Community board, p.1
Community Board, page 1
Dedication
For my parents
Epigraphs
Then you begin to give up the very idea of belonging. Suddenly this thing, this belonging, it seems like some long, dirty lie . . . and I begin to believe that birthplaces are accidents, that everything is an accident. But if you believe that, where do you go? What do you do? What does anything matter?
—Zadie Smith, White Teeth
Wherever you come near the human race, there’s layers and layers of nonsense.
—Thornton Wilder, Our Town
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraphs
Winter
Spring
Summer
Autumn
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Tara Conklin
Copyright
About the Publisher
Winter
How do you know when one time is the last time? Occasionally there’s a ceremony, a notice, a threat. Like the big red clock in a basketball game or the drive from Providence to Boston. If you’re paying attention, you’ll see the sign for the last exit. You’ll notice the numbers counting down. But more often the end comes, kaput, without fanfare or signal. You’re whistling along in your usual way, driving home from work, swiping snow off the mailbox, fixing two mugs of that sweet and spicy tea you both like, and then, with the turn of a doorknob, the beat of a heart, everything changes. Everything stops.
In the second week of the year 2019, this happened to me. My husband’s name was Skip. Or rather, his name remains Skip but, from that day forward, he was no longer my husband. Or rather, he was still technically my husband but we would no longer live as husband and wife. His intention to be my husband, forever and ever, amen, had changed.
The turn of a doorknob, the beat of a heart.
Darcy, Skip said. His boots shed little mounds of snow onto the tiled floor. He cleared his phlegmy throat. I met someone, her name is Bianca. And . . . I think we’re done here.
Our mugs of tea waited on the kitchen counter. The clock clicked to 6:04 p.m.
Done? I asked. It sounded like something you’d say to a waitress who hovered over the table, wondering if she should clear the plates. One summer I’d worked as a waitress at a pasta place in my hometown of Murbridge, Massachusetts, but that had been thirteen years ago. I was twenty-nine years old now, a legitimate adult woman with a legitimate adult job to which I wore blazers and high-heeled shoes. Skip and I met on our first day at South Boston Junior College, waiting in line for beer at a new-student happy hour. We slept together later that week, said the word love later that month, got engaged the following year and had been married for eight years, two months and nine days.
I didn’t know it then, but there would be no tenth day. This was the last.
Us, Skip said, pointing a finger first at me, then at himself. We’re done. And, listen, I’m sorry. I am. I just. Well. My lawyer is really nice, she’ll email you. Skip re-zipped his coat, returned his hat to his head and left. On the table, steam rose from the tea. On the floor, a trail of dirty slush marked his exit.
Let me tell you about Bianca. She’s an interesting woman. Skip met her at a team-building event organized by his employer, Re-Gro Diagrams Inc., a company that sells Re-Gro diagramming software to small- and medium-sized businesses. Bianca is a professional skydiver and it was her job at this particular event to shepherd one lucky Re-Gro employee—that would be Skip—through a ramped-up five hours of skydiving education and training, and then, tethered by an unbreakable bungee cord to her charge, leap from a Cessna T240 flying over Boston Common. Who knew that the team built that day would be a small one, consisting of exactly two members? All the other Re-Gro employees jumped but none, as far as I know, moved in with their skydive instructor just three months later.
The day after his abrupt departure, Skip returned to pack up his things. In the driveway, a silver Prius waited, Bianca herself in the driver’s seat. I peeked through the curtains: long dark hair, thick eyelashes, a middling kind of nose. She wore a light purple sweatshirt and her nails, I noted from the hand that gripped the steering wheel, were painted lavender to match.
Skip noisily gathered up his shirts, his Xbox, his hair products, his mountain bike and artisanal salt and loaded them into Bianca’s trunk. I followed him out the door and stood, shivering without a coat, sniffling without a tissue, on the front steps of our condo. Skip shut the trunk, looked at me and shrugged. He opened the passenger door, disappeared inside and then, muffled but distinct, I heard a whoo-hoo!, the cry Skip made whenever he scored a basket in his Saturday afternoon basketball league.
