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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,
Thedeeperpleasuresofleavingandreturning. 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.
Alicehadaverybadday. William thinks tomorrowwillbebetter.
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.”
“Underconsideration 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 beaniebaby,” 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.”
