The Wife of Reilly (20 page)

Jennifer’s father died when she was in college, and when she tells stories about him, I can’t even begin to relate to what she’s talking about. Clearly the ladle of paternal love doles out more generous portions for some than it does others. Jennifer says that when she was six years old at summer camp, she went on a hunger strike and demanded that her father return from England, where he was teaching for a semester at the London School of Economics. And you know what? He did. He arranged for a four-day weekend and immediately got on a plane to see her.

Jen says that when she was eight, she absolutely begged her father to let her ride alone on the Spook-o-Rama at Coney Island. He did. The seventies dad, Jennifer’s father wanted to respectfully consider the request, then let his daughter make her own decisions. Anything short of dire consequences be damned.
Maybe she is ready for the Spook-o-Rama
, I imagined Jennifer’s father asking philosophically as eight-year-old Jennifer was already buying her ticket. The answer then, as it always was with Jennifer and her father, was yes. She boarded the railed red carriage and waved with bravado, bows and all. Mostly she was thrilled that she got her way. Jennifer giggles when she tells this story the same way she must have that day.

A few minutes later, through the glass window, Jennifer’s father saw her screaming. “All I saw were ten nappy little braids standing straight up and this bitty face taken over by pure mouth,” Jennifer imitated her father. He bolted. Ran straight in to chase Jennifer’s buggy. They had to shut down the ride while the old man who operated the ride yelled that Jennifer’s father came within inches of electrocuting himself on the ride rail system. He didn’t even stop to consider the consequences. All he thought about was getting his daughter.

I’ve heard stories even greater, like the mother who lifted a car that had fallen on her son. When interviewed later on the news, she too was surprised by her ability to lift her car. Just didn’t think about it, she said.

A father like Jennifer’s was about as real to me as the mythical horsemen with wings and bow.

Sometimes Jennifer complains that her father may have loved her too much, though. He set the bar so high that other men seem inattentive. She was ill-prepared for the realities of dating, thanks to her father convincing her she really
was
the most special girl in the whole world. Jennifer follows the generally accepted principle of posthumous press — minimal grievances about the dead person. Which is good. It’s tough to feel sorry for a woman suffering from “Daddy was too great” syndrome. Until I remember that Jennifer has now spent half of her lifetime without him.

I confess that sometimes I wonder if I might be too hard on Father for his approach to reconciling with me. He lives by words, not a lot of action. His world is one of contract negotiations, conference calls and meetings. Paper. Voices. Information. Expertise. It’s not as though Father were out in the fields tilling soil for a living. He wasn’t a member of the bricklayers union. I don’t think he even changed his own motor oil. Was it fair to expect Trenton Malone to deliver a thousand-pound boulder to my feet as a token of his sincerity? My requirements were not this dramatic, though. I just wanted something real that I could wrap my hands around and say, yes, I feel this. This is for real; okay, I trust you now.

* * *

As Reilly was in the shower getting ready for Chad and Daniel’s New Year’s Eve party, Matt called. He was at his friend Rick’s house, and all I could hear was horns and Matt’s drunken slur that this was our year. “Our year, Malone!” he repeated several times.

A woman named Kyara grabbed the phone to say hello to me. “We can’t wait to meet you, honey,” she said, obviously drunk herself. “We got a ton of wild shit planned for you when you come out.” Then someone hooted and shouted “Happy New Year!” Matt reminded me to call him, which I wondered how I would pull off with Reilly by my side.

We arrived at Chad and Daniel’s party at quarter after eleven. Sophie and Jennifer immediately pulled me into the bedroom so they could talk to me without Reilly hearing about their plan. Jennifer wrapped her red-sequined arm around my neck and led me into the bedroom where Sophie was sitting on a fuchsia velvet beanbag chair, leaning her head back and staring at the ceiling.

“We’ve been talking about your M.O. for dating,” Jennifer began. “We knew there had to be a better way.” She sounded like an infomercial introduction. “We’ve got an idea that’s quicker and more cost-effective. Interested?” she asked. Then she paused for me to respond.

“It depends what it is,” I answered. I’ve known Jennifer for too many years not to realize when she’s trying to close the deal by asking leading questions.