As I watched the departing rear of Bianca’s car, with its coexist bumper sticker and vanity license plate, flyergrl, I began to weep. I wept with rage and true sadness. My life, it seemed to me then, was located inside that car. My life, speeding away from me, leaving me alone and unloved, bereft and abandoned. How to explain this tragic turn of events? How to tell my friends and colleagues?
How to tell my parents?
My parents adored Skip. After just five months of our dating, Mom had presented him with a Christmas stocking she’d sewn from felt and glittery trim. Along the top she embroidered Skip in festive red thread, the shade matching exactly the color of Darcy sewn onto my own stocking, the one I’d hung every year of my life from the wooden mantel in my childhood home. Every Christmas since our wedding, Mom would hang those two matching stockings side by side and fill them with candy and knickknacks and oddly shaped pottery cast-offs from her weekly ceramics class.
What would become of that Skip stocking now? And our monogrammed his-and-her robes? And our couples membership at the Y? What would become of our Saturday night couples bingo? Every week, we played with our friends Saba and Saul, Aleeyah and Felix, Min and Jed. Every week we’d make nachos and margaritas. One couple would host, another would bring the tequila. The idea of playing bingo alone, just me, Darcy, was ludicrous. It was sad and pathetic. Ditto for Tuesday movie night. Ditto for Wednesday waltz lessons and Sunday morning crosswords and Monday evening cupcake bake. Skip and I did everything together. My friends were his friends. My activities were his activities.
After Skip left, I wept all day and all night. I wept all Saturday and half of Sunday. When my vision wasn’t completely obscured by weeping, I wrote Dear Skip emails that cataloged my pain and confusion, my remorse and undying love. I typed, deleted, typed, deleted and typed some more, but I never pressed send.
Then, on Sunday night, the phone rang.
It was our friend Min. She’d heard the news from her husband, Jed, who’d met Skip for a beer near Fenway.
Oh Darcy, I’m so sorry! said Min. I just can’t believe it. I told Jed, I just cannot believe Skip would do such a thing.
I had stopped crying to answer the phone but now I began again. I—I—I, I hiccuped.
Maybe this is just a phase, Min continued. Maybe he just needs some excitement. Darcy, I’d say this is an early midlife crisis. I bet he’ll come crawling back with his tail between his legs.
I calmed my hiccups. Is that what Jed said? I asked.
Pause. Min coughed. Well, no, he said Skip seems happy as a clam. Dodged a bullet, I think were Skip’s words. But he’s clearly just under some kind of sexual spell. It’ll wear off. It always does. Min snorted. I mean, look at me and Jed. We could hardly keep our hands off each other but now. Well. I think if you just wait it out, if you let Skip have his fun, he’ll realize all the security and stability he’s missing, and he’ll come back. Mark my words, you just wait.
But how long? I’m almost—almost—I stopped. I couldn’t say it.
Oh, that’s right, Darcy, you’re almost thirty. Wow, I forgot about that. Min whistled. Listen, I don’t know how long it will take. Maybe six months? A year? Two? Just wait it out. I mean, Darcy, what else have you got to do? Min started laughing. She laughed and laughed and the sound took on a vaguely hysterical tone.
Min? I asked. Are you okay?
Oh my goodness, I am fine. Just fine. A pause. Maybe you should treat this like a vacation. Jesus, what I wouldn’t give for Jed to leave me for six months. I could watch all the TV shows I wanted to watch and eat all the food I wanted to eat. She paused again. I really hate bingo night. Hate it.
Should we meet for coffee or something, Min?
Oh, that’s sweet, Darcy, but I can’t. Jed doesn’t want me to see you for a while. He thinks divorce is contagious or something. I think it’s best if we keep our distance. Nothing personal.
The next night, it was Saba who called.
Honey, pull yourself up and get moving, she said. If he wants to shack up with some slut of a skydiver, let him. Tell him you’ll lawyer up and take every last penny he’s got. Don’t his parents have money? What about stock options? You could be set for life. Seriously. You’ll never have to work again. He’s guilty of adultery, the bastard. He’ll be paying you for years. Divorce can be very lucrative for women. It’s almost like winning the lottery.
