American Wife

  “Madison is a pretty small town.”

  “Yet we’ve never met until now. How do you explain that?”

  I shrugged. “Have you lived here that long? I was under the impression—Isn’t your family more from Milwaukee?”

  “Au contraire, mademoiselle. I’m a Madison native. Went to kindergarten and first grade at Duncan Country Day and came back for part of eighth grade.”

  “Oh, I teach at Liess,” I said. “I’m the librarian.”

  “Aha! I thought you showed authority when you were reading. Cliff and Kathleen’s little girl knew just who to ask, huh?”

  “Now do you believe I wasn’t hiding out?”

  “There was a boy on my street growing up who went to Liess,” Charlie said. “Norm Barker, but we called him Ratty. He was a good kid. Real pale face and pink, quivery nose, but a good kid. I don’t think I’ve laid eyes on the guy since 1952.”

  “I suspect the school has changed since Ratty’s time.”

  Charlie grinned. “You mean it’s not lily-white anymore?”

  “Not exactly.” There was a silence, and I suppose it was to fill it—it was in the interest of preventing Charlie from implying that Liess’s non-lily-whiteness was a bad thing (I didn’t know if he would imply this, but I didn’t want to run the risk)—that I announced, “I bought a house yesterday.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “No kidding? Just you, not . . . ?” Not at all surreptitiously, he glanced at the ring finger of my left hand.

  I ignored the question. “It’s on McKinley. If you know where Roney’s Hardware is, it’s behind that a couple streets.”

  “Congratulations—way to get yourself a little piece of the American dream.” He held up his own left hand, high-five-style; to slap it required walking toward him, which, a little self-consciously, I did. Our hands hit firmly, a satisfying slap, and he said, “It’s in decent shape? The pipes and the roof and all that jazz?”

  “It seems all right, although the inspector hasn’t gone through yet.” I tapped my knuckles against the wall. “Knock on wood.”

  “You run into any problems, I’d be happy to take a look.” He paused. “Not that I know a damn thing about house maintenance, but I’m trying to impress you. Is it working?”

  Although I laughed, I felt a clenching in my stomach. No. This barbecue was about Dena’s interest in Charlie Blackwell, not mine.

  And then he said, “How about if you let me take you out for dinner next week to celebrate life, liberty, and the pursuit of the ten percent mortgage rate—you free Tuesday?”

  “Oh, the rate isn’t nearly that bad anymore,” I said. “It’s closer to seven percent.”

  “What, the other fellow’s still in the picture?” His voice remained game, but I could tell he was rattled that I hadn’t immediately accepted his invitation—I could tell by the way the corners of his smile collapsed a little. “You want me to challenge him to a duel, that’s what you’re trying to say?”

  I had no desire to hurt Charlie Blackwell’s feelings. I attempted to sound as sincere as possible when I said, “Unfortunately, I have a busy few weeks coming up—lots of lesson plans.”

  “You can’t do better than that? Lesson plans in July, hell, that’s on the order of needing to wash your hair.”

  “It’s not you,” I said. “It’s really not.” We were standing a few feet apart, and I was tempted to set my palm on his cheek. He was more vulnerable, less smug, than I had initially thought. Then I did close the space between us, but all I touched was his elbow, through his pink oxford shirt. This close to him, I could sense his clean soapy warmth, the way he smelled of beer and summer. I tilted my head. “Should we go back to the party?”

  I HAD THOUGHT I’d leave shortly after the food was served, but we started a game of charades that was lengthy and quite a lot of fun and, just before my team’s last turn, Dena pressed up against me, her lips at my ear, and said, “I’m gonna be sick.” I pulled her arm around my neck and placed my own arm at her waist, and I walked us briskly into the house; at the two steps leading up to the deck, she stumbled a little, and I hoped that the other guests were preoccupied by the game. It was after nine o’clock, still over eighty degrees and only now getting dark. The mosquitoes were out, but Kathleen Hicken had lit a few citronella candles that were semi-successfully keeping them at bay.

