Love in Mid Air (22 page)

“I guess either one can happen. If we’re talking about me, then evidently the man goes with the girlfriend who excites him.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

“You didn’t. My feelings don’t get hurt anymore. But you didn’t answer my question. What do you think would happen if a wife
acted like a girlfriend?”

“The wife can never be the girlfriend.”

“Never?”

“At least not to her own husband.” I stand up and study the rubber bottom of the pen beneath me. “I’m not sure any of this
is working.”

Lynn shrugs. “I know you’re not me, I know we’re totally different people, but I can’t stop thinking how I did what I thought
would save my marriage and it ended up killing everything. You were… I always thought if anyone could really make her husband
sit up and take notice, it would be you. When Phil said to me, ‘She’s a pistol,’ he sounded so proud.”

This is the second time she’s told me that Phil said I was a pistol. I’m not sure why Lynn is stuck on the only sentence Phil
ever said to her. Maybe it’s just that Phil speaks so rarely that anything he says makes a big impression. I used to think
that. That when he talked it had more meaning than when other people spoke.

“I always believed that about you too,” I tell her. “I thought you had the best marriage in the bunch.”

She laughs, shortly. “And why was that?”

“I don’t know. You’re smart.”

“Well so are you.”

“And here we are the first two out the door. Evidently a high IQ renders a woman unfit for marriage.”

“You don’t really believe that.”

“Sure I do. Being smart hasn’t done either one of us a flipping bit of good. All it means is that if this were in
The Stepford Wives
it’d take them an extra week to clone us.” I stop scrubbing and turn toward Lynn. “Do you want to know a secret?”

She is spraying the doorknobs, her back to me. “I don’t know.”

“I’m happy.”

“Well. That is news.”

“Don’t tell anybody.”

“Your secret’s safe with me.” Lynn glances at her watch. “You don’t have to stay all day, I swear. I’m getting ready to take
a break myself.”

“Want to run to Qdoba’s?”

“I’m bringing my lunch now. It’s in the fridge.”

It’s a moment. A reminder that she couldn’t keep up with the utilities on the house, that she’s moved out, that she’s in an
apartment now. That they called an emergency session meeting just last week to make sure she was covered for disability before
she started climbing the scaffolding and painting the church walls. A reminder that Belinda showed up to walk one day nearly
in tears because she’d driven by the church and seen Lynn out by the road with a spear picking up trash.

The silence sits there. I climb out of the playpen, drop the sponges and scouring pad into the bucket. Finally Lynn says,
“What do you think Phil’s going to get you for Christmas?”

“I already know. A gas grill.”

“I thought he was the big grillmeister.”

“He is. But the old grill finally crashed and so he got a new fancy one and put a red bow on it.”

“He got you something he plans to use himself? Did that tick you off?”

“Are you kidding? You’re talking to the new, improved wife. Equilibrium Girl. I just took a deep breath and said to myself,
‘I’m lucky to have a husband who cooks.’ ”

“This equilibrium thing,” Lynn says, pulling off her rubber gloves with a smack. “It can only work for a while.”

I nod. I don’t tell her that I only need it to work for a while.

She walks me down the hall. It’s raining hard and has been all morning. I’ve left my umbrella in the foyer. We pause at the
door and look into the December gloom. Jeff’s car—a little black Solstice he drives to prove that there’s more to him than
meets the eye—pulls up in the minister’s space close to the building. He jumps out wearing shorts and Nikes. Evidently he’s
just come from a nooner workout, and he’s really cute, Jeff is, with his stocky legs and the way he bounces when he walks.
Lynn and I smile, almost involuntarily, as we watch him slosh through the puddles and head toward the door.

“This man you’re sleeping with,” she says, “he’s not from around here, is he?”

I shake my head. “I’m not that stupid.”

I
’ve been working hard to make it nice. I took Tory to my mother’s last night and Kelly came over this morning, along with
the two completely silent Honduran women who clean her house. We have the tree up, the wreath on the door, the mantel decorated,
and the tables almost set. As hostess of this year’s group Christmas party I am not expected to do one of the main courses,
merely the salad, and I have all the components washed and stacked in the refrigerator, ready to be assembled at the last
minute.

