The Marriage Pact Page 4

  “A year later, Orla was on her daily walk around the island when she met someone. Richard was an American tourist, traveling the islands of Northern Ireland alone, trying to connect with the distant roots of his family. Richard canceled his return flight, quit his job in the States, extended his room reservation at the only inn on the island, and eventually proposed marriage to Orla.”

  I could see that something was bothering Alice. “In this story,” she said, “everyone gives up their jobs. Is that a requirement or something? Because Jake and I love our jobs.”

  “I assure you that The Pact has many members, like your sponsor, who are exceedingly successful in business,” Vivian replied. “The Pact wants you to be you, only better.”

  I was pretty sure I’d heard that slogan in summer camp.

  “Orla was hesitant about Richard’s proposal,” Vivian told us. “She had come to understand all of the things she’d done that had led to the dissolution of her marriage. She didn’t want to repeat her mistakes. Orla believes that we are creatures of habit. Once in a groove, it’s hard to change.”

  “But change is possible,” I insisted. “My practice—my entire field—is predicated on that notion.”

  “Of course it is,” Vivian said. “And Orla would agree with you. She decided that, if her second marriage was to succeed, she needed a clear strategy to make that happen. For days, she wandered the coastline, contemplating marriage: the things that make it fail and the things that help it thrive. In her cottage, she typed out her ideas on the same typewriter her mother, an aspiring novelist, had used decades before. Over a period of seventeen days, the typed pages stacked up beside the typewriter, the manual grew, and the system for a solid marriage was created. Make no mistake: It is a system—a highly effective, scientifically based system, the merits of which have been proven time and again. Because Orla believes that marriage should not be left up to chance. In the end, the ideas that Orla had during those walks make up the very foundation of The Pact.”

  “Did Orla and Richard ever get married?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  Alice leaned forward. “And are they still married?”

  Vivian nodded vigorously. “Of course they are. We all are. The Pact works. It works for Orla, it works for me, and it will work for you. Simply put, The Pact is two things. It is an agreement you make with your spouse. And it is membership within a group”—she clicked to a new slide and gestured toward the projection of happy people on a green lawn—“a fellowship of like-minded individuals, to support and enforce that agreement. Is that more clear?”

  “Not entirely,” Alice said, smiling. “But I am intrigued.”

  Vivian clicked forward a few slides. Most of them featured photos of well-heeled people having a good time together on stately lawns and in well-appointed rooms. She paused on a photo of Orla standing on a balcony, addressing a rapt crowd, with the bright sun and a vast desert at her back.

  “Orla was originally drawn to legal work,” Vivian said. “She liked that the rules of law were hard and fast and, where they weren’t, legal precedence lit the way. It was comforting to know that the answers were all there for her to find. Orla realized that marriage, like society, needed a set of laws.

  “She believed that British society had run pretty smoothly for hundreds of years because of these laws. Everyone knew what was expected. While people might have wanted to cheat or steal or even, God forbid, commit murder, the vast majority of citizens did not break the laws, because they knew the consequences. After Orla’s first marriage failed, it occurred to her that not only were the expectations for marriage unclear, so were the consequences.”

  “So,” I said. “The Pact is an effort to bring the principles of British law to the institution of marriage?”

  “It’s more than an effort. It’s really happening.” Vivian turned off the projector. “I can’t overstate the real value: The Pact brings community support, encouragement, and structure to the institution of marriage.”

  “You mentioned consequences,” Alice said. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Look,” Vivian said. “I was married once before. I was twenty-two, he was twenty-three. We met in high school and dated for an eternity. At first it was exciting, the two of us, together against the world, but then—I’m not sure when things changed—I started to feel so alone. We had problems, and there was no one I could turn to. He was cheating on me. I didn’t know why; I worried that it was my fault, but I didn’t know how to react. Divorce came so quickly, like it was the only door, and I just needed to get out.”

  Vivian had a single tear at the corner of her eye. She sat up straighter and flicked the tear away with her fingertip. “When I met Jeremy, I was gun-shy. Just like Orla had been. Jeremy proposed, and I said yes, but I kept putting things off. I was terrified of making the same mistakes. Marriage conjured up such negative thoughts.”