“When’s Reilly’s next trip out of the country?” Sophie took over, leaning her face in what had to be the stiffest black sleeve I’d ever seen. It was like she decided to liven up a simple gray top by sticking her wrists through vinyl records with the labels cut out.

“The second week in January he goes to Germany,” I told them. “What are you guys getting at?”

Jennifer swept her arm overhead, from one side of the room to the other. “Imagine hundreds of women for you to screen all at once.”

“A cattle call?” I asked.

“A party,” Sophie corrected.

Chad and Daniel walked into their bedroom, letting in a cow bell solo from the bell jazz (don’t ask) trio that was playing in the living room. Catching Sophie’s last response, Chad shuddered. “You two aren’t still thinking about the singles party, are you?” Daniel lowered his brow as if to ask us to fill him in. “These two Ethel Mertzes want to put together a party to find Reilly’s next wife. In our gallery, no less!”

Daniel laughed.

“You think this is funny?” Chad asked. “I’ll tell you one thing. If you ever want to break it off with me, just dump me. I don’t care how nasty a breakup you want to make it, just do it and get it over with. Don’t have a party and try to auction me off to the highest bidder.”

“Anyway,” Jennifer resumed her place as chief spokesperson. “I’ll enlarge photos of Reilly, mount them on foam board, and write little blurbs about him so people can learn about him as they view the exhibit.”

“We’re going to make an
exhibit
of Reilly?” I asked.

“Stop the insanity right here, love,” Chad begged.

It did sound like an extreme plan, but the best part about it was that it was a one-shot deal. One big blitz and we’d be through with the hunt for Reilly’s bride. No more coffee runs, exorbitant bar tabs and dreadfully dull evenings of smiling and nodding my head at women who are never going to click with Reilly.

“Come on, Prudence,” Jennifer urged when she realized I was actually giving her idea consideration. “I’ll do everything. You just show up, pick your favorites and be done with this.”

Sophie joined in. “Your penance will be done and you can enjoy your life with Matt without all the fun-sapping guilt of knowing you broke your first husband’s heart.”

“Why would you want to do all this extra work?” I asked.

“Prudence!” Jennifer said, insulted. “This is what friends do for each other.”

“I can see the bumper sticker now,” Chad said. “I don’t know if I’m ready to turn my gallery into the Reilly boutique. It’s one thing to store his briefs in the office, but hosting a party like this….” He shook imaginary dirt off himself. “I’ll drive the get-away car, but don’t ask me to hold the gun.”

The self-appointed brains of the operation, Jennifer snapped, “Chad, we’re doing this with or without you.”

We are?

“It’s a simple question,” Jennifer continued. “Do we bring several hundred women to your gallery, or the one down the block?”

Chad and Daniel looked at each other, and had a discussion through their facial expressions.

You sure you don’t want to hold the gun just this once? Daniel’s eyebrows asked.

Well, if they’re going to do it anyway,
Chad furled his lip.

Could be good for the gallery.

“Tell you what,” Jennifer piped in. “Each of these women is going to need to fill out an application. We’ll share the info with you for your mailing list.”

“Deal,” Chad shot.

After any negotiation that left Jennifer and Chad on the same side, I didn’t want to object. And frankly, a party didn’t sound like a bad idea, so I told the group we could schedule the event for the day Reilly left for Berlin.

After we set the date, Jennifer told me to leave the details to her. “This is my business,” she assured.

We returned to Chad and Daniel’s living room just in time to watch the ball drop in Times Square. Horns blew. Confetti was tossed. Champagne was drunk and spilled.

“Happy New Year!” shouted Daniel.

“Happy New Year, Prudence,” Reilly said, leaning in to kiss me.

I sneaked into their
Dick Van Dyke
room and called Matt from my cell phone. The phone rang until it rolled over to voice mail, which was a relief. Matt would know I called, as I promised to do. At the same time, I eliminated the risk of trying to talk to the future husband while the un-dead one was in the next room. Reilly walked into the room just as I said goodbye to Matt’s voice mail. “Hey stranger,” he said, wrapping his arms around my waist. “What do you say we head home and ring in the new year?”

“Don’t you think it would be rude to leave so early?” I asked.