“Why aren’t we using the good plates?” Phil asks. It’s a little after six and I’ve just stepped out of the shower. He has
taken one of my handcrafted plates off the table and brought it into the bedroom where he has put it down on a pillow and
is looking at it suspiciously.

“Those are the good plates. I made them a few years ago, especially for Christmas, remember?” The plates are pale beige, shot
with strands of crimson and forest green. It’s not a technique I’d use now—in fact, it looks a little too self-consciously
Christmasy. But they’re still good for a holiday party.

“This is a formal dinner,” Phil says. “I’d feel more comfortable if we used the wedding china.”

“We’re using the wedding china in the dining room,” I say, struggling to keep my voice neutral and wondering why this conversation
is hurting my feelings quite so badly. Equilibrium Girl seems to be taking the day off, but I don’t want to have a fight with
our guests due in less than an hour. “Wedding china in the dining room, where I’ve set for five, my plates in the living room,
where I’ve set for four.”

“We’re not all sitting together?”

“We went through this last week. I can’t believe you don’t remember. I don’t have enough of either kind of dishes to seat
us all together and nine at the dining table is a stretch anyway. You’re in the formal room, so don’t worry about it. I’ll
be in the living room.”

“That’s a little strange. Who are we putting in the living room with the pottery plates? It seems like we’re telling two of
the couples they’re not as important.”

“I’m splitting the couples,” I say with exaggerated slowness. “We had this entire conversation last week.” Phil is pulling
his green cashmere sweater over his head. The color looks good on him, it brings out his eyes, but for some reason he only
wears this sweater at Christmas. “Besides,” I say, before he can launch into further criticism, “if we don’t split the group
it’ll look like four couples and Lynn and that’s not good. I’m sure she feels uncomfortable enough as it is.” I actually don’t
think that Lynn feels uncomfortable at all, but this argument is the one most likely to shut Phil up. He is a careful host.
If he had his way, we’d entertain every week.

“Everything looks great,” Kelly says as we walk into the kitchen. She’d gone home to change too and I didn’t even know she
was back. She’s wearing a long gray silk skirt and cranberry wrap top and I automatically glance at myself in the mirror beside
the phone. My hair is still wet and my face looks mottled and flat. “The other women are on the way,” she adds, as Phil brushes
by us and heads outside to light the luminarias. “Nancy was parking on the street when I came in.”

“Great,” I say. “Look at my hair.”

“Go and finish. I’ll handle things out here. You know they just came over to bring the food—the guys are at least a half hour
behind them. Do you want me to start a bottle of champagne?”

I nod and head back into the bathroom. My blow dryer is loud, but when I cut it off I can hear their voices in the kitchen,
the clanking of glasses and plates, the muted pop of a champagne cork, and Kelly saying, “Ah… such a festive sound.” I stare
at myself in the mirror. My hair turned out fine, and the silver slipdress looks good on me. I hurry with my makeup and at
one point I look down at the phone lying beside the sink. The women sound busy. Maybe I have time to call Gerry. But no, 6:30
on a Friday night is outside our boundaries, and besides, there’s the chance that talking to him could make me feel even sadder.

“It’s the holidays,” I say to my reflection. “They always make you weird.” Then I walk through the bedroom, pick up the stack
of flat, identically wrapped boxes, and head into the kitchen.

“Present time,” I call out, maybe a little too loudly. “You’ll never guess what my theme is for the year.”

“We were just admiring Lynn’s new gloves,” Kelly says, sliding a flute of champagne toward me.

“Sorry I’m not more creative,” I say as the women begin to tug on their packages, but despite the surface uniformity of the
gifts, each set of gloves was chosen with the woman’s personality in mind. Kelly’s are black calfskin, by far the most expensive,
befitting her status as unacknowledged best friend. Nancy’s are white mohair, as delicate as snowflakes, and I thought that
Belinda’s hot pink suede ones were a little whimsical, like her. That’s what I’ve decided to start calling Belinda—whimsical.
Naïve doesn’t really suit her anymore.

