The Good Life Read Free Page A

had given mulch to a pine tree. I had given Alice brandy. Jeff had given me wretchedness, mortification, five straight nights without sleep.
    I pondered his gift instead of thinking about divorce lawyers or separation, ideas that I could not give weight, though I tried. Perhaps if I had caught Jeff and Charlotte together, lunching in Sausalito with their ankles entwined, I might have stormed to an attorney’s office and dictated page after legal page of demands. But Charlotte had galloped away, leaving only memory, which had no smell or substance. Memory was nothing at all.
    In the thin dark of the study where I lay on the fold-out bed, I stared toward the nubbled ceiling and remembered, of all things, phrases of Dik’s. “Every moment is movement toward wholeness.” “Rejoice in discord, for it leads to harmony.” What kind of person could look at his wife’s friends’ marriages—one already vanished, the other blistering—and rejoice?
    If I could become that kind of person, I might stop imagining how Jeff must have kissed Charlotte, his fingers caught in her long black curls. I might stop replaying the hundred conversations that he had strewn with plump hints. Already I was taking the outrage and turning it into something else—wisdom or defeat, if there was a difference. The emotion that wedged unabsorbably, like a muscle in my chest, was embarrassment. Once I had bragged to Martin about how Jeff came home from work smelling like strange spices. “Those downtown restaurants!” Now, in the dark, I felt my face turn the pillow hot.
    I didn’t tell Martin what I knew. Even in simple times, letting on that Jeff and I had been fighting, or had come close to fighting, or might soon be fighting, would be like giving him a gift-wrapped hand grenade. But at the restaurant where we met for breakfast, Martin caught my wavery gaze and nervous fingers.
    â€œCome on. You can tell Uncle Mart. Jeff lost his job? Toulouse got beriberi? You’re pregnant?”
    â€œInteresting parallels.” I stared unhappily at my syrup-bloated waffle. As the party grew nearer, Martin and I were meeting daily.
    â€œWell, I hope you’ll name the baby after me.”
    â€œAre you kidding? My child will be named after someone with a pleasant nature and a helpful manner.” I couldn’t banish all of the quiver from my voice. “Now tell me that you’ve found a date for the party.”
    â€œI told you, the only date I want is already taken. Have you and Jeff been brushing up that waltz?”
    â€œNot exactly. Look, Martin, this is an anniversary party. It’s all about couples. You can’t just moon around the punch bowl.”
    â€œIt beats dragging some poor gal to a wingding where she doesn’t know anybody and gets to watch me drink myself cross-eyed.”
    â€œThe whole
point—
” I took a breath and started again, more softly. “The whole point of having a date is to have fun with her. So you don’t need to get cross-eyed.”
    â€œYou really don’t know,” he said, shaking his head. “You really don’t know what you’re asking me to do.”
    Too easily I imagined Jeff mimicking Martin’s words, his slump, his voice creamy with self-importance. I’d been hearing that imitation a lot in the past few days, as every object of Jeff’s anger tumbled loose like items from an overstuffed closet. Eventually, I assumed, anger of my own would tumble out. I said to Martin, “I’m asking you to try to be happy, all right? I’m asking you to reach out your little hand in the direction of pleasure. Just this once.”
    â€œWhat do you think I’m doing here? This morning? With you? Do you think it’s normal for a man and a woman to meet every single day and just
talk?
” His chin was thrust out, his lips curled back from his teeth. I looked away first.
    â€œMartin, you know I love