A Circle of Wives (3 page)

According to the
Mercury News,
he was wedded for thirty-five years to a Deborah.
His beloved wife.
So where does that leave me?

We had (I thought) been married for five happy years. Our house is in my name, and in John’s will—stored safely in our safe-deposit box—it is clearly left to me. But what if there is another will? What’s my legal standing? This Deborah predates me in John’s life by at least twenty-eight years. And California is a joint property state. Do I need to tell the bank holding the mortgage about John’s death? Will John’s
real wife
have any grounds for claiming the house? After all, John contributed a substantial down payment, and we’ve built up quite a lot of equity in it. Even if she doesn’t, can I manage the mortgage on an accountant’s salary? As my daddy’d say,
I’m in a seat so hot it’s making my teeth sweat.

If all this sounds cold and calculating in the face of the death of the man I’d called my husband for five years, forgive me.

Walking up the aisle of the church, I am getting uncomfortably close to the front, where John’s real wife is certain to be. His
real wife
. I can’t help it, that’s how I already think about the situation. Her, real. Me, false. My life as a fraud.

My shrink tells me this is my fault, that I keep seeking out life situations where I am bound to be an outsider, creating scenarios where I hover on the periphery. I had actually thought, in my marriage, that I had overcome this unhealthy tendency. I was finally
inside,
I finally had found a place where I belonged, had created an intimate circle that for the first time excluded others, rather than being excluded myself. What a joke. Now I’m not even sure I own the bed I sleep in.

When I do find a seat, it’s alarmingly near the people who are clearly relatives and dear friends. I sit down and watch a tall, commanding woman whom I assume is the Deborah from the newspaper article. She is quietly greeting guests, accepting their condolences with such assurance! Such poise! She is obviously a force to be reckoned with. Even if she weren’t the widow, she would have been the focus of our attention.

I’d nursed a faint hope that perhaps a mistake had been made. Perhaps John had once been married to this woman, but long divorced, and she was attempting some sort of con upon his death. But when I observe her straight square shoulders, her perfect silver hair—almost shellacked, it is so shiny and perfect, every strand in place—her placid coolness, and her clothes that just scream money and privilege, I despair. This is not a woman who would allow herself to be left behind, certainly not the type who would need to pull any such shenanigans. She is a keeper, of husbands, of power. You can tell from the way she greets each of the priests (four of them!) personally, and from all the men and women eager to approach her, shake her hand, or give her quick hugs (they are all quick, none lingering or overly intimate). Mostly the former. She’s like
that
, then. Someone who largely inspires handshakes even from other women.

She stands in front of the coffin, elegant and self-possessed in a way I can never hope to be. I look down at my yellow skirt, the most expensive and colorful item in my wardrobe—John loved it—and cringe. I stand out in the sea of black like a canary in a cave. I
feel
like a trapped canary, about to asphyxiate from the lack of oxygen.
She
would never be inappropriately dressed. Rather, how she dressed would determine what was appropriate in others. I think of the parking lot full of late model Mercedes and Lexus and BMW cars, and despair even more. She could squash me like a bug.

Yet do I envy her? Not particularly. I prefer the sloppy embraces of my ragtag friends to the brisk handshakes she is getting from even those people who seem to know her well. And I don’t believe that John preferred her to me. I have that smidgen of confidence. After all, he married me
after
he married her. So I trumped her, in some oddly satisfying way.

I have to admit, she did organize everything splendidly in just three days. The prominent obituaries published in the
Mercury News,
the
Chronicle,
the
Daily News.
The huge displays of flowers carpeting the front of the church and overflowing down both side aisles of the packed church. And musicians—in addition to the organist, a cellist, a flute player, a singer with a heartbreakingly lovely contralto voice. It is all done in the most exquisite taste.

I think of what a sorry showing I would have made if the funeral arrangements had been left to me. We—John and I—didn’t even belong to a church. What do you do in such cases? Rent one? I would have invited our little group of friends (
my
friends, I realize now, John had never introduced me to any of his) over for sandwiches and tea in our garden. Our garden! John had loved it so much! He would have objected to all the cut flowers here, sliced down in their prime. He loved growing things, things rooted in the earth. He was a natural healer.

He was often up at 5
AM
to water the garden in the pale dawn light; then he was off to the hospital, where he would grab a shower and breakfast before making his rounds. But no, I have to stop when I find myself thinking like this. So he had told me.
So he had told me.
And now I understand that nothing he’d said can be trusted. With this thought, I collapse against the hard back of the pew even as the rest of the congregation stands up. The priests are at the altar and the service is beginning. I somehow haul myself up to my feet. How reassuring this hard, cool surface beneath me is. Nothing else is safe, nothing solid anymore.

As I compose myself I catch the woman I’ve guessed is Deborah looking over her shoulder at me. I try to read her expression. Hostile, I decide.
Who are you?
Interloper. Gate-crasher.
Imposter
. I turn my head to evade her glance, only to find myself staring at the casket, which I have been avoiding. Hard to believe John’s body is in there, inert and rigid. He’d come into our bedroom to kiss me goodbye Thursday morning as usual, smelling of damp and earth. His hands were cool as he placed them on my shoulders and gently shook me. He didn’t like to wake me up at such an early hour, but I always insisted. I needed to feel his lips against mine before losing him for the day, the pressure of his shoulder on my chest as he leaned in. I needed him to be
real
, that’s how blessed I’d felt every day of our six years together.

Being practical? Who am I fooling? I am suffocating under the weight of grief and rage.