  “How did you end up in the organization?” Alice asked.

  “I finally ran out of excuses. Jeremy was determined to set a date, so I let him, and everything moved forward rapidly. Two weeks before the wedding, I was away on business. I was sitting in the Virgin lounge in Glasgow, drinking Gordon’s, maybe one too many. I remember sitting alone, crying. Sobbing, actually. Loud enough that people around me got up and moved. Embarrassing. And then an older gentleman, well dressed, nice looking, came over and sat down next to me. He was on his way to see his son at college in Palo Alto. We talked and talked. I told him all about the wedding, and it felt good to be unloading my fears on this stranger, someone who didn’t have a stake in any of it. A volcano had erupted in Iceland, so our two-hour layover became eight hours. But the gentleman was so nice, so interesting, the delay turned out to be a pleasure. A few days later, a wedding present arrived in the mail. And here I am. Happily married for six years.”

  She reached for the wooden box, turned the gold key in the lock, and opened the lid. Inside was a set of documents typed in dark blue ink on parchment paper. She removed the documents and placed them on the table. Beneath the documents were two identical small books bound in gold leather.

  Alice reached out and ran her fingers over the books, intrigued.

  Vivian handed one gold book to each of us. I was startled to see they were embossed with our names, the date of our wedding, and, in large block letters, THE PACT.

  “This is The Manual,” Vivian told us. “You’ll need to memorize it.”

  I opened the book and began flipping through it. The text was tiny.

  Vivian’s phone began to buzz. She pulled it out and, sliding her finger across the screen, said, “Page forty-three: When your spouse calls, always answer.” When I gave her a quizzical look, she pointed at The Manual.

  Vivian stepped out onto our front porch, shutting the door behind her. Alice lifted the book, eyes wide, and mouthed the word sorry. But she was smiling.

  Don’t be, I mouthed back.

  She leaned over and kissed me.

  As I’ve mentioned, I proposed to Alice because I wanted to keep her. Since we had returned from the honeymoon, I worried that she would experience a postwedding letdown. Things so quickly returned to exactly as they had been before the wedding, and I was nervous. Alice requires a certain level of excitement. She gets bored easily.

  So far, I decided that marriage, in the physical sense, wasn’t any different from living together. In the mental sense, however, marriage was a huge leap. I’m not sure how to explain it, but as soon as the minister spoke the words “I now pronounce you husband and wife,” I felt married. While I hoped Alice felt the same way, I couldn’t be certain. She did seem happier, but happiness sometimes fades.

  For all of these reasons, I have to admit I liked this strange thing that Finnegan was dragging us into. Maybe it would bring more excitement to the new state of our relationship. Maybe it would make our bond feel different, stronger.

  Vivian returned. “Time flies,” she said. “I need to get going. Shall we sign?” She pushed
the parchment documents toward us. The print was tiny, and at the bottom of the form were two sets of signature blocks. Vivian signed her name on the left, above the title “Host.” Below that, Orla Scott had signed in blue ink. The word beneath her signature was “Founder.” On the right side, Finnegan had signed above “Sponsor.” My name had been typed in above the word “Husband.” Vivian handed us the engraved pens that came with our wooden box.

  “May we keep the contracts for a couple of days?” Alice asked.

  Vivian frowned. “Of course, if you need to, but I’m going out of town this afternoon and I’d really like to get your paperwork started as soon as possible. I’d hate for you to miss the next party.”

  “Party?” Alice asked, perking up. Did I mention that Alice loves parties?

  “It’s going to be spectacular.” Vivian gestured nonchalantly at the papers. “But I don’t mean to rush you. Take as much time as you want.”

  “Okay,” Alice said, turning to the first page. Perhaps she had become more of an attorney than a musician. I scanned the pages, trying to concentrate, to pierce the impenetrable veil of doublespeak and legalese. I watched Alice’s face as she read; a couple of times she smiled, a couple of times she frowned. I couldn’t begin to guess what she was thinking. Eventually she turned the final page, picked up her pen, and signed. When she registered the surprise on my face, she hugged me and said, “This will be good for us, Jake. Besides, do you think I’d miss the party?”