  In the first-floor bathroom, I lifted the toilet seat and said, “Lean over it.” Already, Dena had arranged herself so she was supine on the floor, her head as far from the bowl as possible. “Come on, Dena,” I said. “You need to cooperate.”

  “How is it we’re thirty-one years old and neither of us has a husband or children?” she slurred. “I was supposed to have three children by now. Mindy and Alexander and—What was I planning to call the other one?”

  “I don’t remember,” I said.

  “Don’t tell me that.” She was as petulant as my students, the first-or second-graders, when it had been too long since their last snack. “You do remember!”

  “Tracy?” I said.

  “Tracy’s not a special name.”

  “Dena, if you’re going to throw up, you need to lean over the toilet. Can you take my hand and I’ll lift you?” Dena hadn’t gone up for charades in several turns, but even so, if she was this drunk, I was surprised not to have noticed outside. In an uncharacteristic act of compliance, she raised both her arms, and I tugged on them until she was sitting up. “Scoot your behind forward,” I said.

  “You haven’t even been married once,” she said.

  “You know what, Dena, I’m all right with that.”

  She looked at me, her eyes glassy. “But you’ve been pregnant. Do you ever wish you’d kept the baby?” It had been only a couple of years earlier that I’d finally told Dena about my long-ago abortion; she was the first person I’d ever mentioned it to, and she seemed to see it as considerably less significant than I did. She said, “At TWA, I knew a girl who had three.”

  In the Hickens’ bathroom, I said, “Dena, do you want me to help you here or not?”

  “Did I ever tell you, when you were dating Simon, I used to picture him having a really long, thin penis. Because, you know, he was such a long, thin person.”

  This was not actually inaccurate, but I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of saying so.

  “Have you ever noticed,” she continued, “that every time we see Rose Trommler, she’s either gained or lost twenty pounds?”

  “She does look a little heavy tonight,” I admitted.

  “It’s like Superman going into the phone booth. She walks out of the room a size six, and she walks back in a size twelve.” Dena belched then, and I was crouched so near her that it was a warm, sour wind on my face.

  “Come on, Dena! Be considerate. Should I wait outside?”

  “Here it comes,” she said, and at last she did lean properly over the toilet bowl. We both were quiet.

  Perhaps a minute had passed, and I said, “It’s Theresa. That’s your other daughter’s name. I just remembered.”

  Dena seemed about to respond, but instead, she belched again, a smaller belch that seemed unequal as a harbinger to the monstrous chunky gush that erupted from inside her. I held her hair back and looked away as she finished retching. Working with children had made me less squeamish—they were constantly presenting their grubby hands to you, having accidents—but at some point, disgusting was still disgusting. Especially with an adult woman.

  I flushed the toilet, and when the water had resettled, Dena spat a few times into it. Her voice was matter-of-fact, already more sober, when she said, “Charlie Blackwell doesn’t like me.” She stood, turned on the faucet, cupped one hand beneath the stream, and brought her hand to her mouth. When she’d swallowed, she said, “He seems like a guy you’d meet on the East Coast more than someone from around here. Real full of himself.”

  “I just talked to him briefly,” I said.

  “Another Saturday night down the crapper, huh?”
She almost but didn’t quite smile.

  “This isn’t the time to analyze your life,” I said. “Let me thank the Hickens and I’ll drive us home.”

  “I need to lie down.” She opened the bathroom door, and I followed her into the living room. The Madeline book was still on the sofa, and I moved it to an ottoman. I would have preferred for us to leave instead of me waiting while Dena passed out, which I felt reflected badly on both of us.

  But Kathleen Hicken seemed practically tickled when I found her in the kitchen and told her that Dena wasn’t feeling well and was resting. “Must be the sign of a successful party,” Kathleen said.

  “I’ll give her half an hour,” I said.

  “Oh, jeez, leave her until morning.” Kathleen waved a hand through the air. “You don’t want to wrestle her into bed by yourself.”

  “Really?” I bit my lip. “If you honestly don’t mind, then I can walk home tonight and give her car keys to you so she has them tomorrow.”

  “Well, she won’t need an alarm clock.” Kathleen smiled as she wiped down the counter with a rag. “The girls will make sure she’s awake before the rooster crows.”

