The After Wife (20 page)

“Hairy Eddie, who’s neither,” I said, “you’re not the first person who thinks I’ve lost my mind. But despite the fact that I’m deathly afraid of needles and will probably faint during this whole operation, I’m here. I am here. And I need this. I can live with the regret of doing it. But maybe, maybe … I can’t live with the regret of not doing it.”

Hairy Eddie peered down at me. “Le Creuset or All-Clad?”

Dizziness, fat tears, heaving—five minutes into my tattoo, I was Heather Locklear in a Lifetime movie. Finally, Hairy Eddie, sweating bullets from his brown eggshell head, finished after what seemed
like days, washed down my shoulder blade with hydrogen peroxide, and stared long and hard at the tattoo.

“What?” I asked. “What is it?”

“Truly, I’m an artist, but I wish I hadn’t done it.”

He handed me a mirror. On my shoulder, in shades of green, blue, and gray, was a frying pan, expertly crafted. John’s name hugged the curve of the pan, along with his birthday and the date of his death. I started to cry. Again.
If I had a dime for every time I broke down … I’d have decent plumbing
.

“You hate it,” Hairy Eddie said.

“I don’t hate it. Everyone will know, now. I could have just taped the
Santa Monica Mirror
clipping to my forehead,” I said. “You see, now? You see? That’s why I’m forgetting things. That’s why I ran over the CVS clerk’s foot.”

“Here,” he said, taking a bottle of Silver Patron from a shelf behind him. He grabbed a couple of shot glasses advertising casinos and poured two fingers in each.

“To life,” he said, handing me a glass. Warm tears made tracks down my cheeks. I wondered how bad I looked. I still had the capacity for misplaced vanity.

“C’mon,” he said. “You can do it. Say it.”

“To life,” I said. I kicked back the whole shot. “Exactly how pathetic is my tattoo?”

“This is nothing. I’ve done faces, bodies … Someone brings in a picture, their wife, girlfriend, boyfriend, husband … I can make ’em twenty-five forever, on your skin. But then, you have to live with it. Then, the tattoo, in effect, prevents you from what you have to do. Which is to heal. To go on. To live.”

He took another shot. Filled my glass.

“You have a chance, you know,” he said. “You’re hot.”

“Shut up. You say that to all the girls with frying pan tattoos.”

“I’m serious,” he said. “You’ll know. Someday. Then you come back here, we’ll get married. My wife won’t mind.”

“Even with the tattoo?”

“Not a thing, little darling. Some girls, I have to cover three, four
dudes’ names. I had to make a penis into a flamingo. Don’t tell me that’s not a hard day. I did a tattoo for this dude, businessman. Dead wife. You know what he wanted? Broke my heart.”

“What?”

“Her Amex card. On his biceps.”

“Wow,” I said. “That almost makes me feel normal. So … another round?”

“Easy, sister,” Eddie said. “You’re not as big as you used to be. You’ll fill out. Don’t worry. You’ll start eating again. Someone will feed you.”

I felt lighter as I walked out of Hairy Eddie’s, even carrying the weight of my dead husband’s frying pan on my shoulder.

15

You’re Dead to Me

I opened my front door to find Dee Dee Pickler sitting on my couch in a Santa’s Promiscuous Little Helper costume, chatting up Brandon.

“Hi, Dee Dee. Nothing says Christmas like silicone,” I said.

“Thanks, sweetie. Listen, I was on my way to a party, just wanted to see how you’re holding up.” Dee Dee popped up from the couch, adding furtively, “Man-oh-manny …” I heard a tinny version of
“Guan TONAMARA … Guajila …”

“Oops,
excusez-moi
,” Dee Dee said, then answered her phone with the pink Swarovski crystal cover. I scooped up Ellie and ushered Brandon into the kitchen, out of Elf Tart’s hearing range.

“Stranger danger, Brandon,” I said. “Never let Dee Dee in the house when you’re alone.”

“She said she was a friend of yours,” Brandon said.

“Frenemy. Dee Dee is a frenemy, without the ‘fre,’ ” I said. “That’s not fair. She means well, she does … but to you, she means business.”

