You never really know someone. I had been married for only a year when I learned my husband’s secret. I thought I knew him, but we had dated for just a few months when we got engaged. I sometimes wondered exactly what he did for a living, and where his money came from. But whenever I asked he would say, “Oh, don’t be silly, sweetheart.”
There were warning signs. After our wedding, I kept my job and “Jeff” (not his real name) kept his, although I had no idea what his job was. Some days, I would notice that he didn’t go to work at all. When he was on the phone, he would have entire conversations where he only said, “Thank you. Well, thank you. Thank you very much.” Several times, I overheard him saying, “Yeah, she’s sexy. She’d be good.” Other times, he would have to leave for a week.
I would ask, “Where are you going?,” and he’d answer, “Oh, you know me, gotta go to the Coast.” No, I didn’t know him.
On those trips, he’d let me know that he registered in hotels under a different name. Sometimes it was “Mr. Clean.” Sometimes it would be “Todd Randolph.” In every other respect, however, he was a wonderful husband.
Nervously, I asked if I could accompany him on one of his trips. He surprised me by saying yes. It turned out that “the Coast” was not a coast at all but Southern California. We registered under the names “Mr. and Mrs. Clarence McKenzie” at a beautiful hotel, way beyond our budget. When we got in the elevator, the bellman nodded and said, “Nice to see you, Mr. McKenzie.” My husband smiled at him.
That evening, we had dinner in the hotel restaurant. I noticed a man staring at us from his table, as though he knew “Jeff.” A woman passed by and smiled familiarly. I said, “Do you know her?” “No,” my husband said. On our way out, a man in his forties walked by my husband and said, under his breath, “My father loves you.”
In the hotel room that night, we browsed the TV for in-room movies. I suggested we watch “Entrapment,” a psychological thriller.
“Oh, please,” he said impatiently. He had never been short with me before. Curious, I pressed, saying, “Oh, let’s watch it,” hoping for a reaction rather than an answer.
“Honey, don’t be ridiculous,” he said with a dull detachment.
“Why?”
“It was a flop,” he said.
“Who cares?”
“Drop it,” he said, in a sharp tone.
“You better watch yourself,” I said.
“I don’t want to watch myself!” he yelled back.
“Jeff!” I shouted. “You’re hiding something. What is it?”
He sighed. “I thought you would know by now.”
“No, Jeff,” I said. “I don’t, and it’s killing me.”
He walked toward me. “Darling,” he said, “I am a gigantic movie star.”
“A what?” I thought I’d misheard.
“A gigantic international movie star.”
I was dumbstruck.
“I tried to tell you,” he said. “A hundred times I tried. Remember when I took you to the première of ‘Bronx Indigo’? That was me up there.”
“You know I don’t remember movies that well,” I said. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”
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“You can’t say to someone, ‘I’m a big gigantic movie star,’ ” he said. “I didn’t want you to love me for that.”
“Yes, you can!” I said.
He looked at me. “O.K., I’m a big gigantic movie star.”
“You can’t say that to me,” I said.
Suddenly, everything was still, as though a gigantic international movie star had just walked into the room. I finally took a breath and spoke. “It explains so much,” I said. “Why I would see you on ‘The View.’ Why people would say, ‘I loved your last film.’ Your toupee. And—oh, my God!”
“What, darling?” he asked.
“It explains why there’s an Oscar in the living room.”
We tried after that, but a relationship that’s not founded on telling the truth about whether or not you have an Oscar cannot hold. After we split, I kept remembering my favorite photo of us together: I was facing the camera and he had his arms around me from behind. But, when I found the photo in an old album, I realized that it was not me he had his arms around, but Angelina Jolie. Funny how the mind plays tricks.
A few years later, I remarried. Charles works during the day; I’ve been to his office. We have a lovely home. He’s a simple man, but I love him. And the only mysterious thing about him is the way close friends refer to him as “Mr. President.” ♦
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