MELANIE GIDEON
Wife 22

Copyright

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by

HarperCollinsPublishers 2012

Copyright © Melanie Gideon 2012

Melanie Gideon asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Ebook Edition © June 2012 ISBN: 9780007425495

Version: 2016-12-12

Dedication

For BHR—HUSBAND 1

Epigraph

“Only connect.”

—E. M. FORSTER

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Part 1

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Part 2

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Part 3

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

Chapter 91

Chapter 92

Chapter 93

Chapter 94

Chapter 95

Chapter 96

Chapter 97

Chapter 98

Chapter 99

Chapter 100

Chapter 101

Epilogue

Appendix—The Questionnaire

Acknowledgments

Coming Soon from Melanie Gideon

About the Author

Also by Melanie Gideon

About the Publisher

Part 1

1

April 29

5:05 P.M.

GOOGLE SEARCH “Eyelid Drooping”

About 54,300 results (.14 seconds)

Eyelid Drooping: MedlinePlus Medical Encyclopedia

Eyelid drooping is excessive sagging of the upper eyelid … Eyelid drooping can make somebody appear sleepy or tired.

Eyelid Drooping … Natural Alternatives

Speak from the chin-up position. Try not to furrow your brow, as this will only compound your problems …

Droopy Dog … eyelid drooping

American cartoon character … drooping eyelids. Last name McPoodle. Catchphrase … “You know what? That makes me mad.”

2

I stare into the bathroom mirror and wonder why nobody has told me my left eyelid has grown a little hood. For a long time I looked younger than I was. And now, suddenly all the years have pooled up and I look my age—forty-four, possibly older. I lift the excess skin with my finger and waggle it about. Is there some cream I can buy? How about some eyelid pushups?

“What’s wrong with your eye?”

Peter pokes his head into the bathroom and despite my irritation at being spied on, I am happy to see my son’s freckled face. At twelve, his needs are still small and easily fulfilled: Eggos and Fruit of the Loom boxer briefs—the ones with the cotton waistband.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I say.

I depend on Peter. We’re close, especially in matters of grooming. We have a deal. His responsibility is my hair. He’ll tell me when my roots are showing so I can book an appointment with Lisa, my hairdresser. And in return, my responsibility is his odor. To make sure he doesn’t exude one. For some reason, twelve-year-old boys can’t smell their underarm funk. He does run-bys in the mornings, arm raised, waving a pit at me so I can get a whiff. “Shower,” I almost always say. On rare occasions I lie and say “you’re fine.” A boy should smell like a boy.

“Tell you what?”

“About my left eyelid.”

“What—that it hangs down over your eye?”

I groan.

“Only a tiny bit.”

I look in the mirror again. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“Well, why didn’t you tell me Peter was slang for penis?”

“It is not.”

“Yes, apparently it is. A peter and two balls?”

“I swear to you I have never heard that expression before.”

“Well, now you understand why I’m changing my name to Pedro.”

“What happened to Frost?”

“That was in February. When we were doing that unit on Robert Frost.”

“So now the road has diverged and you want to be Pedro?” I ask.

Middle school, I’ve been told, is all about experimenting with identity. It’s our job as parents to let our kids try on different personas, but it’s getting hard to keep up. Frost one day, Pedro the next. Thank God Peter is not an EMO, or is it IMO? I have no idea what EMO/IMO stands for—as far as I can tell it’s a subset of Goth, a tough kid who dyes his hair black and wears eyeliner, and no, that is not Peter. Peter is a romantic.

“Okay,” I say. “But have you considered Peder? It’s the Norwegian version of Peter. Your friends could say ‘later, Peder.’ There’s nothing that rhymes with Pedro. Do we have any Scotch tape?”

I want to tape up my eyelid—see what it would look like if I got it fixed.

“Fade-dro,” says Peter. “And I like your sagging eyelid. It makes you look like a dog.”

My mouth drops open. You know what? That makes me mad.

“No, like Jampo,” he says.

Peter is referring to our two-year-old mutt, half Tibetan spaniel, half God-knows-what-else: a twelve-pound, high-strung Mussolini of a dog who eats his own poop. Disgusting, yes, but convenient if you think about it. You never have to carry around those plastic bags.

“Drop it, Jampo, you little shit!” Zoe yells from downstairs.

We can hear the dog running manically on the hardwood floors, most likely carting around a roll of toilet paper, which next to poop is his favorite treat. Jampo means “gentle” in Tibetan, which of course turned out to be the complete opposite of the dog’s personality, but I don’t mind; I prefer a spirited dog. The past year and a half has been like having a toddler in the house again and I’ve loved every minute of it. Jampo is my baby, the third child I’ll never have.

“He needs to go out. Honey, will you take him? I have to get ready for tonight.”

Peter makes a face.

“Please?”

“Fine.”

“Thank you. Hey, wait—before you go, do we have any Scotch tape?”

“I don’t think so. I saw some duct tape in the junk drawer, though.”

I consider my eyelid. “One more favor?”

“What?” Peter sighs.

“Will you bring up the duct tape after you’ve walked the dog?”

He nods.

“You are my number-one son,” I say.

“Your only son.”

“And number one at math,” I say, kissing him on the cheek.

Tonight I’m accompanying William to the launch of FiG vodka, an account he and his team at KKM Advertising have been working on for weeks now. I’ve been looking forward to it. There’ll be live music. Some hot new band, three women with electric violins from the Adirondacks or the Ozarks—I can’t remember which.

“Business dressy,” William said, so I pull out my old crimson Ann Taylor suit. Back in the ’90s when I, too, worked in advertising, this was my power suit. I put it on and stand in front of the full-length mirror. The suit looks a little outdated, but maybe if I wear the chunky silver necklace Nedra got me for my birthday last year it will mask the fact that it has seen better days. I met Nedra Rao fifteen years ago at a Mommy and Me playgroup. She’s my best friend and also happens to be one of the top divorce lawyers in the state of California whom I can always count on to give very sane, very sophisticated $425-an-hour advice to me for free because she loves me. I try and see the suit through Nedra’s eyes. I know just what she’d say: “You can’t be bloody serious, darling,” in her posh English accent. Too bad. There’s nothing else in my closet that qualifies as “business dressy.” I slip on my pumps and walk downstairs.

Sitting on the couch, her long brown hair swept back into a messy chignon, is my fifteen-year-old daughter, Zoe. She’s an on-and-off vegetarian (currently off), a rabid recycler, and maker of her own organic lip balm (peppermint and ginger). Like most girls her age, she is also a professional ex: ex–ballet dancer, ex-guitarist, and ex-girlfriend of Nedra’s son, Jude. Jude is somewhat famous around here. He made it to the Hollywood round of American Idol and then was booted off for “sounding like a California eucalyptus tree that was on fire, popping and sizzling and exploding, but in the end not a native species, not native at all.”

I was rooting for Jude, we all were, as he made it past the first and second eliminations. But then right before Hollywood he got a swelled head from the instant fame, cheated on Zoe, and then dumped her, thus breaking my girl’s heart. The lesson? Never allow your teenager to date the son of your best friend. It took months for me—I mean, Zoe—to recover. I said some horrible things to Nedra—things I probably shouldn’t have said, along the lines of I would have expected more from the son of a feminist and a boy with two moms. Nedra and I didn’t speak for a while. We’re fine now, but whenever I go to her house Jude is conveniently out.

Zoe’s right hand moves over her cellphone’s keypad at top speed.

“You’re wearing that?” she says.

“What? It’s vintage.”

Zoe snorts.

“Zoe, sweetheart, will you please look up from that thing? I need your honest opinion.” I spread my arms wide. “Is it really that bad?”

Zoe cocks her head. “That depends. How dark is it going to be?”

I sigh. Just a year ago Zoe and I were so close. Now she treats me like she does her brother—as a family member who must be tolerated. I act like I don’t notice, but invariably overcompensate, trying to be nice for both of us, and then I end up sounding like a cross between Mary Poppins and Miss Truly Scrumptious from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.

“There’s a pizza in the freezer, and please make sure Peter is in bed by ten. We should be home soon after that,” I say.

Zoe continues to text. “Dad’s waiting for you in the car.”

I scurry around the kitchen looking for my purse. “Have a great time. And don’t watch Idol without me!”

“Already Googled the results. Should I tell you who gets the axe?”

“No!” I shout, running out the door.

“Alice Buckle. It’s been entirely too long. And what a breath of fresh air you are! Why doesn’t William drag you to these events more often? But I suppose he’s doing you a favor, isn’t he? Another night, another vodka launch. Ho-hum, am I right?”

Frank Potter, chief creative officer of KKM Advertising, looks discreetly over my head. “You look wonderful,” he says, his eyes darting around. He waves to someone at the back of the room. “That’s a lovely suit.”

I take a big gulp of wine. “Thanks.”

As I look around the room, at all the sheer blouses, strappy sandals, and skinny jeans most of the other women are wearing, I realize that “business dressy” really means “business sexy.” At least with this crowd. Everybody looks great. So of the moment. I wrap one arm around my waist and hold the wine glass so it hovers near my chin, a poor attempt at camouflaging my jacket.

“Thank you, Frank,” I say, as a bead of sweat trickles down the back of my neck.

Sweating is my default response when I feel out of place. My other default response is repeating myself.

“Thank you,” I say once more. Oh, God, Alice. A trifecta of thanks?

He pats me on the arm. “So how are things at home? Tell me. Is everything okay? The kids?”

“Everybody’s fine.”

“You’re sure?” he asks, his face screwed up with concern.

“Well, yes, yes, everybody’s good.”

“Wonderful,” he says. “Glad to hear it. And what are you doing these days? Still teaching? What subject was it?”

“Drama.”

“Drama. That’s right. That must be so—rewarding. But I imagine quite stressful.” He lowers his voice. “You are a saint, Alice Buckle. I certainly wouldn’t have the patience.”

“I’m sure you would if you saw what these kids are capable of. They’re so eager. You know, just the other day one of my students—”

Frank Potter looks over my head once again, raises his eyebrows, and nods.

“Alice, forgive me, but I’m afraid I’m being summoned.”

“Oh, of course. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you. I’m sure you have other—”

He moves toward me and I lean in, thinking he’s going to kiss me on the cheek, but instead he pulls back, takes my hand firmly, and shakes it. “Goodbye, Alice.”

I look out into the room, at everyone breezily drinking their lychee FiGtinis. I chuckle softly as if I’m thinking of something funny, trying to look breezy myself. Where is my husband?

“Frank Potter is an ass,” a voice whispers in my ear.

Thank God, a friendly face. It’s Kelly Cho, a longtime member of William’s creative team—long in advertising anyway, where turnover is incredibly fast. She’s wearing a suit, not all that different from mine (better lapels), but on her it looks edgy. She’s paired it with over-the-knee boots.

“Wow, Kelly, you look fabulous,” I say.

Kelly waves my compliment away. “So how come we don’t see you more often?”

“Oh, you know. Coming over the bridge is such a hassle. Traffic. And I still don’t feel all that comfortable leaving the kids home alone at night. Peter’s just twelve, and Zoe’s a typical distracted teenager.”

“How’s work?”

“Great. Other than being up to my neck in details: costumes, wrangling parents, soothing spiders and pigs that haven’t learned their lines yet. The third grade is doing Charlotte’s Web this year.”

Kelly smiles. “I love that book! Your job sounds so idyllic.”

“It does?”

“Oh, yeah. I would love to get out of the rat race. Every night there’s something going on. I know it seems glamorous—the client dinners, box seats for the Giants, passes to concerts—but it’s exhausting after a while. Well, you know how it is. You’re an advertising widow from way back.”

Advertising widow? I didn’t know there was name for it. For me. But Kelly’s right. Between William’s traveling and entertaining clients, I’m basically a single mother. We’re lucky if we manage to have a family dinner a few times a week.

I look across the room and catch William’s eye. He heads toward us. He’s a tall, well-built man, his dark hair graying at just the temples, in that defiant way some men gray (as if to say to hell with the fact that I’m forty-seven—I’m still sexy as hell and the gray makes me look even sexier). I feel a rush of pride as he crosses the room in his charcoal suit and gingham shirt.

“Where did you get your boots?” I ask Kelly.

William joins us.

“Bloomie’s. So, William, your wife isn’t familiar with the term advertising widow. How is that possible when you’ve made her into one?” asks Kelly, winking at me.

William frowns. “I’ve been looking all over for you. Where have you been, Alice?”

“She’s been right here, suffering Frank Potter, in fact,” says Kelly.

“You were talking to Frank Potter?” William asks, alarmed. “Did he approach you or did you approach him?”

“He approached me,” I say.

“Did he mention me? The campaign?”

“We didn’t talk about you,” I say. “We didn’t speak for long, actually.”

I watch William clenching his jaw. Why is he so stressed? The clients are smiling and drunk. There’s a lot of press. The launch is a success as far as I can see.

“Can we get out of here, Alice?” asks William.

“Now? But the band hasn’t even started. I was really looking forward to hearing some live music.”

