Wife 22

3

April 30

1:15 A.M.

GOOGLE SEARCH “Alice Buckle”

About 26 results (.01 seconds)

Alice in Wonderland Belt Buckles

Including the Mad Tea Party buckle, Tweedle Dee, Tweedle Dum buckle, the White Rabbit buckle, Humpty Dumpty buckle …

Alice BUCKLE

Boston Globe archive … Ms. Buckle’s play, The Barmaid of Great Cranberry Island, Blue Hill Playhouse “wan, boring, absurd” …

Alice BUCKLE

Alice and William Buckle, parents of Zoe and Peter, enjoying the sunset aboard the …

GOOGLE SEARCH “Midwife crisis”

About 2,333,000 results (.18 seconds)

Urban Dictionary: Midwife crisis

The act of dropping a newborn on its head shortly after birth.

GOOGLE SEARCH “MidLIFE crisis”

About 3,490,000 results (.15 seconds)

Midlife Crisis—Wikipedia the Free Encyclopedia

Midlife crisis is a term coined in 1965 …

Midlife Crisis: Depression or Normal Transition?

Midlife transitions can mark a period of tremendous growth. But what do you do when midlife becomes a crisis that develops into depression?

GOOGLE SEARCH “Zoloft”

About 31,600,000 (.12 seconds)

Zoloft (Sertraline HCl) Drug Information: Uses, Side Effects

Learn about the prescription medication Zoloft (Sertraline HCl), drug uses, dosage, side effects, drug interactions, warnings, and patient labeling …

Sertraline … Zoloft

Let me tell you about my experience with Zoloft. I was released from the psych ward yesterday afternoon …

GOOGLE SEARCH “Keys in refrigerator Alzheimer’s”

About 1,410,000 results (.25 seconds)

Alzheimer’s Symptoms

The Alzheimer’s Association has updated its list of the … putting the keys in the egg tray in the door of the refrigerator.

GOOGLE SEARCH “Lose weight fast”

About 30,600,000 results (.19 seconds)

FAT LOSS for Imbeciles

I have lost twenty-five pounds! The fact that I feel like fainting most of the time is a small price …

GOOGLE SEARCH “Happy Marriage?”

About 4,120,000 results (.15 seconds)

Hunting for the Secrets of a Happy Marriage—CNN

No one can truly know what goes on inside a marriage except the two people involved, but researchers are getting increasingly good glimpses …

Thin Wife Key to Happy Marriage! Times of India

Researchers have revealed the secret of a happy marriage—wives weighing less than their hubbies.

INGREDIENTS FOR A HAPPY MARRIAGE

1 cup kindness, 2 cups gratitude, 1 tablespoon daily praise, 1 secret carefully concealed.

4

SPAM Folder (3)

From: Medline

Subject: Cheap, cheap Vicodin, Percocet, Ritalin, Zoloft discreet

Date: May 1, 9:18 AM

To: Alice Buckle <alicebuckle@rocketmail.com>

DELETE

From: Hoodia shop

Subject: New tapeworm diet pills, tiny Asian women

Date: May 1, 9:24 AM

To: Alice Buckle <alicebuckle@rocketmail.com>

DELETE

From: Netherfield Center for the Study of Marriage

Subject: You’ve been selected to participate in a marriage survey

Date: May 1, 9:29 AM

To: Alice Buckle <alicebuckle@rocketmail.com>

MOVE TO INBOX

5

It occurs to me that I am the Frank Potter of my own small world. Not the social-climbing Frank Potter, but the in-charge Frank Potter—I am the chief drama officer of Kentwood Elementary. The anxious Alice Buckle that showed up at William’s vodka launch is not the Alice Buckle who is currently sitting on a bench out on the playground while a fourth-grader stands behind her and attempts in vain to style her hair.

“Sorry, Mrs. Buckle, but I can’t do anything with this,” says Harriet. “Maybe if you combed it once in a while.”

“If you combed my hair it would be nothing but frizz. It’d be a rat’s nest.”

Harriet gathers up my thick brown hair and then releases it. “I’m sorry to tell you, but it looks like a rat’s nest now. Actually, it looks more like a dandelion.”

Harriet Morse’s bluntness is a typical fourth-grade girl trait. I pray she won’t outgrow it by the time she gets to middle school. Most girls do. Myself, I like nothing better than a girl who says what she thinks.

“Maybe you should straighten it,” she suggests. “My mother does. She can even go out in the rain without it curling up.”

“And that’s why she looks so glamorous,” I say, as I see Mrs. Morse trotting toward us.

“Alice, I’m sorry I’m late,” she says, bending down to give me a hug. Harriet is the fourth of Mrs. Morse’s children to have cycled through my drama classes. Her oldest is now at the Oakland School for Performing Arts. I like to think I might have had something to do with that.

