Happiness Sold Separately

  Now, as her husband runs his fingers up the insides of her thighs, she feels caresses instead of jabs. Still, it’s hard to fully relax, with the jittery tape loop running in her head: She’s so pretty and fit and young! That silky hair. Those long legs. Is she a better lover? Elinor wants to drill Ted on the details of his affair. What kind of birth control did they use, for one thing? But Ted is so sweet and gentle, kissing and touching her as though nothing had ever happened. Elinor fights to imagine that THE AFFAIR is not in the room with them, looming in the dark.

  The first morning of her sabbatical, Elinor tries to unwind with coffee and the crossword, but the blank canvas of the unstructured day makes her pulse race. There’s nothing to do between now and her upcoming appointment with Ted and Dr. Brewster. She’s depressed by the fact that she has to consult a PhD to connect with her husband. It seems they’ve had to outsource their entire marriage—first the sex part, and now the love part.

  Earlier in the morning, Elinor got up with Ted and scrambled egg whites for him as he showered. Deciding they looked anemic and unappetizing, she shoved the eggs into the garbage and covered them with junk mail, hating Gina. When Ted burst into the kitchen, Elinor was overwhelmed by how handsome he looked—freshly shaven face, flushed from the shower, a forest-green shirt that emphasized his deep brown eyes and soft brown hair, festive yellow tie, sturdy sloped shoulders, narrow waist, firm jaw. Suddenly she didn’t want to visit the counselor and dredge up all the ugly stuff. First she wanted to nurse this renewed appreciation for her husband—to let it sink in, the way you’d let a coat of paint dry before adding another one.

  Ted had to run; he had a surgery. His mouth tasted of Crest as he kissed Elinor good-bye. She stood on the front porch and watched him back out of the driveway, feeling left behind. While Ted’s been shaping up, she’s been spacing out. Yet he obviously doesn’t want to embark on a midlife crisis without her. He wants her to go along—biking or camping, scuba diving to Australia. His enthusiasm for these activities makes Elinor nervous. She’s afraid she doesn’t know how to be fun anymore. She’s afraid she’ll disappoint him.

  Three-letter word for a small scrap of food. Elinor looks back to the crossword. She fills in ort. Then she gazes out the kitchen window at the roses, which are still blooming. After fifteen years of working under fluorescent lights, absorbing LED rays from her computer monitor, and breathing sick-building air, she just wants to be outdoors. She gathers her coffee, newspaper, and The Iliad, grabs an old quilt from the linen closet, and heads for her front yard.

  She spreads the quilt under the big oak tree and leans back against its bumpy trunk, which is firm and certain against her back. She pushes aside her puzzle and book and sips her coffee, watching the neighborhood women drive by in their SUVs and minivans. Some of them see her, slowing down to do a double take, then waving tentatively. Except for Kat, Elinor doesn’t know the other wives in her neighborhood very well; children are the common denominator among them. Neighborhood swim meets, Halloween parties. It seems pointless for her and Ted to show up at these gatherings without kids.

  When people ask if Elinor has children, she used to say, “We’re trying,” or “No luck in that department so far,” but that brought unsolicited advice ranging from acupuncture to Robitussin. Now she just says no.

  After finishing her coffee, Elinor lies on her back and gazes up through the tree’s canopy of branches. The oak is arthritic yet glorious, probably older than she or any of the houses in the neighborhood.

  A car idles in the street. “Miss? You all right?” an elderly gentleman calls out. “Did you fall?”

  “I’m fine.” Elinor sits up. “Just weeding!” She yanks up a clump of grass and tosses it in the air.

  5

  “My teacher says I talk too much.” Toby fidgets and kicks the table at the Barnes & Noble café, making the foam on Ted’s skim milk latte slosh out of his cup. “My mom says so, too. Too much and too fast. I’m supposed to sit still and listen more. To what? It’s not like anybody’s saying anything that interesting.”

  “Try not to kick the table, okay, champ?” If Ted can just get Toby to focus on these fractions, maybe he’ll pass his quiz tomorrow.

