The Wife of Reilly (31 page)

On the way to the airport, I kept thinking about poor Louis Pasteur. Dead, with no way to defend the false charges that Matt and his friends were about to file against him on screen.

As we waited for the boarding call for my plane, Matt was silent. He had a few false starts, then finally said what was on his mind. “Look, I know this trip didn’t turn out exactly the way we planned. You and Rick hated each other; the whole deal with your knee. I know you had a bad time.”

Is he breaking up with me?!

“No, Matt,” I protested. “I had a good time. I think it’s important for us to see what it’s like to deal with not-so-great times together, you know? It can’t be sex on the Empire State Building every night of our lives. It’s good for us to see how we are when the going gets rough,” I said, hoping that my desperation wasn’t too obvious. I took a breath and proceeded more calmly. “Look, if this is the worst it gets between us, I’d say we’re pretty damn lucky.”

“Settle down, Malone,” Matt laughed. “I was just saying that next time we’ll do more stuff that you want to.”

Thank God! What did he mean by “settle down”?

On the plane a young man sat next to me tapping away at his laptop computer and muttering curses. Finally, I was too curious to ignore his profane tirade any longer. “Do you mind if I ask what the problem is?”

“Huh?” He snapped into the world of the living. “Oh, sorry, lady. I’m just pissed ’cause I got this stock that’s been diving since I bought it. My friend told me, ‘Buy ten thousand worth of this company and in ten years you’ll be a millionaire.’ ”

“How long have you had it?” I asked.

“Six months.”

“Well, you’re friend did say ten years. Long-term investments dip every now and then,” I assured him. “A million does sound a little high, but give it some time. What’s it worth now?”

“About twenty-five hundred,” he said with pain in his voice.

“Ouch,” I commiserated. “You want my advice?”

“It depends,” he said. “No offense, but do you invest?”

I nodded. “Quite a bit, my friend.”

“High-risk stuff?”

I laughed. “About a third of my portfolio is high-risk, but I definitely like to hang on to my steady performers too. Listen, do you want my advice or not?” I raised my brows as if to say, “
Listen kid, do I look poor to you?
”

“Yeah. What do I do?”

“You’ve invested a lot already. Hang on to the stock and stop checking the market. Every month or so, see how it’s doing, but don’t stress out about every little blip in the market. Think long-term. This isn’t your only investment, is it?”

He nodded.

“Now that’s a mistake,” I said. “When you get a little cash, put some money in your blue-chip stocks. The next time around, you can go back to the riskier stuff, but buy yourself some peace of mind with a proven earner, okay?”

“That’s just what my dad said,” he told me.

Upon that comment, I flagged down the airline attendant. “Scotch and soda, please.”

Chapter 30

There were six consecutive messages from Father on the answering machine when I returned to New York. First he called to tell me what a great time he had last weekend. Then another asking if I was free this weekend. Then he called to ask why I wasn’t calling him back. Next he left a message saying that he remembered I was out of town for the weekend and to disregard his last message. The next one was to let me know he forgot if I was returning Sunday or Monday night, but that I should give him a call either way. Then he called Sunday. “Okay, I guess it’s Monday that you’re due back. Call me when you get home.” Then Monday. “Must be a late flight you’re coming in on. In any case, call me back, please.”

“Yes, Father, what is it?” I said when he answered. “Is there an emergency?”

“No, I just wanted to talk to my little girl,” he said. “How was Los Angeles?”

“Okay. Listen, I’ve really got to unpack and get to sleep. I’ve got to be back at work in a few hours.”

“Can we get together this weekend, Prudence? We can hang out at your apartment again. Whatever you want.”

“Don’t you have some sort of Easter egg hunt thing I’m coming to soon?”

“Prudence, that’s nearly two months away.”

“Okay, let’s catch a movie together in the first week of March, okay? No, wait, I can’t do it then. How’s the second week for you?”

“Prudence, I’m retired. Every week is good for me.”

I didn’t like the sound of that. It was as if Father were only taking an interest in me now that it was easy to fit me into his schedule. This overture would have been appreciated a lot more if it had been made during the height of his busy career.

