Embassy Wife

by Katie Crouch

  After a month, Mark had lost fifteen pounds. His jeans only fit when he punched new holes into his belt. Then, on an achingly beautiful day in May, Mark went into Dan and Whits for beer and something to eat. As he stood absently looking into a fogged-up cooler of sandwiches, he felt a hand on his arm. It was a coxswain whose name he couldn’t remember. Yes, he could. Amanda. Her brown hair was shiny and clean. She smelled like fabric softener.

  “Those look gross,” she said. “Come to my house. I’ll make spaghetti.”

  Without a word, Mark had taken hold of her hand. He held it all the way from Norwich to Hanover, and continued to hold it, even while she made the pasta. Her housemates stared and exchanged glances. Coach is holding Amanda Pruitt’s hand! Mark didn’t give a shit what they thought. He knew, from his past, that he needed carrying. He was sure she was the woman to do it.

  How right he’d been, he often thought. Amanda was a rock. She set up their home, she made their friends, she had their child, she mothered that child. She did so many things that he didn’t even think about them anymore. He loved her, he appreciated her, he bragged about her. But he didn’t have to look for anything, ever, because it was already there. Dinner was made, finances were sorted, his clothes were where they were supposed to be. Was that boring? He didn’t let himself think about it. He’d had the opposite of boring, and he’d nearly died.

  Then, five years ago—a decade into their marriage—Amanda Pruitt had started to let his hand go. Maybe it had started when she’d gotten that big Silicon Valley job. Or maybe it was when she and their daughter started to get so annoyingly, unnaturally close. At first he’d thought it was a normal mother-child bond; after all, Amanda was an orphan, so it made sense that she’d be more attached than other mothers. But once Meg started talking, it became clear that Amanda would much rather have a conversation with her daughter than with her husband. She would take Meg on day-long, mysterious “dates” to the beach or into the city; the two would return from their adventures without him, flushed and giddy. Which was fine, he guessed. Except for a long time now his wife was going on twice as many dates with their kid than with him.

  Perhaps that’s why he had brought them all back to Namibia? To get her attention? He knew it wasn’t true, but he did want to show her the place. Because if there was one person living in Windhoek who truly had a crush on Namibia, it was Mark. Amanda’s husband had lived in Ovamboland when he was twenty-two, just when a young person is ripe to declare allegiance to a wild and spectacular land. He’d fallen, hard. In particular, he lusted for her bleakest bits, the tracts of wind-scoured bush partitioned off every fifty miles or so with nothing but old barbed wire; the treeless mountains scarred by quarries; the treacherous northern coast littered with rusting shipwrecks where angry waves crashed onto brown beaches, making swimming impossible. Mark loved the scrubby, bristly plants that could survive on nothing more than the mist of the sea, blown in from three hundred miles away; the hornbills and oryx and impalas that dotted the expanse of sand. Most of all he loved the nights. Darkness in Namibia was so much thicker than at home. It had a smell, of woodsmoke and cooling earth. The sky was enormous and inky. And the sleeping veld—with her singing insects, searching birds, bellowing elephants, and all sorts of other unsaid creatures—it was the loudest place he’d ever heard in his life.

  She’ll love it, he’d thought. She’ll love it because I did. But now that he had engineered their return, nothing was going right. Amanda was even more indifferent to him now than she had been at home. In fact, now the lack of warmth had gone up a notch to irritation. Which was dangerous, and not only for their marriage. Because Mark wasn’t just in Namibia to reclaim his past. He had a ghost to put to bed, one his wife could never meet.

  * * *

  As Mark toweled off after a midafternoon swim in the pool of their rented house, he heard Amanda’s car outside. They’d let the house (Namibians didn’t say “rent”) from an English South African family who’d given up on the safari business and moved back to one of the shires, but had left their furniture and knickknacks in case they wanted to return. As hunters, the landlords had shot everything in their path from muskrats to lions, and all kills, it seemed, deserved to be mounted. Meg and Amanda had been so freaked out by the heads that Mark spent much of the first week hauling the trophies to the unused bedroom, where they covered the floor and scared the shit out of any guest who wandered in there to find themselves stared down by twenty-five pairs of glassy, lifeless eyes.