But I don’t want to win the lottery, I said. I just want Skip. Min said he’ll come back with his tail between his legs.
Ha! Don’t be ridiculous, said Saba. Now, honey, stop sniffling and start planning. I’ve got some names and numbers for you. The best divorce lawyers in the state. I keep tabs on these guys, just in case. I love Saul, I do, but it never hurts to be prepared. Half of all marriages, Darcy, half end in divorce, and the way this world is structur ed, it’s the wives who suffer. It’s the wives and mothers who end up holding the short end of the stick. Unless you know how to play the game. I’ll send you some YouTube links. There’s a lot you need to learn. You better get started.
Three nights later, I heard from Aleeyah. Of all our friends, she was the one who knew Skip and me best. We met her the second week of junior college in an Intro to Econ class. We formed a study group of three. I helped her pack when she transferred to BU. She helped me pick out curtains for the condo.
I always wondered what you saw in him, Aleeyah said. Her voice faded and I heard a loud rustling sound.
Am I on speakerphone?
I’m packing, Darcy. Sorry. Anyhow, I always thought Skip was a little bit, oh, I don’t know, wannabe frat boy.
Frat boy?
Yeah. Like trying too hard to be manly. Beating his chest kind of thing.
Maybe a little.
I mean, perfectly nice. Don’t get me wrong. Skip is great, wouldn’t hurt a fly.
I sniffed.
You know what I mean, Darcy. Aleeyah’s voice faded again, then returned. He’s just not a very inspiring individual. I’m honestly surprised he had the get-up-and-go to have an affair. That takes real motivation.
You almost sound impressed.
Listen, you can do better than Skip Larson. I know it sucks right now but trust me, you’re twenty-nine years old, your life is not over.
It feels like it’s over.
You’ve got at least another year or two before your collagen levels start to drop. Your skin is at prime elasticity right now.
I smiled for the first time in six days. Aleeyah, I miss you, I said. Can we grab drinks?
Oh Darcy, I’m so busy right now. I have a week in Denver for a conference, then another in Miami, then microblading on March first, a big presentation mid-April and Felix decided we need to go to St. Barts for our two-year anniversary. Can you believe him? Crazy, I know. And then when we get back I’m sure I’ll be slammed. Maybe early summer? Like, June?
I guess five months isn’t that far away.
It will just fly. Okay, I need to meditate now. It was great to chat. Hang in there.
I hung up the phone and sat on the couch, staring at the gas fireplace, the feature that Skip and I loved most about the condo, the feature that had prompted us to say—yes, we will slap down our life savings for this pile of brick and plaster and here we will build our life together, right here. I hadn’t lit the fire since Skip’s departure, preferring instead the metaphor of its cold, dark emptiness.
I sat, cold and empty myself, and considered my recent conversations with Min, Saba and Aleeyah. Their words played on repeat as I sipped some tea. And then without warning, my throat seized up. I couldn’t swallow. A strange, bitter sensation came bubbling up from somewhere deep within, I’m guessing from the organ that processes bile and waste. The sensation moved up my torso, tickled my nose in an unpleasant way and settled in the back of my throat. I burped.
The sensation became a feeling that can best be described as intense dislike. An aversion, in fact, to my friends. All of them. Their lives continued, untouched and unbothered. They still signed up for vegan cooking classes; they still wondered about waist cinchers; they still searched Expedia for a dream vacation package. Life per usual. Future planning. Forward motion. Predictability and routines. A daily momentum you don’t even notice until, whammo, it’s gone and you screech to a halt. My life was halted, the screech still ringing in my ears, but my friends continued merrily along the path. And did they glance over a shoulder to check my position? No. Did they reach out a hand to pull me along? No, they did not.
My friends lacked the capacity to understand my current emergency. No, I decided then, my friends lacked the desire to understand my current emergency. If my friends didn’t make me feel better, if they failed to comfort me in my moment (my first real moment!) of desperate need, then what good were they? Why keep friends who make you feel crappier than you already feel alone?
