The Marriage Pact Page 5

  13

  Three days after Vivian’s visit, we’re invited to the annual party for Alice’s law firm. Maybe invited isn’t the right word: Attendance is mandatory for junior associates. It’s at the Mark Hopkins Hotel atop Nob Hill. This is the first year that I’m on the guest list. It’s a stodgy, conservative, traditional firm. Boyfriends and girlfriends are never welcome; spouses, on the other hand, are compelled to attend.

  I break out my best Ted Baker suit, the one I wore to the wedding. I try to go a little holiday with a green plaid shirt and a red tie. Alice takes one look at me and frowns. She places a box from Nordstrom on the bed. “That one. I bought it yesterday.” The shirt is blue, well made. “And that,” she says. There’s a tie box, also from Nordstrom. It’s silk, a darker blue than the shirt, with subtle purple stripes. The collar chafes at my neck, and I struggle with the tie. I didn’t learn how to properly tie a tie until I was thirty-one years old. I’m not sure if it is a fact that makes me feel proud or embarrassed.

  I want Alice to come over and help me tie it, the way TV wives do, but of course, she’s not that sort of wife. Not the kind who does the ironing and knows how to tie a man’s tie, looking at you seductively in the mirror from behind with her arms wrapped around your neck. She’s sexy, but not the domestic kind of sexy, which is okay. More than okay.

  Alice is all decked out in a tailored black dress and a pair of black snakeskin pumps. Pearl earrings, a gold bracelet, no necklace or rings. I’ve seen pictures of her wearing bracelets stacked on bracelets, lots of earrings, necklaces hanging every which way. But these days, her rule of thumb for jewelry is straight-up Jackie O: Two pieces is ideal, three is pushing it, anything more begs to be edited. When did her wardrobe go from nineties rock steampunk to Junior Associate Chic? Still, she looks amazing.

  We valet the car in the roundabout at Top of the Mark. We’re a few minutes early—Alice hates being early—so we take a brisk walk around the block. She’s not big on makeup but swears by a swipe of red lipstick combined with the healthy flush of exercise, and by the time we arrive at the party she’s pink-cheeked and lovely. “You ready?” she asks, taking my hand, aware how much I hate this sort of thing.

  “Just don’t drag me into a conversation on torts.”

  “No promises. Remember, this is work.”

  We walk into the party, and a caterer greets us with champagne. “I don’t suppose this is a good time to ask for a Bailey’s on the rocks,” I whisper to Alice.

  She squeezes my hand. “There is never a good time for a man your age to ask for a Bailey’s on the rocks.”

  Alice makes introductions, and I smile and nod and shake hands, going with the safe “Good to see you” instead of “Nice to meet you.” A few people make the usual therapist jokes: “What would Freud say about this cocktail?” and “Can you just look at me and know my deepest darkest secrets?”

  “As a matter of fact, I can,” I reply somberly to a guy named Jason, as loud as he is arrogant, who manages to utter the words Harvard Law School three times within our first minute of conversation.

  After a dozen or so similar encounters, I disengage from Alice—the shuttle separating from the mother ship—and head over to the dessert tables. They are substantial, featuring hundreds of delicate petits fours and miniature parfaits, mounds of truffles. I love dessert, but the real appeal of this corner of the room is the lack of people. I hate chitchat, small talk, getting to know people in that fake way that guarantees you’ll know less about them at the end of the conversation than you did at the beginning.

  The important clients arrive, and I watch from afar as the attorneys go to work. At this level, parties are less about the party and more about the business. Alice moves among the groups, and I can tell she’s good. Clearly, she is well liked by the partners and her co-workers, and she has an appeal to the clients too. It’s a formula, for sure; the firm wants to present a seamless team of older, experienced, evenhanded partners combined with energetic, ambitious young associates. Alice plays her role expertly, the clients smiling and happy as she glides through their conversations.