“Every week is not good for me, Father. I happen to have an extraordinarily busy schedule,” I snapped.

“Prudence, I realize that. That is why I’m telling you to pick any date. My calendar is wide open for you.”

For me? Or just wide open?

“Okay, let’s say the second week in March. I know that’s a few weeks out, but it’s the best I can do, okay Father?”

“You can’t see me any sooner than that?” he asked.

“Please, Father,” I clipped. “I enjoyed our day together, but this is too much for me right now.”

“Why, what’s going on? Is everything okay?” he asked.

“Everything is fine,” I said. “I just, I don’t know, it’s just too much. Can you give me some space?”

“I thought that was my capital offense with you, Prudence. Giving you too much space.”

No need to get sarcastic about it.

“You’ve got to let me —” I stopped. “I don’t know, Father. I’ve got a shitload of mail to open and I still need to unpack. Can we talk about this another time?!”

The next day during lunch, I went to the post office to close my box and pick up Reilly’s mail. The matronly postal clerk remembered me from my first visit.

“We’ve been waiting for you to come around,” she said with both hands on her hips.

“Really? Why is that?” I asked. “Did I get any more letters?”

“You could say that,” she answered. She opened a door to the back room and shouted, “She’s here!” She rolled three full crates of letters out on a moving dolly.

“Oh my God!”

“This isn’t the half of it,” she said. Postal workers brought out box after box of letters to Reilly. “We had a pool to guess how many letters you got here. I won a hundred bucks last week for guessing closest to the actual number.”

“How many are there?” I asked.

“Twenty-eight hundred and forty two,” she said. “I guessed twenty-eight fifty and Billy over there eyeballed ’em at three thousand.”

I stood in the lobby of the post office for my entire lunch hour tossing each letter into the trashcan. I felt like as long as I was going to discard these people, I’d at least have the decency to look them straight in the envelope before doing it. I imagined each of these women sitting down writing hopefully to their anonymous Prince Charming. I found myself humming the old Beatles song, “All the lonely people, where do they all come from?” I felt heaviness as I tossed their swirling script handwriting, their pink envelopes, their computer-generated labels into the trash can. But there were simply too many to respond to. I wondered how Reilly’s ad from November was still generating so much interest. “Shit!” I said aloud as I remembered Jennifer telling me that the ad would continue running until I called the paper to cancel it. I was nearly hit by a taxi as I ran on my crutches across the street to the newsstand. I scanned
The Post
,
The Times
, even
Newsday
before I saw a copy of the
Village Voice
. Sure enough, the ad was still running.

When I returned to my office, I closed the glass door and dialed the phone number listed on the
Voice
masthead. Reilly’s personal ad had run for four months now and yet I was treating it like a bomb about to detonate. With each ring of the phone I became more anxious, more desperate to get Reilly’s ad out of the paper. When the receptionist told me that Reilly’s ad would no longer run, I was so relieved I didn’t even flinch when she told me how much I owed. It wasn’t the ad I was paying for; it was withdrawing it.

The ad never mentioned Reilly by name, and there weren’t any recognizable details that would reveal his identity. But for the first time, I felt that my putting a personal ad in the paper on Reilly’s behalf was a humiliation.

I dreaded the call I had to make to him. Surely I could put it off until the next day, I thought. I was scheduled to have dinner with Jennifer that night, and seeing her would give me the boost I needed before I had my first post-blowout conversation with Reilly.

When Jennifer showed up for dinner that evening, she wore an expression that told me her life had changed radically. She held up her left hand to show me her diamond ring from Adrian. “So bummed you missed the party,” she said. “Valentine’s Day. I’m thinking chocolate and maybe some flowers, then boom, this.”

“That was quick,” I said.

Jennifer laughed as if to remind me that I, the queen of impulsive engagements, had no right to talk.

“Quick is good,” I said. “It shows you have no hesitation. I like this Adrian. He’s my type of guy. When do I get to meet him?”

Jennifer explained that they already hosted an impromptu post-engagement party the night after the proposal, but that they were planning on a more formal affair at Adrian’s house.