  But the pool was clean(ish), and the place had a nice view. And another useful feature was that every time someone went in or out of the compound, the alarm gave off a pleasant, hushed beep. It was a sound Mark found jarring yet helpful. If a beep went off, it meant Amanda had to park, sort through her things, drag herself and her grocery bag/workout clothes/curio shopping plunder across the blazing driveway and into the house. This gave Mark about three minutes, which was just enough time to clear away his files, close and log out of his emails, and hide his burner phone.

  Because here was the truth of it: Mark had never applied for the Fulbright in France. He hadn’t actually applied for his Fulbright at all. James had written the entire thing, just so Mark could come back to Namibia, find the girls, and put the whole thing to rest.

  It started a year ago, while he was sitting in his windowless basement office in Santa Clara. His wife’s career was rocketing ahead, while his own, it seemed, had stalled. Yet Mark knew he wasn’t fated to be this unsuccessful. He was not meant to be wasting away in a basement office while his best friend James made the bestseller lists—while all the other rowers from his boat at Brown bought third homes from their hedge fund jobs. He was blocked. Depressed. And he knew exactly why.

  Only James knew the full truth. Mark, unable to take the guilt of it, unloaded on him the same night at Grendel’s when his friend had talked him into academia. And James, his shameless best friend who had slept with his wife’s sister during their wedding weekend … James, who later still sued that very same wife for alimony … even no-morals James had been flummoxed.

  “You just left them?” he’d whispered, horrified.

  Mark nodded.

  “You can’t tell anyone, man. No one. You could go to jail for that. Not to mention hell.”

  Once he saw James’s reaction, Mark knew that anyone else who heard the truth would never be able to love him. Because when you do something like that, you stop being a whole person. Now it was more than two decades later—twenty years of carrying around this horrible secret—and Mark wanted to be a whole person. He wanted it for himself, and he wanted it for his family. It had taken him that long to face it, but now it was decided. He would find those girls. He would make up for what he had done to them. No matter how much money it took. Even if it meant he had to go to jail for a while.

  So he had called James. Or Jaime. Whatever he called himself now. National Book Award nominee. Best friend. Former crew asshole girlfriend stealer.

  “I’ll get you in there,” James had said over the phone when he’d asked him to do it. “But solve the problem, man, all right? I can’t listen to this bullshit anymore. You’ve got a hot wife who makes a ton—”

  “Back off my wife.”

  “An adorable kid. So when you’re done, promise me you’ll find a new job, okay? You can’t be an assistant prof at fifty.”

  “You’re the whole reason I went into history. You said I was good at it.”

  “I was wrong. Hey, I gotta go, my editor’s calling. Look, I’ll do the Fulbright thing for you. Send me your Social Security number.”

  So, thanks to Jaime, they were in Africa, where Meg was despondent and his wife was bored out of her mind. Which was why Mark was exceedingly glad she was taking on this new orphanage job. Once Amanda actually had something to do, she would be less in his business, and he could stop lying so much about what he was doing, where he was going. And with any luck she would be happier, period. After all, what smart person likes sittin
g around with nothing to do? None of them, that’s who. Which was why the Hopeful Orphans Children’s Hotel, or whatever it was, was going to be a godsend.

  “Hey!” he called when he saw her emerge from the car. Meg was trailing after her, which was a little weird, as she was supposed to be in her after-school activity. The Windhoek International School day started at 7:15 because of the heat and petered out at 1:30, but any parent who could afford it threw their kids into paid extracurriculars meant to stretch the school day until three. These were not clubs meant to pad a résumé for Yale; the offerings ranged from yoga under a thatched roof to playing with plastic action figures. Still, it was worth a hundred bucks a month for the hours of freedom, so the Evanses happily doled out the cash. So why wasn’t Meg doing one of them? he wondered.

  “How was your meeting?” Mark asked. “And why’s Meg home?”

  “Meg is home because she got in a boxing match with a student,” Amanda said.

