The Breakup (6 page)

’Til next time,

V

The phone rang at 9:07. It was Libby. “I’ve got to tell you, Ms. Ryan, I’ve investigated a number of interesting
and rather provocative cases, but nothing quite like this.”

“Please, Libby, just say what you have to say.”

“Okay.” She sucked in her breath. “I confirmed that Mr. Tisdale does indeed own the condo on Lake Merle.”

“And . . . ?”

“And it’s not an investment property.”

“Let me guess. That’s where he keeps his other wife, right?” I joked.

But Libby wasn’t laughing.

“Libby. Say something.” I closed my eyes and prayed. God, if you have even an ounce of compassion left for me, please don’t
let Roger have another wife. I held my breath.

“Her name is Mary,” the investigator began. “Tisdale, obviously.”

Why is that obvious? I wanted to say. I remembered how Roger and I had fought when I told him I wanted to keep my maiden name.
He called me a “feminazi,” said I should be happy to give up my family name. He insisted that Ryan was ordinary, working-class,
“like a can of Spam.” Evidently Roger managed to find a woman who willingly fulfilled his macho compulsion to brand his wife
with his lousy name.

“Listen,” Libby said softly, “maybe we should have the rest of this conversation in person.”

“No, Libby,” I pleaded. “Now. Please. Tell me the rest.”

“It looks as if they’ve been married since June. Married in the Sullivan County courthouse, by a justice of the peace. Judge
Olcott Hanes.”

“Children?” I asked weakly. I crossed my fingers and prayed again.

“We don’t know yet,” Libby responded. “Listen. Are you okay?”

“What the hell do you think?” I snapped. Another wife? My head was spinning.

I needed time, time to sort things out. Just when I thought I knew the depths of Roger’s depravity, just when I felt that
God had given me all I could handle, I find out that my husband has
another wife!
Who was she? Where had he met her? How did he find time to be with her? How could he have cheated on not one but
two
wives when he was screwing around with Alyssa and God knows who else? Was she young? Was she pretty? Was she a good cook?
And most important, was she entitled to any of his assets?

“I’m sorry I was short with you,” I told Libby. “That was uncalled for.”

“No problem,” she answered. “I’m accustomed to it. Comes with the territory. I tend to be the purveyor of bad news. It’s not
like people hire me to find out what their husbands are buying them for Valentine’s Day.”

“When do you think you’ll know more?” I asked. My head felt like it was going to explode. I grabbed the Advil off the lazy
Susan in the kitchen cabinet
and swallowed four. Libby said she would call me as soon as she uncovered anything else.

Omar insists it’s unlikely that Mary Tisdale is entitled to any of Roger’s assets since I married him first. That was the
most reassuring thing I’d heard all day, assuming it’s true. Omar reminded me to keep up a good front. I don’t know how much
longer I can fake this. I want that man out of my house. I wish he were dead.

’Til next time,

V

It’s 1
P
.
M
. and I still haven’t heard from Libby. This is agonizing! I left messages with her answering service, but she hasn’t called
back. I had expected to go with Roger to visit his parents. I begged off, told him I was having menstrual cramps. That’s the
one excuse that always placates him; he never argues with gynecological alibis. I’m still reeling. I can’t wait for Libby
to call back.

’Til next time,

V

I’m trying to stay focused but I can barely breathe. I know Roger is depraved, and believe me, I know I’m
better off without him, but I still can’t help feeling like a loser and a reject. I wasn’t wife enough for him, so he had
to find himself another one? And this one is undoubtedly the prim and proper traditionalist he has always wanted: the cook,
the housekeeper, the submissive little woman who gladly dispenses with her family name to take on the Tisdale moniker. Who
was this woman? Where had he found her? And how, in a town this size, could he possibly get away with it?

Pete’s play date with Patrick Green fell through, which meant I had to serve as entertainment director. Pete must have sensed
something was seriously wrong because he wouldn’t leave me alone all day. We played cards and forty-six rounds of Candy Land,
watched Barney videos (gag) and made two and a half pounds of pink spaghetti with the Play-Doh Fun Factory. Then he insisted
on singing from a big songbook my mother had bought him for Christmas. All the songs are long and repetitive, the kind of
music that kids sing on long car drives when they want to make their parents crazy. We were singing “There’s a Hole in the
Bucket,” and when we got to the line where the wife tells her husband to fix the hole with a straw, Pete asked, “How can straw
fix a hole in a bucket, Mommy?” And before I could stop myself, I shrieked, “It can’t, Petey, which is why this song sucks!”
He just stared at me. I
laughed and tried to make a little joke of it, but I think I scared him.