“It’s only 3:20. You’re fine,” I say. There are still at least two dozen kids scattered on the playground awaiting their rides.

“The traffic was horrible,” says Mrs. Morse. “Harriet, what in the world are you doing to Mrs. Buckle’s hair?”

“She’s a very good hairdresser, actually. I’m afraid it’s my hair that’s the problem.”

“Sorry,” Mrs. Morse mouths silently to me, as she digs in her handbag for a hair tie. She holds it out to Harriet. “Honey, don’t you think Mrs. Buckle would look great with a ponytail?”

Harriet comes around from the back of the bench and surveys me solemnly. She lifts my hair back from my temples. “You should wear earrings,” she pronounces. “Especially if you put your hair up.” She takes the hair tie from her mother and then reassumes her position behind the bench.

“So what can I do to help out this semester?” asks Mrs. Morse. “Do you want me to organize the party? I could help the kids run lines.”

Kentwood Elementary is filled with parents like Mrs. Morse: parents who volunteer before they’re even asked and who believe fervently in the importance of a drama program. In fact it’s the Parents’ Association at Kentwood that pays my part-time salary. The Oakland public school system has been on the verge of bankruptcy for years. Art and music programs were the first to go. Without the PA, I wouldn’t have a job.

There’s always some grade that has a cluster of high-maintenance parents who complain and are unhappy—this year it’s the third—but most of the time I consider the parents co-teachers. I couldn’t do my job without them.

“That looks lovely,” says Mrs. Morse, after a few minutes of Harriet pulling and tugging on my head. “I like the way you’ve given Mrs. Buckle a little pouf at the crown.”

Harriet chews her lip. The pouf was not intentional.

“I feel very Breakfast at Tiffany’s,” I say, as Carisa Norman comes flying across the playground and hurls herself on my lap.

“I’ve been looking all over for you,” she says, stroking my hand.

“What a coincidence. I’ve been looking all over for you,” I say, as she snuggles into my arms.

“Call me,” says Mrs. Morse, holding a pretend phone up to her ear as she and Harriet leave.

I take Carisa inside to the teacher’s lounge and buy her a granola bar from the vending machine, then we go sit on the bench again and talk about important things like Barbies and the fact that she’s embarrassed that she still has training wheels on her bike.

At 4:00 when her mother pulls up to the curb and beeps, I watch with a clenched heart as Carisa runs across the playground. She seems so vulnerable. She’s eight years old and small for her age; from the back she could pass for six. Mrs. Norman waves from the car. I wave back. This is our ritual at least a few days every week. Each of us pretending there’s nothing out of the ordinary about her being forty-five minutes late to pick up her daughter.

6

I love the hours between 4:30 and 6:30. The days are getting longer, and this time of year I usually have the house to myself; Zoe has volleyball practice, Peter, either band or soccer, and William rarely pulls into the driveway before 7:00. As soon as I get home, I do a quick run through the house, de-cluttering, folding clothes, going through the mail—then I get dinner ready. It’s Thursday, so it’s one-dish-meal night: things like lasagna and shepherd’s pie. I’m not a fancy cook. That’s William’s department. He does the special-occasion dinners, the ones that get lots of oohs and ahs. I’m more of a line chef; my meals aren’t flashy and are not very memorable. For instance, nobody has ever said to me, “Oh, Alice, remember that night you made baked ziti?” But I am dependable. I have about eight meals in my repertoire that are quick and easy that I have in constant rotation. Tonight, it’s tuna casserole. I slide the pan into the oven and sit down at the kitchen table with my laptop to check my email.

From: Netherfield Center <netherfield@netherfieldcenter.org>

Subject: Marriage Survey

Date: May 4, 5:22 PM

To: alicebuckle <alicebuckle@rocketmail.com>

Dear Alice Buckle,

Thank you for your interest in our study and for filling out the preliminary questionnaire. Congratulations! We’re happy to inform you that you have been selected to participate in the Netherfield Center Study—Marriage in the 21st Century. You have successfully met three of the initial criteria for inclusion in this study: married for more than ten years, school-age children, and monogamous.

As we explained to you in the preliminary questionnaire, this will be an anonymous study. In order to protect your anonymity, this is the last email we will send to you at alicebuckle@rocketmail.com. We’ve taken the liberty of setting up a Netherfield Center account for your use. Your email address for the purposes of the study is Wife22@netherfield enter.org and the password is 12345678. Please log on to our website and change the password at your earliest convenience.

From this point on, all correspondence will be sent to the Wife22 address. We apologize if the pseudonym sounds clinical, but this is done with your best interest in mind. It’s only by striking your real name from our records that we can offer you complete confidentiality.

