Good as Dead(5)

I finally reached the garage. My feet were killing me. The blister on my left heel had bled through my sock, staining the inside of my cap-toed Oxford. Mercifully, my car was still there. I limped over to it, got in, and in the privacy of the darkened shell, I kicked off my bloody shoe and, though I’d never in a million years admit it, I cried.





CHAPTER 3


“Did you meet the new neighbors?” Libby asked, hands on hips, from the threshold of the garage. It was more of an accusation than a question. I could read the annoyed subtext in her perfectly sculpted brow. Why didn’t you introduce me? if I did. Why didn’t you go say hello? if I didn’t.

“I waved to the husband,” I said, recalling the man on the little wooden bench, how he sat with his knees splayed wide, his six-foot-and-then-some frame too big for the narrow wooden slats. “They seemed like they were in a hurry,” I lied, hoping this would spare me from an onslaught of Why didn’t yous.

“They’ve certainly had a lot of deliveries,” she said, as if it were odd for people moving into a new house to get new things. “By the looks of it they got all new furniture!” She was right, there had been a steady stream of delivery trucks over the past few days—bedroom furniture from Ethan Allen, rugs from Z Gallerie, a washer and dryer from Best Buy. I wasn’t sure if a middle-aged couple getting all new everything was unusual or just annoying—we hadn’t so much as upgraded our TV in over a decade. I pondered the possibilities. Newly married? Newly successful? Or simply from so far away it didn’t make sense to bring anything?

“I wonder what they paid for the house,” Libby thought out loud, and I wondered why she wondered these things. “The more the better,” she added. We hadn’t talked about selling our house, but I suddenly realized she’d been thinking about it. All this time I’d thought she had dragged me to look at “the updated, traditional, three-bedroom gem” when it was for sale and open “just for fun.”

I fiddled with the Shop-Vac, hoping she would get the hint and go back inside. Turning the garage into a woodworking shop had been an accidental stroke of genius. I got to be out of the house without using up my allotment of “me time.” I’m no master carpenter, but I enjoyed my little projects—bookcases for the girls, a step stool for the pantry. I even redid all the crown molding in the dining room. I stretched that project out to four glorious weeks. And in the rare instance that we actually used the dining room, I got to brag about my handiwork.

“What kind of people are they?” Libby asked. If I hadn’t known her for fifteen years, that might have seemed a vague question. But I knew exactly what she was after. Are they fancy? Are they connected? Could it be useful to know them? This was LA, after all. And I was in the movie business.

“I have no idea,” I answered truthfully. “He wore a suit.” Of course that could have meant any number of things. Lawyer? Already have one. Agent? Have one of those, too. From across the street, I couldn’t tell if it was a nice suit or just some Men’s Wearhouse two-for-one. Maybe he worked at a shoe store.

“Well, if they can afford that house at what they were asking, they must be doing pretty well.” And she could have stopped there, but she couldn’t help herself. “Better than we are.”

And there was the bitch slap. She was right, of course. We could not afford that house. But luckily our house was just fine. Our marriage . . . not so much.

I’ve often thought about the life cycle of a marriage. The fairy tales I read to my daughters, they all end with the wedding. The courtship is long and tortuous, filled with obstacles and evil stepsisters trying to keep prince and princess apart. And then it’s “happily ever after.” Fairy tales aren’t interested in what comes next. Do they assume it’s smooth sailing “till death do they part”? Or do they know marriage is an order of magnitude more difficult and simply not suitable material for fairy tales?

I remembered when I couldn’t get enough of my wife. I loved slipping into familiar conversations, a familiar bed, familiar sex. I loved her laugh. I loved that she used it freely and often. Most of all, I loved her optimism. I was in this highly speculative career of writing movies, and she thought it was so cool, and knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I would make us rich. We were not rich. And she quickly learned there is nothing cool about not knowing when your next paycheck is coming.

But things changed when I stopped making money. The stench of failure followed me everywhere I went, burrowed its way into every good morning, every good night, every what’s new? As disappointed as my wife was in me, I was way more disappointed in myself. I walked around with an ominous feeling that something was about to break. One of us was going to say or do something that pushed the other over the edge. I tried to distract myself by making step stools and perfect miter joints, but I knew I couldn’t hide forever. Eventually I would have to face my failing marriage, and accept that our best days were probably behind us.

I thought about Belle and Cinderella, sailing off into the sunset with their handsome princes. If this was happily ever after, somebody should tell the evil stepsisters they got the last laugh.





HOLLY


Three months ago

I don’t text and drive, but once I park, I sit in the car and check my phone. It’s stupid, really. I don’t know what I’m hoping happened in the handful of minutes since I left point A and arrived at point B, but I always check before I get out. Except for that one time my boss emailed me to ask if I could come in an hour early to rebill some clients, I never got time-sensitive emails. I didn’t care if there was a sale at Wayfair, and it’s not like they email you if you win the lottery. Plus I don’t play the lottery. Like I said—stupid.