Gene believed the mitochondria were feminist until someone asked him why.
That’s how things started going downhill. My husband, Gene Saperstein, fifty-eight years old and retired from the IRS just this past spring, standing there holding a glass of boxed pinot grigio in Lucy Halperin’s living room, surrounded by women with statement earrings.
You should know that Gene’s been allergic to small talk his whole life. When we go to parties, he brings notecards with conversation starters. I’ve seen him duck into bathroom stalls at work functions to consult his little index cards. “Marsha,” he’ll say to me, practicing in the car ride over, “what’s a neutral topic that everybody likes?” and I’ll say something like “the weather,” and he’ll write it down and underline it three times.
So there was Gene, in the Halperins’ living room among strangers, sipping pinot and nodding along as Lucy introduced everyone. Lucy’s one of those people who gives too much information. “This is Deborah, she’s lactose intolerant but still eats cheese, and this is Rhonda, she just fired her therapist.” Gene nodded at every introduction like he was scanning tax forms.
Gene thought he was going to a finance discussion group. He really did. Our neighbor Tom Halperin had mentioned something about his wife hosting a “deep discussion about capital,” and Gene, who’d been feeling a little lost in retirement, perked up. “Capital,” he’d said, like it was a magic word. “I’d be interested in that.”
When we got the email with the address and time, Gene read it out loud to me. “Book club this Thursday, 7 pm. We’re doing The Second Sex.” He looked at me. “That’s probably some finance book, right? You know, secondary markets?”
I knew exactly what it was, but I won’t lie, I let him go. I wanted to see what would happen. Is that terrible? It felt a little terrible, but also a little delicious. It had been a slow summer.
“Sounds interesting,” I said, sipping my decaf rosé. I’d switched to decaf recently. People laugh, but you try organizing a charity auction after a bottle of the other stuff. “You should definitely go.”
Gene was standing there, surrounded by Lucy and her feminist book club, when Rhonda asked him what he thought about the foundational concept of “the Other” in de Beauvoir’s work. He blinked three times—I can always tell when he’s panicking because he blinks in sets of three—and then said, “I think if Simone de Beauvoir were alive today, she’d really enjoy Topgolf.”
The room went silent, which is when Gene tends to keep talking.
“You know, because it breaks down gender barriers in sports,” he added. “It’s very egalitarian. You hit balls with clubs. Anyone can do it.”
Judith, who teaches Women’s Studies at the community college, set her wine down with a thunk. “Are you saying women need a simplified version of golf to participate?”
“No, no,” Gene said, blinking rapidly now. “I’m saying that Topgolf is a place where equality happens.”
I should have saved him, I know, but I was too fascinated by how deep he was digging himself. That, and Lucy had cornered me by the cheese plate to tell me, in excruciating detail, about her sinus infection.
Lucy turned to Gene and said, “It sounds like you haven’t actually read the book.”
Gene swallowed. I know because his Adam’s apple does this thing where it goes all the way up and then all the way down, like an elevator. “Well,” he said, “I’ve been very busy with retirement.”
That’s when Lucy said, “We don’t allow mansplaining in this space.”
I watched my husband shrink three sizes. Gene hates public correction more than anything. Once at Applebee’s, a waiter told him he was holding his fork wrong, and Gene didn’t eat in public for a month.
That night, driving home, Gene was quiet.
“So,” I said. “How was the finance discussion?”
“You knew,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
“I might have had an inkling.”
“Marsha,” he said in that voice that’s half wounded duck, half calculator. “I made a complete fool of myself.”
“Well,” I said, “at least you learned something new.”
“Lucy uninvited us from wine night.”
“She what?”
“She said that until I’ve demonstrated growth and understanding, we’re not welcome at Saturday wine night. She said your silence made you complicit.”
I gripped the steering wheel. Wine night was the only time I got to hear actual adult gossip, not the sanitized versions that came through the art gallery volunteer newsletter. “Goddamnit, Gene.”
“I know,” he said. “I know.”
###
The next morning, Gene was up early. When I came downstairs, he was hunched over his MacBook at the kitchen table, a half-eaten English muffin next to him.
“What are you up to?” I asked.
“Research,” he said, not looking up. “I’m writing an essay on feminist tax policies.”
“You’re what?”
“I’m not a mansplainer, Marsha. I’m going to write a thoughtful, well-researched essay about how the tax code disproportionately affects women.”
“Gene,” I said, “why don’t you just apologize?”
“Apologies are empty without demonstration of changed behavior,” he said, continuing to type. “I read that on Psych Central.”
I poured myself some coffee and looked over his shoulder to see Thoughts on Feminist Tax Reform: A Man’s Journey to Understanding.
“Jesus Christ,” I said.
“Too much?”
“I don’t think Lucy needs a dissertation, Gene. I think she just wants you to acknowledge that you pretended to read a book you didn’t.”
