Life and Other Inconveniences(54)

Two months after he met April Riley, Clark proposed. He’d been writing furiously, had rented a comfortably furnished town house—it was nice, being like the normal people. He swept April off her feet. It was easy, since he had the trust fund. He could send her flowers, buy her pretty things, ask for her help picking out a car.

He listened more than he talked, because honestly, he didn’t have too much to say, and it was fun listening to her chatter energetically about work and food and her family. She didn’t really understand who his mother was because she didn’t shop in those circles, and she thought his silence and smiles were because he was smitten. Which he kind of was.

She said yes. After all, what woman would not love this new Clark, so creative and driven and happy? He’d lost some weight, was better-looking than ever, went with her to the Art Institute and wandered around, making jokes about some of the art, standing in feigned awe at others (they were just pictures . . . some scribbles, some almost as good as photos). It made her happy, and the guy who made April happy had to be a pretty great person.

Her parents thought they were rushing, but Clark and April didn’t care. They got married at city hall and bought a house in the burbs. When he called Genevieve to tell her the news, there was a long silence.

“When may I meet my daughter-in-law?” she asked. She flew out the next weekend, and April hugged her and said she hoped they’d be friends.

“Wouldn’t that be nice?” Genevieve murmured, and April was too naive to realize she’d just been rejected. “Did she sign a prenuptial agreement?” Genevieve asked when April was out of the room.

“I don’t believe in those,” Clark said, though the truth was, it hadn’t occurred to him. His mother rolled her eyes. Too bad, Mother! You don’t get a say about everything!

He took great pleasure in showing his mother their house, an ordinary two-story in an ordinary neighborhood in an ordinary town outside Chicago. His trust fund had bought it, and while he could’ve afforded more, he wanted to rub the banality in her face. The neighborhood was everything he hadn’t had as a kid—close-knit and noisy, people’s children riding bikes and playing tag . . . utterly, beautifully ordinary. Clark almost wished he were a kid himself, because the trick-or-treating would be killer around here, and Genevieve had never let him go. It was too common, she’d said. Candy made in a factory somewhere? How garish.

Marriage was mostly nice. April was in school part-time during the day, worked at night and cooked great meals when she was home. Sex was fantastic. Granted, she irritated him sometimes; she’d ask about how his book was going, or if he’d done the laundry or picked up groceries, and obviously Clark was too busy for that.

“You’re home a lot more than I am,” she said. “You have to do your share, Clark.” She didn’t want a housekeeper, which was his solution. She said it was silly, there were just two of them, and they should save their money and be self-sufficient. Typical midwesterner.

So Clark lied about writing, said he had to be out of the house to be productive, said the public library was better, and told her he had meetings with a few agents who were already interested. The library proved to be boring, and writing was harder than it looked.

    My mother always loved my brother best, but he disappeared when he was seven and I was five, and she was never the same after that. If I cried was upset about it, my father would come in my room and cuddle me sit with me. Then my father died, and that really sucked was sad. He was a good dad. Not like my mother, who was a cold woman.



He didn’t like writing about Sheppard, though his brother’s disappearance was probably the most interesting event of his life. He’d doodle pictures of Genevieve with horns or a penis, then see if the library had any comic books, because his love for them had never died. Sometimes, he took a nap in a worn chair in the stacks.

He joined a writers’ group that met in the library. Keep at it, they said, those other members. Writing was harder than most people knew! Maybe he needed a break. Refill the well. When two people in the group got published, Clark stopped going. They were irritating, anyway. Thinking about writing was fun, but they were kind of show-offs, talking about page counts and contracts.

Sometimes, Clark went to the movies; sometimes he went out to eat. Then he joined the Park Ridge Country Club. Didn’t mention his membership to April, because she really wasn’t a country club girl—totally different world from her middle-class upbringing. She didn’t even play tennis. Clark was immediately at home, though. The golf course was fantastic, the tennis courts beautiful.

There were also a lot of hot women. Tennis moms and college-age daughters, second and third wives wanting to prove they belonged, single women using membership as a way to network.

So, sure, he had affairs. That was what men did. Chances were his father had cheated on his mother, and who could blame him? Clark bought a sleek condo in Park Ridge so that when he did want to sleep with someone, it was easy. Life was good. Out here, he was out of Genevieve’s shadow at last. His own man. The fact that he lived on the money from his trust fund didn’t matter. Once the book came out, he’d make millions. Once he sold it to Hollywood, more millions. Maybe he’d be a producer. Write the screenplay. How hard could it be?

When April got pregnant, he wasn’t thrilled. Marriage had kind of lost its shine, frankly. April wasn’t as happy as she used to be. Not as interested in him, either. But hey. A kid would be fine. A son. Maybe he’d name him Sheppard, if only to piss off his mother.