I charged the gloves to my new credit card. It’s in my maiden name and opening it was a bit of a reality check. As the wife
of Dr. Phillip Bearden I have a fistful of gold and platinum cards, enough to collectively send me to the moon or at least
all around Neiman Marcus. As Elyse Morrison, divorcee and part-time potter, I am entitled to a $2,500 credit line. But the
gloves are a hit. The women are standing behind my work island, passing them around, trying on each other’s. Lynn has dug
her navy herringbone ones out of her coat pocket, stopping to pour more champagne on the way.

“They’re so cute,” says Belinda. “Sometimes I think you know me better than I know myself. Can we go shopping sometime?”

Nancy looks up.

“When I get these pots shipped, then the two of us will ride down to the outlets,” I say. “Big promise.”

“Maybe we can all go,” says Kelly.

Phil has come in from lighting the luminarias and he walks right up behind me. He is standing so close that for a crazy moment
I think he is going to bend his knees and force me to bend too, collapsing us to the ground in that silly schoolyard game.
But instead he’s come to hug me—a big waist-wrapping ostentatious hug to show our guests how happily married we are. No problems
in this household, nosireebob. Phil has never understood how much women talk. He should have saved his show for the men.

“Look at your hands,” Belinda says suddenly. “Your hands and Nancy’s, they look just alike.”

She’s right. The pottery wheel has left me with working hands, a dark blue glaze permanently embedded beneath the short nails,
and my palms always feel dry and dusty, no matter how much lotion I rub into them. Nancy’s are like this too, splattered with
paint and red and raw from all the solvents. Our hands look as if we spend our lives clawing things out of the dirt—which
I guess in a way we do.

“Kelly has great hands,” Phil says, and he too is right. Kelly’s hands are always flawlessly manicured and curled in a sort
of Mona Lisa position.

“Thank my salon,” Kelly says.

“I don’t know why Elyse doesn’t get manicures,” Phil says. “It’s the little details that make a woman sexy, but she doesn’t
seem to realize that. You’ve got to promise me the next time you get your nails done you’ll knock her over the head and take
her with you.”

“That would be quite pointless,” I say, wrenching his arms from around my waist, “considering what I do for a living.”

I don’t do anything for a living and everyone standing there knows it, Phil more than most. I’m afraid he’s going to say something
else but my tone backs him down. He kisses the top of my head and lets the subject drop.

“Where is everybody sitting?” Nancy asks. “I see you have two tables.”

“We don’t have enough of the good china to go around,” Phil says. “Just before you guys got here, Elyse and I were saying
we really need to do something about that before next year.”

“I like two tables,” Kelly says. “It keeps the conversation lively.”

“Not to mention,” says Lynn, draining her flute, “it solves that sticky hostess dilemma of ‘Where on earth am I supposed to
seat the poor pathetic divorced woman?’ ”

Nancy nonchalantly picks up the champagne bottle as if to read the label and then places it on the other side of the sink,
out of Lynn’s reach. Kelly gives me her Botox demi-frown, as if to say we might be in for a bumpy night.

“You’re sitting in the living room with me,” I tell Lynn. “I put Jeff between us because I figure he talks enough for two
men.”

“Oh absolutely,” says Nancy. “You and Lynn could split him down the middle and still have more than enough man to go around.”

W
hat I told Phil wasn’t exactly accurate. I didn’t divide all the couples. Kelly and Mark are both in the formal china room
while I am sitting in the living room with talkative Jeff, loopy Lynn, and sweet confused Michael. That leaves Kelly to contend
with both Mark and Phil, but she’s undoubtedly up to it. She is the perfect surrogate hostess, capable of making even two
dull men seem like fascinating conversationalists. I can hear her high tinkling laugh from the other room and for a fleeting
second I wonder how on earth both of us ended up married to the bad twin. Jeff is telling a long rambling joke about some
married couple in therapy. It strikes me as slightly inappropriate, but it’s cracking Michael and Lynn up. I strain to hear
the conversation at the china table and barely catch the very end of Kelly’s last statement, something about “I saw it on
the Food Channel…”