On Becoming a Wife (2005)
1. Miracles
In my early twenties, I was so naïve that I thought writing and marriage happened by magic. After sweating out a few opera librettos I was disabused of my notions about writing, but I still expected marriage to come off in a flourish with flashes of light and sprays of glitter. I found dates on the internet, but always overwrote all my personal ads, probably coming off as desperate and silly. At any rate, I found myself going out with a lot of desperate and silly men. In the midst of these charades, I met and became friends with Thomas Williams. Tom was a freelance writer/artist, twenty-five years my senior, married with two teenaged kids. He revealed right away in our correspondence that he was still married and quite sincerely thought it would be ending soon. But after a few months, he decided he wasn’t quite ready to scrap it after all. We continued to correspond about our respective writing projects, and occasionally met for coffee.
After I had known Tom for about two years, he invited me on a trip to Arizona to explore the possibility of collaboration on a libretto, and I agreed at once. He would be attending a court reporters convention at the Arizona Golf Resort in Mesa and thought we could work in the hours he wasn’t at the convention. At this point, Tom was someone I would consider sharing a room with, in separate beds, on a platonic basis. He was paying for most of the trip.
Just the day before Tom called, I had pledged to accept whatever miracles the universe provided me with, and this seemed like the universe stepping forward in good faith. Tom’s offer involved writing, the chance to meet new people, and stimulating travel.
2. Romance
I had never been out west. Though Tom flew, I decided to travel by train to get a sense of the land, to see it framed through the train window like a John Ford western. Actually, I may have taken the train more because I don’t like to fly than for the view, but the John Ford version sounds more romantic.
After the train, I boarded a bus that would take me from Flagstaff to Phoenix Skyharbor Airport. The man sitting in the seat next to me fell in love with me. All right, not in love, but he was interested. He was John, 30 years old, single. I was Elisabeth, 26 years old, single. I was a writer, I told him, and soon to be a full-time student, and I was excited, so excited about a bus ride that was like a journey from one alien world to another, the mountains and pine trees and snow of Flagstaff giving way to the desert and cacti and mesas of the Southwest, all within two hours, and who knew that such startling and miraculous transformations were possible in life? John was in concrete and cement. And I was “Wow, look at the colors in those mountains,” and “Gosh I know I’m talking in clichés but photos just don’t give you a sense of the hugeness of it do they?”
He wasn’t in love with me. He was in wonder at my wonder, in love with my sudden rush of love for everything around me. Under certain bizarre circumstances, being a gawking and unsophisticated tourist becomes attractive. John gave me his phone number and was more than happy to help me if I got lost in Phoenix.
Later I realized I should have called John, but I never did. I hated to admit it, but I was pretty bored with the idea of concrete and cement. Still, I was encouraged by his attention. If a guy could show interest in me in twenty minutes flat, then my soul mate might be just beyond the next mesa.
John’s encouragement had come at a good moment; his attention on the bus was wanted attention, but earlier, on the train, I had received unwanted attention from more predatory types of men. Their advances were the sort that made some women into man-haters. After chatting casually with one man for all of five minutes I was offered an all-expenses-paid trip to London. Later I struck up a five-minute acquaintanceship with another man and was promptly informed I would be spending the night with him in Flagstaff. I retreated from the observation car back to the solitude of coach in the hopes that I would be forgotten before Flagstaff. I was. This guy’s penchant seemed to be blond women, and I was only one of many on the train.
I didn’t know anything about traveling as a single woman. I didn’t know the old trick of wearing a gold band on my left ring finger. But after awhile I did have the sense to invent a fictional fiancé, based loosely on an old childhood friend, so that I could more convincingly render the details of the character: “Yeah, I’m engaged. I miss him so much, but he just couldn’t take the time to come with me on this trip. He’s really working hard in school right now . . . the wedding is set for June.”
After a time, I was lonely and a bit scared. That’s why I invented these fictions. And I guess I didn’t really understand the style of these men’s seductions. I was puzzled since I expected so strongly to stumble into an intense and romantic experience of love. I still expected magic.
3. Becoming a Wife
Instead, I accidentally spent the next three days at the Arizona Golf Resort posing as Tom’s wife. We had arrived at the resort late at night on a shuttle from the airport with a group of fellow convention goers. I stepped out of the shuttle last, and as everyone looked on, I fell over my luggage, tripped down a few stairs and landed sideways.
“Are you all right, Mrs. Williams?” a woman asked. Tom and I looked at each other, but he didn’t correct her. I was still sitting dazed on the concrete. Tom smiled at the woman and helped me up.
4. The Reality of Phoenix
The Arizona Golf Resort turned out to be a cheery constructed community of container gardening, intoxicating orange blossoms and perfect sidewalks to walk on. Very nice. But neither Tom nor I had budgeted to rent a car. The reality of Phoenix is that without a car you are essentially imprisoned wherever you happen to be. In our case, at the Arizona Golf Resort.
In Phoenix you are a Lilliputian in Gulliver’s world, little legs worn out before making it from the resort to the next strip mall. Or even across one of the many-laned roads for that matter. Trapped in Mesa, you have only a few choices: play golf, shop, eat, or walk. If you’re broke and don’t play golf, the options become very limited indeed. You will need to go for a lot of walks among the orange blossoms.
Tom and I frequently chose to exercise the “eating” option. At lunchtime we sat in the dining room at a big table with others from the convention. “What do you do, Mrs. Williams?” they asked me. “Do you like it here, Mrs. Williams?” Tom smiled at them and looked at me to see what I would say. Since I couldn’t seem to think of any tactful way to get out of being Mrs. Williams, I answered their questions politely.
