“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, the 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.