“Alice, I’m tired. Let’s go, please.”

“William!” a trio of attractive young men circles around us—also members of William’s team.

After William has introduced me to Joaquin, Harry, and Urminder, Urminder says, “So, I was ego surfing today.”

“And the day before,” says Joaquin.

“And the day before,” says Kelly.

“Will you allow me to finish?” asks Urminder.

“Let me guess,” says Harry. “1,234,589 hits.”

“Dumb-ass,” says Urminder.

“Way to steal his thunder, Har,” says Kelly.

“Now 5,881 sounds pathetic,” pouts Urminder.

“10,263 definitively does not sound pathetic,” says Harry.

“Or 20,534,” says Kelly.

“You’re all lying,” says Joaquin.

“Don’t be jealous, Mr. 1,031,” says Kelly. “It’s unbecoming.”

“50,287,” says William, silencing everybody.

“Dude,” says Urminder.

“That’s because you won that Clio,” says Harry. “How long ago was that, boss? Nineteen eighty—?”

“Keep it up, Harry, and I’ll take you off semiconductors and put you on feminine hygiene,” says William.

I can’t hide the startled look on my face. They’re having a competition over how many hits their names bring up. And the hits are all in the thousands?

“Now look what you’ve done. Alice is appalled,” says Kelly. “And I don’t blame her. We’re a bunch of petty narcissists.”

“No, no, no. I wasn’t judging. I think it’s fun. Ego surfing. Everybody does it, don’t they? They’re just not brave enough to admit it.”

“What about you, Alice? Googled yourself lately?” asks Urminder.

William shakes his head. “There’s no need for Alice to Google herself. She doesn’t have a public life.”

“Really? And what kind of a life do I have?” I ask.

“A good life. A meaningful life. Just a smaller life.” William pinches the skin between his eyes. “Sorry, kids, it’s been fun, but we’ve got to go. We have a bridge to cross.”

“Do you have to?” asks Kelly. “I hardly ever see Alice.”

“He’s right,” I say. “I promised the kids we’d be home by ten. School night and all.”

Kelly and the three young men head for the bar.

“A small life?” I say.

“I didn’t mean anything by it. Don’t be so sensitive,” says William, scanning the room. “Besides, I’m right. When’s the last time you Googled yourself?”

“Last week. 128 hits,” I lie.

“Really?”

“Why do you sound so surprised?”

“Alice, please, I don’t have time for this. Help me find Frank. I need to check in with him.”

I sigh. “He’s over there, by the windows. Come on.”

William puts his hand on my shoulder. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

There’s no traffic on the bridge and I wish there was. Heading home is usually something I relish: the anticipation of getting into my pajamas, curling up on the couch with the clicker, the kids asleep upstairs (or pretending to be asleep but likely texting and IM’ing away in their beds)—but tonight I’d like to stay in the car and just drive somewhere, anywhere. The evening has been dislocating, and I’m unable to shake the feeling that William is embarrassed by me.

“Why are you so quiet? Did you have too much to drink?” he asks.

“Tired,” I mumble.

“Frank Potter is a piece of work.”

“I like him.”

“You like Frank Potter? He’s such a player.”

“Yes, but he’s honest. He doesn’t try and hide the fact. And he’s always been kind to me.”

William taps his fingers on the steering wheel in time to the radio. I close my eyes.

“Alice?”

“What?”

“You seem funny lately.”

“Funny how?”

“I don’t know. Are you going through some sort of a midlife thing?”

“I don’t know. Are you going through some sort of a midlife thing?”

William shakes his head and turns up the music. I lean against the window and gaze out at the millions of lights twinkling in the East Bay hills. Oakland looks so festive, almost holidayish—it makes me think of my mother.

My mother died two days before Christmas. I was fifteen. She went out to get a gallon of eggnog and was struck by a man who ran a red light. I like to think she never knew what was happening. There was a screech of metal hitting metal, and then a gentle whooshing, like the sound of a river, and then, a peachy light flooding into the car. That’s the end I’ve imagined for her.

I’ve recited her death story so many times the details are stripped of their meaning. Sometimes when people ask about my mother I’m filled with a strange, not entirely unpleasant nostalgia. I can vividly summon up the streets of Brockton, Massachusetts, that on that December day must have been garlanded with tinsel and lights. There would have been lines of people at the liquor store, their carts packed with cases of beer and jugs of wine, and the air would have smelled of pine needles from the Christmas tree lot. But that nostalgia for what came immediately before is soon vanquished by the opaque after. Then my head fills with the cheesy opening soundtrack to Magnum, P.I. That’s what my father was watching when the phone rang and a woman on the other end gently informed us there had been an accident.

Why am I thinking about this tonight? Is it, as William asks, a midlife thing? The clock is certainly ticking. This September when I turn forty-five, I will be exactly the same age my mother was when she died. This is my tipping-point year.

Up until now I’ve been able to comfort myself with the fact that even though my mother is dead, she was always out in front of me. I had yet to cross all the thresholds she had crossed and so she was still somehow alive. But what happens when I move past her? When no more of her thresholds exist?

I glance over at William. Would my mother approve of him? Would she approve of my children, my career—my marriage?

“Do you want to stop at 7-Eleven?” asks William.

Ducking into 7-Eleven for a Kit Kat bar after a night out on the town is a tradition for us.

“No. I’m full.”

“Thanks for coming to the launch.”

Is that his way of apologizing for how dismissive he was tonight?

“Uh-huh.”

“Did you have fun?”

“Sure.”

William pauses. “You’re a very bad liar, Alice Buckle.”

3

April 30

1:15 A.M.

GOOGLE SEARCH “Alice Buckle”

About 26 results (.01 seconds)

Alice in Wonderland Belt Buckles

Including the Mad Tea Party buckle, Tweedle Dee, Tweedle Dum buckle, the White Rabbit buckle, Humpty Dumpty buckle …

Alice BUCKLE

Boston Globe archive … Ms. Buckle’s play, The Barmaid of Great Cranberry Island, Blue Hill Playhouse “wan, boring, absurd” …

Alice BUCKLE

Alice and William Buckle, parents of Zoe and Peter, enjoying the sunset aboard the …

GOOGLE SEARCH “Midwife crisis”

About 2,333,000 results (.18 seconds)

Urban Dictionary: Midwife crisis

The act of dropping a newborn on its head shortly after birth.

GOOGLE SEARCH “MidLIFE crisis”

About 3,490,000 results (.15 seconds)

Midlife Crisis—Wikipedia the Free Encyclopedia

Midlife crisis is a term coined in 1965 …

Midlife Crisis: Depression or Normal Transition?

Midlife transitions can mark a period of tremendous growth. But what do you do when midlife becomes a crisis that develops into depression?

GOOGLE SEARCH “Zoloft”

About 31,600,000 (.12 seconds)

Zoloft (Sertraline HCl) Drug Information: Uses, Side Effects

Learn about the prescription medication Zoloft (Sertraline HCl), drug uses, dosage, side effects, drug interactions, warnings, and patient labeling …

Sertraline … Zoloft

Let me tell you about my experience with Zoloft. I was released from the psych ward yesterday afternoon …

GOOGLE SEARCH “Keys in refrigerator Alzheimer’s”

About 1,410,000 results (.25 seconds)

Alzheimer’s Symptoms

The Alzheimer’s Association has updated its list of the … putting the keys in the egg tray in the door of the refrigerator.

GOOGLE SEARCH “Lose weight fast”

About 30,600,000 results (.19 seconds)

FAT LOSS for Imbeciles

I have lost twenty-five pounds! The fact that I feel like fainting most of the time is a small price …

GOOGLE SEARCH “Happy Marriage?”

About 4,120,000 results (.15 seconds)

Hunting for the Secrets of a Happy Marriage—CNN

No one can truly know what goes on inside a marriage except the two people involved, but researchers are getting increasingly good glimpses …

Thin Wife Key to Happy Marriage! Times of India

Researchers have revealed the secret of a happy marriage—wives weighing less than their hubbies.

INGREDIENTS FOR A HAPPY MARRIAGE

1 cup kindness, 2 cups gratitude, 1 tablespoon daily praise, 1 secret carefully concealed.

4

SPAM Folder (3)

From: Medline

Subject: Cheap, cheap Vicodin, Percocet, Ritalin, Zoloft discreet

Date: May 1, 9:18 AM

To: Alice Buckle <alicebuckle@rocketmail.com>

DELETE

From: Hoodia shop

Subject: New tapeworm diet pills, tiny Asian women

Date: May 1, 9:24 AM

To: Alice Buckle <alicebuckle@rocketmail.com>

DELETE

From: Netherfield Center for the Study of Marriage

Subject: You’ve been selected to participate in a marriage survey

Date: May 1, 9:29 AM

To: Alice Buckle <alicebuckle@rocketmail.com>

MOVE TO INBOX

5

It occurs to me that I am the Frank Potter of my own small world. Not the social-climbing Frank Potter, but the in-charge Frank Potter—I am the chief drama officer of Kentwood Elementary. The anxious Alice Buckle that showed up at William’s vodka launch is not the Alice Buckle who is currently sitting on a bench out on the playground while a fourth-grader stands behind her and attempts in vain to style her hair.

“Sorry, Mrs. Buckle, but I can’t do anything with this,” says Harriet. “Maybe if you combed it once in a while.”

“If you combed my hair it would be nothing but frizz. It’d be a rat’s nest.”

Harriet gathers up my thick brown hair and then releases it. “I’m sorry to tell you, but it looks like a rat’s nest now. Actually, it looks more like a dandelion.”

Harriet Morse’s bluntness is a typical fourth-grade girl trait. I pray she won’t outgrow it by the time she gets to middle school. Most girls do. Myself, I like nothing better than a girl who says what she thinks.

“Maybe you should straighten it,” she suggests. “My mother does. She can even go out in the rain without it curling up.”

“And that’s why she looks so glamorous,” I say, as I see Mrs. Morse trotting toward us.

“Alice, I’m sorry I’m late,” she says, bending down to give me a hug. Harriet is the fourth of Mrs. Morse’s children to have cycled through my drama classes. Her oldest is now at the Oakland School for Performing Arts. I like to think I might have had something to do with that.

“It’s only 3:20. You’re fine,” I say. There are still at least two dozen kids scattered on the playground awaiting their rides.

“The traffic was horrible,” says Mrs. Morse. “Harriet, what in the world are you doing to Mrs. Buckle’s hair?”

“She’s a very good hairdresser, actually. I’m afraid it’s my hair that’s the problem.”

“Sorry,” Mrs. Morse mouths silently to me, as she digs in her handbag for a hair tie. She holds it out to Harriet. “Honey, don’t you think Mrs. Buckle would look great with a ponytail?”

Harriet comes around from the back of the bench and surveys me solemnly. She lifts my hair back from my temples. “You should wear earrings,” she pronounces. “Especially if you put your hair up.” She takes the hair tie from her mother and then reassumes her position behind the bench.

“So what can I do to help out this semester?” asks Mrs. Morse. “Do you want me to organize the party? I could help the kids run lines.”

Kentwood Elementary is filled with parents like Mrs. Morse: parents who volunteer before they’re even asked and who believe fervently in the importance of a drama program. In fact it’s the Parents’ Association at Kentwood that pays my part-time salary. The Oakland public school system has been on the verge of bankruptcy for years. Art and music programs were the first to go. Without the PA, I wouldn’t have a job.

There’s always some grade that has a cluster of high-maintenance parents who complain and are unhappy—this year it’s the third—but most of the time I consider the parents co-teachers. I couldn’t do my job without them.

“That looks lovely,” says Mrs. Morse, after a few minutes of Harriet pulling and tugging on my head. “I like the way you’ve given Mrs. Buckle a little pouf at the crown.”

Harriet chews her lip. The pouf was not intentional.

“I feel very Breakfast at Tiffany’s,” I say, as Carisa Norman comes flying across the playground and hurls herself on my lap.

“I’ve been looking all over for you,” she says, stroking my hand.

“What a coincidence. I’ve been looking all over for you,” I say, as she snuggles into my arms.

“Call me,” says Mrs. Morse, holding a pretend phone up to her ear as she and Harriet leave.

I take Carisa inside to the teacher’s lounge and buy her a granola bar from the vending machine, then we go sit on the bench again and talk about important things like Barbies and the fact that she’s embarrassed that she still has training wheels on her bike.

At 4:00 when her mother pulls up to the curb and beeps, I watch with a clenched heart as Carisa runs across the playground. She seems so vulnerable. She’s eight years old and small for her age; from the back she could pass for six. Mrs. Norman waves from the car. I wave back. This is our ritual at least a few days every week. Each of us pretending there’s nothing out of the ordinary about her being forty-five minutes late to pick up her daughter.

