The Pretend Wife (18 page)

“That would be a disaster.”

“I know.”

The girls were clumping at the different tables now—the seating arrangements were highly ritualized and hierarchical. They buzzed around each other, stood up, moved over, sat down again, the combinations coming together, falling apart, rejoining in different constellations.

“You just have to go cold turkey,” Faith said. “Don't let everything fall apart.”

“What if life isn't held together to begin with, so trying to hold it together is impossible?” I asked her.

She laughed. “Life
is
held together,” she said. “It might only be held together with a bunch of rigged-up ropes, but we keep checking the knots, making sure that everything's holding. We have to.”

After telling Elliot just that morning not to call me, not to have any contact at all except on the occasion of his mother's death, I called him. I was on my way home from the creamery—I'd ordered a scoop of ice cream and it sat melting in its waxy cup. I pulled over into a development of boxy 1940s-style houses to make the call.

“Hello,” Elliot said. His voice was deep and soft and a little frayed at its edges. I thought of his mouth and his white teeth and his jaw. It happened that quickly, his whole body appearing in my mind.

“Hi, it's me.”

“I thought we were under strict orders …”

“Peter is going to ask you to play a round of golf with him and some of his buddies.”

“That's thoughtful of him!” Elliot said, as if unaware of the possible awkwardness.

“I want you to be busy.”

“I might be busy. What date is he looking at?”

“I'm not calling as his scheduling secretary.”

“Oh? Really?”

“Really.” I fiddled nervously with some papers, picked up a stack, and tapped them into order.

“You want me to decline the invitation.”

“Yes,” I said definitively. “But no!”

“Which one? Yes or no?”

“You can't decline outright, because that would be suspicious.”

“Declining outright would be suspicious, how exactly?”

“He thinks something happened.”

“Something did happen.”

“Listen! Just say you'd love to and then later say you can't.”

“This is complicated. How about I just go?”

“Do you even play golf?”

“I did a few times in high school. My friend, Barry Mercheson, his parents were members of this club and he caddied. We drove the carts around, mostly. It was before I had my driver's license so …”

“This isn't funny,” I said.

“How about I go,” he said. “And just have fun and play some golf.”

“Okay,” I said. “Fine. Play golf. Just don't do that thing where you're so earnest.”

“I'll try to play a dis-earnest game of golf.”

“Promise!”

“I promise. I'll be completely lacking all earnesty. And by earnesty should I mean honesty?”

“Keep both of them in your back pocket.” I paused a moment. “How's your mother?”

“Can I be earnest now?”

“Yes,” I said. “And honest too.”

“She's still alive, but I already miss her.”

I
WAS ON EDGE
,
YES
, and watchful, observant. I was in my life and taking mental notes on it at the same time. I was waking up in the morning, opening my eyes to the sun, and then realizing that I was awake, that I was a woman in a bed, a wife. This was my foot, touching my husband's foot. I would floss and see a wife flossing. I would say good morning to Peter in the kitchen, and he would be talking about grain cereals versus sugar cereals and the obesity epidemic, and corn syrup, and I'd see how I responded, nodding, agreeing, pouring milk into grain cereal, wishing it were soaked in corn syrup. He'd say something funny and I'd say something funny. It wasn't the same as cooking with Elliot. This was merely banter. We took turns. Was that marriage? Taking turns?

I'd put the photograph that Vivian had given me in the upper reaches of my closet. I felt guilty about hiding it, but also guilty about having it. And yet, from time to time, I found myself pulling it down and looking at it and thinking of Vivian and my own mother and how my mother was keeping watch over me. But what did she want me
to do? I wondered. What did she expect of me? I didn't know.

I'd decided not to bring up golfing with Elliot, hoping it was just something Peter had said to rattle me. But then one morning I was getting ready for work and Peter was in his shorts and collared polo shirt, and a pair of old saddle-shoe golf spikes—the old kind with metal spikes that clacked even more loudly on the hardwood floors.

“You're golfing today?” I asked, dousing my coffee with half-and-half.

“With Hull, like I said.”

“I didn't know you were serious about that.” I was a wife stirring coffee.

“Why wouldn't I be serious?” he asked. “Have you seen my watch?” Peter was terrible at looking for things. He was now standing in the middle of the living room with his hands on his hips, in a posture of defeat, glancing around.

“Try the bedside table,” I said. He strode off to the bedroom. I called out loudly, “Where did you get those golf shoes? They look ancient.”

“Oh, these, they're my father's. I had to borrow them.” He returned, watchless. “It wasn't there. Do you think it just disappeared?”

