We were out to dinner, another rather fancy place that has since gone out of business, French I believe. Mia looked at me over the flickering white taper candle and said, apropos of nothing, “You don’t seem to be listening, Paul.”
I was stumped, of course. I had been listening, listening closely, but what I hadn’t been doing was showing her I was listening. A mistake. But I had no idea what had brought this up. Everything was wonderful. Sex, dinners, everything. What I’d been reflecting on, when she’d surprised me with her random observation, was the fabulous sex we’d had just that morning. It was amazing, once I’d unlocked the key to her sexuality, so to speak. The physical passion she’d been missing in her sterile, privileged upbringing, well, it was to be expected of the rich. They’re nothing if not stiff. But now, behind closed doors, my Mia was free of all those silly inhibitions, at least most of them. But why this?
“What, is something wrong?” I’d grabbed my wineglass, taking a big gulp.
“Remember, I told you my mom’s best friend died this morning? She was like a second mom to me.” Yes, yes, I remembered, but mostly I remembered the sex. It had started out as my way of providing comfort, but it’s safe to say I’d successfully distracted her from any focus but me. At least, I’d thought I had.
I noticed Mia’s eyes filling with tears. She was sad. I hadn’t remembered to carry that emotion with me all day at the office, on her behalf. I should have cradled her lovingly after sex and told her how sorry I was about that woman who died. I should have walked into the restaurant with a frown on my face, my head tilted down with sadness. “I’m sorry, Mia. I completely forgot.” I reached across the table and patted her hand. On cue, my eyes glistened with sadness.
She seemed to consider me, tilting her head. The sadness had been replaced with something different, something I couldn’t read. I needed to change the subject. “Hey, so when is the funeral? I’d like to go with you.”
Mia snapped back to sadness, leaned forward, and reached for my hand. I’d said the right thing. Of course I had. “I’d like that. It’s this Friday. And you can meet my mom and dad, too.”
Shit. I’d convinced her of my hidden emotional depths, but now I had agreed to fly home with her. I’d known I had to get that over with one way or another. Maybe a funeral would distract them all. I liked the focus to be anywhere but on me in these types of situations, when I was setting the bait but hadn’t yet hooked my prize catch. The fewer people involved the better, I’d learned, but it was too late. I was headed to a funeral in New York, and an encounter with her parents. Remember, I am nimble, always in control. I played it to my best advantage, as always.
At home these days, I am king of our castle and my queen needs to fall back in line. It’s a bit late for Mia to be contemplating finding herself. What could she possibly find that I don’t already provide? She knows that I’m all about a traditional family and that I will take care of her and the boys. I’m all about action, like a superhero. I’m about planning, achieving and success. And protection. I protect her and the kids from any harm that could come their way. From grandparents and babysitters, from stray dogs and jealous neighbors. We’re superior. They know that, Mia and the boys. Especially my boys. I’ve told them since they were tiny. They are my life, my future.
Across the table from me, my wife’s hair looks almost white in the bright sunlight shining through the Sloopy’s window. She’s lovely. But something’s wrong.
“All this talk of rebellion. Are you trying to tell me something, Mia?” I ask. I watch as she drops her eyes, suddenly fascinated with the menu. She’s hiding something. Her eyes give her away. After a moment, she looks up at me.
“No, Paul. I was just having a friendly conversation, that’s all. And speaking of friends, have you talked to Richard or Tony lately?” she asks. She has flipped over the shiny menu, no doubt on the hunt for the lowest calorie offering.Why is she asking about old high school and college friends?It’s strange. These days, I don’t have friends, per se. I’m a family man now.
Mia adds, “I mean, whenever I see Ohio State stuff, I think about them. You and Richard were tight back in high school, you told me. Same with Tony during college. I remember both of them being at our wedding. I don’t think we’ve seen them since. My old friends and I manage a phone call now and then. I know it’s hard, with kids, to keep really connected. Most of my friendships have suffered since we married. But do you guys talk, catch up? Does Richard still live in Grandville? Is Tony in Nashville?”
In high school and college, you’re supposed to hang out with friends. Act like buddies, do guy things together. When you graduate, you get a job and get married. That’s what you do. Until your bride-to-be tells you that you need groomsmen for the wedding and then you pull a couple out of the past like a pop-up retail store, only open for a small window of time.
“I’m not sure. I’ve lost track of them,” I say. “Why could this possibly matter? That was the past. This is our perfect now.” She is stirring the pot. It’s not wise.
“Just wondering,” she says as the scary waitress appears at our booth. She taps her pencil on her pad of paper, the noise an annoying beat on my temple.