6

I love the hours between 4:30 and 6:30. The days are getting longer, and this time of year I usually have the house to myself; Zoe has volleyball practice, Peter, either band or soccer, and William rarely pulls into the driveway before 7:00. As soon as I get home, I do a quick run through the house, de-cluttering, folding clothes, going through the mail—then I get dinner ready. It’s Thursday, so it’s one-dish-meal night: things like lasagna and shepherd’s pie. I’m not a fancy cook. That’s William’s department. He does the special-occasion dinners, the ones that get lots of oohs and ahs. I’m more of a line chef; my meals aren’t flashy and are not very memorable. For instance, nobody has ever said to me, “Oh, Alice, remember that night you made baked ziti?” But I am dependable. I have about eight meals in my repertoire that are quick and easy that I have in constant rotation. Tonight, it’s tuna casserole. I slide the pan into the oven and sit down at the kitchen table with my laptop to check my email.

From: Netherfield Center <netherfield@netherfieldcenter.org>

Subject: Marriage Survey

Date: May 4, 5:22 PM

To: alicebuckle <alicebuckle@rocketmail.com>

Dear Alice Buckle,

Thank you for your interest in our study and for filling out the preliminary questionnaire. Congratulations! We’re happy to inform you that you have been selected to participate in the Netherfield Center Study—Marriage in the 21st Century. You have successfully met three of the initial criteria for inclusion in this study: married for more than ten years, school-age children, and monogamous.

As we explained to you in the preliminary questionnaire, this will be an anonymous study. In order to protect your anonymity, this is the last email we will send to you at alicebuckle@rocketmail.com. We’ve taken the liberty of setting up a Netherfield Center account for your use. Your email address for the purposes of the study is Wife22@netherfield enter.org and the password is 12345678. Please log on to our website and change the password at your earliest convenience.

From this point on, all correspondence will be sent to the Wife22 address. We apologize if the pseudonym sounds clinical, but this is done with your best interest in mind. It’s only by striking your real name from our records that we can offer you complete confidentiality.

A researcher has been assigned to your case and you will be hearing from him shortly. Rest assured all our researchers are highly credentialed.

The stipend of $1,000 will be paid upon completion of the survey.

Once again, thank you for your participation. You can take pride in the fact that you, along with a carefully selected group of men and women from across the country, are participating in a landmark study that may very well change how the world looks at the institution of marriage.

Sincerely,

The Netherfield Center

I quickly log on to the new Wife 22 account.

From: researcher101 <researcher101@netherfieldcenter.org>

Subject: Re: Marriage Survey

Date: May 4, 5:25 PM

To: Wife 22 <Wife22@netherfieldcenter.org>

Dear Wife 22,

Allow me to introduce myself—I’m Researcher 101 and I will be your point person for the Marriage in the 21st Century Study. First, my credentials. I have a PhD in Social Work and a Master’s in Psychology. I have been a researcher in the field of marriage studies for nearly two decades.

I’m sure you’re wondering how this works. Basically, I’m on a here-if-you-need-me basis. I’m happy to answer any questions or address any concerns you may have along the way.

Attached is the first questionnaire. The questions will be sent to you in a random order; this is done intentionally. Some of the questions you may find atypical, and some of the questions are not about marriage per se, but of a more general nature (about your background, education, life experiences etc.); please strive to complete all the questions. I suggest you fill out the questionnaire quickly, without thinking too much about it. We’ve found this kind of rapid-fire response results in the most honest responses. I’m looking forward to working with you.

Sincerely,

Researcher 101

Before I took the preliminary survey, I’d Googled the Netherfield Center website and found out it was affiliated with the UCSF Medical Center. Because of UCSF’s stellar reputation, I filled it out and emailed it off with little thought. What could answering a few questions hurt? But now that I’ve been formally accepted AND assigned a researcher, I’m having second thoughts about participating in an anonymous survey. A survey I’m probably not supposed to tell anybody (including my husband) I’m taking part in.

My heart ca-cungs in my chest. Having a secret makes me feel like a teenager. A young woman with everything still in front of her—breasts, strange cities, the unfurling of hundreds of yet-to-be-lived summers, winters, and springs.

I open the attachment before I lose my nerve.

1. Forty-three, no, forty-four.

2. Bored.

3. Once a week.

4. Satisfactory to better than most.

5. Oysters.

6. Three years ago.

7. Sometimes I tell him he’s snoring when he’s not snoring so he’ll sleep in the guest room and I can have the bed all to myself.

8. Ambien (once in a blue moon), fish oil tablets, multi-vitamin, B-Complex, calcium, vitamin D, gingko biloba (for mental sharpness, well, really for memory because people keep saying “That is the third time you asked me that!”).

9. A life with surprises. A life without surprises. The clerk at 7-Eleven licking her finger to separate the stack of plastic bags and then touching my salt and vinegar potato chips with her still damp licked finger and then sliding my potato chips into the previously licked plastic bag, thus doubly salivating my purchase.

10. I hope so.

11. I think so.

12. Occasionally, but not because I’ve ever seriously considered it. I’m the kind of person who likes to imagine the worst, that way the worst can never take me by surprise.

13. The chicken.

14. He makes an amazing vinaigrette. He remembers to change the batteries every six months in the smoke alarms. He can do minor plumbing repairs, so unlike most of my friends I never have to hire somebody to fix a dripping faucet. Also he looks very good in his Carhartt pants. I know I’m avoiding answering the question—I’m not sure why. Let me get back to you on this one.

15. Uncommunicative. Dismissive. Distant.

16. The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.

17. We’ve been together for nineteen years and three hundred and something days, my point is very, very, well.

This is easy. Too easy. Who knew that confession could bring on such a dopamine rush?

Suddenly the front door is flung open and Peter yells, “I call the bathroom first.”

He has a thing about not using the bathroom at school, so he holds it all day. I close my laptop. This is also my favorite time of the day—when the empty house fills back up again and within an hour all of my de-cluttering is for naught. For some reason this gives me pleasure. The satisfying inevitability of it all.

Zoe walks into the kitchen and makes a face. “Tuna casserole?”

“It’ll be ready in fifteen minutes.”

“I already ate.”

“At volleyball practice?”

“Karen’s mother stopped on the way home and got us burritos.”

“So Peter’s eaten, too?”

Zoe nods and opens the fridge.

I sigh. “What are you looking for? I thought you just ate.”

“I don’t know. Nothing,” she says, closing the door.

“Dang! What did you do to your hair?” asks Peter, walking into the kitchen.

“Oh, God, I forgot. One of my kids was playing hairdresser. I thought it was kind of Audrey Hepburnesque. No?”

“No,” says Zoe.

“No,” echoes Peter.

I slide the elastic out of my hair and try and smooth it out.

“Maybe if you combed it once in a while,” says Zoe.

“Why is everybody so comb crazy? For your information, there are certain types of hair that should never be combed. You should just let it dry naturally.”

“Uh-huh,” says Zoe, grabbing her backpack. “I’ve got a ton of homework. See you in 2021.”

“Half an hour of Modern Warfare before homework?” asks Peter.

“Ten minutes,” I say.

“Twenty.”

“Fifteen.”

Peter throws his arms around me. Even though he’s twelve, I still occasionally get hugs. A few minutes later, the sounds of guns and bombs issue forth from the living room.

My phone chirps. It’s a text from William.

Sorry.

Client dinner.

See u 10ish.

I open my laptop, quickly reread my answers, and hit Send.

7

From: researcher101 <researcher101@netherfieldcenter.org>

Subject: #13

Date: May 5, 8:05 AM

To: Wife 22 <Wife22@netherfieldcenter.org>

Dear Wife 22,

Thanks for your first set of answers and for getting them back to me so quickly. I have one question. In regards to #13, did you mean to write “children,” not “chicken”?

Regards,

Researcher 101

From: Wife 22 <Wife22@netherfieldcenter.org>

Subject: Re: #13

Date: May 5, 10:15 AM

To: researcher101 <researcher101@netherfieldcenter.org>

Dear Researcher 101,

I’m sorry about that. I suspect my chickens, I mean children, are to blame. Or more likely auto correct.

Best,

Wife 22

P.S. Is there any significance to our numbers or are they just randomly assigned? I can’t believe I’m only the 22nd wife to participate in the survey.

From: researcher101 <researcher101@netherfieldcenter.org>

Subject: Re: #13

Date: May 6, 11:23 AM

To: Wife 22 <Wife22@netherfieldcenter.org>

Dear Wife 22,

Both of our numbers are randomly assigned, you’re right about that. With each round of the survey we cycle through 500 numbers and then with the next round we begin at 1 again.

Regards,

Researcher 101

From: Wife 22 <Wife22@netherfieldcenter.org>

Subject: #2 upon second thought

Date: May 6, 4:32 PM

To: researcher101 <researcher101@netherfieldcenter.org>

Dear Researcher 101,

“Bored” is not the reason I’m participating in the study. I’m participating because this year I will turn 45, which is the same age my mother was when she died. If she were alive I would be talking to her instead of taking this survey. We would be having the conversation I imagine mothers have with their daughters when they’re in their mid-forties. We would talk about our sex drives (or lack thereof), about the stubborn ten pounds that we gain and lose over and over again, and about how hard it is to find a trustworthy plumber. We would trade tips on the secret to roasting a perfect chicken, how to turn the gas off when there’s an emergency, how to get stains out of grout. She would ask me questions like, are you happy, sweetheart? Does he treat you right? Can you imagine growing old with him?

My mother will never be a grandmother. Never have a gray eyebrow hair. Never eat my tuna casserole.

That’s why I’m participating in this study.

Please revise my answer to #2.

Best,

Wife 22

From: researcher101 <researcher101@netherfieldcenter.org>

Subject: Re: #2 upon second thought

Date: May 6, 8:31 PM

To: Wife 22 <Wife22@netherfieldcenter.org>

Dear Wife 22,

Thank you for your honesty. Just so you know, subjects frequently revise their answers or send addendums. I’m very sorry for your loss.

Sincerely,

Researcher 101

8

18. Run, dive, pitch a tent, bake bread, build bonfires, read Stephen King, get up to change the channel, spend hours on the phone talking to friends, kiss strange men, have sex with strange men, flirt, wear bikinis, wake most mornings happy for no good reason (likely due to flat stomach no matter what was eaten night before), drink tequila, hum Paul McCartney’s “Silly Love Songs,” lie in grass and dream of future, of perfect life and marriage to perfect one true love.

19. Make lunches, suggest to family they are capable of making better choices; alert children to BO, stranger danger, and stray crumbs on corners of lips. Prepare preteen son for onset of hormones. Prepare husband for onset of perimenopause and what that means for him (PMS 30 days of the month rather than the two days he has become accustomed to). Buy perennials. Kill perennials. Text, IM, chat, upload. Discern the fastest-moving line at the grocery store, ignore messages, delete, lose keys, mishear what everybody says (jostling becomes jaw sling, fatwa becomes fuckher), worry—early deafness, early dementia, early Alzheimer’s or unhappy with sex and life and marriage and need to do something about it?

20. Burger King cashier, Royal Manor Nursing Home Aide, waitress Friday’s, waitress J.C. Hilary’s, intern Charles Playhouse, Copywriter Peavey Patterson, playwright, wife, mother, and currently, Kentwood Elementary School drama teacher for grades kindergarten through fifth.

9

“Alice!” William yells from the kitchen. “Alice!” I hear his footsteps coming down the hall.

I quickly close the Netherfield Center questionnaire window and log on to a celebrity gossip website.

“Here you are,” he says.

He’s dressed for work: khakis and a pale purple dress shirt. I bought him that shirt, knowing how good he’d look in that color with his dark hair and eyes. When I brought it home he’d protested, of course.

“Men don’t wear lavender,” he told me.

“Yes, but men wear thistle,” I said.

Sometimes all you need to do to get men to agree with you is call things by another name.

“Nice shirt,” I say.

His eyes dart over to my laptop. “Gwen Stefani and the Sisterhood of the Terrible Pants?”

“What do you need?” I ask.

“Oh, those are terrible. She looks like Oliver Twist. Yes, I need something but I forgot what.”

This is a typical response—one I’m used to. Both of us frequently wander into a room bewildered and ask the other if he or she has any idea what we’re doing there.

“What’s up with you?” he asks.

My eyes fall on the bill for the motorcycle insurance. “Well. I wish you’d make a decision about the motorcycle. It’s been sitting in the driveway forever. You never take it out.”

The motorcycle takes up precious space in our small driveway. More than once I’ve accidentally tapped it while pulling in.

“One of these days I’ll start driving it again.”

“You’ve been saying that for years. And every year we keep on paying the excise tax and the insurance.”

“Yes, but I mean it now. Soon,” he says.

“Soon what?”

“Soon I’ll be driving it,” he repeats. “More than I have been.”

“Mm-hmm,” I say, distracted, going back to my computer.

“Wait. That’s all you want to talk about? The motorcycle?”

“William, you came looking for me, remember?”

And no, the motorcycle is not all I want to talk about. I want to have a conversation with my husband that goes deeper than insurance policies and taxes and what time will you be home and did you call the guy about the gutters, but we seem to be stuck here floating around on the surface of our lives like kids in a pool propped up on those Styrofoam noodles.