  That said, as I watch Alice, the same half glass of champagne in her hand, something feels off. She’s “at the top of her game,” as her boss likes to say, but something about it makes me—well—sad. Sure, the money is good, and without it we wouldn’t have been able to buy the house. Still, I think of Michael Jordan during those midcareer years, when he gave up basketball for a foray into professional baseball. I think of David Bowie and all that time spent acting—good movies, although in time they became nothing more than a hole in his musical back catalog.

  A younger guy, Vadim, joins me at the dessert table. He seems less interested in meeting me, more interested in getting away from the game going on across the room. He’s wearing a green shirt and red tie, apparently lacking a wife to goad him toward good taste. Nervously, he recites his résumé to me. He is the firm’s investigator. When he tells me about his PhD in computer science and four years at Google Ventures, I understand why he was hired; still, I also understand why he will never entirely fit in at a place like this. The forced conversation leads us into some weird areas, including a lengthy account of his fear of spiders and of an ill-advised relationship with a Chinese national who was later indicted for corporate spying.

  They say that Vadim is the future of Silicon Valley, that the Vadims of the Valley are procreating with the coder girls, producing a new generation of incredibly smart offspring whose offbeat social skills will not be considered a liability in the future but merely a different branch of evolution, necessary for ensuring the survival of the human race in a brave new world. While I believe the theory, as your basic arts and sciences kind of guy I sometimes find it hard to relate to guys like Vadim.

  But then, after the résumé and the spiders and the long, involved story of spying, we finally do relate. Because what Vadim really wants to talk about is Alice. Apparently unaware that I’m her husband (although I’m not sure that would make a difference), he says, “I find Alice very appealing. Both in the physical sense and in the mental sense.” Then he goes on to analyze his competition—“the husband, of course, but also Derek Snow.” He points to a tall, good-looking man with curly hair and a yellow Lance Armstrong wristband standing a little too close to Alice, touching her on the shoulder. Watching Derek, I know that Vadim is correct: He isn’t the only one at the firm who covets my wife. With her former fame and her musical talent, she’s an anomaly at a firm filled with the usual crop of Ivy League grads.

  “There was a betting pool about whether she would go through with the wedding to the therapist,” Vadim says.

  “Oh?”

  “I did not partake, of course. Gambling on someone else’s relationship is irrational. Too many incalculable factors.”

  “How many people placed bets?”

  “Seven. Derek lost a thousand bucks.”

  I pick up a dessert labeled FLOURLESS ORGANIC FIG NEWTON WITH ORANGE ZEST and eat it in one bite. “In the interest of full disclosure,” I confess, “I’m the therapist.”

  “You have deceived me!” Vadim exclaims. Then, apparently unoffended by my lie of omission, he turns and assesses me frankly. “Yes, you are a close-enough physical match,” he decides, “when one considers that women often partner with men who are slightly less attractive, attractiveness being an amalgamation of height, fitness, and symmetry. You’re of above-average height, you look like a runner, and your features are well aligned, if not perfect. The dimple on your chin makes up for the forehead.”

  I touch my forehead. What the fuck is wrong with my forehead?

  “Alice doesn’t seem to mind my forehead,” I say.

  “Statistically speaking, a chin dimple on a man atones for a number of minor flaws. True fact: Women with cheek dimples get extra points in the attractiveness department, but a woman gets docked points for a chin dimple, which is associated with masculinity. At any rate, if attractiveness were a tonal scale, t
he two of you would be close enough to produce harmony.”

  “Thanks. I guess.”

  “Of course, I have no way of knowing whether you are appropriately matched intellectually.”

  “Believe it or not, I’m brilliant. Anyway, thanks for not participating in the betting pool.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  He asks about the wedding, the honeymoon, the hotel, the flights—always wanting more details. I have the feeling he’s collecting data to plug into a program that will predict our chances of marital success, and thereby his chances of usurping me. I’m not sure why, but at some point I make a reference to The Pact. “Alice and I are solid,” I say. “After all, we’ve got The Pact.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “It’s a club,” I explain. “To help married people stay married.”

