Wife 22. Melanie Gideon

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 <[email protected]>

      Subject: Answers

      Date: May 10, 5:50 AM

      To: researcher101 <[email protected]>

      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 <[email protected]>

      Subject: Re: Answers

      Date: May 10, 9:46 AM

      To: Wife 22 <[email protected]>

      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 <[email protected]>

      Subject: Re: Answers

      Date: May 10, 10:45 AM

      To: researcher101 <[email protected]>

      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 <[email protected]>

      Subject: Re: Answers

      Date: May 10, 11:01 AM

      To: Wife 22 <[email protected]>

      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.”