“And there’s plenty of things we can talk about,” I say.

“Like what?”

Now is my chance to tell him about the marriage study—oh, you wouldn’t believe the ridiculous thing I signed up for and they ask the craziest questions but it’s for the good of science because you know there is a science to marriage, you may not believe it but it’s true—but I don’t. Instead I say, “Like how I’m trying, completely unsuccessfully mind you, to convince the third-grade parents that the geese are the most important roles in the school play, even though the geese don’t have any lines. Or we could talk about our son, Peter, I mean, Pedro, being gay. Or I could ask you about KKM. Still working on semiconductors?”

“Band-Aids.”

“Poor baby. Are you stuck on Band-Aids?” I sing that line. I can’t help myself.

“We don’t know if Peter is gay,” says William, sighing. We’ve had this conversation many times before.

“He may be.”

“He’s twelve.”

“Twelve is not too early to know. I just have a feeling. A sense. A mother knows these sorts of things. I read this article about all these tweens coming out in middle school. It’s happening earlier and earlier. I bookmarked it. I’ll email it to you.”

“No, thank you.”

“William, we should educate ourselves. Prepare.”

“For what?”

“For the fact that our son might be gay.”

“I don’t get it, Alice. Why are you so invested in Peter’s sexuality? Are you saying you want him to be gay?”

“I want him to know we support him no matter what his sexual orientation. No matter who he is.”

“Right. Okay. Well, I have a theory. You think if Peter’s gay you’ll never lose him. There’ll be no competition. You’ll always be the most important woman in his life.”

“That’s absurd.”

William shakes his head. “It would be a harder life for him.”

“You sound like a homophobe.”

“I’m not a homophobe, I’m a realist.”

“Look at Nedra and Kate. They’re one of the happiest couples we know. No one discriminates against them and you love Nedra and Kate.”

“Love has nothing to do with not wanting your children to be discriminated against unnecessarily. And Nedra and Kate wouldn’t be happy if they didn’t live in the Bay Area. The Bay Area is not the real world.”

“And being gay is not a choice. Hey, he could be bisexual. I never thought of that. What if he’s bisexual?”

“Great idea. Let’s shoot for that,” says William, leaving my office.

I log on to Facebook once he’s gone and check my news feed, scrolling through the status update chaff.

Shonda Perkins

Likes PX-90.

2 minutes ago

Tita De La Reyes

IKEEEEAAAAA!!!! Hell—somebody ran over my foot with their shopping cart.

5 minutes ago

Tita De La Reyes

IKEEEEAAAAA!!!! Heaven—Swedish meatballs and lingonberries for $3.99.

11 minutes ago

William Buckle

Fall, falling …

1 hour ago

Wait, what? William has a new post and he’s not quoting Winston Churchill or the Dalai Lama? Poor William is one of those Facebook posters who has a hard time thinking of anything original to say. Facebook gives him stage fright. But this post has an undeniably ominous ring to it. Is that what he came to talk to me about? I have to go ask him what he meant, but first I’ll send out a quick post of my own.

Alice Buckle is educating herself.

DELETE

Alice Buckle is stuck on Band-Aids.

DELETE

Alice Buckle blames her chickens.

SHARE

Suddenly my Facebook chat pops up.

Phil Archer What did the poor chickens do?

It’s my father.

Honey, Alice. R u there?

Hi Dad. I’m in a hurry. Have to go find W before he leaves for work. Can we talk tomorrow?

Date tonight.

You have a date?? With who?

I’ll let you know who if there’s a second date.

Oh. Okay. Well, have a great time!

U not worried about me? STD’s 80% increase in people over 70.

Dad prefer not discuss yr sex life.

WHO ELSE DISCUSS SEX LIFE?

Caps means shouting.

WELL AWARE OF THAT. Thank u for check. It arrived early this month. Gd thing. Property taxes overdue. Stay. Talk 2 me.

Next month I can send more $. This month tight. Zoe lost retainer. Again. Did u change to energy efficient bulbs like I told u?

Will today. Promise. What’s new with u?

Peter may b gay.

Not new.

Zoe embarrassed by me.

Not new either.

Endless to-do list. Can’t keep up.

Dad?

Dad?

One day u look back & realize this is the best part of life. Going going going. Always something to do. Someone expecting you to walk in the door.

Oh, Dad. Yr right. I’m sorry.

:)

I’ll call tmr. B careful out there.

Love u

U 2

The smell of toast drifts into my office. I shut off my computer and walk into the kitchen in search of William, but everybody’s gone. The only sign of my family is a stack of dishes piled high in the sink. Fall, falling will have to wait for later.

10

My cell rings. I don’t have to pick it up to know it’s Nedra. We have this weird telepathic telephone thing. I think of Nedra and Nedra calls.

“I just got my hair cut,” she says. “And Kate told me I look like Florence Henderson. And when I asked her who the bloody hell Florence Henderson was she told me I looked like Shirley Jones. A Pakistani Shirley Jones!”

“She said that?” I say, trying not to laugh.

“She certainly did,” huffs Nedra.

“That’s terrible. You’re Indian, not Pakistani.”

I adore Kate. Thirteen years ago, when I met her, I knew within five minutes that she was perfect for Nedra. I hate that line you complete me, but in Kate’s case it was true. She was Nedra’s missing half: an earnest, Brooklyn-born, say-it-like-it-is social worker, the person Nedra could count upon not to sugarcoat things. Everybody needs somebody like that in their life. I, unfortunately, have too many people like that in my life.

“Sweetheart,” I say. “You got a shag?”

“No, it’s not a shag, it’s layered. My neck looks ever so long now.”

Nedra pauses for a moment. “Oh, fuck me,” she says. “It’s a shag and I look like a turkey. And now it seems I’ve grown this little Julia Child hump on the back of my neck. What’s next? A wattle? How did this happen? I don’t know why I let that slut Lisa talk me into this.”

Lisa, our mutual hairdresser, is not a slut, although she has also steered me in the wrong direction several times. There was an unfortunate burgundy henna phase. And bangs—women with thick hair should never have bangs. Now I keep my hair shoulder-length with a few face-framing layers. On a good day people tell me I look like Anne Hathaway’s older sister. On a bad day, like Anne Hathaway’s mother. Just do what you did last time is the instruction I give to Lisa. I find this philosophy works well in many circumstances: sex, ordering a venti soy latte at Starbucks, and helping Peter/Pedro with his algebra homework. However, it’s no way to live.

“I did something. I’m doing something. Something I shouldn’t be doing,” I confess.

“Is there a paper trail?” asks Nedra.

“No. Yes. Maybe. Does email count?”

“Of course email counts.”

“I’m taking part in a survey. An anonymous survey. On marriage in the twenty-first century,” I whisper into the phone.

“There’s no such thing as anonymity. Not in the twenty-first century and certainly not online. Why in God’s name are you doing that?”

“I don’t know. I thought it would be a lark?”

“Be serious, Alice.”

“All right. Okay. Fine. I guess I feel like it’s time to take stock.”

“Stock of what?”

“Um—my life. Me and William.”

“What, are you going through some sort of midlife thing?”

“Why does everyone keep asking me that?”

“Answer the question.”

I sigh. “Maybe.”

“This can only lead to heartbreak, Alice.”

“Well, don’t you ever wonder if everything’s okay? I mean not just on the surface, but really, deeply okay?”

“No.”

“Really?”

“Really, Alice. I know everything’s okay. You don’t feel that way about William?”

“It’s just that we’re so distracted. I feel like each of us is a line item on the other’s list that we’re just hurrying to check off. Is that a horrible thing to say?”

“Is it true?”

“Sometimes.”

“Come on, Alice. There’s something else you’re not telling me. What brought all this on?”

I think about explaining to Nedra about my tipping-point year, but honestly, as close as we are, she hasn’t lost a parent and she wouldn’t understand. She and I don’t talk much about my mother. I save that for the Mumble Bumbles, a bereavement support group that I’ve been a member of for the past fifteen years. Even though I haven’t seen them recently, I’m Facebook friends with all of them: Shonda, Tita, and Pat. Yes, I know it’s a funny name. We started off being the Mother Bees, then became the Mumble Bees, then somehow it morphed into the Mumble Bumbles.

“I just wonder sometimes if we can make it through another forty years. Forty years is a long time. Don’t you think that’s worth examining now that we’re nearly twenty years in?” I ask.

“Olivia Newton-John!” shouts Kate in the background. “That’s who I meant to say you looked like. The Let’s Get Physical album!”

“In my experience it’s the unexamined life that is worth living,” says Nedra. “If one wants to live happily ever after, that is—with one’s partner. Darling, I’ve got to go and see if I can do something about this hideous shag. Kate’s coming at me with bobby pins.”

I can hear Kate singing Olivia Newton-John’s “I Honestly Love You” hideously off-key.

“Do me a favor?” says Nedra. “When you see me, do not tell me I look like Rachel from Friends. And I promise we’ll talk about marriage in the nineteenth century later.”

“Twenty-first century.”

“No difference whatsoever. Kisses.”

11

21. I didn’t until I saw that movie about the Hubble telescope in Imax 3-D.

22. Neck.

23. Forearms.

24. Long. That’s the way I would describe him. His legs barely fit under his desk. This was back before business casual was invented and everybody still dressed for work. I wore a pencil skirt and pumps. He wore a pin-stripe suit and a yellow tie. He was fair, but his straight hair was dark, almost black, and it kept falling in his eyes. He looked like a young Sam Shepard: all coiled up and brooding.

I was completely unnerved and trying not to show it. Why hadn’t Henry (Henry is my cousin, the one responsible for landing me the interview; he played in a men’s soccer league with William) warned me he was so cute? I wanted him to see me, I mean really see me, and yes, I knew he was dangerous, i.e. unreadable, i.e. withholding, i.e. TAKEN—there was a picture of him and some gorgeous blond woman on his desk.

I was in the middle of explaining to him why a theater major with a minor in dramaturgy would want a job as a copywriter, which entailed a great deal of skirting around the truth (because it’s a day job and playwrights make no money and I have to do something to support myself while I pursue my ART, and it may as well be writing meaningless copy about dishwashing detergent), when he interrupted me.

“Henry said you got into Brown, but you went to U Mass?”

Damn Henry. I tried to explain. I was giving him my old I’m a U Mass legacy, which was a lie; the truth was U Mass gave me a full ride, Brown gave me half a ride, and there was no way my father could afford even half of Brown’s tuition. But he interrupted me, waving at me to stop, and I felt ashamed. Like I had disappointed him.

He handed me back my résumé, which I tore up on the way out, sure I had blown the interview. The next day there was a message from him on my machine. “You start Monday, Brown.”

12

From: Wife 22 <Wife22@netherfieldcenter.org>

Subject: Answers

Date: May 10, 5:50 AM

To: researcher101 <researcher101@netherfieldcenter.org>

Researcher 101,

I hope I’m doing this right. I’m worried that some of my answers may go on for longer than you’d like and perhaps you’d prefer a subject who just sticks to the subject and says yes, no, sometimes, and maybe. But here’s the thing. Nobody has ever asked me these kinds of questions before. These sorts of questions, I mean. Every day I am asked normal questions for a woman my age. Like today when I tried to schedule an appointment at the dermatologist. The first question the receptionist asked was if I had a suspicious mole. Then she told me the first available appointment was in six months and what was the date of my birth? When I told her the year, she asked me if I’d like to have a conversation with the doctor about injectables when I had my moles checked. And if that was the case the doctor could see me next week, and would Thursday do? These are the kinds of questions I am asked, the kinds of questions I would really prefer not to be asked.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m enjoying participating in the survey.

All the best,

Wife 22

From: researcher101 <researcher101@netherfieldcenter.org>

Subject: Re: Answers

Date: May 10, 9:46 AM

To: Wife 22 <Wife22@netherfieldcenter.org>

Wife 22,

I assume you’re referring to question #24—as far as your worry that you’re giving too lengthy an answer? It was like reading a little scene, actually, with all the dialogue. Was that intentional?

Sincerely,

Researcher 101

From: Wife 22 <Wife22@netherfieldcenter.org>

Subject: Re: Answers

Date: May 10, 10:45 AM

To: researcher101 <researcher101@netherfieldcenter.org>

Researcher 101,

I’m not so sure it was intentional, more like force of habit. I used to be a playwright. I’m afraid I naturally think in scenes. I hope that’s all right.

Wife 22

From: researcher101 <researcher101@netherfieldcenter.org>

Subject: Re: Answers

Date: May 10, 11:01 AM

To: Wife 22 <Wife22@netherfieldcenter.org>

Wife 22,

There’s no right way or wrong way to answer, just as long as you’re answering truthfully. To be honest, I found your #24 to be quite engaging.

Best,

Researcher 101

13

Julie Staggs

Marcy—big girl bed!

32 minutes ago

Pat Guardia

Spending the afternoon with my father. Red Sox. Ahhhh.

