Wife 22

“Are you okay?” I ask, approaching the stall.

“Of course. I’m fine,” says William, looking completely un-fine.

I glance at the corn. “Those are puny ears. Better make it another half dozen.”

“Will you help me?” he says.

“What’s wrong?”

He shakes his head. “I feel dizzy.”

He really does look sick. I take his hand. His fingers lace automatically through mine. We make our way over to a bench and sit there quietly for a few minutes. Peter and Caroline are sampling almonds. Zoe is sniffing a bottle of lavender oil. Bunny and Jack are standing in line at Rose Pistola to buy one of their famous egg sandwiches.

“Do you want an egg sandwich?” I ask. “I’ll go get you one. Maybe your blood sugar is low.”

“My blood sugar is fine. I miss this,” he says.

He looks straight ahead. His thigh touches mine ever so slightly. We sit stiffly next to each other like strangers. I’m reminded of the time I brought soup to his apartment on Beacon Hill. The first time he kissed me.

“You miss what?”

“Us.”

Seriously? He’s picking today, the day after I sneaked out to have an assignation with another man, to tell me that he misses us? Emotionally, William always arrives at the table just as the plates are being cleared. It’s infuriating.

“I’ve got to find a bathroom,” I say.

“Wait. Did you hear what I said?”

“I heard.”

“And all you have to say is you have to go to the bathroom?”

“Sorry-it’s an emergency.” I run into the Ferry Building, find a seat at Peet’s, and pull out my phone.

What the hell, Researcher 101?

I know. You’re angry.

Why did you even suggest meeting me?

I shouldn’t have.

Did you even plan on coming?

Of course I did.

You didn’t change your mind at the last minute? Decide the fantasy was better than the real thing?

No. It’s the real you that’s so appealing. I’m not interested in fantasies.

The damn survey. It’s completely changed my life.

Why?

Because now I realize how unhappy I’ve been.

Subjects frequently-

Don’t talk to me about subjects. Don’t insult me. I’m more than a subject to you.

You’re right.

I’m thinking of leaving my husband.

You are?

Researcher 101’s shock buzzes right through the phone; I feel it like a Taser. That’s not what he wanted to hear, neither is it true. I haven’t contemplated leaving William. I just said it to get a response. I look up and see Bunny walking briskly toward me. I slip down into my seat. She grabs the phone out of my hand, quickly reading the last lines of our chat. She shakes her head, kneels by my chair, and begins typing.

Let me ask you a question, Researcher 101.

Okay.

Tell me one thing you love about your wife.

I’m not sure that’s a good idea.

I’ve told you everything about my husband. Surely you can tell me one thing about your wife.

Okay, she is the most stubborn, proud, opinionated, stick-to-her-guns, loyal-to-the-death person I know. The weird thing is I think you’d like her. I think you’d be friends.

Oh. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do with that information.

I’m sorry-but you asked.

It’s okay. Actually it makes me feel better.

It does? Why?

Because it shows me you’re not a cad. That you have nice things to say about your wife.

“Cad? Who the hell uses words like ‘cad’?”

“Quiet!” says Bunny, elbowing me aside.

Thank you, I guess.

So what are we supposed to do now, Researcher 101?

I don’t know. I think things will become clear. I never thought any of this would happen. You’ve got to believe me.

What did you think would happen?

That you would just answer the questions and we would go our separate ways and it would be over.

What did you think wouldn’t happen?

That I would fall for you.

I grab the phone out of Bunny’s hand and type GTG, then I log off Facebook.

“Don’t want to answer him, hmm?” she asks.

“No, Cyrano, I don’t.”

Bunny sniffs. “He seems rather genuine. In his feelings for you.”

“I told you.”

“Something to drink?”

“No.”

We sit there for a moment, eavesdropping on people placing their orders for coffee.

“Alice?”

“What?”

“Listen to me. Every good director knows that even with the darkest of subject matter there have to be moments of grace. There have to be places where the light streams in. And if those places aren’t there, your job is to put them there. To write them in. Do you understand, Alice?”

I shake my head.

Bunny reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “It’s a misstep many playwrights make. They mistake darkness for meaning. They think light is easy. They think light will find a way through the crack in the door by itself. But it doesn’t, Alice. You have to open the door and let it in.”

83

“Nedra.”

“Alice.”

“How are you?”

“I’m fine, how are you?”

“Been biking, have you?”

“Yes, Alice. That would explain the shorts. And the biking shoes. And the helmet.”

“And the bike.”

“So.”