  “Sorry.” Whipped cream and caramel rim Toby’s upper lip. His large front teeth are crooked and ridged on the ends and jut into his lower lip, leaving two raw indents. He’s at that clumsy stage where parts of his body are too big for the rest—those knobby elbows and knees always whacking into things. He pushes out his lower lip, stops kicking, and starts drumming the tabletop with his stubby fingers. As Ted frowns, Toby wedges his hands under his thighs. But one leg jerks in a spasm, knocking the table and spilling more of their drinks. “Sorry!” Toby pleads. “If I can’t kick, I have to tap.”

  Ted sops up the coffee and milk with a handful of napkins. “It’s okay, buddy.”

  “At school I have to sit on my hands and count.”

  Ted wonders if maybe Gina should take Toby to a pediatrician for this.

  “I only count to five, but really fast, like this: onetwothreefourfive, fivefourthreetwoone. There’s ceiling tiles in my classroom, which are good for counting. They have all these little holes in them, so I can count those, too. I can’t help it, but my lips move when I count. So Todd Francis says, ‘Who are you talking to, fuck face?’ He swears more than anyone at school. I told my dad about him. My dad said Todd’s going to work at Burger King and I’m going to be a CEO of a Fortune Five Hundred company.” Toby licks his chapped lips. “Do you think I could be a CEO?”

  “Not if we don’t work on these fractions. You’ll need them for your board presentations.”

  “Yeah, okay. I’m glad you’re gonna help me.” Toby’s earnestness kills Ted. “This is way better than the gym,” he adds. “My mom thinks I should be so happy because they have a swimming pool. But there are always screaming kids in there, and the grown-ups yell at you if you put, like, one toe in their lap lane. I like to hang out at the snack bar, where there’s A/C, and play my Game Boy, but she always wants me to go outside.” Toby slurps from his drink and looks around the café, nodding in time to the thrumming bass of a jazz CD. “We should study here all the time.”

  Ted leans across the table. “Listen, sport, I’m going to help you today, and maybe next week, but then—”

  “I know you dumped my mom.”

  “Well, I . . .” Ted doesn’t know what information Gina shared with Toby.

  “It’s a bummer because you were her best boyfriend.”

  “I really wasn’t—”

  “Her other boyfriends are total dorks. Her boyfriend Shane? He can’t even drive. He got a DIU.”

  “DUI.” Was Gina seeing these guys while she was seeing Ted? It’s arrogant to think that he alone could make her happy. Sleeping with these other guys, though?

  “Yeah, that’s Shane. He shows up in a taxi. What a derelict. You’re the only guy she’s dated who’s not a total loser. Then there’s Barry, who’s some kinda concert promoter. He knows Eminem, like that’s such a big deal. I could care less. He’s pretty nice to me, though. It’s weird—he treats me like everybody treats the popular kids at school. Trying to get them to like you and kind of afraid of them at the same time?”

  “Trying to win you over.” Ted pushes the sheet of fractions toward Toby.

  “Right. He’s got lots of money. His backseat is pretty cool. There are seat heaters and speakers and there’s a shade I can pull down. But, seriously? I think my mom likes you the most. Still.”

  “You know I’m married, Toby.” Ted can’t think fast enough to keep up with this kid. His tongue is burned from his drink and feels raw on the end.

  “I mean, the other guys are probably better looking than you, but I know she likes you the most. And I don’t think it’s just because you’re a doctor. I mean she talks about how you’re a doctor, but I think she just likes you the most.”

  “Your mother’s a very nice woman . . .” Ted’s not sure how to find h
is way back to the fractions.

  “Shane? He’s just plain crazy. He has to work days installing skylights with this other guy, ’cause he can’t make enough money playing in that stupid band. He’s always got insulation and junk all over his clothes. He drinks alcohol and he’s so crazy for my mom. When he calls, my mom says not to answer it anymore. We can see his loser name on the caller ID.”

  The blender whirs and the espresso maker hisses angrily. Ted raises his voice over the noise. “Okay, well we’ve got to think about this quiz tomorrow.” He flips to Toby’s test material. We know that 5/10 is equivalent to 1/2 since 1/2 times 5/5 is 5/10. Therefore, the decimal 0.5 is equivalent to 1/2 or 2/4 . . . He takes a deep breath.