46 minutes ago

William Buckle

Fell.

1 hour ago

Fell? Now I’m officially worried. I’m about to text William when I hear the unmistakable sound of the motorcycle being gunned in the driveway. I log off Facebook quickly. The kids are still at school, William has a client dinner, so I jump to the obvious conclusion.

“We’re being robbed,” I whisper to Nedra on the phone. “Someone’s stealing the motorcycle!”

Nedra sighs. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“How sure?”

This is not the first time Nedra has received such a call from me.

Once, a few years ago when I was doing laundry down in the basement, the wind blew the front door open and it slammed into the wall with a bang. In my defense, it sounded like a gunshot. I was positive I was about to be robbed while I was musing about whether a load of whites really needed fabric softener. Robberies weren’t that unusual in our neighborhood. It’s a reality Oaklanders live with, along with earthquakes and $5-a-pound heirloom tomatoes.

Panicked, I stupidly shouted, “I’m calling my lawyer!”

Nobody answered, so I added, “And I have nunchakus!”

I had bought a pair for Peter, who had recently signed up to take tae kwon do, which unbeknownst to me he would be quitting two weeks hence because he didn’t realize it was a contact sport. What did he think the nunchakus were for? Oh—he meant tai chi, not tae kwon do. It wasn’t his fault so many of the martial arts begin with the same sound.

Still no reply. “Nunchakus are two sticks connected by a chain that people use to hurt each other. By whirling them around. Very fast!” I shouted.

Not a sound from upstairs. Not a footfall, not even a creak from the hardwood floor. Had I imagined the bang? I called Nedra on my cell and made her stay on the line with me for the next half hour, until the wind flung the door shut and I realized what an idiot I had been.

“I swear. It’s not a false alarm this time,” I tell her.

Nedra is like an ER doc. The scarier the situation, the calmer and more levelheaded she becomes.

“Are you safe?”

“I’m in the house. The doors are locked.”

“Where is the robber?”

“Out on the driveway.”

“So why are you talking to me? Call 9-1-1!”

“This is Oakland. It’ll take the cops forty-five minutes to get here.”

Nedra pauses. “Not if you tell them somebody’s been shot.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Trust me, they’ll be there in five minutes.”

“How do you know that?”

“There’s a reason I get paid 425 bucks an hour.”

I don’t call 9-1-1—I’m a very bad liar, especially when it comes to lying about somebody I love bleeding out—instead I crawl on my hands and knees to the front window and peer out the crack in the curtains, my cell in my hand. My plan is to snap a photo of the perp and email it to the Oakland police. But the perp turns out to be my husband, who peels out of the driveway before I can get to my feet.

He doesn’t return until 10:00 that evening, at which point he walks through the front door weaving. Clearly he’s been drinking.

“I’ve been demoted,” he says, collapsing onto the couch. “I’ve got a new job title. Want to know what it is?”

I think of his recent Facebook posts, Fall, falling, fell: he sensed this was coming and didn’t tell me.

“Ideator.” William looks at me expressionlessly.

“Ideator? What? Is that even a word? Maybe they changed everybody’s titles. Maybe Ideator means creative director.”

He picks up the remote and turns on the TV. “No. It means asshole who feeds ideas to the creative director.”

“William, shut off the TV. Are you sure? And why aren’t you more upset? Maybe you’re mistaken.”

William presses the mute button. “The new creative director was my ideator until yesterday. Yes, I’m sure. And what good does it do to be upset?”

“So you can do something about it!”

“There’s nothing to do. It’s decided. It’s done. Do we have any Scotch? The good stuff. Single malt?” William looks completely shut down, his face vacant.

“I can’t believe it! How could they do this to you after all these years?”

“The Band-Aid account. Conflict of interest. I believe in fresh air, Neosporin, and scabs, not sealing up boo-boos.”

“You told them that?”

He rolls his eyes. “Yes, Alice, that’s exactly what I told them. There’s a cut in pay.” William gives me a grim smile. “A rather substantial cut in pay.”

I’m panicked, but I try not to change the expression on my face. I need to buoy him up.

“It’s happening to everybody, sweetheart,” I say.

“Do we have any port?”

“Everybody our age.”

“That’s extremely comforting, Alice. Grey Goose?”

“How old is the new CD?”

“I don’t know. Twenty-nine? Thirty?”

I gasp. “Did he say anything to you?”

“She. It’s Kelly Cho. She said she was really looking forward to working with me.”

“Kelly?”

“Don’t be so shocked. She’s very good. Brilliant, actually. Pot? Weed? Aren’t the kids smoking yet? Jesus, they’re late-bloomers.”

“God, William, I’m so sorry,” I say. “This is incredibly unfair.” I turn to give him a hug.

He holds up his hand. “Don’t,” he says. “Just leave me alone. I don’t want to be touched right now.”

I move away from him on the couch, trying not to take it personally. This is typical William. When he’s hurt he becomes even more detached; he makes himself into the proverbial island. I’m the complete opposite. When I’m in pain I want everybody I love on the island with me, sitting around the fire, getting drunk on coconut milk, banging out a plan.

“Jesus, Alice, don’t look at me that way. You can’t expect me to take care of you right now. Let me just have my feelings.”

“No one’s asking you to not have your feelings.” I stand up. “I heard you in the driveway, you know. Starting the motorcycle. I thought we were being robbed.”

I hear the accusatory tone in my voice and hate myself. This happens all the time. William’s detachment makes me desperate for connection, which makes me say desperate things, which makes him more detached.

“I’m going to bed,” I say, trying not to sound wounded.

A look of relief spreads across William’s face. “I’ll be up in a while.” Then he closes his eyes, blocking me out.

14

I’m not proud of what I do next, but consider it the act of a slightly OCD woman who did budget projections too far into the future and discovered that within one year (at William’s reduced salary and what little my job brought in) we’d be tapping into our savings and the kids’ college funds. Within two years, our retirement fund and any chance of our children going to college would be nil. We’d have to move back to Brockton and live with my father.

I see no alternative but to call Kelly Cho and beg for William’s job back.

“Kelly, hello, this is Alice Buckle. How are you?” I sing into the phone, in my best feel-good, composed drama-teacher voice.

“Alice,” Kelly says awkwardly, separating my name into three syllables: Al. Liss. S. She’s shocked I’m calling. “I’m fine, how are you?”

“I’m fine. How are you?” I chirp back, my calm drama-teacher voice dropping away. Oh, God.

“What can I do for you? Are you looking for William? I think he stepped out for lunch,” she says.

“Actually, I was looking for you. I was hoping we could speak frankly about what happened. William’s demotion.”

“Oh—okay. But didn’t he fill you in?”

“Yes, he did, but, well—I was hoping there’s some way we can reverse this thing. Not take away your promotion—that’s not what I’m talking about. Of course not, that wouldn’t be fair. But maybe there’s a way we can make this more of a horizontal move for William.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“Could you maybe put in a good word for him? Just ask around?”

“Ask who?”

“Look, William has been at KKM for more than ten years.”

“I’m aware of that. This is really hard. For me too, but I don’t think—”

“Jesus, Kelly, it’s only Band-Aids.”

“Band-Aids?”

“The account?”

Kelly is silent for a moment. “Alice, it wasn’t Band-Aids. It was Cialis.”

“Cialis. Erectile dysfunction Cialis?”

Kelly coughed softly. “That’s the one.”

“Well, what happened?”

“You need to ask him.”

“I’m asking you. Please, Kelly.”

“I really shouldn’t.”

“Please.”

“I don’t feel okay about—”

“Kelly. Don’t make me ask again.”

She gives a big sigh. “He lost it.”

“Lost it?”

“During the focus group. Alice, I’ve been wondering if there’s something going on at home because honestly, he just hasn’t been himself lately. Well, you saw it yourself. How strangely he acted at the FiG launch. For the past couple of months he’s been off. Anxious. Short-tempered. Distracted. Like work is the last place on earth he wants to be. Everybody has noticed, not just me. He’d been talked to. He’d been warned. And then this thing with the focus group. It was on video, Alice. The entire team saw it. Frank Potter saw it.”

“But he’s on the creative side, not strategic. Why was he even running a focus group?”

“Because he insisted. He wanted to be in on the research.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s probably better if you don’t.”

“Send me the video,” I say.

“That’s not a good idea.”

“Kelly, I’m begging you.”

“Oh, Christ. Hold on a sec. Let me think.”

Kelly is silent.

I count to twenty and say, “Still thinking?”

“Fine, Alice,” says Kelly. “But you have to swear not to tell anybody I sent it to you. Look, I’m really sorry. I respect William. He’s been a mentor to me. I wasn’t campaigning for his job. I feel horrible about this. Do you believe me? Please believe me.”

“I believe you, Kelly, but now that you’re creative director you should probably stop pleading with people to believe you.”

“You’re right. I’ve got to work on that. I’ll email you the video.”

“Thank you.”

“And Alice?”

“Uh-huh?”

“Please don’t hate me.”

“Kelly.”

“What?”

“You’re doing it again.”

“Right, right! I’m sorry. I wasn’t prepared for this promotion. It’s what I always dreamed about but I didn’t think it would happen so abruptly. Between you and me, I feel like such a fake. I don’t know what to say. I should go now. I’m really not a bad person. I like you so much, Alice. Please don’t hate me. Oh—Christ, goodbye.”

15

From: Wife 22 <Wife22@netherfieldcenter.org>

Subject: New Questions?

Date: May 15, 6:30 AM

To: researcher101 <researcher101@netherfieldcenter.org>

Researcher 101,

Is the new set of questions coming soon? I don’t want to rush you or anything, and you probably have some timetable of when you send the questions out, but I seem to have a lot of anxiety these days and answering the questions calms me down. There’s almost a meditative aspect to it. Like confession. Have any other subjects reported feeling this way?

All the best,

Wife 22

From: researcher101 <researcher101@netherfieldcenter.org>

Subject: Re: New Questions?

Date: May 15, 7:31 AM

To: Wife 22 <Wife22@netherfieldcenter.org>

Wife 22,

That’s very interesting. I haven’t heard quite that response before, but we have heard similar sentiments along the same line. Once a subject described answering the questions as “an unburdening.” I believe the anonymity has a lot to do with it. You can expect the next set of questions by the end of the week.

Best,

Researcher 101

From: Wife 22 <Wife22@netherfieldcenter.org>

Subject: Re: New Questions?

Date: May 15, 7:35 AM

To: researcher101 <researcher101@netherfieldcenter.org>

I think you’re right. Who knew anonymity could be so liberating?

16

Voicemail: You Have One New Message

Alice! Alice, my dear. It’s Bunny Kilborn from Blue Hill. It’s been a very long time. I hope you’ve been getting my Christmas cards. I think of you so often. How are you and William? The children? Is Zoe off to college yet? She must be close. Maybe you’ll send her back east. Look. I’ll get straight to it. I have a favor to ask. Remember our youngest, Caroline? Well, she’s moving to the Bay Area and I’m wondering if you’d be willing to help her out a bit? Show her around? She’s looking for a job in IT. Maybe you even have some contacts in the tech world? She’ll need to find a place to live, a roommate sort of situation, and, of course, a job, but it would be so nice to know she’s not completely on her own out there. Besides, you two would hit it off. So how are you otherwise? Still teaching drama? Dare I ask if you ever write plays anymore? I know The Barmaid of Great Cranberry Island really took the wind out of your sails, but— I’m on the phone. Jack, I’m ON THE PHONE! Sorry, Alice, have to run, let me know if—

Mailbox Full

Now there’s a voice from my past. Bunny Kilborn: the renowned founder and artistic director of the Blue Hill Theater in Maine; winner of three Obies, two Guggenheims, and a Bessie Award. She’s directed everything from Tennessee Williams’s A Streetcar Named Desire to Harold Pinter’s The Homecoming, and in the late nineties, Alice Buckle’s The Barmaid of Great Cranberry Island. No, I’m not saying I was in the same league as Williams and Pinter. I entered a contest for emerging playwrights and ending up winning first prize, which was the mounting of my play at the Blue Hill Theater. Everything I had been working for had led to that moment and that win. It felt—well, it felt like destiny.

I had always been a theater rat. I started acting in middle school and then in high school attempted writing my first play. It was horrible, of course (heavily influenced by David Mamet, who to this day is still my favorite playwright, although I can’t abide his politics), but I wrote another play and then another and another, and with each play I found my voice a little more.

In college, three of my plays were produced. I became one of the theater department’s stars. When I graduated, I took a day job in advertising, which left my nights free to write. When I was twenty-nine I finally got my big break—and I flopped. It’s an understatement when Bunny says the play took the wind out of my sails. The reviews were so bad I never wrote another play again.

There was one good review from the Portland Press Herald. I can still recite passages by heart: “emotionally generous,” “a thought-provoking coming-of-age story, the effect of which is like mainlining Springsteen’s ‘Jungleland.’?” But I can also recite passages from all the other reviews, which were consistently negative: “fails miserably,” “clichéd and contrived,” “amateurish,” and “Act 3? Put us out of our misery already!” The play closed within two weeks.