“No,” I said. “What happened to your spikes?”

“I tried to make a shot out of the pond on the seventeen. Stumbled a little, up to my ankles. They dried all misshapen.”

“Oh.”

“It's okay,” he said. “I took a stroke and still parred the hole.” He had his golf bag now up on one shoulder. “I've given up on the watch. Let me know if you find it,” by which he meant,
Could you find it for me?

“Have fun,” I said.

“I will,” he said, kissing me distractedly on the cheek. “I will.” Was this what marriage relied on? Gestures of love? Perfunctory repetitions of kindnesses that make up for emptiness by being plentiful and reliable? I could still hear Elliot's mother saying, “Marriage is a crock.” Hadn't people lived side by side for years, drawing on these kindnesses so that they had the strength to make it through the unkind world? Didn't these small kindnesses—like the little loving jabs passed between Dr. and Mrs. Fogelman—keep people alive? Maybe people were too demanding of love these days. Too entitled to some romantic vision of it. I was raised in a kind of Great Depression of Love. I didn't go around demanding a bigger share. Shouldn't we all be more contented? Why so greedy? Why did I want to be with Elliot Hull? Why did I think about him all the time? While living my life, while observing myself living my life, I was also wondering what it would be like if I were with Elliot—in this small moment and that. Didn't I have enough? Didn't I have more than anyone should ask for? I thought: What if I were with Elliot right now? I wouldn't have to think this much about it. I could stop being a scientist—it was beginning to become a habit—a science project that was studying me.

 

On the way home from work, I thought of Elliot and Peter bumping along the golf course in a white motorized cart, swinging their clubs, putting on the greens. Had Elliot really not played since high school? Was he out there making a fool of himself? Was Peter showing off? He was an excellent golfer. He'd once brought home five thousand dollars in some amateur tournament with a friend
from college. Mainly, I imagined them talking about the weekend, Peter inching ever-so-jokingly toward some mention of me as Elliot's pretend wife, about conjugal rights or something.

If Eila was right and life wasn't held together by anything anyway, I decided to just leave it alone. I made a decision not to ask about how the game went and that I wouldn't call Elliot about it. I'd just let it sit.

But when I got home from work—a little early due to a snafu; a couple had decided to sell their house and then to divorce and each thought the other should pay for staging— I found Elliot sitting on my sofa, drinking a beer, his foot in a bucket of ice, his pant leg cuffed to his knee. I was stunned. I hadn't known if I'd ever see him again, but here he was, in the flesh, his dark curly hair, his arched eyebrows, and sweet dark eyes. I felt guilty all of a sudden, as if I'd conjured him myself out of a pure desire to see him again.

“What are you doing here?” I asked. “What happened?”

Peter then walked in from the kitchen, holding our plastic automatic ice-maker bucket. “An unfortunate run-in with a sprinkler head,” Peter said and then dumped the rest of the ice into the bucket. Elliot braced and grabbed his thigh. Ripken was being a steadfast nurse, lying at his feet, dutifully. “And bad timing on the part of a rogue squirrel.”

“I flew out of the cart,” Elliot said.

“Well, he didn't really fly,” Peter said. “He's wingless.”

I walked up and saw a gash on Elliot's shin. He lifted the leg and showed me his swollen ankle. “I never saw the squirrel,” he said.

“You were looking the other way,” Peter said. “He was fast. It was a knee-jerk reaction to swerve.”

“Start at the beginning,” I said.

Elliot looked at Peter, giving him the floor.

Peter took a swig of beer. “Well, we were traveling downhill, at a good clip. Elliot and I were just chatting it up. And he was looking off at those big fat houses. Well, you're never out there, but there are these beautiful old homes. Then the squirrel darted in front of the cart. I swerved. Elliot wasn't holding on …”

“I wasn't holding on,” Elliot said, as if to say
How was I supposed to know to hold on?

“And he flew out of the cart …”

“Even though I'm wingless.”

“And he landed pretty hard, twisting his ankle,” Peter said. “Then he gashed his leg on a sprinkler head. No way to see any of this coming. No way.”

“Nope,” Elliot said, shaking his head. “It's a mysterious chain of events. I can say that I never did see the squirrel.”

“That squirrel was crazy,” Peter said. “Darting out in front of me like that. Jim saw it.”

“Did he?” Elliot asked.

“Yep.”

“I'll get some peroxide,” I said.

“No, no,” Elliot said, wincing and pulling his foot from the bucket. “I'm fine. I'll fix it up at home. I'm going to go.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” I said. “You can't drive with a puffed ankle like that.”

