The Fixed Stars Read online

  Praise for

  The Fixed Stars

  “Wizenberg writes with a remarkable openness about being true to herself and to others. . . . This honest and moving memoir will enlighten and educate those seeking to understand their true selves.”

  —PUBLISHERS WEEKLY (STARRED REVIEW)

  “The Fixed Stars is that rare thing, a groundbreaking, essential book about sexuality. Wizenberg’s incisive, generous laying-bare of her own experience will make many readers feel seen, understood, and not alone. This book is a triumph.”

  —KATE CHRISTENSEN,

  author of Blue Plate Special and The Last Cruise

  “In The Fixed Stars, Molly Wizenberg tackles the ever-shifting issues of marriage, motherhood, and sexual orientation with the same compassion and unflinching honesty that have become the hallmarks of her writing. She makes the everyday extraordinary and brings depth and complexity to the bigger questions in life. A beautiful read.”

  —ERICA BAUERMEISTER,

  author of The Scent Keeper

  “An intimate account . . . beautifully written. . . . An essential addition that will resonate with fans of Wizenberg’s earlier memoirs and anyone probing the complicated ways that sexuality and traditional family life overlap or diverge.”

  —LIBRARY JOURNAL (STARRED REVIEW)

  Copyright © 2020 Molly Wizenberg

  For credits, see this page

  Cover © 2020 Abrams

  Published in 2020 by Abrams Press, an imprint of ABRAMS. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2019939896

  ISBN: 978-1-4197-4299-6

  eISBN: 978-1-68335-892-3

  Abrams books are available at special discounts when purchased in quantity for premiums and promotions as well as fundraising or educational use. Special editions can also be created to specification. For details, contact [email protected] or the address below.

  Abrams Press® is a registered trademark of Harry N. Abrams, Inc.

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  195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007

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  Contents

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Could Have

  The Banana Painting

  The Province of Us

  The Mother

  The Swimming Song

  The Pink Fish

  The Three Squeezes

  The Old Hunter

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  NOTES

  BIBLIOGRAPHY

  CREDITS

  Author’s note

  This book is a memoir, a work of nonfiction that relies primarily on both my memory and my interpretation of events. In some cases, names and identifying details have been changed to respect and guard the privacy of others.

  I was grateful for that, too, the commonness of my feeling, I felt some stubborn strangeness in me ease, I felt like part of the human race.

  ———

  Garth Greenwell, “The Frog King”

  1

  The jury summons came in late spring. There’s an optimism to bringing in the mail—a small, dinky optimism, but I like it. It’s reliable. Leaning against the kitchen counter, I spread out my loot. Wedged between the electric bill and a glossy sheaf of coupons is the jury summons. It’s a white trifold, stapled, with block letters announcing its contents. I split the staple from the paper with my thumb. There’s a rhythmic thump behind me, probably June trying to liberate the bin of toys we keep wedged under the sideboard. The afternoons are stretching toward summer now, but the countertop is still cold under my elbows, the way cotton bedsheets are when you first climb in. The summons reads, TUESDAY, 8:30 A.M. We have a babysitter every Tuesday until five, and Brandon will be at the new restaurant site all day, supervising the buildout. If I’ve got to have jury duty, I guess a Tuesday’s not bad.

  The courthouse peers down a sloping grid of streets toward Puget Sound. I ride the elevator up and give my name to a woman in shoulder pads at the reception desk. There are already a few dozen people seated in the assembly room, recipients of the same summons. We wait. I don’t mind; I’ve brought my laptop and a magazine. I don’t want to wind up on a jury, but being stuck in this room presents the pleasant constraints of an airplane in mid-flight: there’s nowhere to go and nothing else to do, so I might as well work.