  IN THE YARD, the party seemed to be breaking up. Most people were standing, some had already taken off, and I joined the other women who were carrying in the bone-laden paper plates, the bowls of chips and empty wineglasses and beer cans. A few minutes later, when I went to thank Kathleen before leaving, I said, “Are you sure about Dena?” and she said, “Alice, don’t give it a thought.”

  I thanked Cliff, too, collected my bag, peeked in at Dena—she was lying on her side, snoring—and walked out the front door; I lived about three quarters of a mile west of the Hickens. I had gone half a block when I heard quick footsteps behind me. I turned, and over my shoulder, I saw Charlie Blackwell. “Got somewhere better to be?” he asked.

  “I’m pretty sure things were winding down,” I said.

  “Fair enough. Can I offer you a ride?”

  It was buggy out. I tried to scrutinize his face, which, in the glow cast by the streetlight a few yards away, was both flushed and sallow.

  “How many drinks have you had?” I asked.

  “You’re certainly direct.”

  Since high school, I had never ridden in a car with a driver who might be so much as tipsy. “You know what?” I said. “I’ll walk. But it was nice to meet you.” When I turned around again, Charlie stayed beside me.

  “You’ve at least got to let me escort you. There’s only so much rejection a fellow can withstand in one night, Alice.”

  We continued walking, and he said, “I take it you’re not afraid of the dark?”

  I gave him a sidelong glance. “Are you joking?”

  “I’ll tell you a secret, but you’ve got to promise not to repeat it. You promise?” Without waiting for my reply, he said, “I’m terrified of the dark. Scares the living bejesus out of me. My parents have a place up in Door County, and I’d rather chew off my own leg than spend the night there alone.”

  “What are you so afraid of ?”

  “That’s just it—you have no idea what’s out there! But hey, you know what? I’m not scared right now, and it’s because you’re beside me. Dainty as you are, you seem extraordinarily capable. If something terrible befell us, I’m sure you’d take care of it.”

  “Do you always lavish compliments on women you hardly know?”

  “Hardly know you? Good God, I thought we were old friends by now.” He brought his hand to his heart as if wounded, then made a rapid recovery. “Here’s what I’ve got: Number one, you just bought a house by yourself, which means you’re independent and financially solvent. Number two, you’re already getting your school papers together even though it’s July, which means you’re responsible. Or you’re a liar, but I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt.” He was raising one finger for each point. “Number three, you’re a crackerjack charades player.” This was untrue; my enactment of The Sound of Music had been particularly abysmal. “Number four, either you have a boyfriend but are pretending not to because of your overpowering attraction to me, or you don’t have a boyfriend and are letting me down easy. Whichever it is, these are challenges I’m willing to surmount. In conclusion, I know all about you.” As we walked, I could feel Charlie looking at me, grinning. “I understand you, I sense a long and happy future for the two of us, and I’m sure you sense it, too. Oh, but you have to like baseball—you like baseball?”

  “I wouldn’t say I’m a die-hard fan.”

  “You will be.” Charlie swung an imaginary bat through the air. “The Brewers are finally pulling it together. A lot of young talent on the team, and you mark my words, this could be a winning season.”

  “Truthfully,” I said, “the only reason I went to the Hickens’ party tonight was to help Dena catch your eye.”

  “Dena?” He sounded puzzled. “You mean the divorcée?”

  “Who told you that? No, never mind—you’re as bad as Rose and Jeanette. Dena’s a wonderful person. She was a flight attendant for more than five years, and she’s traveled the country.”

  “Yet she still hasn’t learned to hold her liquor.”

  “She didn’t have much to eat,” I said. “That’s why.”

  “I’ll tell you what,” he said. “You can look at her face and know she’s done some hard living, but who am I to throw stones? She seemed like a perfectly nice girl. But she does not, if you catch my meaning, strike me as marriage material for a rising star of the Republican Party.”

  His arrogance was really rather extraordinary; it was amusing, and it was also irritating. “I’m a registered Democrat,” I said. “That’s something you might want to include in your dossier on me. And I have to say that you’re remarkably confident for someone who’s about to run against a forty-year incumbent.”