  By now, Vivian had started packing away the projector. I knew I should probably read the fine print. But Alice wanted to do this. And I wanted to make Alice happy. I felt the weight of the pen in my fingers as I signed my name.

  10

  For all of us, of course, there is a gap between who we are and who we think we are. While I like to think the gap for me is small, I’ll acknowledge that it does exist. One indication? I think of myself as a fairly popular, likable person with an above-average number of friends. And yet I haven’t been invited to many weddings. I’m not sure why. Some people, like Alice, for example, get invited to weddings all the time.

  The upside is that I can remember every wedding I’ve ever been invited to, including the very first one.

  I was thirteen, and one of my favorite aunts was getting married in San Francisco. The relationship had developed quickly, and suddenly there was a wedding date. It was a Saturday in July, the reception at the cavernous United Irish Cultural Center. The floor was sticky, the smell of cheap beer from long-forgotten weddings rising from every crevice. A mariachi band was setting up on the stage, and enchiladas and tortillas appeared from the kitchen. A full bar stretched along the entire back wall, Irish bartenders dashing among the bottles. The place was packed. A guy handed me a beer, and no one seemed to mind. In fact, I instinctively knew it would have been considered an insult if I had refused.

  My aunt was the head of a labor union, serious stuff. Her husband-to-be was a labor leader of equal stature, though from another region. The place was so crowded, so festive. Even at my age, I sensed something important was going on. People flowed in through the doorways, loud and happy, checking their coats and bags and car keys, clearly planning to stay awhile. To say there was drinking and dancing and speeches and music and more drinking and dancing would sell the event short. It was the wildest, longest party I’d ever attended. I don’t remember it ending, and I don’t remember going home. To this day, the hazy memory stays with me, like a strange, noisy dream perched on a precipice, somehow, between childhood and adulthood.

  I don’t recall ever hearing that my aunt’s marriage ended. Instead, it just seemed to fade away. One day my uncle was there, and one day he was not. Years passed. They both went on to success and notoriety in their respective careers. And then one morning, reading the Los Angeles Times, I saw that my former uncle had died.

  Not long ago, I dreamed of the wedding—the music, the food, the drink, the crazy happiness in the packed, smelly room—and I wondered if it had really happened. It was my first real wedding, or at least the first wedding that taught me that marriage was supposed to be about happiness and joy.

  11

  It’s late on the night of Vivian’s visit and we’re in bed when Alice hands me my copy of The Manual. “Better study up. I don’t want you getting carted off to marriage jail.”

  “No fair. You went to law school. You have an advantage.”

  The Manual is divided into five parts: Our Mission, Rules of Procedure, Laws of The Pact, Consequences, and Arbitration. The longest part by far is Laws of The Pact. The parts are divided into sections, the sections into units, the units into paragraphs, the paragraphs into sentences and bullet points, all of it in tiny print. It’s a real doorstopper, and I can tell just from glancing at it that I won’t do more than skim it. Alice, on the other hand, lives for details and legalese.

  “Uh-oh,” she says, “I could be in trouble.”

  “What?”

  “Unit 3.6, Jealousy and Suspicion.” It’s no secret that Alice has an issue with jealousy. It’s a complicated ball of insecurity that I’ve been trying to unravel ever since we started dating.

  “You could be looking at some hard time,” I say.

  “Not so fast, mister. What about this: Unit 3.12, Health and Fitness.”

  I try grabbing The Manual from her hands, but she pulls it back, laughing.

  “That’s enough reading for one night,” I say. She drops The Manual onto the bedside table and presses her body against mine.

  12

  My office is filled with books and articles on marriage. A Rutgers University study found that when a woman is content in her marriage, her husband is much happier; a man’s level of satisfaction within the marriage, however, appears to have no bearing on his wife’s happiness.

  Short men stay married longer than tall men.