“Hannah,” Dee Dee called, as she traipsed into the kitchen. “There you are, you two.”

“Brandon,” I said, “why don’t you take Ellie somewhere safer, like … the Tijuana border?”

Brandon carried Ellie into the backyard.

“Wowser, hope the parts I don’t see aren’t built like Ken,” Dee Dee said, staring after Brandon. “You don’t waste much time, do you, Miss Merry Widow?”

“Brandon’s just helping me out with Ellie.”

“Sure. So. How’s the job search going?” she asked. “No worries, I’m sure you can find something else. I’m going to help Brandon get into real estate. So … you’re not sleeping with him?”

“He’s a baby.”

“Perfect. The girls and I are going to Vegas for the weekend.” Dee Dee smiled. “We’re looking for a mascot.”

“Over my dead body,” I said.

“Ooh, I thought so,” Dee Dee said. “That boy would kill in real estate. With those shoulders, forget it. When the market recovers, he could be a top seller.”

“Brandon wants to teach,” I said. “He loves children.”

“Yeah … what’s that like?” Dee Dee said, then, “Oh, hey, I came here to tell you. Have you heard about the Widower? The ultimate single, and he’s perfect for you.”

“No, thank you. And, anyway, what would I say? Hi there, I hear your wife died. Guess what, my husband died, too. We have so much in common.”

“Have you ever dealt with an ex-wife? I’ll take six-feet-under any day,” Dee Dee said. “Recon tells me he hangs out at Caffe Luxxe. Double espresso, extra foam. No sugar. Croissant on the side.”

“Does he wear a sign that says ‘Yes, I am the Widower’?”

“In this town?” Dee Dee said. “He’s lucky he survived the memorial service. I heard he got a tattoo with his wife’s name on it. Have you ever heard anything so pathetic?”

I rubbed the pain in my shoulder from my new frying pan.

“Hannah,” Dee Dee said, attempting a concerned expression; South-of-the-Border Botox rendered her a Popsicle Face. “I’m worried about you. I don’t think you realize what could happen. People are going into foreclosure all around us—writers, lawyers … Two houses down your street are bank-owned. You don’t even know.”

“Dee Dee, your sincerity frightens me,” I said. “Don’t worry—Jay and I will start working soon. He’s been all over town, trying to find the right fit.”

“Jay’s working on a deal.
Solamente
. But I’m sure you knew that.”

I felt queasy. Was Jay job-cheating on me?

“I’m sure he was planning on telling you,” Dee Dee said. “Enjoy your funemployment with your new manny. But keep this in mind. My developer—he’s called the Turk. He’s buying up teardowns. That man loves him some columns. What does he love more than columns? Marble driveways. What does he love more than marble driveways? Nothing. Not even his family.”

“My home is not a teardown. It’s on a historical registry.”

“It’s a teardown when the bills come due,” Dee Dee said. “And the city wants as many tax dollars as possible—which means, registry, shmegistry. You give me a call when you feel up to it. But don’t wait too long—the housing market is soft and getting softer. It’s like the coke years.”

She looked out the window at Brandon and Ellie.

“I don’t know where this is all going to end, frankly.” She sighed. “I’d be hanging by a short hair, if I had any left.”

I put Ellie to bed, after reading
Knuffle Bunny Too
. Brandon had gone out for the night, dressed in faded jeans, flip-flops, and a perma-tan. December was Santa Monica’s coldest on record, but the sun still shined on our manny.

“Have a nice night,” I said. “Don’t come home too late. Call your surrogate mother if you need a ride.” I thought about my financial situation, about a possible move, about what I would do without him. Ellie would be heartbroken, again.

I called Jay. “Hi, I’d like to report a friendship violation,” I said, into his voice mail. “Dee Dee told me about your new deal. Call me before the homeless guy in the argyle sweater throws it in my face.”

* * *

I fell asleep on the couch and had a nightmare. Dee Dee and the SMCA dressed as Elf Hookers hoisting lit torches and banging at my front door.

“Stand aside!” Nightmare Dee Dee said. “We’re coming for your manny!”

