Wife 22 (14 page)

W
illiam has been laid off. Not reprimanded, not warned, not demoted, but laid off. In the middle of a recession. In the middle of our lives.

“What did you do?” I shout.

“What do you mean what did
I
do?”

“To make them lay you off?”

He looks aghast. “Thanks for the sympathy, Alice. I didn’t do anything. It was all about redundancies.”

Yes, the redundancies of you acting out at work. Of you mouthing yourself right out of a job,
I think.

“Call Frank Potter. Tell him you’ll work for less. Tell them you’re willing to do anything.”

“I can’t do that, Alice.”

“Pride is a luxury we can’t afford, William.”

“This isn’t about pride. I don’t belong at KKM. It wasn’t a good fit anymore. Maybe this is for the best. Maybe this is the wake-up call I’ve been needing.”

“Are you kidding me? We can’t afford waking up, either.”

“I don’t agree. We can’t afford not to.”

“Have you been reading Eckhart Tolle?” I cry.

“Of course not,” he says. “We specifically made a pact not to live in the moment.”

“We’ve made lots of pacts. Open the window—it’s boiling in here.”

We’re sitting in the car out in the driveway. It’s the only place we can talk privately. He starts the car and rolls down the windows. My Susan Boyle CD comes streaming out of the speakers at a high volume—
I dreamed a dream in time gone by.

“Jesus!” says William, shutting it off.

“It’s my car. You’re not allowed to censor my music.”

I turn the CD back on.
I dreamed that love would never die.
Jesus! I turn it off.

“You’re killing me with that shit,” groans William.

I want to run to my computer and do more budget projections, projections out to 2040, but I know what they’ll reveal—with all of our expenses, including sending both of our fathers checks every month to supplement their paltry Social Security, we have about six months before we are in trouble.

“You’re forty-seven,” I say.

“You’re forty-four,” he says. “What’s your point?”

“My point? My point is—you’re going to have to dye your hair,” I say, looking at his graying temples.

“Why the hell would I dye my hair?”

“Because it’s going to be incredibly hard to find a job. You’re too old. You cost too much. People aren’t going to want to hire you. They’ll hire a twenty-eight-year-old with no kids and no mortgage for half the salary who knows how to use Facebook and Tumblr and Twitter.”

“I have a Facebook page,” he says. “I just don’t live on it.”

“No, you just announce to the world that you got fired on it.”

“
Free
can be interpreted in many different ways. Look, Alice, I’m sorry you’re scared. But there are times in life that you have to leap. And when you don’t have the courage to leap, well then, eventually somebody comes along and pushes you the fuck out the window.”

“You
are
reading Eckhart Tolle! What else are you doing behind my back?”

“Nothing,” he says dully.

“So, you’ve been unhappy at work, is that what you’re telling me? What is it that you want to do now? Leave advertising altogether?”

“No. I just need a change.”

“What sort of a change?”

“I want to work on accounts that mean something to me. I want to sell products that I believe in.”

“Well, that sounds lovely. Who wouldn’t want that, but in this economy I’m afraid that’s a pipe dream.”

“It probably is. But who says we shouldn’t go after pipe dreams anymore?”

I begin to cry.

“Please don’t do that. Please don’t cry.”

“Why are you crying?” asks Peter, suddenly appearing at my window.

“Go in the house, Peter. This is a private conversation,” says William.

“Stay,” I say. “He’ll find out soon enough. Your father’s been laid off.”

“Laid off like fired?”

“No, laid off like laid off. There’s a difference,” says William.

“Does that mean you’ll be home more?” asks Peter.

“Yes.”

“Can we tell people?” asks Peter.

“What people?” I say.

“Zoe.”

“Zoe’s not people. She’s family,” I say.

“No, she’s people. We lost her to the people some time ago,” says William. “Look, everything’s going to be okay. I’m going to find another job. Trust me. Get your sister,” he says to Peter. “We’re going out to dinner.”

“We’re celebrating you getting fired?” asks Peter.

“Laid off. And I’d like us to think of this as a beginning, not an end,” says William.

I open my car door. “We’re not going anywhere. The leftovers need to be eaten or they’ll rot.”

That night I can’t sleep. I wake at 3 a.m. and just for kicks decide to weigh myself. Why not? What else do I have to do? 130 pounds—somehow I’ve lost eight pounds! I’m shocked. Women my age don’t just magically lose eight pounds. I haven’t been on a diet, although I am still paying monthly dues for my online Weight Watchers program, which now I really should cancel. And other than my pathetic attempt to run with Caroline, I haven’t done any exercise in weeks. However, other
people in my household are exercising like mad. Between Zoe’s 750-sit-ups-a-day regimen and William’s five-mile runs with Caroline, maybe I’m burning calories by osmosis. Or maybe I have cancer of the stomach. Or maybe it’s guilt. That’s it. I’ve been on the Guilt Diet and I haven’t even known it.