  “Wait, what?” Mark planted his fists into his sides, then shook them loose again, out of fear of looking too much like an old man.

  “I got a call from the scary Afrikaans receptionist while I was at the orphanage. She punched someone.”

  “I didn’t mean to!” Meg cried.

  “We know, sweetheart,” Amanda said, putting her arm around her. “Here, sit down on the porch with us.” She led Meg to the comfy overstuffed outdoor chairs. “Just relax.” They sat across from each other, stretching their tan legs over the bamboo-and-glass coffee table that was sticky with rings from cold drinks during happier times.

  “Wait,” Mark said. “Wait. No relaxing. Meg, what the hell is going on?”

  “You owe me a dollar!” Meg cried. Mark clenched his jaw, rubbing his back molars back and forth, wincing as they made a sort of horrible clicking. It was a bad habit he had, one that his dentist had warned him about and that his wife hated. Though she wasn’t noticing now, because she didn’t seem to care about anything he did since the relocation.

  “Hey,” Amanda said, sinking farther back into the purple cheetah print. “The swear jar was your idea.” It was true. Mark had instituted it just last week. He’d caught Meg happily eavesdropping on her mother as Amanda video-chatted with her best friend back in Los Gatos. After hearing “fucking Namibia” four times in two minutes, he’d lost patience and started charging.

  “Meg,” Mark said now. “Just tell us what happened.”

  “You won’t get in trouble,” Amanda added soothingly. Their daughter crossed her twig-like arms over her chest. “Did someone call you something?”

  “No.”

  “We won’t be disappointed in you,” Amanda said. “We just want to make certain that—”

  “It’s fine, okay?” Meg burst out. “I’ll fix it. I’ll apologize. I just don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

  “Don’t speak to your mother that way,” Mark said, still towering over them. He liked being tall, other than when he was standing and everyone else was sitting, as his lanky, wilting form inevitably made him feel like a Truffula tree from The Lorax. “It’s not acceptable. You’re already in enough trouble.”

  “You just said I wasn’t in trouble,” Meg protested.

  “Well, you might be,” Mark said. “First I have to hear what happened.”

  “Wait. No. Lolo, you’re definitely not,” Amanda said. “But we do need to sort this out.”

  “Mandi, follow my lead here.”

  “But—”

  “Okay, Meg. Start.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Well, you have to,” Mark said. “You can’t just—”

  “Actually, let’s let her have a pass,” Amanda said.

  Mark put his hands on the back of his head and looked at the sky, willing himself not to explode. Amanda spoiled the shit out of their daughter. It was her one main blind spot. First it was because of their “bond.” Then it was because she felt guilty about spending so much time at work. Now it was that she felt bad about dragging their daughter to Namibia. All he knew was that if they didn’t get a handle on the situation, Meg was going to end up being a grade-A asshole.

  “Meg, why don’t you go for a swim?” he said.

  “No.” His daughter glared at him before slipping away into the tiled cave of the house. Leaving Amanda to stew in her righteousness, he went to the kitchen, fetched two glasses and a bottle of wine, and poured a large, crisp portion for his wife.

  “Here you go,” he said, coming back out.

  She shook her head and pushed it back toward him. “Mark, it’s the middle of the day. All people in Namibia seem to be able to do is offer me alcohol. I mean, booze doesn’t solve problems.”

  “It does take the edge off, though,” Mark said. “And if we smoke pot in Nam we’ll go to jail.”

  Amanda sat down and pushed her chair back into the precious shade. “The school called my phone at eleven, while I was at the orphanage,” she said, drawing her legs up under her. “The receptionist said Meg had gotten into a fistfight with another girl, which seemed totally implausible to me. But she won’t talk about it. So there’s no way for me to defend her against these International School psychopath moms.”

  Mark sighed. He knew Amanda was making great sacrifices, but he wished she wouldn’t remind him of it every other minute. After all, the yard, shaded by banana trees and carpeted with artificial, drought-proof grass, was inarguably lovely, particularly when the nighttime breeze rustled through the hanging leaves. And having a pool and a swing set and two spare bedrooms, Mark thought, was pretty fucking awesome. Which was why he wished that the women in his life would spend a little less time complaining and developing unhealthy new habits such as boxing other girls out of the ring, and a little more time just enjoying themselves.