Bunny made an effort to keep in touch with me all these years, but I didn’t reciprocate much. I was too ashamed. I had embarrassed Bunny and her company, as well as blown my one big chance.

Bunny’s call has to be more than serendipity. I want to be connected to her; to have her in my life again in some way.

I pick up the phone and nervously dial her number. It rings twice.

“Hello?”

“Bunny—Bunny is that you?”

There’s a pause, then …

“Oh, Alice, love. I hoped you would call.”

17

It’s taken me a few days to work up the nerve to look at the KKM video. It occurs to me as I sit in front of my laptop, finger about to click the Play arrow, that I am crossing a line. My heart is thrumming in the same way it did when I called Kelly, which, come to think of it, was the real moment I crossed the line—when I started acting like William’s mother instead of his wife. If my heart knew Morse code and could tap out a message, it would be saying Alice, you spying nosy parker, delete this file right now!, but I don’t know Morse code, so I just tuck those thoughts away and click Play.

The camera pans in on a table at which two men and two women are seated.

“One sec,” says Kelly Cho. The table becomes blurry, then snaps into focus again. “Ready.”

“Cialis,” says William. “Elliot Ritter, fifty-six; Avi Schine, twenty-four; Melinda Carver, twenty-three; Sonja Popovich, forty-seven. Thank you all for coming. So you screened the commercial, right? What did you think?”

“I don’t get it. Why are they sitting in separate bathtubs if the dude has a four-hour erection?” asks Avi.

“He doesn’t have a four-hour erection. If he had a four-hour erection he’d be in an ambulance on the way to the hospital. The precautions have to be clearly stated in the commercial,” says William.

Melinda and Avi exchange a lusty look. Under the table, her hand seeks out his thigh and squeezes it.

“Are you a couple?” asks William. “Are they a couple?” he whispers under his breath.

“They didn’t say they were a couple,” says Kelly.

William must be wearing an earpiece and Kelly must be in the room with the one-way mirror, watching and listening.

“Yeah, well, how did the tubs get on the mountain?” asks Avi. “And who carried them up there? That’s what I want to know.”

“It’s called willing suspension of disbelief. I like the tubs,” says Elliot. “My wife likes the tubs.”

“Can you tell me why, Elliot?” asks William.

“Some of those other ads are so crude,” says Elliot.

“It’s better than the one of the man throwing the football or the one with the train. Please. It’s insulting. A vagina is not a tire swing. Or a tunnel. Well, maybe a tunnel,” says Melinda.

“So your wife prefers the Cialis commercials, Elliot?” asks William.

“She would prefer I didn’t have ED,” says Elliot, “but since I’m challenged in that department, yes, she finds the bathtub commercials more palatable than the others.”

“Sonja, we haven’t heard from you yet. What do you think about the commercial?” asks William.

Sonja shrugs.

“Okay, that’s all right. I’ll circle back to you,” says William. “So, Cialis, Avi. You’re twenty-four and you’re a user. Why?”

“May I suggest you don’t refer to him as a ‘user’?” says Kelly.

Avi looks at Melinda and she smiles shyly. “Why not?” he says.

“Do you have problems with ED?”

“You mean down there.” Avi points at his crotch.

“Yes,” sighs William.

“Dude. Do I look like I have problems? It just makes it better.”

“Dude. Care to elaborate?” says William.

Avi shrugs, clearly unwilling to share the details.

“Okay, well, how many times a week do you have sex?”

“How many times a day,” corrects Melinda. “Two. Sometimes three if it’s the weekend. But definitely two.”

William can’t keep the skepticism out of his voice. “Really,” he says. “Three times a day?”

Elliot looks flabbergasted. Sonja looks dead. I feel slightly nauseous.

“Draw him out, don’t challenge him,” suggests Kelly. “We need details.”

This doesn’t sound crazy to me. When we were in our twenties, William and I sometimes had sex three times a day. On President’s Day. And Yom Kippur.

“Yeah, man, three times a day,” says Avi, looking irritated. “Why would we lie? You’re paying us to tell you the truth.”

“Fine. So how many times a week do you take Cialis?”

“Once a week. Usually on Friday afternoons.”

“Why Cialis and not Viagra?”

“Four hours. Thirty-six hours. You do the math.”

“How did you get the prescription?” asks William.

“Told my doctor I was having problems. Down there.”

“And he believed you?”

Avi rocks back in his chair. “Dude, what is wrong with you?”

William pauses and falls back on a stock question. “If Melinda were a car, what kind of a car would she be?”

Something is really off with William. His voice doesn’t even sound like him.

Avi says nothing, just stares at the camera confrontationally.

“Back off,” says Kelly. “You’re losing him.”

“Come on. Let me guess,” says William. “A Prius. But a fully loaded Prius. Fifty-one miles to the gallon. A smart key system. Bluetooth and seats that fold flat.”

“William,” warns Kelly.

“So you can fuck Melinda three times a day.”

Everybody is shocked into silence. Kelly bursts into the room.

“O-kay. Let’s take a break!” she shouts. “Complimentary sodas and cookies out in the hallway.” The camera abruptly shuts off, and then a second later pans in on the now empty table.

“I can’t believe you said ‘fuck,’?” says Kelly.

“He’s a fuck,” says William.

“It doesn’t matter. He’s the customer.”

“Yes, and we’re paying him to be the customer. Besides, twenty-something males are not our target demographic.”

“Wrong. Males twenty to thirty-five account for thirty-six percent of all new users. Maybe I should moderate.”

“No, I’ll do it. Bring them back in.”

The men and women file back into the room, Cokes and Diet Cokes in hand.

“Elliot, how many times a month do you have sex?” asks William.

“With or without Cialis?”

“Take your pick.”

“Without, none. With, once a week.”

“So would it be fair to say Cialis has improved your sex life?”

“Yes.”

“And would you have tried it if you didn’t have ED?”

Elliot looks bewildered. “Why would I do that?”

“Well, like Avi here. Would you use it recreationally?”

“Croquet is recreation. Mini-golf is recreation. Making love is not recreation. Love isn’t some bottomless Slurpee that magically fills itself up. You have to do the filling up yourself. That’s the secret to marriage.”

“Yeah man, drive through your wife’s 7-Eleven. Get your Slurpee on,” says Avi.

Elliot shoots Avi a dirty look. “It’s called making love for a reason.”

Avi rolls his eyes.

“I think that’s cute,” says Melinda. “Why don’t we make love?”

“Get back to Sonja,” says Kelly.

Sonja Popovich looks deflated, like she forgot to take her meds. Forty-seven. She’s three years older than me. She definitely looks older. No, she looks younger. No, I look younger. I play this game all the time. Honestly, I’m incapable of judging anyone’s age anymore.

“Can I smoke in here?” asks Sonja.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. Some sort of an alarm would probably go off,” says William.

Sonja smiles. “I’m not really a smoker. Only occasionally.”

“Me, too,” says William.

Since when did William become an occasional smoker?

“So are you here because of your husband’s ED?”

“No, I’m here because of my ED.”

“Nod,” says Kelly.

“I hate those Cialis commercials. And Viagra. And Levitra.”

“Why?”

“When your husband comes home and says, ‘Hey, honey, great news, we can have sex for thirty-six hours straight,’ believe me, it is not cause for celebration.”

“Well, Cialis is not about having sex for thirty-six hours, it’s about enhanced blood flow to—” says William.

“Thirty-six seconds, now then you’d have a winner.”

“Seriously?” says Avi.

“Yes, seriously,” says Sonja. Her face crumples. A big, fat tear rolls down her cheek.

“That’s sad,” says William.

“Don’t say that,” hisses Kelly.

“Thirty-six seconds. I’m sorry, but that’s very sad,” says William. “For your husband, I mean. Sounds like it’s good for you.”

“Oh, Christ,” says Kelly.

Sonja is weeping now.

“Can someone get her some Kleenex? Take your time,” William says. “I wasn’t trying to make you feel bad. Your answer just surprised me.”

“It surprises me, too. Don’t you think I’m surprised? I don’t know what happened,” she says, dabbing her eyes. “I used to love sex. I mean really, really love it. But now the whole thing seems, well, it just seems so silly. Whenever we have sex I feel like an alien watching us having sex thinking, ‘Ah, so this is how lower life-forms that only use ten percent of their brain matter procreate. How strange! How messy! How brutish! Look at the ugly faces they make. And all the sounds—the slapping, the flapping, the suction.’?”

“We can’t use this. Wrap it up,” says Kelly. “Change the subject. Ask her what she thinks about the tubs.”

“How often do you have sex?” William asks.

Sonja looks up at him with a tear-stained face and says nothing.

“How often would you like to have sex?”

“Never.”

“This is not a therapy session,” says Kelly. “It’s a focus group for the client. This woman is not our target market. Cut her loose.”

“Do you wish you felt differently?”

Sonja nods.

“If you felt differently, how often would you like to have sex? How many times a year?” asks William.

“Twenty-four?” she says.

“Twenty-four. Twice a month?”

“Yeah, twice a month sounds good. That sounds normal to me. Do you think so? Do you think that’s normal?”

“Normal? Well, that’s one more time a month than I’m having it,” says William.

“That’s it. Shut it down,” says Kelly.

I gasp. Did my husband just announce to the entire focus group and his team the frequency with which we have sex?

“My wife and I pretend we have sex every week, just like most other married couples we know who are really only having sex once a month,” says William.

“I’m shutting the camera off,” warns Kelly.

“I wouldn’t call our marriage sexless,” William continues. “Sexless would mean sex once every six months, or once a year. It’s just the moment used to be right more often than not,” says William.

“I’m very sorry to hear that,” says Elliot.

“Tell me that’s not going to be us in twenty years!” says Melinda.

“Never,” says Avi. “That will never happen to us, babe.”

“Anytime the moment is right. It’s the anytime that really gets me. That’s not freedom. Not for the woman, anyway. It’s a threat,” says Sonja. “It’s an erection Code Orange.”

“Can I ask you one more question?” asks William.

“Go ahead,” says Sonja.

“Do you think most women your age feel this way?”

Sonja sniffs. “Yes.”

I press Pause on the video and rest my head on my desk, wishing I could rewind the last ten minutes of my life. Why, oh why, oh why did I watch that? I feel ashamed for going behind William’s back, angry at the brash and unprofessional way he conducted himself (the cardinal rule of conducting focus groups: never, never share personal information), humiliated that he publicly outed us as having a sexless marriage (not true, we have sex once a week—okay, once every two or three weeks—okay, maybe sometimes it stretches to once a month), worried that he is on some sort of new medication that he hasn’t told me about, afraid that medication is Cialis and soon he’ll be telling me that thanks to modern medicine we now have a thirty-six-hour window in which I will be expected to have sex at least three times a day, but the strongest feeling is grief, because I saw parts of myself in both women. The desire-to-inhale-the-very-air-her-boyfriend-breathes Melinda. And the moment-is-rarely-right Sonja. They were—are—both me.

Tell me, Alice Buckle, what car would you be if you were a car right now?

That’s easy: a Ford Escape. A hybrid. Base model. Well-used. A scraped-up front bumper. Pings all over the doors. A mysterious rotten-apple smell rising up from the floorboards, but dependable. A car with all-wheel drive that’s good in the snow but whose potential is totally wasted because its owner lives in a city where the temperature rarely dips below 40.

And that, right there, is the problem.

18

25. William’s girlfriend’s name was Helen Davies and she was the VP of Branding. The rumor floating around the firm was that they would be engaged any day. They came in together in the mornings, sipping their coffees. They’d go to Kendall Square for lunch. She’d retrieve him at the end of the day and off they’d zip down to Newbury Street for cocktails. She was always stunningly dressed. I shopped at Filene’s Basement.

I was put to work on a toilet paper account. It wasn’t as bad as it sounded. I got to go home with rolls of TP samples and think of inventive new ways to say gets your ass really clean with just one sheet.

I put him out of my mind. Until one day he sent me an email.

—Are those running shoes on your desk?

I emailed him back.

—Sorry! I know that’s a filthy habit. Putting my shoes on working surfaces. It won’t happen again.

And then he emailed me again.

—Just went by your cubicle. Where are they now?

—Where are what now?

And then a flurry of emails.

—Your running shoes, Brown.

—They’re on my feet.

—Because you’re going home?

—Because I’m going running.

—When?

—At lunch.

—Where?

—Um—outside.

—Yes, Brown. I assumed outside. Where outside?

—I start at the Charles Hotel. I do a five-mile loop.

—Meet you there in fifteen minutes.

19

From: Wife 22 <Wife22@netherfieldcenter.org>

Subject: Timing

Date: May 18, 12:50 PM

To: researcher101 <researcher101@netherfieldcenter.org>

Researcher 101,

It might take me a little longer than usual to get the answers back to you, as things are a bit crazy here. I should probably let you know that my husband was demoted. I’m sure we’ll figure it out, but it’s been stressful on all of us. I have to say it’s a strange time to be recounting our courtship. It’s hard for me to reconcile the young, vibrant William and Alice with the currently middle-aged us. It makes me kind of sad.