’Til next time,

V

Roger came home unexpectedly from play rehearsal today. He didn’t realize I was in the downstairs bathroom, and when I collided
with him, he seemed nervous. He had a mesh bag of daffodil bulbs in one hand, a spade in the other. He claimed he wanted to
do some planting. Roger has always hated gardening. In fact, his exact words were, “I hate nature.” And nobody plants daffodils
this time of year.

“What a great idea!” I exclaimed. “Let me grab my bulb-digger thingy. I’d love to help.”

He stuck out a hand to stop me. “That’s quite all right. I’d like to do it myself. I mean, I’m sure you have better things
to do.”

“Don’t be silly,” I said. “I’m totally free. Remember, I’m unemployed.”

Roger managed a shaky laugh. “Why don’t you relax? Take a bath!”

I relented. “Actually, I could use a hot soak right now. Pulled a muscle carrying groceries.”

“Okay, then.” Roger wiped the perspiration from his forehead. I sprinted upstairs to the bathroom,
locked the door, and ran the water for effect. I carefully opened the blinds in the bathroom. I saw Roger begin digging under
the blue spruce. I watched him plunge the spade into the earth, deeper and deeper and deeper. He wiped his brow, then plunged
again. He dropped to the ground and put his hands into the soil. He grabbed the shovel and started digging again. A second
hole. Then a third. And yet another. Forty minutes later the yard looked like a habitat for prairie dogs. It reminded me of
a book Pete has, a story about a poor lad who gets duped by a leprechaun. The story ends with this guy digging under every
tree in the forest. Naturally, he never finds the gold. And neither did Roger.

Later, as he was brushing his teeth, he asked, “Did you happen to find anything that, er, belongs to me?”

I tried not to smile. “Like what?”

“Oh, a little box, like a strongbox. I kept some files in there. You know, for my next play.”

“No, sweetheart, I haven’t seen it. But I’ll let you know if I do.”

’Til next time,

V

Libby finally called. She had no information about Mary Tisdale. She doesn’t know how they met, whether they have kids, how
old she is, where she’s
from. No one in the Lake Merle condos would say whether they had met her, or whether she even exists. There are no official
records for Mary Tisdale, no social security number, no driver’s license, no insurance records. Libby drove out to the condo
twice and banged on the door, but no one answered. All the shades were drawn, the lights were off. “But I’m sure there was
someone inside,” she said. “I could hear music. And I smelled something cooking.”

“So what’s the next step?” I asked. “Can we involve the police? Get a warrant or something?”

Libby thought for a moment. “I’ll call you right back.” Ten minutes later, Libby was on the line. “I’ve got a friend in the
sheriff’s department. She says she thinks she can wrangle a warrant next week. Maybe Wednesday. Can you wait that long?”

“I guess I’ll have to.” I felt deflated. But when I hung up, I decided that no, I couldn’t wait that long. This weekend I’m
going to drive out to Lake Merle myself, and I’m not leaving until I’ve met Mrs. Mary Tisdale.

’Til next time,

V

I never made it to Lake Merle. It was around noon when the phone rang. Roger had taken Pete to the mall for shoes. I was home
alone.

“Open your front door,” Eddie told me.

“Why should I?” I answered. I wasn’t in the mood for his games.

“Just do it.”

I was on the cordless phone. “Fine,” I told him. “I’m walking downstairs. I’m opening the door . . .”

There he was, parked in the driveway, talking to me from his cell phone. He slid down the window and blew me a kiss. He kept
talking into the phone, staring at me. “Wanna go for a ride?”

I went back in the house and locked the door behind me. “Not now, Eddie. Please.”

He sighed long and hard. “Don’t be this way, darling,” he said.

“Do you realize I could take a restraining order out on you?”

Silence. Then he finally said, “Oh, you don’t want to do that, sweetheart. I’m not your enemy. Besides, don’t you want me
on your side when you take your husband to court? Especially when you guys start fighting about custody. Don’t you want me
on your side?”

This was a nightmare. “Look. What do you want from me? Money? Sex?”

Eddie chortled. “How about a little of both? Come on out. Let’s take a ride.”

