The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry(38)

1939 / Irwin Shaw

Man watches women besides his wife. The wife doesn’t approve. Lovely twist, more like a turn, at the end. You’re a good reader, and you’ll probably see it coming. (Is a twist less satisfying if you know it’s coming? Is a twist that you can’t predict symptomatic of bad construction? These are things to consider when writing.)

Not particularly apropos of writing but . . . Someday, you may think of marrying. Pick someone who thinks you’re the only person in the room.

—A.J.F.

Ismay waits in the foyer of her house. Her legs are crossed so that one foot is wrapped around the calf of her other leg. She once saw an anchorwoman sit that way, and it had impressed her. A woman needs skinny legs and flexible knees to accomplish it. She wonders if the dress she’s picked for the day will be too light. The material is silk, and summer is over.

She looks at her phone. It’s 11 a.m., which means the ceremony will have already begun. Perhaps she should leave without him?

As she is already late, she decides that there is no point in going alone. If she waits, she can yell at him when he arrives. She finds pleasure where she can.

Daniel comes through the door at 11:26. “Sorry,” he says. “A few of the kids from my class wanted to go for a drink. One thing led to another, you know how it is.”

“Yes,” she says. She doesn’t feel like yelling anymore. Silence will be better.

“I crashed in my office. My back is killing me.” He kisses her on the cheek. “You look fantastic.” He whistles. “You still have great legs, Izzie.”

“Get changed,” she says. “You smell like a liquor store. Did you drive here yourself?”

“I’m not drunk. I’m hungover. Be precise, Ismay.”

“It’s amazing you’re still alive,” she says.

“Probably so,” he says as he goes up the stairs.

“Would you grab my wrap when you come back down?” she says, but she isn’t sure if he has heard her.

THE WEDDING IS, as weddings are, as weddings will always be, Ismay thinks. A.J. looks sloppy in his blue seersucker suit. Couldn’t he have rented a tuxedo? It’s Alice Island, not the Jersey shore. And where had Amelia gotten that awful Renaissance Faire dress? It’s more yellow than white, and she looks hippy in it. She’s always wearing vintage clothes and she doesn’t exactly have the right body type for them. Who’s she kidding with those big gerbera in her hair—she’s not twenty, for God’s sake. When she smiles, she’s all gums.

When did I get so negative? Ismay wonders. Their happiness is not her unhappiness. Unless it is. What if there is only an equal ratio of happiness to unhappiness in the world at any given time? She should be nicer. It’s a well-known fact that hate shows up on your face once you’re forty. Besides, Amelia is attractive, even if she isn’t beautiful like Nic. Look how much Maya is smiling. Lost another tooth. And A.J. is so happy. Watch that lucky bastard try not to cry.

Ismay is happy for A.J., whatever that means, but the wedding itself is a trial. The event makes her younger sister seem even deader and also leads to unwanted reflection on her sundry disappointments. She is forty-four years old. She is married to a too-handsome man, whom she no longer loves. She has had seven miscarriages in the last dozen years. She is, according to her gynecologist, in perimenopause: So much for that.

She looks across the venue at Maya. What a pretty girl she is, and she’s smart, too. Ismay waves to her, but Maya has her head in a book and she doesn’t seem to notice. The little girl has never particularly warmed to Ismay, which everyone thinks is odd. In general, Maya prefers adult company, and Ismay, who has been teaching for twenty years, is good with children. Twenty years. Jesus. Without even noticing it, she has gone from the bright new teacher whose legs all the boys stare at to old Mrs. Parish who does the school play. They think it’s silly how much she cares about these productions. Of course, they are overestimating her investment. How many years can she be expected to go on, one mediocre production blending in with the next? Different faces, but none of these kids ever turns out to be Meryl Streep.

Ismay pulls her wrap tighter around her shoulders and decides to take a walk. She heads down the pier then takes off her kitten heels and walks across the beach, which is empty. It is late September, and the air feels like fall. She tries to remember the name of the book where the woman swims out to sea and kills herself in the end.

It would be so easy, Ismay thinks. You walk out. You swim for a while. You swim too far. You don’t try to swim back. Your lungs fill up. It hurts for a bit, but then it’s over. Nothing ever hurts again, and your conscience is clear. You don’t leave a mess. Maybe your body washes up some day. Maybe it doesn’t. Daniel wouldn’t even look for her. Maybe he would look for her, but he certainly wouldn’t look very hard.

Of course! The book is The Awakening by Kate Chopin. How she had loved that novel (novella?) at seventeen.

Maya’s mother had ended her life in the same fashion, and Ismay wonders, not for the first time, if Marian Wallace had read The Awakening. She has thought a lot about Marian Wallace over the years.

Ismay walks into the water, which is even colder than she thought it would be. I can do this, she thinks. Just keep walking.

I may just do this.

“Ismay!”

Despite herself, Ismay turns. It’s Lambiase, that annoying cop friend of A.J.’s. He is carrying her shoes.