Our waiter poured ice water and told us about the chef’s recommendations before realizing that we weren’t paying any attention to him. The pianist played the “Chattanooga Choo-Choo” on a black Steinway grand piano as a group gathered around and began singing along and pulling their imaginary train whistles. A woman in a dark business suit slipped a bill in the player’s brandy snifter of tips as she passed on her way to the restroom. A man I’d seen in the bar before requested “Mack the Knife” and began singing like he was standing at an old-fashioned radio microphone. He placed one hand in his pants pocket and swung the other from side to side as he kept the beat by snapping.

“Hey, does Adrian know you’re not a movie buff?” I asked.

“He thought it was sweet,” she smiled. “Funny thing is that after going with him to all of these old flicks, turns out I really like them. An aspiring film buff with a clean conscience.”

Chapter 31

The next morning I ate Reilly’s stale Wheaties to toughen myself up for the much-dreaded phone call I had to make. I decided to call from home so I could enjoy a bit of privacy.

“Reilly Sheehan, please?” I asked his assistant. I could tell she recognized my voice by her momentary hesitation.

“And who may I say is calling?”

“His wife,” I said in a tone that let her know the next question out of her mouth had better not be,
“And may I tell him what this is regarding?”

Instead she said, “Please hold” and transferred me quickly. This was a woman who used to jabber away incessantly to me before she’d even bother to check if Reilly was in the office. Now I was greeted with less warmth than she’d give an MCI salesperson pitching savings of three dollars a month on international calling. Admittedly, there wasn’t much to like about my cheating on Reilly, but my effort to help him start a new life with someone else hadn’t won me any leniency in the court of public opinion either.

“Good morning, Prudence,” Reilly said in a measured but cordial tone. “How are you this morning?”

“I’m okay, Reilly. How are you doing?”

“Well, you know how it is. The wife just left me for another man. Tried to auction me off to the highest bidder at a singles party while she thought I was out of the country. You know, the usual stuff,” Reilly said.

He certainly didn’t sound friendly, but he also did not sound as bitter as I’d expected. It was almost as though he got a kick out of the whole situation until he remembered it was happening to him. “I’m glad you called,” he said.

“You are?”

“Yes, I was going to have you served with divorce papers today, but I can swing by the apartment later and do it myself. Save a few bucks. Would that be okay? I mean, I won’t be interrupting a Tupperware Party or anything, will I? Oh that’s right, you don’t sell Tupperware, just old husbands.”

“Reilly, that’s not fair,” I defended. “I never tried to sell you. No money ever changed hands.”

“Yes, how insensitive of me to make that mistake,” he said. “I stand corrected. You tried to give me away. You tried to find me a loving home like I was some sort of cocker spaniel that peed on your carpet one too many times.”

“Are you sure you want to see me at all, Reilly?”

“More than I want to see you, I want you to see me and be forced to look right at the man you cheated on and lied to. I can’t think of any worse punishment for you than to have to face me. Well, I can, but it would land me in prison, so I’ll settle for the pleasure of watching you squirm with discomfort.”

That night, Reilly came to the apartment and went back and forth between hostility and civility toward me. “I’m sorry I was a bit harsh with you this morning. Not that you don’t deserve it, but I don’t have to stoop to being an asshole just because you are, Prudence.” He sat down on the couch and sighed with his face in his hands. “Every time I think about that night, my blood just boils. I’ve got to just stop thinking about it already.” Reilly wore jeans with a white shirt and tie, and held a white envelope that would sever our marriage. I don’t know if it was his casual dress, or that I hadn’t seen him in so long, but Reilly looked strikingly handsome that night.

Hunger softened Reilly for a moment and he accepted my invitation to grab a bite to eat while we went over the terms of the divorce. Who gets the apartment, how we divide our assets, all that fun stuff. As we walked down the staircase of our once-home together, I felt as giddy as if I were on a date with Reilly. At the same time, I was equally relieved that we were ending our marriage. Without Reilly, I felt lost. And free.

We sat at the dinner table at our favorite Italian restaurant, ordered a bottle of Merlot and actually toasted to our divorce. “Reilly, it was a good marriage for a long time, and you were a great husband,” I said.