We had agreed, in our wills, on cremation. Clearly he had another arrangement with Deborah. Either that, or she determined to override his wishes. His body is going into the earth intact. I’m unsure how I feel about that. I’d found the idea of cremation to be reassuringly
final
and safe.
If I can’t have him, no one can.
Crazy thoughts—being jealous of even the earth for embracing him so wholly when I can’t.

He never knew how jealous I was, how I carefully watched him when we were out in public for any sign that he was looking at, perhaps evaluating, other women. But he never gave me a moment’s worry. Funny, isn’t it?

The Mass begins. First we are kneeling, then we are standing, then everyone is sitting again; I had forgotten all this popping up and down. I am squashed between a young man dressed elegantly in a gray suit and a wizened elderly woman who seems to be someone of importance, given that earlier people had paid her court. Some sort of relative? It strikes me she could even be John’s mother. He’d told me both his parents were dead, but I realize I am on quicksand here, too, that I can’t trust any of John’s so-called facts.

The young man (well, younger than me) on my right is wearing a suit that I take for silk since it’s so soft when I accidentally brush my arm against him. A wisp of a mustache. People have been addressing him as either Mark or Dr. Epstein, whereas the elderly woman is called just Georgette, despite her age. I put her in her late eighties, perhaps even older. Around us are other well-dressed guests, all properly solemn. Before the Mass they had been quietly and cordially talking to one another. Not to me, but over and around me. The outsider. What else?

And the children! They’re in the front pew, to the left. There is so much of John in the girl it nearly breaks my heart. She is clearly in pain, crying silently. One of her brothers has Deborah’s sharp, chiseled features but—as we stand once again—not her height. He is easily six inches shorter than the other brother, and a couple of inches shorter than his sister. He too has a lost look on his face, and my heart goes out to him, the runt of such a tall, handsome family. He has to reach up to put his arm around his sister’s shoulders. The other boy stands apart. He is tall, more than six feet, and resembles neither Deborah nor John. He doesn’t look particularly sad, but angry.

What are the stages of grief—don’t I have to go through denial, anger, and bargaining before acceptance? If so, I’m certainly angry enough, and the full force of John’s death hasn’t yet hit me. My emotions, as intense as they feel, are just shadows of what they will be when I’m able to fully absorb this.

But I find I can be openly calculating in the face of my own imminent breakdown (I can’t think of any other word to describe what is happening to me). I’m almost clinically observing myself while plotting to somehow seize advantage over this situation with the formidable Deborah. Because I very much feel that the two of us are in a
situation
. I take solace in repeating to myself that I’m the only one who understands that. Deborah knows nothing about me. Perhaps for once, I think, my outsider status will serve me well.

At this precise moment, while I’m thinking these vaguely reassuring thoughts, it happens. The Mass ends, the presiding priest bids us to go in peace, and the organist starts the recessional. I see (as if in slow motion), Deborah detaching herself from her children, and edging out of the front pew. As the priests line up behind the casket, she quietly slips across the aisle. She eases over to my row. She seems to be looking at me. My hands begin to sweat. I tell myself that she has something of urgency to share with Georgette, or that Dr. Epstein is needed for some reason, and I stare straight ahead, mouthing the words to the recessional, dimly remembered from childhood.
Praise God from whom all blessings flow.
As if from a long way off I hear my name. “Hello, MJ.” I am frozen.
Praise Him all creatures here below.
“I’m so glad you could come.” It is Deborah. She pauses, but I still refuse to look at her.
Praise Him above ye heavenly host.
People around us are beginning to take notice, are no doubt wondering at my rudeness.
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.
I don’t think I imagine the emphasis on my name when she says it again. I hear
I know who you are
as clearly as if it has been said out loud
.
“
MJ
. You’ll attend the reception at the house afterward.” It isn’t a question. Then she turns to follow the priests and the flower-laden casket down the aisle, her children treading dutifully behind. The daughter turns her tearstained face toward me as she passes. I can’t meet her eyes. God knows what she, and others, are thinking.

4
Helen

I GOT UP AT
4
AM
to catch the first flight from LA to San Francisco. Now it’s 9:30, and I’ve finally arrived at the Stanford University campus. I’ve been here before, of course, but under infinitely more pleasant circumstances. It’s not every day that you attend the funeral of your husband as organized by his other wife. Or, rather, the funeral of the man you’ve been calling husband for six months. Who
was
John Taylor? I no longer have a clue.

John’s obituary hadn’t mentioned a wake, or “viewing,” just a time and date for the funeral service: 10
AM
, Tuesday, May 14, 2013, Stanford Memorial Church. As you would expect for a successful professional, a prominent member of his community, the turnout is impressive. A large throng is milling around the church entrance, and the atmosphere is almost festive, people shaking hands and hugging and chatting. If not for the preponderance of black you might mistake the gathering for a wedding or christening.

It has been three days of shocks. Multiple shocks, one after the other. That first bewildering call from my friend Annie who works at the university, followed by her email containing the link to the news article in the campus paper. And of course, denial kicked in immediately after I read it. No. No. Not my John. Not
my
Dr. John Taylor. But the facts—I couldn’t ignore the facts. A prominent plastic surgeon at Stanford. A thriving private practice that did pro bono work for children with birth defects. Proof. Whatever John had lied to me about, it wasn’t his professional achievements. John was dead. First I had to absorb that. And then, this Deborah. This other wife. One who apparently superseded me. And the children. The children.