  The receptionist begins to read names, and mine comes halfway down the page-long list. I stand and join the crowd that’s collecting in the entryway, where another woman appears, announcing herself as the bailiff. She hands us each a numbered sheet of paper in a plastic sleeve. We’ll be going into the courtroom shortly, and we’re to follow her to the seats in back. We follow her like ducklings, around a wall behind the judge’s bench and into a fluorescent-lit courtroom. I’m pleased that it looks like all the ones on TV, though it’s missing Sam Waterston. The judge has short feathered hair and wears black robes and a pair of drugstore reading glasses, over which she watches us enter. She gives off the aura of a successful real estate agent from the 1980s, a childhood friend’s mom who served Lean Cuisine every weeknight without apology. There’s a female prosecutor and two attorneys on the defense’s side. The bailiff leads us past them, through a wooden gate, to our seats.

  The attorneys stand one by one to introduce themselves and their clients. The prosecutor wears a tailored skirt suit, and the male defense attorney has a swoop of hair that lays across his forehead like a paper fan. The second defense attorney is a woman in a men’s suit. I know it is a men’s suit because of the way it hangs straight at her hips. When she rises to speak, a smile blooms shyly across her mouth. Her teeth are gardenia-white. She’s said her name already, but I missed it.

  The judge presents the case, and then the attorneys ask us questions in rotation, calling us by the numbers in our plastic sleeves, weeding us out. They explain that this process has a name, voir dire, and that they’re looking to uncover our biases. There are so many of us, it takes hours. Finally, the prosecutor calls my number. She smiles and asks where I get my news. We banter a little about NPR. It turns out we’re both Terry Gross fans. She asks what I do for a living, what kind of writer I am. I am a writer who listens to public radio. Of course I’ll be eliminated.

  But they’re coming to the end of the numbers, and I’m still in the pew. They excuse another number, another. At the end of the day, there are eight of us left, and I’m given a new number, Juror #1, assigned to the first seat in the back row of the jury box. We’re to reconvene the next morning.

  I catch an early bus and find I have a half hour to spare. I’ve worn a linen dress that I bought a couple of years before June was born. Usually I only ever wear jeans, but now that I’m on a jury, I decide to look like someone who takes this seriously. I sit down in a stripe of weak sunlight on a bench outside the courthouse and pull out a thermos of coffee and my magazine from yesterday. The defendant is arriving, and he sits with his attorneys on a low wall outside the front door. I watch them over my magazine. They huddle like football players, eyes closed. It looks like they’re praying.

  The testimony takes four days. It’s a civil disobedience case, and the judge has told us not to talk about it with anyone outside the courtroom, not even our families. We’re not supposed to look up news stories about it or Google anyone involved. Each morning we wait in the assembly room, and the bailiff takes us to a restricted-access elevator at the back of the building, careful not to cross anyone else bound for the courtroom. I didn’t want to be here, but since I am, I will do this right. I tune my body like an antenna,
listen and take notes.

  The woman in the men’s suit has an accent, something approximately southern. I can’t put my finger on it. I wonder how she wound up in Seattle. I wonder where in the city she lives. She’s got a trustworthy haircut, what an insurance salesman might get in a midwestern barbershop. It’s a lesbian haircut, I think. Her suit is the gray of spent charcoal, and the fabric swings loose around her legs when she walks. From my seat I can see her profile, the nose a little too large for its face, a pair of broken-in black cowboy boots under the table. I watch her wrists. They’re slim, elegant, the bones delicate as songbirds. I could loop my fingers around her wrist and make the tips touch.

  On the day that her client gives testimony, she stands up to question him and walks toward the jury box, stops a few feet from me. She rests her yellow lined pad on the half-wall that separates the jury from the courtroom, folds her hands, and rests them on top. Her wrists. I watch how the tendons move, taut as a cable-stayed bridge. Sweat prickles my palms. I’m relieved when she sits back down.

  What is this? Am I attracted to her? I’ve never been with a woman, had only considered it once, and then only briefly. Why am I looking at her?