“It's my left foot,” he said, unrolling the pant leg and picking up his shoe, the sock balled up inside of it. He could barely look at me. His eyes kept sweeping the floor. I had the feeling that he was afraid to look at me. What
would happen if he did? Was there something he wanted to tell me? “I'll be fine,” he said. “I drove here.”

“I insisted on helping him get set up with ice, some Vicodin, a remote control,” Peter said. “I feel really bad about this, like it's all my fault.”

Elliot gave him a glance, as if to say,
If it's not your fault, whose is it?
But quickly followed it with, “I'm fine.” He picked up his keys and wallet and limped to the door, still holding his shoe.

“You're not fine,” I said. I wasn't sure what conversation had taken place in the golf cart, but I knew that Elliot hadn't told Peter anything about us. Peter was too lighthearted. “I'll help you to the car,” I said, grabbing his shoe.

“Sorry it didn't work out,” Peter said. “Maybe next time …”

“I'll be right back,” I said to Peter.

“What am I going to do with all of this wasted ice?” he said, standing in the middle of the living room.

I shut the door and caught up with Elliot, who'd already pushed the elevator button.

“Wow,” he said. “That sucked.”

The elevator doors opened. We stepped in.

“I'm so sorry,” I said, pushing the button for the lobby. “Was Peter awful to you?”

“There was no squirrel,” he said. “And …” His sentence stalled and he shook his head.

“What?”

“I don't know,” he said, closing his eyes and resting his back against the wall of the elevator. “I should tell you …”

“What?”

“Nothing,” he whispered.

We walked out of the lobby, into the back parking lot.
I was apologizing all the way—for Peter, for his friends who could also be jerks, for the lack of a squirrel. I spotted Elliot's jalopy, the one he'd bought off the friend who was in California now. I unlocked the door for him, put his shoe in the passenger's seat. He lowered himself into the driver's seat. “Gwen,” he said.

“Yes?”

“I don't know how I'm going to do this.”

“Do what?”

“Lose you again. You'd think that the practice round in college would have warmed me up, prepared me somehow, but it's worse this time. How could it be so much worse?”

I was standing in the open door of his car. I said, “I don't want to be lost,” I said. “I have no choice.”

“You do have a choice.”

“I made a commitment.”

“But has he?”

“What?”

“Nothing,” he said. “I'm just looking for loopholes.” He winced as if he'd just had a pain shoot through his ankle, then shook his head. “I love you. I just want you to know that.”

I loved him too, but this was the difference between us; I didn't want him to know—not how much I felt, how strongly—the way, even in this moment, he made me feel weak and a little short of breath. “I don't want to be lost,” I said again. This was as close as I could come.

 

A few minutes later, I was back in the apartment. Peter had dumped the ice. Later, when I went to take a shower, I'd find the hardened lump of cubes cluttered in the drain
of the tub. He was talking on the phone. He was saying, “Yes, yes. Sure. Got it,” talking in the shorthand you use for people at work. When he hung up, I said, “A rogue squirrel?”

He shrugged. “Jim saw it too. A rogue squirrel. He's lucky it wasn't a goose. They're all over that course and I've seen them attack a man when he's down.”

“So Elliot is lucky?” I said. “So lucky he got thrown from a golf cart and ripped up by a sprinkler head and twisted his ankle?”

“Hey,” Peter said. “It's a sport, you know. Golf is. Things happen.”

“It's a geriatric sport,” I said, staring at him, baffled.

“There's an undeniable physicality. You'd be surprised how many golf injuries I end up seeing.”

“People dislocating their hip replacements doesn't really count!” We were veering way off topic. Peter was very good at this distraction technique. It didn't matter in this case, though. I was already resigned to letting it go. “I don't want to talk about it,” I said.

“He's a terrible golfer. I don't know when I've ever seen someone that bad. He doesn't swing as much as he's like trying to screw himself into the ground.”

“I don't want to talk about it.”

Peter sat down on the sofa with a grunt. “He'd be lucky to eventually be good enough to
develop
a snap-hook. He shot a 114 and he shaved!” He was borderline gleeful now.

“I said I really don't want to talk about it!” I shouted, walking to the bedroom.

“Getting thrown from the cart is a rite of passage, Gwen,” Peter explained, “and he didn't even get that part right.”

I stopped in the middle of the hallway and turned and walked back into the living room. “So you threw him from the cart on purpose?” I said.

“No,” he said, “not really. There was a squirrel.”

“Mmhm,” I said. “Okay, then I really don't want to talk about this—at all.”

“Okay,” he said. “I don't either, then.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”