The Breakup (8 page)

’Til next time,

V

I felt masochistically compelled to go to the CLIT Web site again today. A disgusting sample of the FAQs:

Q: How much will it cost me to get a CLIT girl?

A: $6,450 total, American dollars. (A drop in
the bucket compared with what it costs to maintain and eventually get rid of the typical American wife.)

Q: Will my bride speak English?

A: Enough to understand and fulfill your every wish. Seriously, most Filipinas speak English. They also speak other native
languages, like Tagalog, Ilocano, and Visayan. If your bride needs help learning your mother tongue, you can surely play Professor
Higgins to her Eliza Doolittle—we guarantee that she will be a willing student!

Q: How young are your girls?

A: Officially speaking, we can’t get girls younger than sixteen, because the government won’t give them a visa. But some clever
girls will fudge their records, and we’re certainly not tattling on them!! (Wink!) If you have a hankering for youth, let
us know, and we’ll see what we can do.

Q: Can I do anything I want to my Filipina bride?

A: As long as she consents, of course! But we don’t abide abuse or misuse of any kind, so if you’re planning on beating your
bride or worse, don’t expect our support when your sorry ass gets hauled into court!

Q: Would a girl in her teens or twenties be interested in a gentleman in his forties or fifties?

A: Absolutely! Filipinas respect and admire older men. As the proud owner of my own Filipina bride (my fourth and last wife,
I assure you), I can tell you that they admire experience and maturity. And if it takes us older gents a little longer in
matters romantic, all the better for them.

Q : Aren’t mail-order brides for American geeks who can’t get lucky with their own kind?

A: We get this question all the time—from spoiled American women. The short answer: No. International brides are for discerning
gentlemen who are simply sick and tired of playing games with jaded, grasping, greedy, selfish American women. And who isn’t?
You only live once, gentlemen. Why not live well? CLIT can make it happen for you. Call us now!

Unbelievable! As I scanned the site I imagined what must have been going through my husband’s debauched brain when he decided
he just had to have one of these poor girls. Either he has some kind of tumor pressing on whatever part of the brain regulates
morality or he has succumbed to another condition—the complete eradication of reason and conscience that apparently accompanies
wealth in
some people. I had a client like that, the wife of an Internet mogul. She regularly abused the illegal aliens she hired as
housekeepers. Convinced a maid had stolen some jewelry, she pulled on a Playtex glove and conducted her own cavity search.
She found nothing, and fired her anyway.

Living with Roger this week has been absolute torture. I feel like the kid in
Sixth Sense.
I’m the only one who knows he’s dead. This sucker has no idea that the demolition ball’s about to smash him right in the
face. I pray nothing goes wrong. Omar keeps saying it’s like the Battle of Normandy. We don’t make a move until we’re completely
ready.

By tomorrow morning, Libby’s report will be in my hands, with a copy on Omar’s desk. Friday at noon, it’s
boom, baby.
I can hardly wait to see the look on his face when the sheriff’s deputy serves him with the divorce papers. I cannot wait!

’Til next time,

V

Today at 4
P
.
M
. my parents came home from the oncologist to discover that the front door had been jimmied open, and the house was torn apart.
At first it seemed like nothing valuable was missing. Not my
mother’s jewelry, or the silverware, or the cash in Dad’s sock drawer.

When my father saw the mess, he collapsed and chipped his front teeth when he hit the tiled floor. My mother called 911, screaming
incoherently. The dispatcher sent a police car and an ambulance.

Mom had revived my father by the time the paramedics arrived, and sent them away. The police searched the house, found nothing
substantive, then called me. I sped through every red light on the way to my parents’ house. When I got there, the police
were already gone, Dad was asleep, and Mom was making a pot of peppermint-ginseng tea. A locksmith was busy at the side door,
replacing the cheap old lock with a more secure deadbolt.

“The police think it’s neighborhood kids,” my mother told me as she pulled a pair of mugs out of the cabinet. Her eyes were
swollen from crying. “Said they were probably looking for drugs—painkillers. That happens sometimes, you know. When kids get
wind of someone dying.”

