Wife 22

the room,” I say.

Zoe’s eyes suddenly well up and she bows her head. “I didn’t want you to be ashamed of me,” she whispers.

“Zoe. Why would I be ashamed?”

“It just happened. I didn’t mean it to. Jude was in Hollywood. He was getting all this attention. And there was this boy. He kissed me. I didn’t kiss him first. And then I couldn’t stop kissing him. I’m a slut!” she cries. “I don’t deserve Jude.”

“You’re not a slut. Don’t you ever let me hear you use that word again when describing yourself! Zoe, you’re fifteen. So you made a mistake. You had a lapse in judgment. Why didn’t you just explain it to Jude? He adores you. Don’t you think he would have understood? Eventually?”

“I told him. Right away.”

“And what happened?”

“He forgave me.”

“But you didn’t forgive yourself. And that explains Ho-Girl?”

Zoe nods.

“Okay, okay. But Zoe, there’s something I don’t understand. The kiss matters far less to me than why you’ve been so mean to Jude. He follows you around like a puppy. He’d do anything for you.”

“He’s smothering me.”

“So your solution is to just run away?”

“I learned it from you,” she mumbles.

“You learned what from me?”

“Running away.”

“You think I’m running away? From what?”

“From everything.”

I register that hit in my belly. “Really? That’s really what you think?” I ask.

“Kind of,” whispers Zoe.

“Zoe. Oh, God,” I trail off.

At that moment the mouse runs under the table.

I lift my feet and we look at each other, wide-eyed. Zoe puts her finger up to her lips. “Don’t make a sound,” she mouths.

“Eek!” I mouth back.

Zoe fights off a smile as she very slowly slides off the chair and crouches on the floor, Tupperware in hand. Next I hear the sound of the plastic slapping the floor.

“Got it!” she yells, crawling out from under the table, pushing the Tupperware in front of her.

The mouse isn’t moving. “Did you kill it?” I ask.

“Of course not,” says Zoe, flicking the plastic with her fingers. “It’s playing dead. It’s scared to death.”

“Where should we release it?”

“You’re coming with me?” asks Zoe. “You never come with me. You’re scared of mice.”

“Yes, I’m coming with you,” I say, getting a piece of cardboard from the recycling bin. “Ready?” I slide the cardboard underneath the Tupperware and the two of us lift the container and slip out the back door, Zoe with her hand on top of the plastic container, me with my hand beneath, supporting the cardboard. We walk that ungainly way for a while, up the hill to a grove of eucalyptus trees. Then we bend as one, lowering the Tupperware to the ground. I slide the cardboard out.

“Bye, little mouse,” croons Zoe as she lifts the plastic.

A second later the mouse is gone.

“I don’t know why, but I always feel sad when I let them go,” says Zoe.

“Because you had to trap them?”

“No, because I worry that they won’t ever find their way home,” says Zoe, her eyes filling with tears again.

It occurs to me in that moment that Zoe is the same exact age I was when my mother died. She looks mostly like a Buckle, not an Archer. She has good hair, by which I mean hair she doesn’t have to fight with. She has lovely clear skin, and lucky girl, she’s got William’s height: she’s nearly five foot seven. But where I see myself, where I see the Archer side of the family, is around her eyes. The resemblance is especially pronounced when she’s sad. The way she bats the tears away with those inky dark lashes. The way her iris lightens from a navy to a sort of stormy blue-gray. That’s me. That’s my mother. Right there.

“Oh, Zoe. Sweetheart. You have such a big heart. You always have. Even as a little girl.” I put my arm tentatively around her.

“I shouldn’t have said those things to you. It’s not true. You’re not running away,” she says.

“It might be true. A little true.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know that.”

“I’m an ass.”

“I know that, too,” I say, punching her playfully on the shoulder. Zoe makes a face.

“Zoe, honey, look at me.”

She turns and bites her lower lip.

“Do you love Jude?”

“I think so.”

“Then do me a favor?”

“What?”

I put my hand on her cheek. “Don’t wait any longer, for God’s sake. Tell him how you feel.”

88

“Who’s the understudy for the lead?” asks Jack, squinting at his theater program. “I can’t read it. Alice, can you read this?”

I squint at the program. “How is anybody supposed to read this? The print is minuscule.”

“Here.” Bunny hands me a pair of reading glasses. They’re very hip-square and gunmetal gray.

“No, thanks,” I say.

“I bought them for you.”

“You did? Why?”

“Because you can no longer read small print and it’s time you faced up to that fact.”

“I can no longer read minuscule print. That’s very nice of you, but I don’t need them.” I hand the glasses back to her.

“God, I love the theater,” I say, watching the people around us filing into their seats. “Berkeley Rep is in our backyard. Why don’t we do this more often?”

The lights dim and a hush descends upon the theater as a few last-minute stragglers find their seats. This is my favorite part. Right before the curtain opens, when all the promise of the evening is ahead of you. I glance over at William. He’s wearing khakis, flat-front and slim-cut, which accentuate his muscular legs. I look at his thighs and a little shiver goes through me. All his running is paying off.

“Here we go,” whispers Bunny as the curtain parts.

“Thank you for taking us,” I say, squeezing her arm.

“Tweeting with Ho-Girl would have been more pleasurable,” says William, forty-five minutes later.

It’s intermission. We’re waiting in line at the bar along with dozens of other people.

“I can’t believe that made it to the stage,” says Jack. “It wasn’t ready.”

“And it was the playwright’s debut,” says Bunny. “I hope she’s got some thick skin.”

Everybody suddenly looks at me.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Alice. That was terribly insensitive,” says Bunny.