Draft email files
Dear Skip,
It’s been three days since you left. I can’t stop crying, Skip. What did I do wrong? Was it my new bangs? Bangs typically grow out in four to six weeks but my hair grows extra-fast so we’re looking at three to five, tops. And in the meantime, I can wear a hat or a wig that looks just like my old hair. Or maybe a wig that’s kind of sexy, like long pink waves or a Joan Jett black mullet. Would you like that, Skip? Just tell me what I did wrong, please. Is this a joke, like that time you showed up with a fake tattoo of Justin Timberlake on your neck? If this is a joke, ha ha ha! Really funny! So fucking funny, Skip, you sure got me! Now please come home. Please. Please, Skip. I sound desperate, I know, but desperate is exactly how I feel. Just come home and I promise I’ll never
With my social life and marriage no longer requiring attention, I became free to focus fully on my career. I worked as a junior actuary at Castro Insurance Agency Inc., based in Roslindale, Massachusetts, a cute Boston suburb with a Dunkin’ Donuts on every corner and plenty of Thai takeout. True, the hour-long commute from Back Bay was a pain, but, before Skip’s departure, I would use that time to listen to podcasts about actuarial science or celebrity romance.
After Skip’s departure, I used my commute time to weep. Despite my best efforts, the weeping followed me from the Castro Insurance parking lot into the reception area, down the hall, past the kitchenette and into my own cubicle. Once inside my semiprivate zone, I tried to stem the flow but everywhere I looked, Skip Larson gazed back at me. Photos of me and Skip on our honeymoon cruise. The My Wife Is Hotter Than My Coffee mug Skip gave me on my first day of work. The dried rose I’d saved from Valentine’s Day. Thus surrounded by Skip memorabilia, I found it difficult to write my daily reports and compile my weekly spreadsheets. I found it difficult to speak coherently on the phone or remain upright in meetings.
After three weeks of this, my employer, Mr. David Castro, suggested I take a sabbatical. Mr. Castro was too young to be my father, and I wouldn’t replace Daddy for the world, but our relationship had always held that vibe. He built the agency from the ground up and maintained a spectacularly trim physique. I looked to him for guidance, both with reference to spreadsheets and, I realized then, life.
Darcy, Mr. Castro said after yet another tear-filled staff meeting. You must take care of yourself. Look at you.
I looked down; sure enough, I’d misbuttoned my button-down.
You are a bright shining star, he said. Your mind is a beacon, your heart is a gem, but you need to take some time. To put the pieces back together. To recover the spring in your step. Here is what I can do. A six-month sabbatical, with my blessing. Your job waiting for you on your return, guaranteed.
Mr. Castro was a prince among men. After three seconds of reflection, perhaps four, I accepted his offer.
Thank you, David, I said. I’ll be back on my feet in no time.
Be kind to yourself, he said, and placed a hand on my shoulder. Darcy, I don’t often tell this story, but my heart too was broken and the pieces stomped upon by a very cunning woman. Simone. It was many years ago, but I remember the feeling well. Hopeless and filled with an unspeakable rage. But listen—here he smiled brightly—I got over it! I moved forward. Never does her wanton image darken my mind. Never.
I felt Mr. Castro’s fingers tighten uncomfortably around my shoulder. He was looking beyond me with narrowed eyes.
David? I said. Um, your hand is—
He released my shoulder and folded his hands over his heart. You too will transcend this moment, Mr. Castro said and bowed. Good luck, Darcy. We’ll miss you.
It took me three days to exit the condo. I packed my clothes and personal effects into cardboard boxes, emptied the fridge and listed a six-month furnished rental on Craigslist. Two hours later I handed the keys over to a BC law student and her boyfriend.
A light snow fell. My eyes were dry. I loaded up my blue Prius and left the condo, left Boston, crawled onto the Mass Pike and drove. There was no need for GPS on this journey.
Where does one go, you might ask, when the world falls apart? When the time-before and the time-after become separated by one dread, unanticipated event? When the immutable facts of your life—the mundane, the trivial, the take-for-granted minutiae that once filled every second of every day—suddenly disappear? When the epiphany strikes that you do not control the most fundamental elements of your existence? When you realize you control nothing at all.