The word hung there. Until then, neither of us had ever admitted that Dad was dying. Until then, we spoke only of temporary
setbacks.

“Shhh!” I scolded. “What if he hears you?”

My mother smiled sadly. “I wouldn’t worry about that, love.” The air was sour with the smell of incontinence and decay. Engulfed
by the demands of caregiving, my mother had stopped tending herself; her
fingernails were broken and there was a swath of dull gray across her otherwise red hair. As painful as it was to see my father
so diminished, it was agonizing to see this change in my mother—a woman who wouldn’t dream of being seen without makeup, not
even for the moment it takes to run out to the curb and retrieve the mail. I watched her at the sink, her thickened waistline
and slumped shoulders, and forced myself to think of something else.

Mom had just put the cozy over the teapot when the phone rang. I told her to let the machine pick up, but she insisted on
answering, thinking it might be the police, or maybe Dad’s doctor. I heard her say, “Excuse me?” then turned to see a look
of confusion on her face. Then she said, “Who
is
this?” and I just knew this had something to do with me.

“What was that all about, Mom?”

“I don’t know. Weird,” she said. She poured the tea into my mug. “It was a man.”

My heart thudded. “What did he say, Mom? Tell me.”

My mother looked at me. “He said, ‘Tell your daughter I found what I was looking for.’ ” She took a sip. “Weird, huh?”

I raced upstairs to the crawlspace, slid open the door, and frantically reached inside. The strongbox. It was gone. The gold
was gone. I started crying, screaming, tearing at my hair, my clothes. I felt sick, rootless, panicked, despairing, desperate.
Not because
the gold was gone, but because the man who had been my lover had forced his way into a dying man’s house and ripped it apart
with those big, callused hands. I told my mother about my suspicions and she looked at me with scorn. She folded her arms
across her chest and whispered, “What have you gotten yourself into, Valerie?” I felt like a child, chastised and shamed.

My mother urged me to call the police, but what would I tell them? That my former lover had stolen the gold ingots I’d stolen
from my soon-to-be exhusband? I told Mom not to worry, that I’d handle everything. I helped her clean up the mess, then tucked
her into bed beside my father, and locked up behind me. I went to the Jeep, locked all the doors, and sat there in my parents’
driveway.

’Til next time,

V

When I woke up this morning, I realized that my marriage would be over in less than twenty-four hours. I should have been
exultant, but I felt like I was crawling out of my skin. Hoping to distract myself, I headed to the gym for a sweaty, mindless
workout. I grabbed a battered
People
and found an empty treadmill. Nine minutes and fourteen burnt calories
later, Ben Murphy clambered onto the machine next to mine and gave me one of his unselfconsciously openhearted smiles. “You’re
looking healthy,” he said. In my family, “healthy” was a euphemism for fat, but I believe that Ben believed that I looked
healthy.

Ben Murphy reminds me of my neighbor Anne’s golden retriever. He always seems so darn happy to see me. He told me that this
summer he and his son will take a cross-country trip to visit historical battlefields. Personally, I can’t think of a worse
way to spend my vacation, but I didn’t have the heart to tell him that.

“It’s going to be quite the adventure,” he said, sprinting effortlessly at 5.9 miles an hour (I was only walking 3.5 mph and
was already panting). “We’re going south to the Moores Creek National Battlefield in North Carolina, and probably hit the
Wright Brothers National Memorial while we’re down there. Then there’s the Cowpens National Battlefield in South Carolina—that’s
where the British advanced on the Pickens militia.” His voice rose with excitement. I tried to look interested. I had no idea
what he was talking about. The only thing I remember about social studies is Harriet Tubman: Runaway Slave. I bought a book
about her from the Scholastic Book Club. I remember its smooth brick red cover, the smell of its fresh pages, the story of
brave Harriet. Everything else is a blur. Even now, when I watch C-SPAN, I’m more
likely to take note of a senator’s blubbery chin than anything he has to say about tax reform.

“. . . but I think the Antietam Battlefield in Sharpsville, Maryland, will be the most dramatic.” Ben was still talking. “That
historical site marks the end of Robert E. Lee’s first invasion of the North. Over twenty-three thousand troops were killed
or wounded in a single day.” Ben shook his head. “Can you believe that? Twenty-three thousand men in one day. Boggles the
mind.”