  He’s already whipping his phone out and starting to type. “I can find this club online?”

  Fortunately, before I share any real details about The Pact, Alice arrives to save me. “Hi, Alice,” Vadim says nervously. “You look appealing this evening.”

  “Thanks, Vadim,” she says, smiling sweetly. And then, to me, “I have to stay, but you’ve done your duty. I already summoned the car.” I love her for this, and for the lingering kiss on the lips she gives me in front of Derek Snow and Vadim the Eager and her boss and everyone, the kiss that says without ambiguity, “I am taken.”

  14

  The following morning, my phone rings while I’m sitting in the kitchen, eating breakfast. I don’t recognize the number.

  “Hi, Jake. It’s Vivian. How is everything?”

  “Good. You?”

  “I only have a minute. At the bakery, getting a cake for Jeremy.”

  “Tell him I said happy birthday.”

  “It’s not his birthday. I’m just getting him a cake because he likes cake.”

  “That’s sweet of you.”

  “Right. You clearly haven’t read The Manual.”

  “I started, but I didn’t get very far. What does cake have to do with The Manual?”

  “Read it and you’ll see. But that’s not why I called. Two quick things: One, you are invited to your first Pact party. Do you have a pen?”

  I grab a pen and notepad from the counter. “Yep.”

  “December fourteenth at seven P.M.,” Vivian says.

  “I’m free, but Alice’s schedule is complicated. I’ll have to check and make sure.”

  “Not the correct answer.” Vivian’s tone changes without warning. “You are both free. Ready for the address?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Four Green Hill Court, Hillsborough. Repeat it back.”

  “Four Green Hill Court, Hillsborough. December fourteenth—seven P.M.”

  “Good. Two, don’t mention The Pact.”

  “Of course not,” I say, instantly replaying in my mind the conversation with Vadim at the party.

  “Not to anyone,” Vivian stresses. “Not your fault.”

  Not my fault? How could she know I’d mentioned it?

  “Instructions about the secrecy of The Pact are included in The Manual, but perhaps I didn’t emphasize enough the importance of reading it. All of it. Commit it to memory, Jake. Orla believes in clarity of communication and clarity of purpose, and I have failed you in terms of communication.”

  I imagine Vivian standing in the corner for her infraction: Lack of Clarity. It’s ridiculous. How could she have known? Alice must have let it slip. “Vivian,” I say. “You didn’t fail—”

  But she cuts me off. “See you on December fourteenth. Send Alice my love and support.”

  15

  Alice has grown increasingly obsessed with work. Lately, around five in the morning, I’ll reach toward the other side of the bed to find her missing. Minutes later, I’ll hear the shower go on, but I usually fall back asleep. By the time I wander down the hallway around seven, she’s gone. In the kitchen, I’ll find dirty glasses and empty containers strewn about, crumpled yellow legal sheets. It’s as if a raccoon with a law degree and a penchant for overpriced Icelandic yogurt breaks into our house each night, only to slip out in the early morning light. On rare occasions, I find other things—like her guitar on the couch, her MacBook opened to Pro Tools, lyrics scribbled on a notepad.

  One morning, I find her copy of The Manual on the arm of the blue chair. I’ve been reading The Manual too—Vivian’s orders—although usually during my downtime at work. Okay, maybe I’ve been skimming it. With each section, the writing becomes more specific and technical, culminating with the final section, in which the laws and regulations are laid out in numbered paragraphs and written with excruciating attention to detail.

  My reaction to The Manual is equal parts fascination and repulsion. In some ways, it reminds me of my undergrad biology classes. Like the sheep heart dissection on the first day of the semester, The Manual has taken something living—marriage, in this case—and torn it apart to the smallest cell, to see how it works.

  Being more of a big-picture person, last in my statistics class, I find myself drawn to the more general sections. Part One is the shortest: Our Mission.

