. He preferred this life.

  This woman was the first to make him question his choice.

  Lavender would know what he should wear. He’d have to be discreet, though. He didn’t want her or anyone else knowing he had a date. He knew the guards—they were like a ready-made family. J.D. was the patriarch, the all-knowing, all-seeing father figure. Tariq was the younger brother, the easygoing one who sometimes made mistakes. Lavender was the sister, smart, hypervigilant. He didn’t want her thinking he was taking advantage—he knew some people probably already thought that—thought that he was taking advantage of the Kennicots. Which is why he never moved in with them, even when Mrs. Kennicot asked every other week or so, until she
didn’t anymore.

  Lavender was bent over a book, as usual, when there weren’t poor people to kick off the beach, or someone driving an Escalade looking for a party.

  “Excuse me, Lavender,” he said. “What’ve you got there?” She smiled but didn’t bother looking up. They had known each other for as long as she’d been there.

  “You are so cute,” she said. “I got homework. More homework.” But he could tell she wasn’t complaining. Books were her escape from the four-wall syndrome, whether it was here, the security shed, or her one-bedroom apartment in Inglewood.

  She looked up, peering at him over her glasses.

  “I have a question for you,” he said. He was rubbing the side of the door. Why was he so nervous? One small step toward “the normal life” and he had become a jumble of tics.

  “Shoot,” she said, looking at him. Waiting.

  “I have to get a pair of pants,” he said. “I have some money saved up. I can buy ’em.”

  Lavender smiled. She shook her head. She always did that when she was delighted. “You’re buying a pair of pants,” she said, looking at his shorts. “Will wonders never cease?”

  “Here’s the problem,” he said. “Where do I go? And what kind do I buy when I get there?”

  She looked at him. “What’s it for?”

  “Personal,” he said.

  “Ah,” she replied, smiling widely, the spaces between her teeth mocking him. She looked like a cartoon character.

  “Okay, then,” she said. “I’m assuming it’s not formal.” Formal. Just the word sent shivers down his spine. He shook his head, emphatically. Still rubbing the doorway with his thumb.

  “And not too casual,” she said.

  He nodded.

  “Dockers,” she said. “And you might want to get yourself a shirt, too, while you’re at it.”

  Sam looked at his shirt. He had three like it—all short-sleeved T-shirts. One gray, one white, one gray and white. One of them was a Surfrider benefit giveaway. The other two had been given to him by Mrs. Kennicot, when she’d tired of the logos.

  “Any idea what kind of shirt goes with these ‘Dockers’?”

  “Boy, you got to figure out some things on your own,” Lavender said. “Do I look like a personal stylist?”

  “What’s that?” Sam said.

  But Lavender was lost to him. She was facing away from him now, and though he could not see her face, he could feel her mouth curve down, her eyebrows pinching together. Her mood had shifted. Something about the way her shoulders rose beneath her crisp white uniform shirt. Her fingers tapping the pages of her book.

  A large black car was turning into the Colony. Lavender was half standing, half sitting as it suddenly sped up and whipped past—

  Lavender leaped up, raising the wooden barrier just in time.

  Sam caught the half-opened window, the shock of black hair with bleached tips. The black sunglasses. The smirk. The sound of laughter coming from all sides.

  When Lavender sat back down, Sam could feel she was vibrating.

  “Assholes,” he said, clearing his throat. He wished he could sound more articulate, for her sake. He wished he could put together a string of words that would make it all better for her. That would put an end to the humiliation he knew she was feeling. He brought his hand forward, as if to touch her shoulder, to undo the knot that he saw form in front of his eyes.

  “Just kids,” Lavender said, staring at the pages of her book. “That’s all. Just kids.”

  Sam walked off, toward Mrs. Kennicot’s. It was only when he got halfway there that he realized he’d been clenching his fists.

  23

  DINNER WITH FRIENDS AND LOVER

  7:20 P.M.: Gracie standing, dress on over pants, looking in the mirror.

  7:22 P.M.: Gracie standing, T-shirt on, nothing underneath, looking in the mirror.

  7:24 P.M.: Gracie standing, naked, looking in the mirror, razor in her hand.

  7:25 P.M.: Joan yelling at Gracie to get the hell downstairs and help her with setting the table.

  7:30 P.M.: Table is set. Joan is looking at Gracie and shaking her head.

  “WHAT ARE YOU WEARING?” Joan asked.

  Gracie looked down at herself. “I saw Kate Hudson wearing a long T-shirt over pants.”

  “That’s Kate Hudson. She’s a child. Now go upstairs and put on a proper dress.”

  Which is how Gracie wound up wearing one of Joan’s Diane von Furstenberg wrap dresses, one with forgiving fabric and design.

  Gracie made a mental note to write a letter to Diane, thanking her if she got laid that night.

  By 7:45, most of the guests had arrived—the guests being Will, Cricket, and Jorge. Joan was serving Mojitos, the Cuban drink, which was being billed as the new Cosmopolitan.

