American Wife

toward nothingness, and I knew the impulse was far more dangerous now; I had the responsibilities of an adult and above all was in charge of Ella’s wellbeing. But how soothing it would be to give up, to sleepwalk—to quit trying with Charlie, or expecting him to try with me.

Jadey said, “You might disagree, but I think my husband needs to work a little harder to win back my affection.”

We both were quiet—the storm clouds were long gone, sun shone through the leaves of the trees, the blades of grass glistened, and the locusts buzzed extravagantly—and I said, “Do you really enjoy playing these games with him?”

“Listen, not all of us have your perfect marriage.”

“Are you being sarcastic?” This was a far sharper exchange than the ones Jadey and I usually had, and I think both of us were surprised that it was still gaining momentum.

Carefully—it was to Jadey’s credit that the exchange did then begin to lose force—she said, “I didn’t mean to step in a prickly patch. I just meant that you have it easier than some of us.”

And then I did it, I burst into tears, and Jadey said, “God almighty, what did I say? Oh, sweet Jesus.” I had stopped walking and brought my hands up to my face, and she patted my back. “Alice, you know I love you to pieces. Is this about your poor granny or what?”

I wiped my eyes. “You think I have it easy?”

“Your husband worships the ground you walk on. Yeah, so Chas probably does drink too much, but you’ve got to pick your poison. At least you’re still hopelessly in love.”

“Jadey, I’m—I’m thinking of leaving him. Our marriage is far from perfect.”

“Leaving him like divorce?”

“I don’t know. I don’t even know how it works. Would I move out of the house or would he?” Speaking these words aloud to Jadey marked the first moment I had truly, realistically considered ending my marriage. For months, I had heard whispers—separation, divorce—and though it had seemed that they were carried to me on the wind, they were really coming from inside my own head. Even so: They’d been abstract ideas, escapes of last resort. “Or facing Maj, think about that,” I added. (Though I did not, could not, call her Maj to her face, I was perfectly capable of using the nickname when discussing her with others. Not to would have been overly formal, drawing attention to myself.) “She’d be furious with me. I almost feel like she wouldn’t let it happen, you know what I mean?”

“She doesn’t control us,” Jadey said. “Yeah, I know exactly what you mean, but when you get down to it, there’s nothing she can do besides cut you out of her will.” Was I even in Priscilla’s will? I doubted it, though Jadey’s point did raise the question of what shape my finances might take. Would I receive alimony? Would I be able to afford a house in this area, even a modestone, and in any case, how many modest houses existed in Maronee? Did anyone a round here rent? I’d get a job, of course, and in some ways, that might be a good thing, but supporting myself and Ella (that I wouldn’t have primary custody of her was unimaginable) when both of us were used to a decidedly privileged way of life would be a far cry from supporting myself as a single woman in Madison.

“Okay, what if Chas gets treatment for his drinking?” Jadey said. “What’s that place in Minnesota called? He could go there.”

“He won’t do that.” Would living the rest of my life with Charlie’s moodiness be worse than splitting up? Divorce, when I thought it through, sounded dreadful—doable but dreadful. “We’re going to Princeton on Friday,” I said. “Maybe it’ll help to get away from here for a few days.”

“Oh, good God, you have Reunions?” Jadey looked horrified. “Alice, all anyone does there is drink. You know that. Don’t make any decisions while you’re there.”

I gestured in front of us. “Should we keep walking?”

As we headed forward on the asphalt path, Jadey said, “Wait, it’s his twentieth, isn’t it? God almighty, Arthur’s baby brother is twenty years out of college—when did we get so old?” Her voice contained the usual dose of Jadey hyperbole, but beneath it was a note of plaintive sincerity. Then she said, “Alice, you two can’t divorce, you just can’t.” When I didn’t respond, she said, “Because I don’t think I can be a Blackwell without you.”

ELLA AND I were in the kitchen when Charlie arrived home from work on Tuesday, and as soon as I heard him close the front door, I nudged her. “Go give Daddy a hug.” In the twenty-four hours since the Suttons’ departure, Charlie’s and my interactions had been guarded but not outright hostile. We hadn’t spoken on the phone during the day, which was unusual but not unprecedented; though he tended to call in the midafternoon, it was possible he’d been busy with the Brewers transaction. The thought had crossed my mind to do something festive for him, to make a cake in the shape of a baseball, perhaps, but I felt too stung by what had happened the day before to go to the trouble.

Ella took off at a gallop, shouting, “Oh, dearest Father, say hello to your wonderful and beautiful daughter.”

This was just as I’d hoped—that her exuberance might compensate for my lack of it. But when Charlie entered the kitchen, I knew before he spoke a word that the deal hadn’t gone through. “Lloyd Reisman’s a fucking weasel,” he said. He loosened his tie and took a seat, and Ella promptly sat on his lap and began pulling on his earlobes; she didn’t react to his swearing, which had lost its novelty years before.

Charlie brushed Ella’s hands away. “He’s reneging on what he told Langenbacher, pulling this crap about how much we have to pay up front. Bunch of bullshit.” Charlie shook his head. “I need a drink.”

“So what happens next?”

“I have half a mind to tell him he can go fuck himself. He thinks he’s getting another offer like this one, he’s sorely mistaken.”

“Do Zeke and Cliff agree?”

Charlie sneered. “Cliff is ready to bend over and spread his cheeks for Reisman. Langenbacher says we should wait a few days, starve him out, but I don’t like having this stuff unresolved. Sell us the goddamn team or don’t, but don’t keep us in limbo.”

“But Reisman’s not the one delaying things, is he? If he’s saying he wants you to pay more on signing, and Zeke Langenbacher is refusing to—”