  “Hey, how come you dated my mom if you’re married?” Toby narrows his eyes at Ted.

  “I made a mistake, Toby. My wife and I were having troubles. It was my fault. Your mother had nothing to do with it. Marriage is very difficult sometimes.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t know, since my parents never got married.”

  “I know, sport, but both your parents love you.”

  “Yeah? My mom said I’m a one-night-stand baby.”

  Ted doesn’t know how to put a positive spin on this bit of information. “She said that to you?”

  “No. But I heard her say it one time, to her girlfriend. What does that even mean?”

  “It just means that your mother and father only dated for a short time. Even though they don’t live together, they care about you very much.”

  “Yeah? Her whole life is a mistake.” Toby slams his math book shut and crosses his arms over his chest. “I want to live with my dad. You should help me write him a letter.”

  “Toby, we have to study right now. And you have to give your mother more of a chance. She’s trying hard to make you happy.”

  “Hey, bean sprout!” a voice calls out from across the café.

  Toby looks up, shudders, then slides down in his chair.

  Ted turns to see a hefty kid wearing a backward baseball cap lunging toward their table. “Whatcha doin’, Fruity Tofutti?”

  “That’s Jamie.” Toby lowers his voice, keeping his eyes on Ted. “He makes fun of my lunch.”

  Ted shoots Jamie-the-bully a scowl. The boy retreats into the gardening aisle. For a startling moment, Ted thinks he sees Kat perusing a large hardback with flowers on the front, but it’s another woman with similar short dark hair. The anxiety thrumming in Ted’s chest confirms that he shouldn’t be here without telling Elinor.

  “Try having a nutritionist pack your lunch,” Toby complains. “Whole wheat tortillas wrapped with tofu and junk. One time a bean sprout fell on the floor and now that’s what everybody calls me. And those protein bars? They look good, like candy, but they taste like piss. And the sad thing?” Toby starts with the kicking again. “She spends like an hour the night before making my lunch. Now I just throw it in the trash and use the money my dad sends me to buy lunch. But I’m out of money for this week.” Toby looks away, shrugging.

  “Have you explained this to your mom?”

  Toby shakes his head. “I can’t talk to her!”

  “Yes, you can.” Ted pulls his wallet out of his pocket. “Your mom’s a good listener, Toby. Just tell her what happened and I’m sure she’ll make you a different lunch or give you lunch money.” He hands Toby fifteen dollars. “For now, try not to worry so much.” Ted has forgotten how stressful being a kid can be. He feels sorry for Toby, having to transfer into Silicon Valley schools. They’re supposed to be among the best in the country, but they’re also freakishly competitive. High-tech, high-achiever parents pushing their kids to work like little CEOs.

  “This is just for lunch, okay, champ?” Toby pauses, then takes the money, folds it, and puts it in his wallet, which is blue nylon with Velcro. The inside flaps hold Toby’s school ID and a card that Gina has filled out with parent identification. ALLERGIC TO BEES, it says in her neat writing. Something about the flimsiness of the wallet tugs at Ted’s heart. It seems so precarious to send a kid out into the world every day to fend for himself.

  Ted buys a packet of index cards to make flash cards, and finally the two of them work their way through the fractions. On their way out of the store, he tells Toby to choose a book he’d like to buy. Toby picks a tome on medieval knights and armor. “Even the horses have armor,” he says with awe, running his fingers over a stallion on the cover.

  Ted picks up a newly published book on antioxidants. “Let’s get this for your mom.” Gina is big on antioxidants. “It can be from you.” He’s desperate to fill the gap between Gina and Toby, a gap he worries he’s falling into.

  Toby rocks from foot to foot. “I don’t want to get her anything.”

  Ted leans closer to the boy, inhaling his smell of sweat and erasers. “You have to be careful not to hurt your mother’s feelings. It makes her sad.”

  “I make her sad?” Toby kicks a table stacked high with cookbooks. “I make her sad?” He kicks the table again and the books topple over onto the floor. Clenching his fists at his sides, he scowls at Ted. “I make her sad!”