  Rather than being insulted, Charlie appeared delighted. “I always appreciate someone who’s done her research. You know who does seem like ideal wife material?” He pointed toward me.

  “You’re ridiculous,” I said.

  “How is it that a woman as—as lovely as you hasn’t been snapped up by now?”

  “Maybe I don’t want to be snapped up,” I said. “Did that occur to you?” Needless to say, I wanted it very much: I wanted to get married and sleep in a bed with a man at night, I wanted to hold his hand while walking downtown, to prepare the meals for him that were too much trouble for one person—roast beef, and lasagna. I wanted children, and I knew I would be a good mother, not perfect but good, and I’d already decided I wouldn’t let my daughters have hair longer than chin-length because I’d seen in my students how it made them vain, the maintenance of one’s locks as a family project. Still, despite all this, it felt gratifying to lie to Charlie Blackwell.

  “Don’t tell me you’re one of those feminists,” he said. “You couldn’t be, because you’re too pretty.”

  I stared at him. “That’s not even worth dignifying, and frankly, I’m not sure why my romantic status is your business.”

  “Oh, it’s most definitely my business. It’s my business because I’m bewitched by you.”

  Part of the reason he was frustrating was that his comments were so close to what I wanted to hear from a man, but I wanted them to be real. I yearned for genuine emotion, not this banter and jest.

  When we arrived in front of the house where I lived, Charlie said, “I think you ought to invite me in for a cup of coffee. There’s a rumor that I’m drunk.”

  I shook my head in exasperation and let him follow me into the small entry hall and up the carpeted stairs to the second floor. He stood behind me as I unlocked the door to my apartment. In the kitchen, I went to turn on the coffeemaker when he said, “You got any beer? Because if it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer it.”

  I pulled two cans of Pabst from the refrigerator and passed him one. When we’d pulled the tabs off, he tipped his can toward mine. “To Alice,” he said. “A woman of beauty, virtue, and outstanding tast
e in alcohol.”

  “Has anyone ever told you you’re relentless?” I asked, and then I watched in horror as he walked out of the kitchen, down the hall, and toward the bedroom where I worked on my book characters.

  “Please don’t go in—” I started to say, but he was well ahead of me and obviously not listening. Besides, the door to the room was open. When I caught up with him, he was standing in the room’s center, turning to look at the papier-mâché figures one by one.

  “They’re for the library where I work,” I said, and my voice was loud in the silence. I couldn’t imagine how he’d react to the characters or even how I wanted him to. He was not, I reminded myself, the intended audience. He was quiet for a full minute, and then, in a completely serious tone, he said, “These are amazing.”

  I swallowed.

  “I recognize Ferdinand.” He pointed to the bull with flowers woven around his horns. “And that’s Mike Mulligan and his steam shovel, Mary Anne.”

  “They’re not exactly to scale,” I said.

  “I was madly in love with Mary Anne.” He grinned. “I just knew they’d be able to dig that cellar in one day. Oh, and Eloise—I always thought she was a pain in the ass.”

  “Girls like her more than boys.”

  “Who’s that?” He motioned with his chin toward the corner of the room, where bright green leaves—I’d cut them from a bolt of lurid silk fabric—hung atop a brown trunk.

  “The Giving Tree,” I said. “It’s a book published when we were in high school, assuming—Well, how old are you?”

  “Thirty-one,” he said. “Class of 1964.”

  “Me, too. That’s the year The Giving Tree came out. It’s my favorite book. I’ve probably read it seventy times, and the end still always makes me cry.” Just describing the book, I could hear my voice thickening with emotion, and I felt embarrassed.

  “Why would you want to cry seventy times?” Charlie said, but his tone was sweet, not mocking. He gestured to his right. “Who’s the Chinaman?”

  “That’s Tikki Tikki Tembo. He’s a boy who falls down a well, and everyone who tries to get help for him has to repeat his name, which is really long. Tikki Tikki Tembo is actually the short version. His whole name is—Trust me, it’s long.”