“Excuse me,” I say, and stumble over to the nearest empty chair. I put my head between my knees. The dizziness passes.
I stay there for a moment, then gradually sit up, hoping to be left alone. But no. Both Deborah Taylor and MJ Taylor are standing next to me. MJ looks genuinely concerned and is holding out a glass of water. Deborah simply observes me.
“I think you’re beginning to get it,” says Deborah. She smiles. It strikes me that she doesn’t have a very nice face.
MJ still looks bewildered, she glances from me to Deborah and back again. “What’s going on?” she asks. Goin aw-an. Definitely southern roots.
“What’s going on is the inaugural meeting of John Taylor’s spouses,” says Deborah. “Would we qualify as a coven? A harem? What is the term for a group of wives?”
“Circle,” I say. “We are a circle of wives.” Then I close my eyes and this time don’t fight the dizziness.
6
MJ
I SOMEHOW GET HOME AFTER that disastrous reception. How I did it without ending up with a DUI I don’t know. I’m not a drinker. It only takes a couple glasses of wine on an empty stomach to put me way under, and the wine coupled with the stress, and then the shock unhinged me completely. Three wives! And of course it had been me who jogged that woman’s elbow so she spilled her red wine all over Deborah’s apparently very valuable carpet. Well, despite knowing everything else, she didn’t seem to know that. Be grateful for small victories, I tell you. Or “Yee-haw” as my mother would say sarcastically when underwhelmed by an event.
How do I feel? Humiliated. I’ve clearly been outsmarted and outgunned at every point. Those fantasies I’d had of starting a quiet conversation with Deborah in which I calmly informed her of the situation now seem borderline hallucinogenic. Not since I dropped acid in my twenties have I felt so displaced from reality as standing in Deborah’s living room with her and that other “wife.” What was her name, Helga? Heidi? Something that begins with an “H.” She managed to hold on to her wits and, more importantly, her dignity. Even at my best I only muddle through life, grateful for the goodwill most people bear toward dumb creatures. At least Deborah doesn’t seem inclined to strip me of my assets, meaning, this house. “We’ll have that talk later,” she said to me before I left. Of course, only to me, as this . . . Henrietta? Haley? . . . clearly isn’t as concerned as I am about finances. I can’t help wondering what her circumstances are. Thank God I never quit my job. John had told me I could quit anytime, but I just hadn’t been able to imagine what I would do with myself all day. Come to think of it, John might have had similar worries, probably thought I’d be more likely to pry into matters if I didn’t spend eight-plus hours at the office every day. Besides, I don’t mind my job. I rather enjoy it. Bookkeeping for a software company in Silicon Valley distracts me—and affords me a certain level of respect. The sanity of numbers, the rationality of ratios, percentages. Accounting has always kept me grounded during rough patches in my life; I can only pray it will this time, too.
Since Deborah was constantly being interrupted by departing guests offering their final condolences, we didn’t discuss the details of our situation. Deborah had said, “Of course there’s no need for anyone else to know,” at which point I felt a certain amount of relief, but even so I’m unclear how it will work out. Will I claim John as dead? Will I take the death certificate to a lawyer to make sure the house is truly, officially, mine? That other wife, she’d nodded calmly, took it all in stride. The indignity of not being the final wife! It confirms that I lack something, that I hadn’t given John what he wanted, what he really needed. Not that Deborah seemed to feel anything of the sort. At least she was left twice. Not that I was actually left. (I have to keep reminding myself of that.) He could have done so. He could have asked me for a divorce when he met this third wife, this whoever. He could have just abandoned me. That he didn’t means something, it’s something to hold on to.
In the meantime what will I tell people? I suppose I can say that my husband suddenly died of a heart attack. That’s what the newspapers reported anyway. As Deborah said, “no one needs to know.” But this is all for another day when I can bear it. I am still a little tipsy and not exactly thinking clearly. I begin to get ready for bed when my house phone begins to ring.