Why hasn’t my wife shown any interest in my so-called friends before now? Why do they matter? They never did. High school is something to get through, get past, to get on with life. College fraternities, like where I met good old Tony, well, let’s be frank, they are a means to an end. Get into a good one, despite your lack of legacy, and you’re set. At least I was. The “guys” all had some notion that I was a legacy Sigma Chi. Suddenly I was one of the top rushees—me, a guy from nowhere, from no one. Insane. I have no idea how they got that idea in the first place. Well, maybe I do. But it worked. I used it to my benefit for four years and when I graduated, I was more than happy to leave that whole drunken mess behind me. All except what I picked up in one of my favorite classes, Greek Mythology, that is. Some things in Nashville were very good, at least in the beginning.
“What’ll you have?” asks our waitress, the Ghost of Teenagers Future. She terrifies me.
“The Cobb salad. Dressing on the side. No ham, no turkey, no bacon. Just the tomatoes and eggs and no cheese,” Mia says.
Pink hair and I both roll our eyes. I discover I like her a little.
“I’ll take a small pepperoni pizza, extra cheese,” I say and my stomach growls appropriately. “Make it a medium.”
I wonder again why Mia brought up my friends from another life. I’m concerned about all these questions. They are throwing me off. So far today, she’s asked me about my former boss, John, a coworker, Caroline, and now Richard and Tony. Something is up.
“Why all the questions today, honey?” I ask. Best to address the elephant in the booth. And then I’ll tackle this ridiculous notion of my wife getting a job and working for John, of all people.
“Oh, I didn’t realize I was asking that many, actually,” Mia says with a smile. Not the orange slice–smile of happiness, though. She’s bothered, troubled. Is it the way my stomach is dented by the booth or is it something more, something deeper than my visceral fat? I’m not certain, but I know I’m once again on guard. Mia dabs her eye with a thin paper napkin. “Sorry. It just seems like it’s been a while since we’ve talked.”
Has it? I believe we talk frequently. It’s hard, with the boys, but still, we talk. I try to hurry out the door in the morning, true. And then, when I’m home for dinner, it’s more kid talk at the table. In bed, we both read, or watch TV. Maybe she’s right. We speak in surface pleasantries, but there’s nothing wrong with that. I feel her watching me.
“Honey, we talk more than a lot of couples,” I say. But I wonder if that is true. I do know that lately I have been attempting to talk very little, to be helpful manually, physically with the boys, but to maintain distance emotionally. That is not hard for me. I would never share what is in my busy mind with anyone, most especially Mia. I don’t enjoy reflecting on how much I do or don’t communicate with anyone. The less said the better; the less that is repeated about you around town, the fewer things the gossips have to share. It’s inevitable, though, that people will talk about me and my family. We’re enviable: the successful businessman, his beautiful younger wife and their two cherubic sons, living on the best street in the best suburb. It’s a shame, really, because when your life gets enviable it stirs up those gossips.
Mia looks like she’s about to give her rebuttal when Teenage Nightmare appears and drops Mia’s salad in front of her and my pizza, with a plunk of tin, in front of me. It smells heavenly. Pepperoni pizza is the scent of happiness and escape. It’s what you get to eat when you’re having fun, when you don’t have worries about weight or money or anything more than what’s on television tonight. Pizza is bliss in my book.
I take a big bite of bliss. I feel grease dripping down my chin. This pizza tastes so good I’m tempted to keep eating instead of using my napkin. Sloopy’s chef won an international award, traveled to Italy to compete over this pizza. I savor the bite but I do wipe my face.
Mia picks up where we left off. “How would you know if we talk more than other couples? What friends of yours would you measure that against?” she says. She has a black olive stabbed on her fork, poised in the air like a miniature hammer. She puts the olive in her mouth and chews slowly. She is implying I don’t have any friends. This is a theme she has been pushing all day for some reason. She knows I don’t have time for friends. I am focused on family. This is my role right now. I am tired of this entire discussion. It’s time for a pivot.
“Actually, I’d say it’s the opposite—other couples measure themselves against us and come up lacking. We are blessed. Handsome, healthy children, the best home on the street.” I set down my slice of pepperoni heaven and watch her eye it with distaste. Together we watch as the greasy cheese oozes onto my plate. “Anyway, I’m starting to think this is a silly conversation. We’re in our favorite vacation place in the world. It’s time to relax and enjoy ourselves. In fact, there’s really only one issue I’d like to discuss before we officially commence our vacation and that’s to talk about this so-called job you think you’re starting on Monday. Isn’t that what I heard you say, honey?” I’m smiling, tilting my head with sympathetic understanding, like when you discover your child has accidentally wet his pants. They’re embarrassed it has even happened so you treat them with compassion, not anger. That’s what I’ve learned to try to do. It’s not easy, feigning care.