  The next day she’s not doing anything special, just sitting beside her client at the table, and I notice that I’m watching her again. This time she turns in her seat and looks at me. It’s just for a second, and then we both look away, but not before something cold crackles up the back of my neck. I can hear my pulse in my ear.

  She’s caught me. She knows I was watching her.

  Everyone must know it.

  A second later: Of course not. Don’t be crazy. It would be stupid to think she’s noticed me at all. This is her job. To her, I’m a juror. Of course I would look at her.

  But she’s got to have noticed. I’m not looking; I’m watching. She’s got to have noticed.

  I know myself to be dense about certain things, moments and actions that other people tell me are obvious. I stare at people, forgetting that they might see me staring and think it’s rude. It’s not that I think they can’t see me; it’s that I do not think at all. I can never tell when a person is flirting with me, or when I’m flirting. Here’s a liability for the owner of a restaurant: I cannot tell when someone is drunk. Unless it’s formally declared and ratified by others present, like a UN resolution, I assume a person is just annoying or unusually friendly.

  If I’ve noticed me watching, why wouldn’t she?

  What the fuck am I doing.

  She’s probably seen my wedding ring. If she has, she’s read me. I see it now: a satin sash across my chest with the whole story embroidered on it. I’m straight, married for nearly a decade, with a house in the suburbs, a not-quite-three-year-old, a family dog, and two restaurants that I own with my husband. Shame creeps along my cheek like a spider.

  When I cannot watch her, I think about watching her. I think all the time about it.

  I leave the house each morning with my thermos of coffee, thinking. I walk down our street, turn the corner, walk a few more blocks, and board the bus, thinking. One morning mid-trial I catch the headline of a fellow bus rider’s newspaper: the Supreme Court had ruled on Obergefell vs. Hodges, making same-sex marriage legal across the United States. I choke back a sob, elated, disbelieving. Then I want to cry for a different reason, and I cannot tell anyone why. I think about her wrists and her white teeth. I wonder what she thinks about me.

  Then I remember not to think about that, because she probably doesn’t think about me, and if she does, it cannot be good. I am a woman wearing a wedding ring while staring at a person who is not her spouse.

  The judge is speaking again, and I’m not listening. I’m watching the woman in the suit. Under the crisp lapels of her jacket, there’s a swelling across her chest, a softness that says female. I wonder what it would feel like to put my arm around her. Her shoulders would be solid, more substantial than my own. If I think on it, I can feel them under my triceps, sound as a fence. I wonder what she wears when she’s not wearing this suit, on the weekends or after work. I wonder what her friends call her. I wonder what she would look like next to me in a photo.

  I’ve had crushes since being with Brandon. A few, mostly little things, banal. We’d joke about them. For years, he nursed a crush on the actress Natalie Portman. It was like that. Safe. But I’d had another type of crush too, other men I’d wanted without saying a word. There were only one or two of them, but these men loomed over us. I never called his attention to their elephantine shadows. Telling him would have made them more real, made actual people out of these dark shapes, made distractions into danger. It would have frightened us both. Instead, I chipped away at the shadows privately, interrogated them into submission.

  Do I want to be someone who cheats?

  No. I don’t want to be someone who would do that.

  Am I willing to do that to Brandon?

  No. He doesn’t deserve that.

  Can I get what I want by cheating, without also getting what I don’t want?

  No.

  No, no. Always no.

  Even if the conclusion had been a brief yes, which it never had, this fact would stop me: The lust would wear off. The sheen would dull. I knew it would. I’d still be me, just with a different set of problems.

  Each afternoon when the judge dismisses us, I bolt from the building, fast-walk down the hill to the bus stop. My sandals slap the pavement on the downslope, left right left right, who am I, who am I. Who am I?