  He poured himself some wine. “As usual, she worships you, ignores me.”

  “Because you’re mean to her.”

  “I’m a disciplinarian, Mandi. I want better health for her. It’s not right that you let her get away with everything and that she eats only Kraft mac and cheese.”

  “It’s Annie’s Organic.”

  “It’s disgusting. It’s poisoning her brain, and what’s more, it’s clearly making her violent.”

  “She’s nine, Mark. And too skinny. She needs calories. If I can make Namibia bearable because of mac and cheese—”

  “Namibia is perfectly bearable. Come on. It’s a fascinating, beautiful country.”

  “It’s a parking lot for four-by-fours.”

  “Moving on,” he said, just to show she hadn’t won. In response, she grabbed a bottle of almond oil sitting on the ground and started smoothing it into her legs. The air was so dry that everyone in the family had rough patches all over—knees, cheeks, noses. Ever the problem-solver, Amanda had stocked almost every room in the house with some type of moisturizer to prevent chapping. Though Mark was pretty sure, watching Amanda slather oil into her skin, this was just another way for her to torture him. Because if their sexual encounters had been an endangered species back in the States, here in Namibia they’d become all but extinct.

  “Why don’t you tell me about your meeting at the orphanage?”

  “Well…” She took a sip of wine.

  “Yes?”

  “I gave them five thousand Namibian.”

  “Wow. That’s generous.”

  “They said that it was their volunteer fee.”

  “Wait. I thought they had a job for you.”

  “Yeah. Me, too.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “I gave them the money, and then I was sent to help someone scrub an old refrigerator.”

  “Sounds like a promising start,” he said encouragingly as Meg padded by on her way to the kitchen. Mark watched her pour a huge glass of juice. “That’s, like, a cup of sugar you’re about to put into your body,” he yelled.

  Amanda rolled her eyes. “They said I could come back, if I wanted, but they clearly hoped I wouldn’t. I’ll just g
ive it a pass.”

  “Are you talking about the orphanage, Mom?” Meg said, drawing closer, glass in hand.

  “I am, sweetheart. It’s not working out the way I wanted it to.”

  “Why?” Meg asked. She gulped down the rest of her juice, set the glass on the table, and sat on her mother’s lap. It was ridiculous, as far as Mark was concerned. Their daughter, who was almost as tall as Amanda, teetered on her mother’s knee, slipping off and then wedging herself up again. But his wife didn’t seem to mind.

  “I wanted to help the kids,” Amanda said, smoothing Meg’s hair, “but they wouldn’t even let me near the bucket to clean an old kitchen.”

  “So there were kids there? Like me?”

  “Not like you. No. They don’t have parents.”

  “Like you didn’t.”

  Mark could see his wife’s legs stiffen, could feel the impact those words had on her gut at being reminded that she was an orphan. He rubbed his forehead in frustration at Meg’s blunder. But then again, he hadn’t considered Amanda’s real reasons for wanting to get involved with the orphanage, other than boredom. Another fail for him, another point for Meg. Not that he was competing with his nine-year-old daughter.

  “They’re sort of like me,” Amanda replied after a moment. “But I had Grandpa, didn’t I?”

  “But he’s not your real dad.”

  “He’s dad enough,” Amanda said crisply. “Anyway, they wouldn’t let me meet any of them.”

  “And it makes you sad.”

  “Well…” Amanda said. Mark tried to catch her eye, but she avoided him. “It would make me really happy to help.”

  “I’m sorry, Mom,” Meg said, giving her a hug.

  “It’s okay, sweetheart,” Amanda said. “Nothing for you to worry about.”

  “I’m sorry, too,” Mark tried. “And, Meg, you need to—”

  But his daughter had already gotten up and disappeared. Amanda stared in the direction of her exit, wearing a small frown, then turned her attention reluctantly back to him. “Did you know they call us Trailing Spouses? Like, we just trail around after our husbands because we’re too lame to get our own jobs?”