American Wife

Mrs. Blackwell turned to Charlie. “I’ll bet you wish it were marijuana,” she said, and there was a note of pride in her voice that thickened as she added, addressing me, “My sons are incorrigibly naughty, except for Eddie, who’s straight as a ruler. Charlie tells me you’re from Riley, so you must know the Zurbrugg family.”

I nodded. “I went all through school with Fred.” The Zurbruggs were the richest people in Riley, maybe the only rich people—they owned one of the largest dairy farms in the state, and of course it had been Fred’s party that I was driving to the night of my accident.

Mrs. Blackwell said, “Ada Zurbrugg’s gladiola are the envy of our Garden Club in Milwaukee. We don’t know what her trick is. But such a shame about Geraldine, isn’t it? She was the most darling child.”

“Did something—?” I hesitated. Geraldine was Fred’s older sister, and if a great misfortune had befallen her, I wasn’t aware of it.

“Well, she’s fat as a house!” Mrs. Blackwell exclaimed. “She must weigh two hundred and fifty pounds! It’s absolutely tragic.”

“I haven’t seen her for a few years.”

“If ever the bikini should be made illegal . . . ” Mrs. Blackwell laughed merrily. “Alice, I’m putting you in Itty- Bitty. Chas, help her settle in, and do explain about the lav.” She turned back to me. “Halcyon can be a bit rustic, but I’m sure you don’t mind roughing it. Are you a singles or a doubles girl?”

It took me a few seconds to figure out what she was referring to. “Oh, I don’t play tennis.” I smiled ruefully. “Charlie told me about the tournament, though, and it sounds like a fun tradition.”

“If you don’t play tennis, what on earth do you do?” She was feigning confusion when I’m sure she wasn’t confused at all. Shrewdness emanated from her.

“Well—” I paused. Was her question rhetorical or literal? No one spoke, and I said, “I enjoy reading.” For the first time in this exchange, I did not strain to seem positive and sincere; I simply spoke, because I could see already that Priscilla Blackwell was a person who would hate you for trying to convince her you were good enough. She might hate you for not trying, too, but probably less so.

Charlie set one hand on my back. “Alice is a genius,” he said. “She’s read every book there is.” If the statement was absurd, it was also sweet. He added, “I hear Ginger has a migraine?”

Mrs. Blackwell snorted. “Ginger is a patsy.” She looked at her watch. “Drinks will be at six sharp, and we’ll leave for the clubhouse at seven-twenty.” She was looking at me again when she added, “You’ll want to change for dinner.”

ITTY-BITTY CONTAINED two sets of bunk beds, a mini-refrigerator (Charlie helped himself to another beer from it as soon as we walked inside), and a closet in which nothing hung except bare wire hangers; there was, of course, no bathroom. Of the four mattresses, only one was made up: tightly pulled white sheets, a single pillow in a white pillowcase, a maroon wool blanket folded at the foot of the bed.

Charlie sat on the blanket, hunched forward so he didn’t hit his head on the top bunk, as I hung my clothes. “This is ideal,” he said. “I was worried she’d put you in with some squawking niece or nephew, but you’ve got privacy so you can read, sleep in . . . ” He grinned. “Entertain midnight visitors.”

“Don’t count on it.” I slid a blouse onto a hanger. “I don’t want to risk getting caught by your mom. You’ve brought other girlfriends to Halcyon, haven’t you?”

“Is that code for how many girls have I slept with? You can ask me that.”

“It wasn’t code, but now that you mention it—”

“Eleven,” he said. “Before you, I mean. You’re twelve. What about you—how many dudes?”

“Counting you, four.” I set my white pumps on the closet floor.

“Really, four?” Charlie seemed surprised.

“What did you think?”

“The brother of the fellow in high school, and me, and—”

“I dated Wade Trommler during college, and a few years ago a guy named Simon.”

“You made the beast with two backs with Trombone Trommler? You were boned by the Trombone?” Charlie seemed not at all jealous but greatly amused. “That’s priceless. Oh, man, Wade has to be, hands down, the dullest man on the planet. Don’t get me wrong, he’s as nice as they come, but duller than dishwater. How was he?”

“Why do you want to talk about this?” During a recent badminton game at the Hickens’, Wade and Charlie had been on the same team, but I no longer thought of Wade as my ex-boyfriend; I simply thought of him as Rose’s husband.

“Does that mean he was bad or good?” Charlie asked.

“He was fine,” I said. “You’re right that he’s nice, and you’re right that he’s dull.”

“He was no Charlie Blackwell?”

I walked to Charlie and wrapped my arms around him. He was still sitting, and he nuzzled his face against my chest. “There’s only one Charlie Blackwell,” I said, and I couldn’t help adding, “Thank goodness.”

“And this other fellow, Simon who?”

“His last name is Tornkvist. I’m sure you don’t know him. He was kind of a hippie and a very serious person.”

“What about in the sack?”

“Charlie, come on.”

“I’m trying to get a sense of the full Lindy. To move into the future together, we must also honor our past.”