Sometimes it’s worse to stay too long
, I thought. “Okay,” I gave in. “Let’s say goodbye to everyone and get going.”

I decided in the spirit of the holidays I would have sex with Reilly. Not that I’m such a gift, especially these days. He looked so eager, it was hard to deny him. It wasn’t as though I didn’t love Reilly. And it wasn’t as though I’d never had meaningless sex before, so it really wasn’t a big deal, I rationalized. I could just zone out and pretend it was Matt. No harm, no foul. Reilly was a decent guy who deserved a little warmth from his emotionally estranged wife.

I don’t know what women are talking about when they say they pretend they’re having sex with someone else when they grow bored of their husbands. How is this possible?! They feel different. They smell different. And Reilly was whispering so much, I couldn’t possibly pretend he was anyone else. I don’t know what was worse, feeling like I was cheating on Matt, or feeling like I was a complete fraud with Reilly. He kept muttering that he loved me and that it had been so long, and I was wondering why sex without love felt like such a violation. In simply lying there like a half-dead fish, I was cheating on Matt, lying to Reilly and completely betraying myself. Never was being passive such an act of self-aggression.

The next morning, Reilly lay in bed with his arms folded behind his head, his stock post-sex look, and asked what my New Year’s resolution was.

Finding you a new wife.

“I’m not sure I’m going to make one this year,” I told him. “What about you?”

“You know, I’ve been giving this some thought lately, and I think I may be missing out on a lot that life has to offer by being so entrenched in my routine. You may have been drunk on Thanksgiving, but you did have a point. Here I get to travel all over the world, and never venture out and see the sights, or taste the food, or meet the people. It’s been a long time since I’ve tried anything new and different from what I’m used to, Prudence. So that’s my resolution. I’m going to be open to new things this year.”

You’re going to love what I have in store for you, my friend.

“That sounds like a good plan, Reilly.”

“You know what else, Prudence? I’m going to take you to Italy.”

“Oh Reilly, that’s not necessary.”

“No, it really is. You’ve wanted to go for years now, and I’ve been dragging you off to resorts that I want to go to. It’s time we do something for you.”

Oh Reilly, I’ve been doing plenty for me.

“You’re very sweet, Reilly. Why don’t you take a shower and we’ll talk about it later?” I said. Just then my cell phone rang, and I was sure it was Matt.

“Aren’t you going to get that?” Reilly asked.

“No, I want to focus on you,” I smiled and poked Reilly’s nose with my fingertip. Even I hated myself for that one. Cutesy liars are the worst. Can’t trust a damn thing they say. And they’ll make you gag while they’re saying it.

I couldn’t decide what disgusted me more, the fact that lying was becoming easier or that Reilly didn’t seem even remotely tuned into the fact that I had already left him. Maybe I would just tell Reilly the truth. Tomorrow. Tomorrow I would tell him, I decided. If not then, definitely after the party.

* * *

 “Hey, are you there?” Reilly’s voice snapped me back to our bedroom.

“Of course,” I said. “I was just thinking about how we should spend our day together. Go take your shower.”

“Okay. But when I get out, let’s have food delivered and just laze around together. Remember how we used to do that when we were first dating? You’d brew that wicked potent coffee and we’d read the newspaper while eating leftover Chinese food out of the boxes.”

I’d forgotten about those days in my apartment in Philadelphia. I loved watching him read the business section so intently as he sat at the kitchen table in his pajamas and robe. He looked like the quintessential solid citizen. When he looked up from the paper and smiled at me, my heart skipped a beat at the thought that such a good man was in love with me. Then we’d watch back-to-back political shows that Reilly called the “food fights.” The ones where newspaper writers, political pundits and elected officials sit on a small panel together and yell at each other for a half-hour. Reilly would shout at the television the way my grandmother used to interact with the characters of
One Life to Live
. “Like you have any right to talk,” Reilly would yell at the screen. “Oh sure, you’ll vote for the bill all right, but not before you get the most restrictive rules possible so there are no debates or amendments, then attach a rider that gives a tax break for green fees, then you’ll go to a conference committee with the Senate and sell out everything you stumped for on the campaign trail, you phony bastard!”