  Prince Charming the Unencumbered had still not arrived.

  Gracie was already on her second Mojito—a sort of Mojito drinking record for her, as she had never had one before. She was grateful that Jaden, sleeping over at Daddy’s house, would not be a witness to her bender.

  “Maybe he didn’t get the time right?” Cricket asked.

  “Why are you smiling so much?” Will asked Cricket.

  “Those Girls Gone Wild tapes,” Cricket whispered. “They’ve changed our lives.”

  Jorge just grinned and held up his Mojito.

  “I should be a masturbation agent,” Will said. “But how would I collect my ten percent?”

  “Can you bring me up to speed?” Joan asked. “Because I’m going to need my own help, now that Pappy’s gone.”

  “Oh, Pappy,” Will cried, “we hardly knew ye.”

  There was a knock at the door, which was slightly open. Gracie and Joan pushed each other as they vied to be the first at the door.

  “He’s my date,” Gracie hissed.

  “My invite,” Joan hissed back. “And my house—at least for the time being!”

  Joan was there first, being more slim, agile, and faster on her feet. Gracie held herself back, aided by the iron grip of Will’s hand on her shoulder.

  “Indifferent!” Will whispered in her ear. “You need to appear aloof and indifferent! Think Jackie O in her heyday!”

  “Right,” Gracie said. “How do I do that?”

  “Look at me and laugh,” Will said, sitting her down. “Tilt your head back while you do it.”

  Gracie tried, she really did. She had her head back at a dizzying angle and was laughing gaily when she felt Joan and Sam step into the room.

  “That’s enough,” Will said. “You’re going to hurt yourself. You look like Jackie Oh-No!”

  Gracie stood up and looked over to where Joan and Sam were standing. Joan had a curious look on her face. Gracie couldn’t quite place it—her expression looked halfway between disturbed and fascinated.

  Sam was in a white collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and slightly slouchy khaki pants. He looked like someone who would be very comfortable throwing a football around on an expansive patch of Hyannisport lawn.

  And he was holding a bouquet of daisies in his hand, wrapped neatly in a green napkin.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said to Gracie. Sam hated being late. If only she’d known how many times he’d combed his hair, how he’d agonized over what kind of flowers to bring. He hoped that Mrs. Walsh at 218A would forgive him; he’d picked the best ones he could find in her yard. He’d make it up to her somehow. “I brought these for the hostess—”

  “Thank you, I’ll put them in water,” Joan said lightly. Her voice sounded about an octave higher than normal. As she passed Gracie, she tilted her head toward the kitchen, in a conspiratorial manner.

  Gracie smiled at Sam, who looked very alone without his flowers.“Will, can you get Sam a Mojito?”

  “Love to,” Will said as he put his arm in Sam’s and steered his intractable body toward the bar, where Cricket and Jorge were staring into each other’s eyes like sophomores on a first date.

  If Joa
n’s kitchen had had a door, she would have closed it. As it was doorless, she made do with whispering.

  “How do you know him, exactly?” Joan asked. The color of her freckles intensified as she spoke.

  “Are you angry?” Gracie asked. “What is this about?”

  “No, no,” Joan said. “He just looks so familiar to me, I’m trying to place him.”

  “I met him on the beach,” Gracie said, measuring her words, recalling events as they unfurled slowly in her Mojito-fied brain. “He takes a swim every morning.And he’s got a dog!”

  She said that last part too loudly. She wondered why she should be excited about him having a dog, as though that proved he was a more worthy human being than a dogless person.

  “Well, he’s ridiculously handsome,” Joan said finally. “If he’s not gay or married or both, you, my young friend, have hit the take-me-I’m-yours jackpot.”

  Gracie smiled, giddy. “I know,” she said. “Maybe there is a God.”

  “I know I’ve met him before,” Joan said softly, almost to herself, as she poured dressing on the salad.

  CRICKET, caught up in the first blush of Mojito, was regaling the table with a story about her new life with Jorge, Post-Masturbatory Age. “So, we’re lying on the bed at his mother’s house in Palm Springs, you know, we sometimes spend the weekend there, and he’s got one hand on my boob (Will covered his ears at this) and with the other, he’s, you know, whacking away. He was watching … Girls Gone Wild in … Baja?”

  “The sequel?” Will asked.

  Cricket pinched Jorge’s cheek. He turned crimson and poured himself some wine.

  “Anyway,” she blearily continued, “I’m reading the Enquirer or Star while he’s ‘busy’ … I forget what I was reading … so his mother opens the door—I don’t think she knocked—” She turned to Jorge. “Did she knock?”

  Jorge shrugged. “I don’t think she knocked,” he said.

  “She’s not a knocker. She opens the door, and sees us—imagine it, now, I’m lying on the bed, fully clothed, except my top’s open, I’ve got the Enquirer covering my face, Jorge’s hand is on my breast (Will screams), and he’s almost done—”