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.”
“So why are you talking to me? Call 9-1-1!”
“This is Oakland. It’ll take the cops forty-five minutes to get here.”
Nedra pauses. “Not if you tell them somebody’s been shot.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Trust me, they’ll be there in five minutes.”
“How do you know that?”
“There’s a reason I get paid 425 bucks an hour.”
I don’t call 9-1-1-I’m a very bad liar, especially when it comes to lying about somebody I love bleeding out- instead I crawl on my hands and knees to the front window and peer out the crack in the curtains, my cell in my hand. My plan is to snap a photo of the perp and email it to the Oakland police. But the perp turns out to be my husband, who peels out of the driveway before I can get to my feet.
He doesn’t return until 10:00 that evening, at which point he walks through the front door weaving. Clearly he’s been drinking.
“I’ve been demoted,” he says, collapsing onto the couch. “I’ve got a new job title. Want to know what it is?”
I think of his recent Facebook posts,
“Ideator.” William looks at me expressionlessly.
“
He picks up the remote and turns on the TV. “No. It means asshole who feeds ideas to the creative director.”
“William, shut off the TV. Are you sure? And why aren’t you more upset? Maybe you’re mistaken.”
William presses the mute button. “The new creative director was my ideator until yesterday. Yes, I’m sure. And what good does it do to be upset?”
“So you can do something about it!”
“There’s nothing to do. It’s decided. It’s done. Do we have any Scotch? The good stuff. Single malt?” William looks completely shut down, his face vacant.
“I can’t believe it! How could they do this to you after all these years?”
“The Band-Aid account. Conflict of interest. I believe in fresh air, Neosporin, and scabs, not sealing up boo- boos.”
“You told them that?”
He rolls his eyes. “Yes, Alice, that’s exactly what I told them. There’s a cut in pay.” William gives me a grim smile. “A rather substantial cut in pay.”
I’m panicked, but I try not to change the expression on my face. I need to buoy him up.
“It’s happening to everybody, sweetheart,” I say.
“Do we have any port?”
“Everybody our age.”
“That’s extremely comforting, Alice. Grey Goose?”
“How old is the new CD?”
“I don’t know. Twenty-nine? Thirty?”
I gasp. “Did he say anything to you?”
“
“
“Don’t be so shocked. She’s very good. Brilliant, actually. Pot? Weed? Aren’t the kids smoking yet? Jesus, they’re late-bloomers.”
“God, William, I’m so sorry,” I say. “This is incredibly unfair.” I turn to give him a hug.
He holds up his hand. “Don’t,” he says. “Just leave me alone. I don’t want to be touched right now.”
I move away from him on the couch, trying not to take it personally. This is typical William. When he’s hurt he becomes even more detached; he makes himself into the proverbial island. I’m the complete opposite. When I’m in pain I want everybody I love on the island with me, sitting around the fire, getting drunk on coconut milk, banging out a plan.
“Jesus, Alice, don’t look at me that way. You can’t expect me to take care of you right now. Let me just have my feelings.”
“No one’s asking you to not have your feelings.” I stand up. “I heard you in the driveway, you know. Starting the motorcycle. I thought we were being robbed.”
I hear the accusatory tone in my voice and hate myself. This happens all the time. William’s detachment makes me desperate for connection, which makes me say desperate things, which makes him more detached.
“I’m going to bed,” I say, trying not to sound wounded.
A look of relief spreads across William’s face. “I’ll be up in a while.” Then he closes his eyes, blocking me out.
14
I’m not proud of what I do next, but consider it the act of a slightly OCD woman who did budget projections too far into the future and discovered that within one year (at William’s reduced salary and what little my job brought in) we’d be tapping into our savings and the kids’ college funds. Within two years, our retirement fund and any chance of our children going to college would be nil. We’d have to move back to Brockton and live with my father.
I see no alternative but to call Kelly Cho and beg for William’s job back.
“Kelly, hello, this is Alice Buckle. How are you?” I sing into the phone, in my best feel-good, composed drama- teacher voice.
“Alice,” Kelly says awkwardly, separating my name into three syllables: Al. Liss. S. She’s shocked I’m calling. “I’m fine, how are you?”
“I’m fine. How are you?” I chirp back, my calm drama-teacher voice dropping away. Oh, God.
“What can I do for you? Are you looking for William? I think he stepped out for lunch,” she says.
“Actually, I was looking for you. I was hoping we could speak frankly about what happened. William’s