  The best predictor of a marriage’s success? Credit scores.

  Babylonian law required that if a woman cheated on her husband, she should be pitched into a river.

  When it comes to academics, a good study with a sound conclusion is usually the product of a large amount of data. The larger the data, the more the outliers fade and the real truth comes into focus. Sometimes, though, I find that too much data provides an overabundance of information, in which case the truth starts to slip out of reach. I can’t say how it is with marriage. Certainly there is something to learn from the successes and failures of past marriages. Yet isn’t every marriage unique?

  Liza and John are my first clients. I study up on everything before they arrive in my office, because that’s how I am, that’s what I do. It’s a rainy day, even more gloomy than usual in the Outer Richmond. He’s a contractor, she works in marketing. They wed five years ago in an elaborate ceremony at a golf course in Millbrae.

  I immediately like them. She wears a multicolored hat she knitted herself, which seems the opposite of vanity, and he reminds me of a good friend I had in high school, only smarter. Maybe this sort of counseling will be a nice counterbalance to my usual work with kids. I might like being around adults for a change, having adult conversations that don’t turn to Nietzsche or Passenger or the scientifically proven benefits of pot. Don’t get me wrong, I love kids. But what makes them so vulnerable—their sense of discovery mingled with despair, their naïve belief in the originality of their thoughts—can also make them repetitive. At times I’ve been tempted to put a sign on my door that says YES, I’VE READ FRANNY AND ZOOEY, AND NO, ANARCHY IS NOT A VIABLE FORM OF GOVERNMENT. So Liza and John are fertile new territory. I like the idea of helping people solve problems closer to my own. I could almost be friends with them, if the circumstances were different.

  John works insane hours at his tech startup, developing an app that does something groundbreaking he can’t quite explain. Liza is bored with her job advertising the wonders of a hospital that looks to her like a factory system for sick people. “I feel like a fraud,” Liza confesses, adjusting her knitted hat. “I miss my
friends. I want to move back to D.C.—”

  “You miss one friend,” John interrupts. “Let’s just be clear on that.” And then, looking at me, he repeats, “She misses one friend.”

  She ignores him. “I miss the excitement of life in the nation’s capital.”

  “What excitement?” John scoffs. “Nobody in D.C. goes outside, even in the best weather. Nine out of ten restaurants are brewpubs. You can’t get a decent salad. Don’t tell me you want to go back to a life of onion rings and iceberg.” I can see how maybe his negative energy would get on Liza’s nerves.

  She explains that six months ago she was contacted by a high school boyfriend who found her on Facebook. “He’s in politics,” she says. “He’s doing something.”

  “I don’t know what’s worse,” John says. “That my wife is having an affair, or that she’s having an affair with some pompous policy hack.”

  “Liza,” I say. “John believes you are having an affair. Would you describe your relationship with your former boyfriend as an affair?” Sometimes directness is good, but other times you need to come at the subject from the side. I’m not certain which type of situation we’re in now.

  Liza shoots him a dirty look and continues without answering my question. “We met for coffee while he was out here for work. And the next time, we went out to dinner.” She mentions an outrageously expensive restaurant, describing the event with a sense of wonder and surprise at odds with the complete ordinariness of the situation. I want to tell her there is nothing original about leaving one’s spouse for an old flame you hooked up with on Facebook. I want to tell her that she and the ex aren’t reinventing the wheel, they’re just riding a worn path that never leads anywhere good. But I don’t. It’s not my place. I have a hunch that John would be better off without her. A few months after Liza is gone, he’ll find a nice coder girl and bike off into the sunset.

  Liza mentions “mental and sexual compatibility,” as if she’s read some sort of manual. She uses the word self-actualization—which, though sound in principle, has become a catchphrase for “doing what’s best for me, no matter whom I hurt.” She’s getting more irritating by the second, and John is getting more despondent. It doesn’t take long to realize I’m just a short rest stop on their journey to divorce. Two Thursdays later, when John calls to cancel their appointments, I’m sad for him and disappointed in myself, but not surprised.