  “Sir!” a clerk scolds from behind the information desk. “Please ask your son to pick up those books.”

  The marriage counselor’s waiting room is a dark place Ted thought he’d never have to return to. It’s so calm and soothing, so empathetic. The Oriental carpet and flowery couches seem to say, We know you’re screwed. It’s okay. So long as you brought your checkbook. Suddenly he resents Dr. Brewster’s empathy. Ted and Elinor tell her how bad they feel, how screwed up things are, and she nods knowingly. These things happen. It’s okay that everything’s a mess!

  Ted and Elinor sit side by side on a rattan couch, as shy and nervous as two junior high students at a dance. Ted reaches for the tassels of frayed cotton fringing the holes in Elinor’s jeans. He rolls one between his fingers, finding it remarkably soft.

  “Your legs are tan,” he says.

  “From reading under the tree.”

  “Good.” In the hours leading up to this appointment they’ve been choosing their words carefully, as though looking for the least slippery rock to step on while crossing a stream.

  “You okay?” Ted asks her. “I mean, you look great.”

  Elinor’s wearing an old Talking Heads T-shirt and no bra. She looks rested—no circles under her eyes or lines creasing her brow.

  “Fine,” she says. She is not fine. They are not fine. Ted should stop asking stupid questions.

  Elinor stretches her legs out before her and bends her head down until her forehead reaches her knees. A dance student in college, she is still remarkably flexible. The room is quiet except for the tinkling of classical piano music coming from a boom box in the corner. A big potted plant sprawls behind it. Some kind of pointed thing with flowers. Ted can’t tell if it’s real. Elinor hates silk plants and Ted hates the fact that he can’t tell the difference. How are you supposed to know? He has the urge to hurl this one against the wall. Instead he cracks his knuckles.

  Once inside Dr. Brewster’s office, Ted watches El pull Kleenex after Kleenex—whoosh, whoosh, whoosh—out of the box on the table beside her. Although she rarely cries at home, once she’s behind this door, the dam breaks. She’s always been one to do the right thing in the right place—a talent for compartmentalizing that makes her good at her job.

  “It’s like it doesn’t affect you,” Elinor says, referring to the fact that they can’t have a baby. Ted can’t believe they haven’t even gotten to the affair yet.

  “Not true.” Maybe it’s time for him to finally speak up on this topic. “It didn’t affect me in the same way that it affected you, therefore you conclude that it didn’t affect me at all. That’s faulty reasoning.”

  “You should have been the lawyer.” Elinor looks away. “Anyway, I guess you fucked your way through the pain.” Elinor claims that swearing with abandon is one of the only things she likes about not having children.

  “I wanted a
daughter!” Ted leans toward her, catching her gaze. “I wanted a little girl.” He’d always been afraid to say this—as if being hopeful would bring bad karma.

  Elinor looks surprised. She lowers her voice. “See, I never knew that, because you don’t talk about it. You just want to turn back the clock or jump ahead without discussing anything.”

  “That’s because everything I say belittles your pain. The physical pain, which I’ll never experience. I’m not allowed to experience it in my own way, because I never put my feet in the stirrups.”

  The therapist nods. Ted feels as though he’s made a point in a tennis match. Deuce!

  A car splashes by on the street. It’s one of the few rainy days of summer. The air conditioner ticks and hums.

  “Oh,” Elinor finally says softly. “I see what you mean.” She is a compassionate listener. It’s another trait that makes her a good lawyer. In a way, this makes it hard being married to her. Because she listens carefully and looks for meaning in people’s words, Ted wishes he were more profound.

  “The thing to understand,” Dr. Brewster says in her hushed voice, “is that big events, such as an illness or the loss of a baby, or infertility, touch people in very different ways. A man and a woman may react and cope entirely differently. You become angry with your partner for not seeming to be as sad as you are, even though this is rarely the case. Ironically, this causes a rift between people when they need each other most.”

  Elinor is weeping again, balling up Kleenex in her hands.

  “Infertility and infidelity are two huge topics to address in a marriage,” the therapist adds.

  Elinor nods. The therapist nods. Their consensus hangs heavy in the air. Ted wishes they could open a window.