The Wife of Reilly by Jennifer Coburn Page A

to tell you. I’m thirty-six years old. I don’t really need a father at this point in my life.”
    “I know you’ve got a lot of anger toward me. My therapist says I emotionally abandoned you and that you’ve got every right to be enraged with me. Maybe it would help if you told me how you felt.”
    I was silent. I hated when people suggested that if we all bare our souls, spill our guts and reveal our feelings, then everything will be okay. Tell him how I felt? Please. There’s no way I was about to get into some feeling fest with him. There was no way I’d ever shed another tear over this imbecile my mother had the misfortune of being screwed by.
    I laughed. “You needed a therapist to tell you that?” I began. “First, let’s just set the record straight, you didn’t just emotionally abandon me, you physically disappeared.”
    “Prudence, that’s not fair. I called constantly, but you refused to speak to me.”
    “Of course I refused to speak to you!” I shouted. “Of course I refused to speak to you,” I said softly this time. “What would I have said, ‘How’s the wife and kid?’ I was twelve years old, what was I supposed to say? Did it ever occur to you to get on the train and come out to see me? To bang on the door and demand that I talk to you? You just gave up.” Too much. Shut up. This is exactly what he wants — Blubberfest.
    “Good, this is good for you to share with me,” he encouraged.
    “Fuck you. I don’t need your psychobabble bullshit. I told you I don’t need a father at this point in my life. What are you complaining about? It’s not like I never see you. We have our little blended-family get-togethers twice a year. It’s not like I’ve written you off, which believe me a stronger person would have.” Recompose . “You know what you can tell your therapist? Tell her that when I was fourteen years old I used to tell people that you were a CIA agent on a secret mission in Cuba, and that I had no idea when you’d be back because you were protecting their families from the Communists. And you know what else? Those were my proudest stories of you. Lying about you was the only way I could stand talking about you.” I got up to leave. “Listen, I’m sorry I don’t want to ‘reconnect’ with you. Maybe you could take up model trains or something in your retirement instead.”
    I didn’t even feel like crying, which was invigorating. I felt nothing and it felt fabulous.

Chapter 9
    I couldn’t believe how many letters Reilly’s personal ad generated in just two weeks. When I went to the post office, there was a note in my box alerting me that I had more mail than they could fit into the space I’d rented. A portly woman carried out a full plastic carrier of letters. “If you’re expecting this much mail you’re going to have to pay for a large box,” said the postal clerk. “You must have three hundred letters here. What are you selling?”
    My husband. “Thank you,” I said, struggling to lift the box from the counter.
    After work I went to Sophie’s apartment, where Chad and Jennifer planned to meet us after dinner. As soon as the kids went to bed, we’d review Reilly’s letters and find a few good women for him. Sophie’s apartment looked like her life. Despite the fact that she had young children, her carpets were unstained. Her white walls were free of fingerprints. The rooms were done in sets of clean, modern furniture, modified just enough to differentiate it from the showroom displays. Her apartment building had been around for decades, but with a fresh coat of paint and new fixtures, her place looked as if no one had lived there before.
    As we were eating our pizza, I told Sophie that I planned to have my eyes and lips done. “Why do you want to do that?” Sophie asked. “Your eyes look fine to me.”
    “Look at these huge bags,” I leaned in toward her. “I look tired all the time. And look at these,” I said, pointing to the lines around my