All the best,

Wife 22

From: researcher101 <researcher101@netherfieldcenter.org>

Subject: Re: Timing

Date: May 18, 12:52 PM

To: Wife 22 <Wife22@netherfieldcenter.org>

Wife 22,

I’m very sorry to hear about your husband’s job. Please take all the time you need. Going back to the beginning is often difficult and dredges up all sorts of emotions. But in the long run I think you’ll find it enlightening to return to the past.

Sincerely,

Researcher 101

From: Wife 22 <Wife22@netherfieldcenter.org>

Subject: Re: Gambling

Date: May 18, 1:05 PM

To: researcher101 <researcher101@netherfieldcenter.org>

Researcher 101,

Sometimes when I log on to my computer I feel like I’m in a casino sitting in front of a slot machine. I have the same shivery feeling of anticipation—that anything is possible and anything can happen. All I have to do is pull the lever, i.e. press Send.

The rewards are immediate. I hear the machine churning. I hear all the lovely chimes and whooshes and pings. And when the symbols come up: “Kate O’Halloran likes your comment”; “Kelly Cho wants to be your friend”; “You have been tagged in a photo”—I am a winner.

What I’m trying to say is thanks for such a quick response.

Best,

Wife 22

From: researcher101 <researcher101@netherfieldcenter.org>

Subject: Unreachability

Date: May 18, 1:22 PM

To: Wife 22 <Wife22@netherfieldcenter.org>

Wife 22,

I understand what you’re saying completely, and often feel the same way, although I have to admit it worries me. It seems like we’ve gotten to the point where our experiences, our memories—our entire lives, actually—aren’t real unless we post about them online. I wonder if we might miss the days of being unreachable.

All the best,

Researcher 101

From: Wife 22 <Wife22@netherfieldcenter.org>

Subject: Re: Unreachability

Date: May 18, 1:25 PM

To: researcher101 <researcher101@netherfieldcenter.org>

Researcher 101,

I do not long for the old, unreachable days. When I’m plugged in I can go anywhere, do and learn anything. Today, for instance, I visited a tiny library in Portugal. I learned how the Shakers weave baskets and I discovered my best friend in middle school loves blood-orange sorbet. Okay, I also learned that a certain pop star actually believes she’s a fairy, an honest-to-goodness fairy from the fey people, but my point is access. Access to information. I don’t even have to look out my window to see what the weather is like. I can have the weather delivered every morning to my phone. What could be better?

Sincerely,

Wife 22

From: researcher101 <researcher101@netherfieldcenter.org>

Subject: Weather

Date: May 18, 1:26 PM

To: Wife 22 <Wife22@netherfieldcenter.org>

Wife 22,

Getting caught in the rain?

All the best,

Researcher 101

20

WEEKEND FORECAST THE BUCKLE HOUSEHOLD 529 IRVING DRIVE

ALERT: Rapidly Developing Class 3 Marital Storm Saturday AM

Windchill: Cold. Extremely cold. Freezing out husband while trying to pretend nothing is wrong.

Hi: Making it through day without screaming.

Lo: Head in hands. Soft moaning. Constant bouts of shame and mortification imagining KKM employees emailing Cialis video to hundreds of friends and said video then going viral.

Visibility: Limited. Refuse to look above husband’s jaw in order to avoid eye contact.

Share Weather: send to nedrar@gmail.com

Instant Message from nedrar@gmail.com

Nedra: Poor William!

Alice: Poor William? Poor me!

Nedra: This is what you get for going behind William’s back.

Alice: Did you even watch the video?

Nedra: Want my advice?

Alice: That depends. What will it cost me?

Nedra: Forget you ever saw it.

Saturday PM

Heat Index: Very High. Boiling hot.

Hi: Sitting on the couch watching Masterpiece Theatre.

Lo: Mentally trying to count the number of times we’ve had sex in the past twenty years while pretending to watch Masterpiece Theatre. Can’t do sums in head. Use fingers to add. Estimate 859. What’s wrong with that?

Visibility: Poor to none. Dense fog while trying to guess the number of times we’ll have sex in the next twenty years.

Share Weather: send to nedrar@gmail.com

Instant Message from nedrar@gmail.com

Nedra: Do not withhold sex.

Alice: Why not?

Nedra: This is not about sex.

Alice: What’s it about?

Nedra: Intimacy. There’s a difference.

Alice: What do you suggest?

Nedra: Reach out to him.

Alice: What kind of a divorce lawyer are you?

Sunday PM

Wind: Calming.

Hi: Horoscope says unexpected romance on its way.

Lo: Viewing Cialis video for the eighth time. In my defense, repeated viewings of video are the best way to desensitize myself to the horrific public humiliation inflicted by my husband. I think I deserve a medal. I tell my family I deserve a medal. For what, they ask.

Drought Conditions: Improving. I sat next to him on the couch.

Share Weather: Send to nedrar@gmail.com

Instant Message from nedrar@gmail.com

Nedra: Did you delete the bloody video?

Alice: Yes.

Nedra: Good girl. Now move on.

Alice: Horoscope says romance is on the way.

Nedra: Sure it is, sweetheart.

Alice: I just have to be patient.

Nedra You have it good. You know that, don’t you?

Alice: Being patient is not easy for a Virgo.

Nedra: Or a divorce lawyer. CU.

21

26. Not emptying out the coffee grinds. Pee on the bathroom floor. Not shutting the bathroom door while peeing. Reading over my shoulder. Jeans inside-out in the laundry basket.

27. Three, okay, five.

28. Once a year.

29. In every way. In no way. I can’t answer that question.

30. A book of stamps.

31. He was waiting in the courtyard of the Charles Hotel. Wearing his Walkman. He nodded at me, we took off, and he didn’t say a word for the entire run. I, on the other hand, didn’t shut up—at least in my head. Asics, huh; must have wide feet. Why isn’t he talking? Does he hate me? Are we doing something wrong? Am I supposed to pretend we’re not running together? Why doesn’t he run with Helen? Helen of Troy? What is he listening to? Is this a date? Jesus, he’s cute. What kind of game is he playing? He smells like Coast soap. Are my thighs jiggling? Yep, he just touched my breast with his elbow accidentally. Does he know it was my breast? Was it on purpose? Why isn’t he saying anything? Well, screw him, I’m not saying anything either.

We ran five miles in forty-one minutes. When we got back to Peavey Patterson he nodded once more, then went left, to the executive washroom. I turned right, to the employee bathroom. When I got back to my desk, my hair stuck up in a messy, limp ponytail, there was an email waiting for me. You run fast.

32. That if we weren’t careful, it was possible to forget one another.

22

From: Wife 22 <Wife22@netherfieldcenter.org>

Subject: Hello

Date: May 20, 11:50 AM

To: researcher101 <researcher101@netherfieldcenter.org>

Researcher 101,

Sorry it took so long to get back to you. Things haven’t been great between my husband and me, which makes it hard to answer the questions. Especially the ones about us falling in love.

All the best,

Wife 22

From: researcher101 <researcher101@netherfieldcenter.org>

Subject: Re: Hello

Date: May 20, 11:53 AM

To: Wife 22 <Wife22@netherfieldcenter.org>

Wife 22,

That’s completely understandable given the circumstances, although I have to say you do a wonderful job with the questions. You seem to remember all the details, which, come to think of it, may have something to do with the difficulty you’re experiencing. You recall your past so vividly. When I read your #31 I almost felt like I was there. I’m curious. Are you able to experience the present with the same sort of attention to detail?

I hope things have improved with your husband’s job situation.

Sincerely,

Researcher 101

From: Wife 22 <Wife22@netherfieldcenter.org>

Subject: Re: Hello

Date: May 20, 11:55 AM

To: researcher101 <researcher101@netherfieldcenter.org>

Researcher 101,

I’m not sure they’ve improved, but at least I’ve cut down the time I spend in the grocery store trying to choose between Minute Maid or Tropicana. Now I just grab the SunnyD. And no, I am not capable of experiencing the present with the same sort of attention to detail. But once the present becomes the past I seem to have no problem attending to it obsessively. :)

Wife 22

From: researcher101 <researcher101@netherfieldcenter.org>

Subject: Re: Hello

Date: May 20, 11:57 AM

To: Wife 22 <Wife22@netherfieldcenter.org>

Wife 22,

What ever happened to Tang?

Researcher 101

From: Wife 22 <Wife22@netherfieldcenter.org>

Subject: Re: Hello

Date: May 20, 12:01 PM

To: researcher101 <researcher101@netherfieldcenter.org>

Researcher 101,

You know, I can’t help playing “what if” right now. What if I had been a biker, not a runner? What if William had married Helen of Troy instead of me?

Sincerely,

Wife 22

From: researcher101 <researcher101@netherfieldcenter.org>

Subject: Re: Hello

Date: May 21, 1:42 PM

To: Wife 22 <Wife22@netherfieldcenter.org>

Wife 22,

In my experience “what if” is a very dangerous game.

All the best,

Researcher 101

23

I’m sitting on a bench, my phone in my hand, while a hundred or so children run circles around me. I’m on recess duty. Some of the teachers hate recess duty, they say it’s exhausting and mind-numbingly tedious, but I don’t mind it. I’m excellent at scanning the sea of kids, reading their body language, listening to the pitch of their voices, and getting to them moments before the illegal hair-pulling, Pokémon card trading, or Hello Kitty glitter lip gloss application begins. This kind of intuition can be either a gift or a curse, but I like to think of it as a gift. Recess duty is like driving. The surface is hyper-alert, leaving the rest of me free to process what’s going on in my life.

I took Nedra’s advice and never told William that I went behind his back and spoke to Kelly Cho. That makes two secrets I’m keeping from him now—the marriage study and my viewing the Cialis focus group tape. I did get a little hysterical while sharing my budget spreadsheets with him and said something along the lines of you have to try harder. He says he’s investigating openings at other ad agencies in the city, but I’m afraid it’s futile. Things are bad everywhere. Shops are closing and ad budgets are shrinking or disappearing altogether. He has to make it work at KKM. As far as the Cialis focus group, I’ve decided I will never go to another KKM product launch again.

And my job? I’m lucky to have one. When the school year ends, I’m going to approach the Parents’ Association about the possibility of making my job full-time in the fall. If that doesn’t happen, I’ll have to look for a higher-paying job. I need to bring in more income.

The bell rings and the kids start running back into the building. I open my Facebook app quickly.

Shonda Perkins Alice Buckle

Definition of friend: Somebody you’ve actually had a meal with in the last year.

43 minutes ago

John F. Kennedy Middle School

Suggests you limit your child’s screen time to one hour per day, this includes texting, tweeting and Facebooking. This does not include conducting online research for classes.

55 minutes ago

Weight Watchers

Come back! We miss you!

3 hours ago

William Buckle added Tone Loc and Mahler to favorite music

4 hours ago

William Buckle added Deer Hunter, Dr. Strangelove or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb, and Field of Dreams to favorite movies

4 hours ago

Tone Loc? “Funky Cold Medina” Tone Loc? And William’s favorite movie is Field of Dreams? We are decidedly not in a field of dreams. A field of thorns, maybe. William was demoted for telling his entire company how many times a month we have sex, and I’m sneaking around behind my husband’s back, telling a total stranger about how he once touched my boob with his elbow. Like my namesake Alice, I’ve slipped down the rabbit hole, fall, falling, fell.

24

33. If it’s a subject that interests him.

34. I was sleeping with a guy named Eddie. I met him at the gym where I swam laps. Eddie was a trainer in the weight room. He was sweet and uncomplicated. He had these red cheeks and perfect teeth. He wasn’t my type, but his body—oh, my God. Our relationship was purely physical and the sex was amazing, but I knew it would never go anywhere further than that. Of course I hadn’t told him this yet.

“Hey, Al, Allie!”

It was Friday afternoon and I was standing at the counter at Au Bon Pain ordering a chicken salad sandwich and a Diet Coke. I had been in line for fifteen minutes. There were twenty or so people queued up behind me.

“?’Scuse me, ’scuse me. I’m with her.”

Eddie pushed his way to the front of the line. “Hi, doll.”

I had never been with a man who called me “doll” before, and I have to admit I liked it—until now. In the bedroom it made me feel petite and Bonnie and Clyde-ish, but here in Au Bon Pain it sounded cheap.

He kissed me on the cheek. “Man, it’s crowded in here.”

He wore a blue bandana tied around his head, Rambo-style. I had seen this bandana in the weight room, which was, as far as I was concerned, where a bandana worn like this belonged. We really hadn’t been out in public yet. Normally I went to his apartment or he came to mine; as I said, our relationship was really about sex. But here we were in Au Bon Pain and here he was looking like Sylvester Stallone, and I was mortified.

“Aren’t you hot?” I said, staring blatantly at his forehead, trying to silently telegraph you’re in Cambridge, not the North End, take that ridiculous thing off.