  The vinyl bench seats of the bus are sticky with summer heat. I sit down, poke in my earbuds, think about what to make for dinner. I’ve missed June. We’ve had to get extra babysitting this week, a cost we hadn’t budgeted for. I’ve hardly been around. Even in the evenings, I’ve hardly been around. Do I remember anything we’ve done, me and June? Me and June and Brandon? I’ve been thinking about the woman in the suit. That’s what I remember.

  I have to stop. I know the answers to the questions. They will end this.

  Do I want to be someone who cheats?

  No.

  Am I willing to do that to Brandon?

  No.

  The sheen will wear off, and you know it.

  Do I? I’ve never been with a woman.

  Does that make a difference?

  Maybe it does. What if it does?

  You’d still be you, wouldn’t you?

  Would I?

  The bus is too hot. The fabric under my arms is damp, and I can smell myself. Something is wrong with me.

  But I don’t have to tell anyone. Brandon doesn’t have to know, remember? The woman in the men’s suit doesn’t either. She has no idea that a single glance in my direction, her eyes on my skin, would keep me awake all night, fantasizing.

  It’s my secret. I’ll keep it here, with me. I can visit my secret whenever I want. Knowing this feels luxurious. That’s the word for it. Luxurious. The place where I keep this secret is padded and dim, the feeling when you lie back in the bath and the water covers your ears. I can climb inside it anytime I want, anywhere—on the bus, in a swiveling chair in the jury box—and I can think of her. No one has to know.

  The trial takes a week and ends on a Wednesday. The verdict comes down to minutia, and we are unanimous; the defendant is not guilty. I am certain that my vote to acquit has nothing to do with the fact that I’ve been watching the defense attorney in the men’s suit. I know that my desire to assert this certainty has everything to do with the same fact. But I can go home now, put it behind me. Across the room, I watch the defendant light up with relief. I wonder if, at some point in the near future, I will feel relief like that.

  For now, I have to memorize her. Now she will go home, back to her part of the city. I’d never seen her before a week ago, and I won’t see her again. I wish this didn’t make me feel desperate.

  The formality of the courtroom has dissolved, and we’re dismissed. We can walk wherever we want to walk in the courthouse, talk to anyone about anything.
I text Brandon to let him know I’m done. He’s working near home today, not near the courthouse, so I’ll take the bus. Let’s meet for a quick drink, he texts; he’ll meet me along the bus route with his car. We’ve got the sitter until six. Hurrah! I type. I can tell you about the trial.

  I walk out of the courtroom with the other jurors. We get to ride in the normal elevators now, and we’re jumpy, unsure of how to be with one another. Outside the front doors, the air conditioning gives way to a blast of heat. My gut flips over when I see a huddle of people outside: the defense attorneys, their client, a few observers from the back of the courtroom. They applaud. The defendant reaches out, squeezes my shoulder. Behind him, the woman in the men’s suit is standing in the half-shade of a small potted tree. She’s taken off her jacket and rolled up the sleeves of her white shirt. It must have been starched at some point but is already drooping. I’m sweating in only a tank top. She steps toward me, and the sun explodes off the paving tiles. I raise my hand to shield my eyes.

  Thanks so much, she says. We weren’t sure how that was going to go, so this is a huge relief. She’s smiling, and she offers her right hand, and we shake.

  I’d looked at this hand so many times, but now that I touch it, the moment is over so fast that I can’t feel anything. It occurs to me that with my left hand up at my brow, the diamonds along my wedding band must be winking in the sun like lighthouse beacons. I cross my arms, tucking my ring finger into the crook of an elbow.

  I heard in voir dire that you’re a writer, she says. Me too. I’m Nora, by the way.

  Oh, wow, I squeeze out. Sweat is beading on my collarbone like a cheap necklace. What kind of writing do you do?

  Mostly fiction, Nora says. She is a lawyer part-time; she took this case to help a friend. She pushes her hands into her pockets, rocks on her heels.

  She’s talking more than she has to. Is this flirting? Don’t be an idiot. She couldn’t see you that way. You’re married. You’re straight.