Oh well, I thought. It was only for a few days, and I was always better at organizing intimate spaces than at traversing large ones anyway. With no place else to go, I soon set up housekeeping in our shared resort room.
5. How to be a Good Wife (with advice from a 1950’s home economics textbook)
Have dinner ready. Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal—on time. This is a way of letting him know that you have been thinking about him and are concerned about his needs. Most men are hungry when they come home and the prospect of a good meal is part of the warm welcome needed.
Every day Tom gets up very early to start the day’s activities at the convention. Since he’s a big eater I walk to a huge grocery store about half a mile from the resort. I pick up fresh fruit, cereal, milk, soup, and a few bagels. Well-dressed gray haired folks wave at me as I carry my groceries back to the resort. I read on the patio for awhile as men in plaid pants walk by with their golf clubs and say hello. Everyone in Mesa is talkative, helpful, smiling. Tom comes back to see me during his lunch break. We either go to the dining room, or else I put forth my humble culinary efforts in the kitchenette and we eat at a table with a striped umbrella out on the patio.
Prepare yourself. Take 15 minutes to rest so that you’ll be refreshed when he arrives. Touch up your makeup, put a ribbon in your hair, and be fresh-looking. He has just been with a lot of work-weary people. Be a little gay and a little more interesting. His boring day may be in need of a lift.
After lunch, I take a nap. I get up, touch up my makeup, make coffee, and take a walk in a nearby memorial park full of fountains. I read a guide to the area, find dozens of things I want to do, and conclude I can’t do any of them due to lack of transportation. I have the idea I could go swimming if I had a swimsuit. I go to every shop within walking distance. They have every imaginable item except swimsuits. I go back to the memorial park. The dead have no advice on where to get a swimsuit. When Tom returns in the evening his boring day seems to be in need of a lift. I try to be gay and a little more interesting.
Listen to him. You may have a dozen things to tell him, but the moment of his arrival is not the time. Let him talk first.
He talks for a long time. He tells me his marriage is still struggling, that there’s no love in it, no sex, no comfort. He just doesn’t know what to do about it.
Make the evening his. Never complain if he does not take you out to dinner or to other places of entertainment. Instead, try to understand his world of strain and pressure, his need to be home and relax.
One night we go to happy hour at the resort bar and drink merlot.
Another night we take in a movie and some beer and pizza. We trudge along on foot and ask a man in a truck for directions. He’s helpful in such an eager grinning way that it’s both endearing and funny. At the theatre after the movie, a complete stranger walks up to us, smiles, and says, “See ya!” As we wait outside for a cab we’re treated to the manager’s reviews of current movies as well as his cheerful Oscar predictions.
We go to another movie and eat at a steakhouse. I drink Cosmopolitans, and Tom tells me about his daughter from his first marriage. He tells me about his current marriage again, how empty it is, how meaningless.
The goal. Try to make your home a place of peace and order where your husband can renew himself in body and spirit.
Each afternoon the Chicana maid comes to the room and is overly polite and deferential, bowing her head and averting her eyes. She does the dishes and makes the beds. I begrudge her this, thinking it should be my job as a proper wife.
I lock myself out of the room one day and try to wait for the maid to let me in, but she’s late. I walk to the desk to get another key. I forget and identify myself by my real name, not as Mrs. Williams. The lady at the desk asks whose name the room is in. I have to tell her Thomas Williams.
Suddenly I’m not a wife anymore but a prostitute, a tawdry creature with a sugar daddy. The lady at the desk is overly polite and deferential, bowing her head and averting her eyes. She gives me another key.
6. Diplomacy
“I have many wives,” Tom joked one day.
“I enjoy being part of a harem,” I joked back. And I did. I had fun playacting, and didn’t see it as degrading myself, at least not until the lady at the desk saw through the ruse. For a short while, I understood the allure of being a housewife. I felt secure within bounds I completely understood, and yet my time was free and autonomous – in a very limited kind of way. Not much work got done on the libretto Tom and I were supposedly collaborating on as I went about my wifely duties. Fortunately my little prison sentence lasted only a few days, unlike 1950’s housewives whose frustrated ambitions lasted a lifetime.
Both Tom and I had benefited from our arrangement. I was provided with food, drinks, and entertainment, and I had enjoyed taking care of Tom enough that I knew I still wanted to be a real wife someday, though only in an equal partnership. Tom had gotten to talk to a much younger woman every night as she took her hair down.
The only challenges came after my hair had come down and Tom tried to take the opportunity to consummate our imaginary marriage. He tried plying me with alcohol, not knowing that I always stay well in control of myself.
“I can hardly keep from touching you,” he said the night after the merlot as his hands groped around. (Yes, he actually said that ridiculous line.) I smiled, changed the subject, and eventually he fell asleep.
“I’d better get ready for bed,” I said the night after the Cosmopolitans. (Yes, I actually said that ridiculous line.) His hand had been feeling its slow and methodical way up the inside of my leg. I thought about how good it felt and how much I wished he were someone else. I wanted a man to be touching me who I wanted to be touching me. I stood up and went into the bathroom with my toothpaste.
The next morning Tom stated his desires more explicitly. But diplomacy is one of my better skills, and I said no without his knowing I had said no. He left the resort on the shuttle, his marriage and sex life still a shambles but not feeling rejected or hurt.
We remained friends, and sometime after this trip his marriage began to improve. It’s now a full, happy and satisfying marriage. “Things grow steadily better and better here at the Williams homestead,” he said in an email a few months ago. More happiness to him. I continue to date occasionally, but haven’t made any more friends that way.
