Melanie Gideon - Wife 22

“Poor baby,” I say.

“Not necessarily,” says Bunny. “It’s only excruciating because for most of us the devastations happen in private, behind closed doors. When you’re a playwright, it all happens out in the open. But there’s a real opportunity there, you see? To take that ride publicly? Everybody gets to see you fall, but everyone also gets to see you rise. There’s nothing like a comeback.”

“What if you just fall and fall and fall?” I ask, thinking of William’s Facebook postings.

“Not possible; not if you stay with it. Eventually you’ll stand.”

We’re only three people away from the bar. I’m desperate for a drink. What’s taking so long? I hear the woman at the front of the line admonishing the bartender for not stocking Grey Goose and I freeze. That voice sounds familiar. When I hear the woman asking if they have grüner veltliner and the bartender suggesting perhaps she consider going with the house chardonnay, I groan. It’s Mrs. Norman, the druggie mother.

I have the sudden urge to dart behind a pillar and hide, then I think, why should I hide? I haven’t done anything wrong. Stand erect, Alice. I hear my father’s voice in my head. My slumping gets especially pronounced when I’m nervous.

“Sutter Creek, can you believe it?” Mrs. Norman says, as she turns around and catches sight of me.

I give her a half-smile and nod while standing perfectly erect.

“Well, hello,” she says sweetly. “Darling, look, it’s the draaama teacher. From Carisa’s school.”

Mr. Norman stands about a foot shorter than Mrs. Norman.

He extends his hand. “Chet Norman,” he says nervously.

“Alice Buckle,” I say. I quickly introduce Bunny, Jack, and William, and then step out of line to talk to them.

“I’m sorry I missed Charlotte’s Web . I heard it was quite the performance,” says Mr. Norman.

“Um-I guess it was,” I say, trying not to wince. I still feel as though that production was a major miscalculation on my part.

“So,” says Mrs. Norman. “Attend the theater often?”

“Oh, yes. All the time. It’s part of my work, isn’t it? To see plays.”

“How nice for you,” says Mrs. Norman.

The lights flicker on and off.

“Well,” I say.

“Carisa just loves you,” Mr. Norman says, his voice breaking.

“Really?” I say, locking eyes with Mrs. Norman.

The lights flicker again, a little faster this time.

“I’m sorry,” he says, sticking out his hand again. “I’m really very sorry.”

“Chet,” warns Mrs. Norman.

“We’ve held you up,” he says.

“Oh, dear. I’m afraid you’ll have to swig your wine,” says Mrs. Norman as William walks toward us with my drink.

I look at her, all arch and glitter and condescension, and honest to God have to hold myself back from pinching a pretend joint between my thumb and index finger and pretend-puffing away on it.

“Carisa is a wonderful girl,” I say to Mr. Norman. “I’m very fond of her, too.”

“This play is crap, Chet,” says Mrs. Norman, considering her glass of wine. “As is this swill. Let’s skip the second half.”

“But that would be rude, honey,” whispers Mr. Norman. “You just don’t walk out at intermission at the theater, do you?” he asks me. “Is that-done?”

Oh, I like Chet Norman. William joins us and hands me a glass of wine.

“I don’t think there are any hard-and-fast rules,” I say.

“Are you having a nice summer, Mrs. Buckle?” asks Mrs. Norman.

“Lovely, thank you.”

“That’s nice,” says Mrs. Norman.

Then she abruptly turns away and walks toward the exit.

“A pleasure to meet you,” Mr. Norman calls out as he trots after her.

The second half of the play is even worse than the first, but I’m glad we stick it out. For me it’s desensitization therapy-where you gradually inject the patient with a bit of the substance the person has an allergy to, in my case, public failure, so the person learns to tolerate the substance without the body overreacting. I feel deeply for the playwright. I’m sure she’s here, sitting in the wings or maybe even in the back of the theater. I wish I knew who she was. If I did, I would find her. I would tell her to let it wash over her, to feel it all, to not run from it. I would tell her that people would eventually forget. It might feel like the experience would kill her, but it wouldn’t. And one morning, maybe a month, or six months, or a year, or five years from now, she’d wake up and notice the way the light streamed through the curtains and the smell of coffee descended upon the house, like a blanket. And on that morning she’d sit down and confront the blank page. And she’d know she had arrived at the beginning again, and it was a new day.

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Sweden and conditions of utmost ease and luxury

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Cair Paravel

Ah, Sweden-land of utmost ease and luxury. Is that where you’ve been hiding? Haven’t heard from you in a while, Researcher 101.

Maybe that’s because you insist on living in a castle. I imagine the cell service must be quite spotty at Cair Paravel. Did you take your husband to the Daniel Craig movie?

I did.

I took my wife, too.

Did she like it?

She liked it, although she gets annoyed by the way DC is constantly pursing his lips.

I agree with her. It’s irritating.

Maybe he can’t help it. Maybe his lips just go that way.

So the effort is going well with your wife?

We’re a work in progress, but yes, slow progress.

Do you still think about me?

Yes.

All the time?

Yes, although I’m trying not to.

I think that’s a good idea.

What?

That you try not to think about me.

What about you?

Are you asking if I think about you?

Yes.

I’m going to take a pass on that question. Is the survey over?

It can be if you want it to be.

Do I still get my $1,000?

Of course.

I don’t want it.

Are you sure?

It just seems wrong given what’s happened.

I wasn’t lying, you know.

About what?

I did fall for you.

Thank you for saying that.

If I hadn’t been married…

And if I hadn’t been married…

We never would have met.

Online.

Yes, online.

Bunny and I are sitting at the kitchen table, working our way through a bowl of pistachios and a pile of scripts, when Peter walks in with a friend.

“Do we have any pizza rolls?” he asks.

“No, but we have Hot Pockets.”

“You’re kidding,” he says, his eyes aglow.

“Yes, I am,” I say. “Do you think your father would allow that kind of junk food in the house?”

I extend my hand to his friend.

“I’m Peter’s mother, Alice Buckle. If it was up to me we’d have a freezer full of Hot Pockets, but since we don’t, I can offer you Wasa crackers with almond butter. I’m sorry, I wish I had Skippy, but that’s on the blacklist, too. I think there are a few hard-boiled eggs in the fridge if you’re allergic to nuts.”

“Should I call you Alice or Mrs. Buckle?” he asks.