  To paraphrase, The Pact was created for three reasons: first, to establish a clear set of definitions that can be used to understand and discuss the contract of marriage; second, to establish rules and regulations for the marriage participants to adhere to, designed to strengthen the marriage contract and ensure success (“knowing the rules and regulations provides a clear, defined map and lights the path to happiness”); and third, to establish a community of individuals who share a common goal and desire to help each other achieve their individual goal—a successful marriage—which in turn strengthens the group. From those principles, everything else is supposed to flow logically.

  According to The Manual, The Pact has no agenda beyond that which is laid out in the mission statement. Nor does it have a political message. It does not discriminate based on ethnicity, national origin, gender, or sexual orientation.

  Part One also outlines how new members are located, selected, and approved. New couples are chosen based upon their ability to bring something “unique, individual, and supportive to the community as a whole.” Each Pact member with a minimum of five years is allowed to nominate one new couple for the approval process every two years. An Impartial Investigator is then appointed, who provides a thorough packet on the nominees. The Admittance Committee bases its decision to reject or approve the nomination upon the packet. The nominees cannot be informed of their nomination unless and until they are successfully approved for membership. Those couples rejected for entry never know of The Pact or their unsuccessful nomination.

  Not surprisingly, from the look of her copy Alice is more drawn to the sections related to rules and regulations. She has left the book open to Rule 3.5, Gifts.

  Every member is required to provide one gift to his or her spouse each calendar month. A gift is defined as a special, unexpected item or action that shows care of selection and/or execution. The gift is primarily intended to demonstrate the central, respected, and cherished role that the spouse inhabits in the member’s life. The gift should also demonstrate a unique understanding of the spouse, his or her interests, and the current state of the spouse’s desires. A gift need not be expensive or rare; its sole requirement is that it be meaningful.

  Each regulation is accompanied by a corresponding notation under Penalties. For Gifts, 3.5b, the penalty is as follows:

  Failure to provide a gift during a calendar month should be treated as a Class 3 Misdemeanor. Failure to provide gifts in two consecutive months should be treated as a Class 2 Misdemeanor. Failure to provide three or more gifts in a single calendar year should be treated as a Class 5 Felony.

  That evening, home from work, Alice kicks off her shoes and stockings and skirt in the usual order, leaving a trail of clothes down the hallway, and changes into sweatpants before grabbing the book and retreating to the bedroom to read. She often rea
ds after she gets home from work. It’s her ritual, her downtime. Half an hour later, like clockwork, she comes into the kitchen, ready to cook dinner together. I wait for her to mention her reading material, but she never does. I think we’re both hesitant to talk about The Pact, the weird experience with Vivian, the whole thing, simply because we’re trying to wrap our minds around it. At first it would have been easy to dismiss the entire thing as strange, to mock it, but I think we’ve realized that wouldn’t be entirely fair. The goal of The Pact—to create a good, strong marriage with the support of other, like-minded individuals—is both admirable and desirable.

  The next morning, I wander into the kitchen to find Alice gone and, once again, the chaos of paper, an empty coffee cup, and a half-eaten bowl of Rice Chex, her usual scoop of Ovaltine still floating on top. In the middle of the table, however, is a small package, gift-wrapped in paper emblazoned with dancing penguins. She has written my name in gold ink on a white card taped to the package. Inside, I find the world’s coolest spatula. Orange on top, my favorite color, and yellow on the bottom. The label says MADE IN SUOMI, in English and again in Finnish. Not necessarily expensive, but perfect, and possibly quite difficult to find. I turn over the card. You make the world’s best chocolate chip cookies, my wife has written. And I love you.

  After opening the spatula, I immediately take a photo of myself, mostly clothed, holding it up, smiling. I email it to Alice with just three words, Love you too. When I make a batch of cookies using the spatula that night, neither of us mentions the connection to The Pact or its regulations.