“How do you know that?”
“There’s a reason I get paid 425 bucks an hour.”
I don’t call 9-1-1—I’m a very bad liar, especially when it comes to lying about somebody I love bleeding out—instead I crawl on my hands and knees to the front window and peer out the crack in the curtains, my cell in my hand. My plan is to snap a photo of the perp and email it to the Oakland police. But the perp turns out to be my husband, who peels out of the driveway before I can get to my feet.
He doesn’t return until 10:00 that evening, at which point he walks through the front door weaving. Clearly he’s been drinking.
“I’ve been demoted,” he says, collapsing onto the couch. “I’ve got a new job title. Want to know what it is?”
I think of his recent Facebook posts, Fall, falling, fell: he sensed this was coming and didn’t tell me.
“Ideator.” William looks at me expressionlessly.
“Ideator? What? Is that even a word? Maybe they changed everybody’s titles. Maybe Ideator means creative director.”
He picks up the remote and turns on the TV. “No. It means asshole who feeds ideas to the creative director.”
“William, shut off the TV. Are you sure? And why aren’t you more upset? Maybe you’re mistaken.”
William presses the mute button. “The new creative director was my ideator until yesterday. Yes, I’m sure. And what good does it do to be upset?”
“So you can do something about it!”
“There’s nothing to do. It’s decided. It’s done. Do we have any Scotch? The good stuff. Single malt?” William looks completely shut down, his face vacant.
“I can’t believe it! How could they do this to you after all these years?”
“The Band-Aid account. Conflict of interest. I believe in fresh air, Neosporin, and scabs, not sealing up boo-boos.”
“You told them that?”
He rolls his eyes. “Yes, Alice, that’s exactly what I told them. There’s a cut in pay.” William gives me a grim smile. “A rather substantial cut in pay.”
I’m panicked, but I try not to change the expression on my face. I need to buoy him up.
“It’s happening to everybody, sweetheart,” I say.
“Do we have any port?”
“Everybody our age.”
“That’s extremely comforting, Alice. Grey Goose?”
“How old is the new CD?”
“I don’t know. Twenty-nine? Thirty?”
I gasp. “Did he say anything to you?”
“She. It’s Kelly Cho. She said she was really looking forward to working with me.”
“Kelly?”
“Don’t be so shocked. She’s very good. Brilliant, actually. Pot? Weed? Aren’t the kids smoking yet? Jesus, they’re late-bloomers.”
“God, William, I’m so sorry,” I say. “This is incredibly unfair.” I turn to give him a hug.
He holds up his hand. “Don’t,” he says. “Just leave me alone. I don’t want to be touched right now.”
I move away from him on the couch, trying not to take it personally. This is typical William. When he’s hurt he becomes even more detached; he makes himself into the proverbial island. I’m the complete opposite. When I’m in pain I want everybody I love on the island with me, sitting around the fire, getting drunk on coconut milk, banging out a plan.
“Jesus, Alice, don’t look at me that way. You can’t expect me to take care of you right now. Let me just have my feelings.”
“No one’s asking you to not have your feelings.” I stand up. “I heard you in the driveway, you know. Starting the motorcycle. I thought we were being robbed.”
I hear the accusatory tone in my voice and hate myself. This happens all the time. William’s detachment makes me desperate for connection, which makes me say desperate things, which makes him more detached.
“I’m going to bed,” I say, trying not to sound wounded.
A look of relief spreads across William’s face. “I’ll be up in a while.” Then he closes his eyes, blocking me out.
14
I’m not proud of what I do next, but consider it the act of a slightly OCD woman who did budget projections too far into the future and discovered that within one year (at William’s reduced salary and what little my job brought in) we’d be tapping into our savings and the kids’ college funds. Within two years, our retirement fund and any chance of our children going to college would be nil. We’d have to move back to Brockton and live with my father.
I see no alternative but to call Kelly Cho and beg for William’s job back.
“Kelly, hello, this is Alice Buckle. How are you?” I sing into the phone, in my best feel-good, composed drama-teacher voice.
“Alice,” Kelly says awkwardly, separating my name into three syllables: Al. Liss. S. She’s shocked I’m calling. “I’m fine, how are you?”
“I’m fine. How are you?” I chirp back, my calm drama-teacher voice dropping away. Oh, God.
“What can I do for you? Are you looking for William? I think he stepped out for lunch,” she says.
“Actually, I was looking for you. I was hoping we could speak frankly about what happened. William’s demotion.”
“Oh—okay. But didn’t he fill you in?”
“Yes, he did, but, well—I was hoping there’s some way we can reverse this thing. Not take away your promotion—that’s not what I’m talking about. Of course not, that wouldn’t be fair. But maybe there’s a way we can make this more of a horizontal move for William.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“Could you maybe put in a good word for him? Just ask around?”
“Ask who?”
“Look, William has been at KKM for more than ten years.”
“I’m aware of that. This is really hard. For me too, but I don’t think—”
“Jesus, Kelly, it’s only Band-Aids.”
“Band-Aids?”
“The account?”
Kelly is silent for a moment. “Alice, it wasn’t Band-Aids. It was Cialis.”
“Cialis. Erectile dysfunction Cialis?”
Kelly coughed softly. “That’s the one.”
“Well, what happened?”
“You need to ask him.”
“I’m asking you. Please, Kelly.”
“I really shouldn’t.”
“Please.”
“I don’t feel okay about—”
“Kelly. Don’t make me ask again.”
She gives a big sigh. “He lost it.”
“Lost it?”
“During the focus group. Alice, I’ve been wondering if there’s