“Are you accusing me of making it up?”
“No. Crazy as it sounds, I believe you found her in a glass cage. I think that The Pact is capable of all sorts of minor monstrosities. But I’m not so sure that the participants aren’t willing. I’ve been to Fernley, remember? And it was bad, I’ll grant that. Awful, really. But I put up with it because I wanted to be a better wife, and I genuinely believed they could help me do that.”
“They threatened your career!” I shout. “They threatened mine!”
“Maybe those threats were real. Maybe they weren’t. Either way, they’re not murdering couples at the beach. They’re not crushing the regional director’s wife between walls of glass. I think what you’re committing is a Crime of Interpretation.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” And I’m suddenly in free fall. I feel as if I don’t know my wife. Because those words she just used, that phrase—a Crime of Interpretation—isn’t that straight out of The Manual?
“You’re the therapist. What would you think if someone came to you with that story? You made out like it was so horrific, but when I picture you in that cage with her, I can’t help thinking that you liked it. That it turned you on.”
“No,” I protest, but the word doesn’t sound convincing.
“And I also think it was what she wanted. I think she lured you there, as part of some sick, stupid game, and you played right into it.”
I feel as if I’m going to vomit. “Alice, she was in pain. It wasn’t a game.”
“She’s manipulating you, and you can’t even see it. Or maybe you don’t want to see it.”
“You’re so off base, Alice. What is wrong with you?”
In the firehouse down the street, the alarm goes off. It’s so loud we both cover our ears. Seconds later, the fire engine rips past, sirens wailing. It passes so closely that the rush of wind shakes the car. Then the engine is gone.
“When you asked me to marry you, what did you expect?” Alice’s voice is chillingly quiet. “Did you think it was going to be all happy times, flowers and rainbows? Did you think it was going to be all Planet Waves and no Blood on the Tracks? Is that what you thought?”
“Of course not.”
“I went to Fernley, I wore that fucking collar. I stood there in front of that judge, I took his lecture, and I accepted his sentence. Do you know why?”
I’m not sure which is more devastating—the anger in her voice, or the sadness. “Do you know why, Jake? Do you know why I sat there with Dave all of those afternoons? Do you know why I wore that fucking bracelet? Do you know what I was thinking when they dragged me all the way out to the desert? Do you know what I was thinking when they put the chains around my ankles, or when they took all of my clothes, or when they gave me a lice bath, or when that big fucking female guard stripped me down and said she needed to search me?”
“A strip search? You never told me….”
Side one of Blood on the Tracks comes to a conclusion. Although I can’t see it and I can’t hear it, I know that Alice is crying. Finally, she says, “I did it for you, Jake. I want this marriage to work. I’m not afraid of commitment. I’m not afraid to do whatever the fuck needs to be done to keep us together. I did it for us.”
The DJ comes on. He’s talking about the album and Dylan’s fiery relationship with his wife, the magical beginning, “Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands,” the ups, the downs, the passion, and eventually the rumored ending. It was three in the morning, Dylan in the studio with his band, not having been home for days, when his wife appeared out of nowhere, slipping into the darkened booth, standing in the back, and not even the producer was aware of her presence. How she stood there, just watching. Eventually Dylan saw her, and he started playing a song he had written for her earlier that day, strumming the guitar, staring intensely across the room, right into her eyes—singing those words, a brilliant stew of intense devotion, bitter venom, and everything in between. When the song ended, she slipped out the side door and that was it, she was gone.
“What do you want me to do?” I ask Alice.
Alice swipes her tears away. It’s strange to see her crying. I think the tears embarrass her.
“I want you to do exactly what you want to do.”
“Yes,” I say. “But what would make you the happiest?”
“I want you to commit to this marriage, Jake. To me. If that means making your peace with The Pact, then that’s what it means. If you are serious about me, about our marriage, then push forward, take the bad with the good. I want to know that you love me, Jake, I want to know that you are with me. I want to know that you are prepared to do whatever it takes.”
It’s quiet, save for Dylan’s strumming. Alice puts her hand on my thigh. “Is that too much to ask? It’s serious adult shit. Are you ready for that?” She gives a sad little laugh.
I take her hand in mine. Her fingers are cold, so different from her usual warmth, and it makes me think of how her hands might feel when she’s old. And I know that I want to be with her then. I want to know what her voice sounds like when she’s eighty. I want to know how she looks when her dimples turn to wrinkles, or how she smells when she’s sick, or the look in her eyes when she can’t remember the name of someone she’s always known. I want all of it. Not because I need to possess her, as I once thought, but because I love her. I love her so much.
I power on my cell and pull up Vivian’s name. Vivian answers on the first ring. “Friend,” she says.
“Hello, Friend. I’m sorry to bother you so late.”
“No need. I’m always here for you and Alice.”
“I need to confess something.”
“I know,” Vivian says, “I’m glad you called.” It doesn’t really register, at first, what she’s saying.
“Actually, a couple of things.”
“I know,” she says again. “Take a day for yourself. Get your things together. Spend some time with your wife. Can you be at your home on Saturday morning?”
“Saturday?” I say, looking at Alice. She is staring at me, pleased. She nods. “Why don’t I just meet you at the Half Moon Bay Airport?”
“That won’t be necessary,” Vivian says. “They would prefer to meet at your house. Good night, Friend.”
I have a sensation—is it real or imagined?—of someone watching. I look up at the building, the light shining in Alice’s office. Someone is standing in front of the window, hands in his pockets, looking down at us—Vadim.
63