I grabbed my purse and climbed into his van. He leaned over and kissed me and his mouth was hot and sweet. The slick seats
smelled of Armorall. He
drove out to the abandoned grain silo by the county airport. And then, amidst the pesticides and peat moss in his van, Eddie
kissed my neck and whispered, “I missed you.” He started fiddling with my belt buckle.

“Eddie, please. I have to get back home.”

“Not yet, darling,” he whispered. He reached under my shirt and casually played with my breasts as he spoke. “We’re not done
. . . negotiating.”

“What do you want, Eddie? Gold? Is that what this is all about?”

A smile slowly spread across his face. “You’re a genius.”

“I don’t have the gold,” I told him. He pinched my nipple. “Ouch!” I yelled. “Let go!” I pulled away. “Eddie, I’m perfectly
happy to give you a little cash if you’re short. Just tell me what you need.”

He laughed. “ ‘A little cash’ isn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

“Eddie, there is no gold. Diana was wrong.”

Eddie stared into my face. He didn’t know whether to believe me.

Finally, he said, “Really?”

I nodded solemnly. “Really.”

“In that case, I guess I’ll take you home now.” He turned the key in the ignition and I gulped back a lump in my throat. Neither
of us spoke during the ride back. He switched on a country station and hummed quietly. I wondered whether there was any
way Eddie might discover I had lied to him. When he pulled into my neighborhood, I reached for the door. “You can let me out
right here.” I jumped out and walked the quarter of a mile to my house.

It is now 3
P
.
M
. Roger and Pete should be back any minute. My nipple still hurts.

’Til next time,

V

2:45
A
.
M
. I’m sitting here, waiting for the Tylenol PM to take effect. I can’t sleep. I can’t get the image out of my head of Eddie
heaving over my body in the van. I swear I can still smell him on me. I’m completely obsessed with the following horrible
thoughts: (1) Eddie will realize that I’m lying and he’ll try to hurt me. (2) Eddie will realize I’m lying and he’ll kill
Pete. (3) Eddie has given me AIDS. (4) Eddie has given me herpes. (5) Eddie has given me genital warts. (6) I’m pregnant.

I’m finally feeling a little sleepy. I think I’m going to crash on the couch now. I can’t lie next to Roger, for all the obvious
reasons—and now this. I feel sick. But tired too, thank God. I’ve got to get at least a few hours’ sleep if I’m going to drive
out to Lake Merle tomorrow.

’Til next time,

V

I never thought I’d make it out of the house. First Pete said that he was still hungry after lunch, so I made him a cup of
tomato soup and a peanut butter sandwich. He then announced that he hated crunchy peanut butter. We were all out of creamy.
So I trashed the sandwich and made him tortellini instead. The colander tipped as I was draining the pasta, and the whole
thing slid down the garbage disposal. Pete started screaming and flailing his arms and legs. He kicked off a shoe, which hit
the mirror in the hall, shattering it into a million jagged pieces. I grabbed for the glass with my bare hands, cut my index
finger, and bled on the carpet. I couldn’t find the carpet cleaner and tried dishwashing liquid, which only made it worse.

When I finally settled Pete down, Roger appeared and announced that he wanted to make summer plans. He thought it might be
nice if Pete and I spent the summer in the Upper Peninsula, and maybe he could visit us on weekends. I played along, told
him it was a splendid idea. That creep had it all figured out. He’d spend Monday through Friday on Lake Merle with his other
wife, spend weekends with me,
and never the twain shall meet.
That’s what he thinks!

After Roger had plotted out our summer using his
new calendar software, the phone rang. And rang. And rang. First it was Greta Haas from church, asking if I’d help with this
year’s Easter egg hunt. Then my mother called, just to complain about Dad’s oncologist; she says he ran down the hospital
fire escape just to avoid talking to her, and I believe it. Then a supposedly wheelchair-bound phone solicitor with Handicapped
Marketing Associates tried to sell me light bulbs that supposedly last 100 years. (I pushed the button on my new anti-telemarketer
gadget—it gives me such pleasure to use that thing—and listened delightedly as the authoritative recorded voice told the phone
solicitor to shove it.) The phone rang one more time, but whoever was on the line hung up. Caller ID registered this one as
an anonymous call. My guess is, it was the phone solicitor calling me back for spite. Or maybe it was Eddie.