I blocked the doorway, but the ladies of the SMCA stormed through. I awakened in a cold sweat to coyotes yelping. As I listened in horror, they snacked on something small, furry … and bedazzled. I listened until there was nothing, no sound at all.

I checked my phone. Two A.M. I looked in on Ellie, then wandered into the kitchen where my mail was stacked on the counter. Brandon’s handiwork. I wasn’t up to stacking yet. I grabbed graham crackers and milk, sat down, and sorted through it.

There was an invitation for Ellie to a four-year-old’s birthday party.
Good
, I thought,
I’m doing something right. She’s making new friends
.

A coupon booklet for things I didn’t need but was dying to save money on.

A letter from the State of California. I ripped it open.

Our property tax bill. We were behind on our second payment. And by “we,” I meant “me.” I was behind. I would spend the rest of my life trying to catch up. I checked the date. Four weeks before it went to collections.
Merry Fucking Christmas
.

Finally, there was a letter from our insurance company. A policy check!

I ripped it open. Instead of a check, there was a letter, folded in three.

Dear Policy Holder
,

We regret to inform you that your life insurance policy claim is no longer valid. Payments were not made to your account in the last three quarters. Your policy has lapsed and we will not be making a payment on this account
.

If you have any questions, please call customer service Monday through Friday between the hours of 8:00 A.M. PST and 3:00 P.M. PST
.

Thank you for your business
.

Howard P. Morgan

Claim Specialist

My knees were shaking. All that was not lost, was lost.

“Oh my God,” I said. “This can’t be happening.” I ran into the backyard, clutching the letter.

“John!” I yelled. “Get over here this minute!”

Dogs barking. An old Lab, a shih tzu. Lights turning on, bedrooms, bathrooms. I didn’t care. In a few months, the neighbors would miss me yelling at my dead husband at 2:00
A.M
. Wait until the Shah of Iran’s palace started going up.

“John,” I said. “I know you’re out there!”
Can one argue with a dead person? Yes, you can, but you have to be motivated
.

“Hannah?” John said. “What’s wrong? Why are you so upset? Is it Ellie?”

“Ellie? No, God, no, it’s not Ellie.”

“What is it?” John said. “I’m sorry, I was distracted. I was just getting into it with Julia Child. She’s really stuck on how to boil an egg. I say, drop it in when the water’s boiling—and salt the water. She says—”

“John, your life insurance policy expired.” I said, “You didn’t keep up with the payments. How could you do that to us?”

“Oh my God,” John said. “I didn’t?”

“No! Yes. You didn’t. We are screwed!” I was pacing, frantic.

“Now, don’t overreact, Hannah. We can figure this out—”

“You died and left us … with nothing …”

“Hannah, you had a job when I died. And you have my books—”

“We spent the rest of your advance on our Greece trip, remember? I’d have to sell a million to see royalties. You know how it works!”

“Oh, right,” John said. “We made that deposit … How much was that?”

“Eight thousand,” I said. The amount sounded enormous, wasteful. Silly.

“Shit. You should just go to Greece,” John said. “Go, and finish my cookbook.”

“What’s it going to be called,
Cooking for Destitute Widows
?”

“Hannah, I’m sorry. You didn’t marry an accountant. You married a guy who wears Crocs to work.”

“I should have known—I’ve never trusted Crocs,” I said. “They’re not shoes, they’re not sandals—why can’t they make up their minds?”

“You’re insulting my shoe choices? That’s just going too far.”

“I’ll show you too far,” I said, pulling my shirt off my shoulder, revealing the frying pan tattoo. “Look what I did for you!”

“Wow,” he said. “Is that Le Creuset?”

“Hairy Eddie insisted on going high-end.”

“It’s sweet,” John said. “It makes me wish I were still alive. I could have prevented you from putting a permanent frying pan on your body.”

“Even my dead husband can’t appreciate the gesture.” I sighed. “John, unless I figure something out, I’m going to have to sell the only home Ellie’s ever known. It’s just too much for her. It’s not fair, John. It’s not fucking fair.”