A researcher has been assigned to your case and you will be hearing from him shortly. Rest assured all our researchers are highly credentialed.

The stipend of $1,000 will be paid upon completion of the survey.

Once again, thank you for your participation. You can take pride in the fact that you, along with a carefully selected group of men and women from across the country, are participating in a landmark study that may very well change how the world looks at the institution of marriage.

Sincerely,

The Netherfield Center

I quickly log on to the new Wife 22 account.

From: researcher101 <researcher101@netherfieldcenter.org>

Subject: Re: Marriage Survey

Date: May 4, 5:25 PM

To: Wife 22 <Wife22@netherfieldcenter.org>

Dear Wife 22,

Allow me to introduce myself—I’m Researcher 101 and I will be your point person for the Marriage in the 21st Century Study. First, my credentials. I have a PhD in Social Work and a Master’s in Psychology. I have been a researcher in the field of marriage studies for nearly two decades.

I’m sure you’re wondering how this works. Basically, I’m on a here-if-you-need-me basis. I’m happy to answer any questions or address any concerns you may have along the way.

Attached is the first questionnaire. The questions will be sent to you in a random order; this is done intentionally. Some of the questions you may find atypical, and some of the questions are not about marriage per se, but of a more general nature (about your background, education, life experiences etc.); please strive to complete all the questions. I suggest you fill out the questionnaire quickly, without thinking too much about it. We’ve found this kind of rapid-fire response results in the most honest responses. I’m looking forward to working with you.

Sincerely,

Researcher 101

Before I took the preliminary survey, I’d Googled the Netherfield Center website and found out it was affiliated with the UCSF Medical Center. Because of UCSF’s stellar reputation, I filled it out and emailed it off with little thought. What could answering a few questions hurt? But now that I’ve been formally accepted AND assigned a researcher, I’m having second thoughts about participating in an anonymous survey. A survey I’m probably not supposed to tell anybody (including my husband) I’m taking part in.

My heart ca-cungs in my chest. Having a secret makes me feel like a teenager. A young woman with everything still in front of her—breasts, strange cities, the unfurling of hundreds of yet-to-be-lived summers, winters, and springs.

I open the attachment before I lose my nerve.

1. Forty-three, no, forty-four.

2. Bored.

3. Once a week.

4. Satisfactory to better than most.

5. Oysters.

6. Three years ago.

7. Sometimes I tell him he’s snoring when he’s not snoring so he’ll sleep in the guest room and I can have the bed all to myself.

8. Ambien (once in a blue moon), fish oil tablets, multi-vitamin, B-Complex, calcium, vitamin D, gingko biloba (for mental sharpness, well, really for memory because people keep saying “That is the third time you asked me that!”).

9. A life with surprises. A life without surprises. The clerk at 7-Eleven licking her finger to separate the stack of plastic bags and then touching my salt and vinegar potato chips with her still damp licked finger and then sliding my potato chips into the previously licked plastic bag, thus doubly salivating my purchase.

10. I hope so.

11. I think so.

12. Occasionally, but not because I’ve ever seriously considered it. I’m the kind of person who likes to imagine the worst, that way the worst can never take me by surprise.

13. The chicken.

14. He makes an amazing vinaigrette. He remembers to change the batteries every six months in the smoke alarms. He can do minor plumbing repairs, so unlike most of my friends I never have to hire somebody to fix a dripping faucet. Also he looks very good in his Carhartt pants. I know I’m avoiding answering the question—I’m not sure why. Let me get back to you on this one.

15. Uncommunicative. Dismissive. Distant.

16. The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.

17. We’ve been together for nineteen years and three hundred and something days, my point is very, very, well.

This is easy. Too easy. Who knew that confession could bring on such a dopamine rush?

Suddenly the front door is flung open and Peter yells, “I call the bathroom first.”

He has a thing about not using the bathroom at school, so he holds it all day. I close my laptop. This is also my favorite time of the day—when the empty house fills back up again and within an hour all of my de-cluttering is for naught. For some reason this gives me pleasure. The satisfying inevitability of it all.

Zoe walks into the kitchen and makes a face. “Tuna casserole?”

“It’ll be ready in fifteen minutes.”

“I already ate.”

“At volleyball practice?”

“Karen’s mother stopped on the way home and got us burritos.”

“So Peter’s eaten, too?”

Zoe nods and opens the fridge.

I sigh. “What are you looking for? I thought you just ate.”

“I don’t know. Nothing,” she says, closing the door.

“Dang! What did you do to your hair?” asks Peter, walking into the kitchen.

“Oh, God, I forgot. One of my kids was playing hairdresser. I thought it was kind of Audrey Hepburnesque. No?”

“No,” says Zoe.

“No,” echoes Peter.

I slide the elastic out of my hair and try and smooth it out.

