American Wife

I HAD THOUGHT

I’d leave shortly after the food was served, but we started a game of charades that was lengthy and quite a lot of fun and, just before my team’s last turn, Dena pressed up against me, her lips at my ear, and said, “I’m gonna be sick.” I pulled her arm around my neck and placed my own arm at her waist, and I walked us briskly into the house; at the two steps leading up to the deck, she stumbled a little, and I hoped that the other guests were preoccupied by the game. It was after nine o’clock, still over eighty degrees and only now getting dark. The mosquitoes were out, but Kathleen Hicken had lit a few citronella candles that were semi-successfully keeping them at bay.

In the first-floor bathroom, I lifted the toilet seat and said, “Lean over it.” Already, Dena had arranged herself so she was supine on the floor, her head as far from the bowl as possible. “Come on, Dena,” I said. “You need to cooperate.”

“How is it we’re thirty-one years old and neither of us has a husband or children?” she slurred. “I was supposed to have

three

children by now. Mindy and Alexander and—What was I planning to call the other one?”

“I don’t remember,” I said.

“Don’t

tell

me that.” She was as petulant as my students, the first-or second-graders, when it had been too long since their last snack. “You do remember!”

“Tracy?” I said.

“Tracy’s not a special name.”

“Dena, if you’re going to throw up, you need to lean over the toilet. Can you take my hand and I’ll lift you?” Dena hadn’t gone up for charades in several turns, but even so, if she was this drunk, I was surprised not to have noticed outside. In an uncharacteristic act of compliance, she raised both her arms, and I tugged on them until she was sitting up. “Scoot your behind forward,” I said.

“You haven’t even been married once,” she said.

“You know what, Dena, I’m all right with that.”

She looked at me, her eyes glassy. “But you’ve been pregnant. Do you ever wish you’d kept the baby?” It had been only a couple of years earlier that I’d finally told Dena about my long-ago abortion; she was the first person I’d ever mentioned it to, and she seemed to see it as considerably less significant than I did. She said, “At TWA, I knew a girl who had three.”

In the Hickens’ bathroom, I said, “Dena, do you want me to help you here or not?”

“Did I ever tell you, when you were dating Simon, I used to picture him having a really long, thin penis. Because, you know, he was such a long, thin person.”

This was not actually inaccurate, but I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of saying so.

“Have you ever noticed,” she continued, “that every time we see Rose Trommler, she’s either gained or lost twenty pounds?”

“She does look a little heavy tonight,” I admitted.

“It’s like Superman going into the phone booth. She walks out of the room a size six, and she walks back in a size twelve.” Dena belched then, and I was crouched so near her that it was a warm, sour wind on my face.

“Come on, Dena! Be considerate. Should I wait outside?”

“Here it comes,” she said, and at last she did lean properly over the toilet bowl. We both were quiet.

Perhaps a minute had passed, and I said, “It’s Theresa. That’s your other daughter’s name. I just remembered.”

Dena seemed about to respond, but instead, she belched again, a smaller belch that seemed unequal as a harbinger to the monstrous chunky gush that erupted from inside her. I held her hair back and looked away as she finished retching. Working with children had made me less squeamish—they were constantly presenting their grubby hands to you, having accidents—but at some point, disgusting was still disgusting. Especially with an adult woman.

I flushed the toilet, and when the water had resettled, Dena spat a few times into it. Her voice was matter-of- fact, already more sober, when she said, “Charlie Blackwell doesn’t like me.” She stood, turned on the faucet, cupped one hand beneath the stream, and brought her hand to her mouth. When she’d swallowed, she said, “He seems like a guy you’d meet on the East Coast more than someone from around here. Real full of himself.”

“I just talked to him briefly,” I said.

“Another Saturday night down the crapper, huh?” She almost but didn’t quite smile.

“This isn’t the time to analyze your life,” I said. “Let me thank the Hickens and I’ll drive us home.”

“I need to lie down.” She opened the bathroom door, and I followed her into the living room. The Madeline book was still on the sofa, and I moved it to an ottoman. I would have preferred for us to leave instead of me waiting while Dena passed out, which I felt reflected badly on both of us.

But Kathleen Hicken seemed practically tickled when I found her in the kitchen and told her that Dena wasn’t feeling well and was resting. “Must be the sign of a successful party,” Kathleen said.

“I’ll give her half an hour,” I said.

“Oh, jeez, leave her until morning.” Kathleen waved a hand through the air. “You don’t want to wrestle her into bed by yourself.”

“Really?” I bit my lip. “If you honestly don’t mind, then I can walk home tonight and give her car keys to you so