“It is kind of hot in here,” he said, slipping out of his jeans jacket, stripping down to a wife-beater. He leaned forward, his deltoids flexing, and put a twenty on the counter. “Make it two chicken salads,” he said, then turned to me. “I thought I’d surprise you.”

“Well, you did! Surprise me, I mean. Um—I think they have a no-tank-top rule in here.”

“I was hoping after lunch you might give me a tour of your office. Introduce me. Show me around.”

I knew what Eddie was thinking. That I would waltz him through the door and my colleagues at Peavey Patterson would see him and be flabbergasted and ask who is that gorgeous guy with the incredible body (which is exactly what I did when I first saw him at the gym) and whisk him away to be in some major ad campaign. He wasn’t completely off about his potential—he was charismatic and could probably have sold anything—paper towels, wet wipes, or dog food. But not in a wife-beater and bandana.

“Wow, that’s a great idea. I just wish you had given me some notice. Today’s probably not a good day. We have a big client in town. In fact I shouldn’t even be out getting my lunch. I should have eaten in. Everybody else in my office is eating in.”

“Alice! Alice, I’m so sorry we’re late,” a woman shouted.

Now Helen pushed her way to the front of the line, dragging an uncomfortable-looking William behind her. He and I were running just thirty minutes before. I’m pretty sure Helen was unaware of the fact that we’d been working out together. Or that I used his sunscreen. Or that even after showering I still smelled of it.

“There’s no saving places!” somebody yelled.

“Those people cut to the front of the line!” somebody else yelled.

“We’re with her,” said Helen. “Sorry about that,” she whispered to me. “It was such a huge line. You don’t mind, do you? Well, hello!” She broke into a huge smile at the sight of Eddie. Her eyes lingered on his bandana. “Who’s your friend, Alice?”

“This is Eddie,” I said, suddenly feeling protective, hearing the cat-and-mouse tone in her voice. “Eddie, this is Helen and William.”

“Boyfriend,” Eddie corrected Helen, leaning in to shake her hand. “I’m her boyfriend.”

“Really,” said Helen.

“Really?” said William.

“Really,” I said, getting irritated now. Did he just assume I was single? Why shouldn’t I have a boyfriend, and why shouldn’t he look like Mr. Olympia?

“Hey, doll?” said Eddie. He kissed me on the neck.

William raised his eyebrows. His mouth dropped open the tiniest little bit. Was he jealous?

“Your sunscreen smells like coconut. Yum,” said Eddie.

Helen turned to William. “I thought that was you.”

25

From: Wife 22 <Wife22@netherfieldcenter.org>

Subject: Maritalscope?

Date: May 25, 7:21 AM

To: researcher101 <researcher101@netherfieldcenter.org>

Researcher 101,

I’m curious. How do you go about interpreting my answers? Is there some sort of a computer program that you feed data into that compiles a profile? A type? Kind of like a horoscope? A maritalscope?

And why don’t you just send me all the questions at once? Wouldn’t that be easier?

Wife 22

From: researcher101 <researcher101@netherfieldcenter.org>

Subject: Re: Maritalscope?

Date: May 25, 7:45 AM

To: Wife 22 <Wife22@netherfieldcenter.org>

Wife 22,

It’s much more complicated than a horoscope, actually. Are you familiar with music streaming services? Where you enter in a song that you like and then a radio station is created just for you based on the song’s attributes? Well, how we interpret, code, and assign value to your answers is very similar to that. We strip your answers down to emotional data points. For some of your longer answers there might be fifty data points that will need to be considered and tracked. For shorter answers, perhaps five.

I like to think what we have developed is an algorithm of the heart.

As far as your second query, we’ve found there’s a trust that develops between subject and researcher that slowly builds over time. That’s why we parcel out the questions. There’s something about the building of anticipation that works to both of our advantages.

Waiting is a dying art. The world moves at a split-second speed now and I happen to think that’s a great shame, as we seem to have lost the deeper pleasures of leaving and returning.

Warmly,

Researcher 101

From: Wife 22 <Wife22@netherfieldcenter.org>

Subject: Re: Maritalscope?

Date: May 25, 9:22 AM

To: researcher101 <researcher101@netherfieldcenter.org>

Dear Researcher 101,

The deeper pleasures of leaving and returning. Why, you sound like a poet, Researcher 101. I feel that way sometimes. Like an astronaut looking for a way back into the corporeal world only to discover the corporeal world has ceased to exist while I’ve been floating around in space. I suspect it has something to do with getting older. I have less access to gravity and so I float through most of my days, untethered.

Once, in ancient times, my husband and I used to lie in bed before we fell asleep every night and give each other our Facebook posts face to face.

Alice had a very bad day. William thinks tomorrow will be better.

I have to say I miss that.

Wife 22

26

The seventh grade is going on a camping trip to Yosemite. Which means I am going on a camping trip—hurray! At least I might as well be going on a camping trip given all the preparation I have to do to get Peter ready.

“Do you have a mess kit?” I ask Peter.

“No, but we have paper plates.”

“How many meals?” I start counting on my fingers. “Dinner, breakfast, lunch, dinner, breakfast. The plates are compostable, right?”

Peter’s school takes their green very, very seriously. Plastic is forbidden. Cloth napkins encouraged. During spirit week the Parents’ Association sells bento boxes alongside mugs and sweatshirts.

Peter shrugs. “I’ll probably get some crap.”

I do a quick calculation in my head. Drive twelve miles to REI to buy a new mess kit on Spare the Air Day, a day I should be carpooling, or at the very least taking the bus. Arrive at REI to find the only mess kits in stock are made in Japan. Leave defeated, because I will get in trouble (with Zoe) if I buy a mess kit that had to travel over three thousand miles to get to Oakland. Paper plates it is.

“If anybody asks, tell them the carbon cost of getting a new mess kit far outweighs using five of your mother’s paper plates, bought in 1998, back when greenhouse gases were a result of gardeners eating too much cabbage for lunch.”

“Black beanie or green?” asks Peter. He holds up the green. “Green. And did you remember to get the wet wipes? I want to have a backup in case the showers are disgusting. I hope they let Briana and me share a tent. We told Mr. Solberg that we were like totally platonic, we’ve been best friends since fourth grade, and why shouldn’t tents be co-ed? He said it’s under consideration.”

“Under consideration means no, but I’m going to wait until the very last minute to tell you,” I say.

Peter groans. “What if I get stuck with Eric Haber?”

Peter won’t shut up about Eric Haber. What a jerk he is. How loudly he chews, what a terrible conversationalist.

“Then offer him the black beanie,” I say.

I suspect Peter has a crush on Eric, but is too scared to admit it. I’ve read the LGBT literature, which says my job is to remain open-minded and wait until my child is ready to come out. To push him into this revelation before he’s ready will do nothing but scar him. If only I could come out for him. I’ve imagined it so many times in my head. Peter, I have something to tell you and this may come as a surprise. You’re gay. Possibly bisexual but I’m pretty sure gay. And then we would cry with relief and watch Bonanza reruns, which is something we already do, but it would feel different now that we had shared the burden of his secret. Instead, I try to subtly broadcast my approval for his pending life choice.

“Eric seems like a cool kid. Maybe you want to invite him over for a playdate.”

“Will you stop saying things like ‘cool kid’ and ‘playdate’?”

“Well, what should I call it? When your friends come over?”

“Coming over.”

“That’s what we used to call it in the ’seventies! Yes, that was thirty-something years ago and things were different then, but what’s not different is that it’s still hard to be in middle school. Changing bodies. Changing identities. One day you think you’re this person. The next day you’re somebody else. But don’t worry, it’s all normal. All a part of—”

Peter’s eyes drift up to my head. “What’s up with those orange highlights?”

I finger a strand of my hair. “That’s what happens when the color fades. Is it really orange?”

“More like rust.”

The next morning I drop Peter and Zoe off at school, and on my way to work I notice Peter’s pillow in the backseat. I’m going to be late as it is, but Peter will be so uncomfortable sleeping on the ground without his pillow. I race back to his school and get there just in time. The bus transporting the seventh-graders to Yosemite is still in the parking lot, its engine running.

I climb onto the bus, the pillow tucked under my arm. There’s a moment before anybody notices I’m standing there when I search frantically through the crowd, thrilled that I have an opportunity to spy on my son in his natural habitat.

I spot him in the middle of the bus, sitting next to Briana. His arm is around her and her head rests on his shoulder. It’s a startling sight for a few reasons. One, it’s the first time I’ve seen my son in any sort of intimate position, and he looks disturbingly natural and disturbingly mature. And two—because I know he’s faking it. He’s trying to pass as straight, which breaks my heart.

“Pedro, your mother’s here.”

Could there be four more humiliating words whispered on a bus?

“Pedro forgot his beanie baby,” somebody from the back of the bus sings out.

Yes, yes there could.

“I’ll give it to Peter,” says Ms. Ward, Peter’s English teacher, sitting a few rows back from where I’m standing.

I clutch the pillow tightly—mortified.

“It’s okay. Just give it to me,” she says.

I hand her the pillow, but remain frozen in place. I can’t stop staring at Briana. I know I shouldn’t feel threatened, but I do. In the past year she’s transformed from a gawky, mouthful-of-braces girl to a very pretty young woman wearing skinny jeans and a camisole. Was William right? Am I that afraid of losing Peter, to the point of feeling competitive with a twelve-year-old?

“You should go now, Mrs. Buckle,” Ms. Ward says.

Yes, I should go before Pedro, your mother’s here turns into Pedro, your mother is bawling because she can’t bear to be away from you for twenty-four hours. Peter is slumped down in his seat, arms crossed, staring out the window. I get into my car and bang my head softly against the steering wheel while the bus pulls out, then I put on my Susan Boyle CD (the “Wild Horses” track, which always makes me feel plucky and brave) and dial Nedra.

“Peter has a beard,” I cry. I don’t have to explain to Nedra that I’m not talking about facial hair.

“A beard? Well, good for him! It’s practically a rite of passage. If he is gay, that is.”

Nedra, like William, is still on the fence about Peter’s sexuality.

“So this is normal?” I ask.

“It’s certainly not abnormal. He’s young and confused.”

“And humiliated. I just completely embarrassed him in front of the entire seventh grade. I was going to ask him to help me color my hair and now he hates me, and I’ll be stuck doing it myself.”

“Why aren’t you going to Lisa?”

“I’m trying to cut back.”

“Alice, stop catastrophizing. Things are going to turn around. Does the beard have a name?”

“Briana.”

“Lord, I hate that name. It’s so—”

“American, yes, I know. But she’s a sweet girl. And very pretty,” I add guiltily. “They’ve been friends for years.”

“Does she know she’s a beard?”

I think of the two of them nestled together. Her eyes half closed.

“Doubtful.”

“Unless she’s a lesbian and he’s her beard, too. Maybe they have some sort of an agreement. Like Tom and Katie.”

“Yes, like ToKat!” I say. I hate the thought of Briana being duped. It’s almost as sad as Peter faking he’s straight.

“Nobody calls them ToKat.”

“KatTo?”

Silence.

“Nedra?”

“I’m getting you another subscription to People, and this time you’d better damn well start reading it.”

27

“You are so sweet to let me stay with you until I get settled,” says Caroline Kilborn.

I stand in the doorway, unable to mask my shock. I expected a younger version of Bunny: a blond, elegantly dressed and coiffed young woman. Instead a bare-faced, freckled redhead beams at me, her hair scraped back impatiently into a ponytail. She’s wearing a black formfitting skirt and a loose tank that shows off her toned arms.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” she says. “You told me I looked like a doll. Like Raggedy Ann.”

“I did?”

“Yes, when I was ten.”

I shake my head. “I said that? My God, that’s so insensitive. I’m sorry!”

She shrugs. “It didn’t bother me. It was your debut at the Blue Hill Playhouse. I’m sure you had other things on your mind.”

“Right,” I say, wincing, trying to shake the unwanted memory of that night from my head.

Caroline smiles and rocks on her heels. “It was a great show. My friends and I loved it.”

Her friends, her fellow third-graders.

“Are you a runner?” She points at my dirt-encrusted sneakers, which I’ve thrown into a planter, which contains nothing but dirt because I can’t seem to remember to water anything I plant.

“Uh, yes,” I say, meaning twenty years ago I was a runner but now I’m really more of a jogger, okay, a walker, okay, a person who strolls to her computer and counts it as her daily 10,000 steps.

“Me, too,” she says.

Fifteen minutes later Caroline Kilborn and I are going for a run.

Five minutes later Caroline Kilborn inquires as to whether I have asthma.

Five seconds later I tell her that wheezing sound I’m making is due to allergies and the fact that the acacia has just bloomed, and perhaps she should run ahead as I don’t want to prevent her from getting a good workout on her first day in California.

After Caroline has sprinted out of sight, I step on a pinecone, twist my ankle, and fall, tumbling into a pile of leaves while praying, please

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