“Maybe if you combed it once in a while,” says Zoe.

“Why is everybody so comb crazy? For your information, there are certain types of hair that should never be combed. You should just let it dry naturally.”

“Uh-huh,” says Zoe, grabbing her backpack. “I’ve got a ton of homework. See you in 2021.”

“Half an hour of Modern Warfare before homework?” asks Peter.

“Ten minutes,” I say.

“Twenty.”

“Fifteen.”

Peter throws his arms around me. Even though he’s twelve, I still occasionally get hugs. A few minutes later, the sounds of guns and bombs issue forth from the living room.

My phone chirps. It’s a text from William.

Sorry.

Client dinner.

See u 10ish.

I open my laptop, quickly reread my answers, and hit Send.

7

From: researcher101 <researcher101@netherfieldcenter.org>

Subject: #13

Date: May 5, 8:05 AM

To: Wife 22 <Wife22@netherfieldcenter.org>

Dear Wife 22,

Thanks for your first set of answers and for getting them back to me so quickly. I have one question. In regards to #13, did you mean to write “children,” not “chicken”?

Regards,

Researcher 101

From: Wife 22 <Wife22@netherfieldcenter.org>

Subject: Re: #13

Date: May 5, 10:15 AM

To: researcher101 <researcher101@netherfieldcenter.org>

Dear Researcher 101,

I’m sorry about that. I suspect my chickens, I mean children, are to blame. Or more likely auto correct.

Best,

Wife 22

P.S. Is there any significance to our numbers or are they just randomly assigned? I can’t believe I’m only the 22nd wife to participate in the survey.

From: researcher101 <researcher101@netherfieldcenter.org>

Subject: Re: #13

Date: May 6, 11:23 AM

To: Wife 22 <Wife22@netherfieldcenter.org>

Dear Wife 22,

Both of our numbers are randomly assigned, you’re right about that. With each round of the survey we cycle through 500 numbers and then with the next round we begin at 1 again.

Regards,

Researcher 101

From: Wife 22 <Wife22@netherfieldcenter.org>

Subject: #2 upon second thought

Date: May 6, 4:32 PM

To: researcher101 <researcher101@netherfieldcenter.org>

Dear Researcher 101,

“Bored” is not the reason I’m participating in the study. I’m participating because this year I will turn 45, which is the same age my mother was when she died. If she were alive I would be talking to her instead of taking this survey. We would be having the conversation I imagine mothers have with their daughters when they’re in their mid-forties. We would talk about our sex drives (or lack thereof), about the stubborn ten pounds that we gain and lose over and over again, and about how hard it is to find a trustworthy plumber. We would trade tips on the secret to roasting a perfect chicken, how to turn the gas off when there’s an emergency, how to get stains out of grout. She would ask me questions like, are you happy, sweetheart? Does he treat you right? Can you imagine growing old with him?

My mother will never be a grandmother. Never have a gray eyebrow hair. Never eat my tuna casserole.

That’s why I’m participating in this study.

Please revise my answer to #2.

Best,

Wife 22

From: researcher101 <researcher101@netherfieldcenter.org>

Subject: Re: #2 upon second thought

Date: May 6, 8:31 PM

To: Wife 22 <Wife22@netherfieldcenter.org>

Dear Wife 22,

Thank you for your honesty. Just so you know, subjects frequently revise their answers or send addendums. I’m very sorry for your loss.

Sincerely,

Researcher 101

8

18. Run, dive, pitch a tent, bake bread, build bonfires, read Stephen King, get up to change the channel, spend hours on the phone talking to friends, kiss strange men, have sex with strange men, flirt, wear bikinis, wake most mornings happy for no good reason (likely due to flat stomach no matter what was eaten night before), drink tequila, hum Paul McCartney’s “Silly Love Songs,” lie in grass and dream of future, of perfect life and marriage to perfect one true love.

19. Make lunches, suggest to family they are capable of making better choices; alert children to BO, stranger danger, and stray crumbs on corners of lips. Prepare preteen son for onset of hormones. Prepare husband for onset of perimenopause and what that means for him (PMS 30 days of the month rather than the two days he has become accustomed to). Buy perennials. Kill perennials. Text, IM, chat, upload. Discern the fastest-moving line at the grocery store, ignore messages, delete, lose keys, mishear what everybody says (jostling becomes jaw sling, fatwa becomes fuckher), worry—early deafness, early dementia, early Alzheimer’s or unhappy with sex and life and marriage and need to do something about it?

20. Burger King cashier, Royal Manor Nursing Home Aide, waitress Friday’s, waitress J.C. Hilary’s, intern Charles Playhouse, Copywriter Peavey Patterson, playwright, wife, mother, and currently, Kentwood Elementary School drama teacher for grades kindergarten through fifth.