“Yes, it does,” I answered. What really boggled my mind is that someone so different from me—a keen, unaffected, earnest,
American-history-loving chemistry professor—seemed to be interested in me. I wondered whether I could return the attraction,
whether I could find long-term happiness with someone who reads the
Journal of Quantitative Spectroscopy and Radiative Transfer.
Maybe he’s exactly what I need right now. I wonder what he’s like in bed. Based on the way he kissed me that day in the car,
I’m willing to bet he’s not half bad.

’Til next time,

V

I had a new plan. I would take Mary home with me and together we would confront Roger.

I drove out to Lake Merle, pulled up to 144 Lark’s Way, and jumped out of the car. I braced myself for Tippy, the pregnant
cat. But Tippy never appeared, and neither, it turned out, did Mary. The blinds were all drawn, just as they were last time,
but now I knew there was no life behind those windows. I pressed my ear to the door, but heard no music, no clanging of pans.
I rapped softly, then a bit harder, then kicked, but there was no answer. I went to the back and pried at a window. It slid
open.

The place was empty. The wicker furniture, my ugly painting, the bookcases—nothing remained! I called out the girl’s name
and listened for her light footsteps, but there were none.

How could she have disappeared? Where had she gone? All at once I had the most overpowering urge to run back to the Jeep,
the same feeling I’d had as a kid running up the stairs from the basement, suddenly petrified for no good reason.

I called Libby from my cell phone. A computerized voice reported that the number was no longer in service. I was anxious to
share the news with someone. I tried Omar but his secretary said he’d be out of the office all day. I called my best friend
Betsy, but her phone just rang and rang. I drove past Ben Murphy on the way home and waved at him but he looked right through
me, as if he didn’t even know me. I’d never felt so utterly alone.

I looked at my watch. It was noon. Omar said the
divorce papers would be served between 1:00 and 2:00. I had to get home in time. Every nerve ending in my body buzzed. My
tongue and fingers and feet felt like they were shooting sparks.

When I got into the house, I could hear Roger in the shower, singing happily. I arranged myself casually in the family room,
snapped on the TV, then snapped it off. Couldn’t bear the noise, the lights, the color. My head felt like it was filling with
helium. I thought I would either float away or explode. Eventually, the sound of water flowing through pipes ceased, and Roger
was padding across the upstairs hall in his slippers. He called down, “Home already, love?”

“Yes, honey,” I called back. My voice cracked, and “honey” came out like some awful croaking noise, like a frog flattened
under the wheel of a semi. I glanced nervously toward the window. Omar had said that a sheriff’s deputy would be delivering
the papers, but the car that arrived at precisely 1
P
.
M
. was an ordinary Ford Taurus, and the man who got out was wearing an Abercrombie and Fitch T-shirt and jeans. I figured that
the sheriff’s deputy had more important things to do than serve divorce papers to philandering husbands, and this guy was
just filling in.

The man checked the envelope, then the address on our mailbox. I decided to go out to the back deck so Roger would have to
be the one to open the door.
I heard the knock, then Roger’s footsteps tripping down the stairs. I heard, “Roger Tisdale?” And then something I couldn’t
make out.

I reappeared and watched as my husband stared at the envelope.

“What could this be?” he mused aloud.

“I don’t know,” I told him. “Why don’t you go ahead and open it?”

“Fabulous idea.” He offered me a toothy grin and pulled out the papers. He examined them, but said nothing.

“Well, aren’t you going to say something?” I asked. I had the uneasy feeling that something had gone wrong. Roger just smiled
at me.

“You’re a piece of work, you know that?” He handed me the paper. “I believe this is meant for you, my sweet.”

I snatched the paper from Roger’s hand. At first glance I could see it was a picture, a photograph, actually a Xerox of a
photo with a line of type underneath, a caption. I thought it was a newspaper clipping, and in my disoriented state I thought
it was some kind of divorce announcement, a newspaper wedding announcement in reverse.