“This is bigger than Lucy now,” he said, eyes a little too bright. “This is about my intellectual integrity.”
Gene has always been like this. When we first met, he spent three months learning everything about wine because I mentioned I liked Merlot. He didn’t even drink. He just wanted to impress me. It was charming then. Now, thirty years later, it was exhausting.
“Just send her an email saying you’re sorry,” I said.
“I think it’s important they know I understand,” he insisted.
Two days later, Gene finished his essay. Twelve pages, single-spaced, with footnotes. He emailed it to everyone in the book club with the subject line: “A Humble Offering of Thoughts from a Reformed Mind.”
Lucy called me that evening. “Your husband plagiarized Wikipedia,” she said flatly.
“He what?”
“His entire section on gender-responsive budgeting is lifted verbatim from a Wikipedia stub. Did he think we wouldn’t check?”
I closed my eyes. “Lucy, I am so sorry.”
“Marsha,” she said, “I know he’s your husband, but he’s only making things worse. We have a serious group here. We’re not a rehab center for clueless men.”
I wanted to defend Gene, but I was too angry with him. “I understand,” I said.
“Also,” Lucy added, “he sent it from: ‘feminist_tax_man@gmail.com.’ Did he create that just for this?”
I hung up and found Gene in his study, creating a Google Slides presentation titled “She-conomy: The Future is Female (and Fiscally Responsible).”
“Gene,” I said. “Stop.”
He looked up, surprised. “What?”
“You plagiarized Wikipedia.”
“I did not,” he said, blinking three times. “I paraphrased extensively.”
“Lucy says it was verbatim.”
“Well,” he said, “maybe Wikipedia plagiarized me.”
“You created a fake email address.”
“It’s called branding, Marsha.”
I sat down across from him. “Why is this so important to you? Why not just admit you made a mistake and be done with it?”
He stared at his computer screen. “Because then I’m just a stupid old guy who doesn’t understand anything anymore.”
And there it was. The real issue. Gene wasn’t afraid of Lucy or the book club or even of looking foolish. He was afraid of becoming obsolete. For thirty-five years, he’d been the guy who understood tax codes and financial regulations. Now he was just…retired.
“Gene,” I said, “nobody expects you to know everything.”
“I do,” he said quietly.
###
A week later, Lucy sent us an invitation to something called a “forest-bathing retreat.” The email said it was a “restorative reconciliation experience” and that everyone from the book club would be there. At the bottom was a personal note: “Gene – No preparation necessary. Just come as you are.”
“Should we go?” Gene asked, holding his iPad like it might explode.
“Do you want to?”
“I want to be invited to wine night again,” he said.
So we went. The retreat was at a state park about an hour outside town. We parked in a gravel lot and followed signs to a clearing where Lucy and the other members were standing in a circle. They were all wearing hiking boots and sensible pants with lots of pockets.
“Welcome,” Lucy said when she saw us. She didn’t smile, exactly, but her face made a shape that wasn’t a frown. “We’re about to begin our walk.”
A guide named Aspen led us through the woods, instructing us to “notice without naming” and “breathe in the forest’s wisdom.” Gene kept leaning over to whisper tax facts in my ear. “Did you know that lumber has its own depreciation schedule?” and “Forest conservation has specific tax credits that most people overlook.”
Lucy overheard him and shot him a look. Gene cleared his throat and tried to notice without naming.
After the walk, we gathered in another clearing for what Aspen called “forest nourishment.” Everyone took out their packed lunches. Gene and I had stopped at a gas station on the way, so we had Slim Jims and Coke Zeros.
Gene wandered away from the group and sat on a fallen log. I saw him pick something off a nearby tree and examine it. Before I could reach him, he popped it in his mouth.
“Gene!” I shouted. “What are you eating?”
He looked up, confused. “Trail mix? There’s a bunch growing right here.”
Lucy rushed over. “That’s lichen, Gene! That’s not food!”
“It tastes terrible,” he admitted. “I thought it was some kind of organic, sustainable snack thing.”
“We need to call poison control,” Lucy said, pulling out her phone.
“I’m fine,” Gene insisted, but his face had gone pale. “Just a little light-headed.”
Five minutes later, Gene was on the ground. Not unconscious, but definitely not fully conscious either. His eyes were open but unfocused, and he kept mumbling about “untaxed forest resources.”
The paramedics arrived quickly. As they loaded Gene onto a stretcher, he reached out and grabbed Lucy’s hand.
“I never read the book,” he confessed. “I just wanted to seem smart.”
Lucy patted his hand. “We know, Gene.”
I rode in the ambulance with him. The paramedic assured me that the particular lichen Gene had eaten wasn’t deadly, just mildly hallucinogenic. “He’ll be fine in a few hours,” she said. “Just keep him hydrated.”
With the IV line trailing from his arm, Gene stared at the hospital ceiling through half-lidded eyes. “Marsha,” he murmured dreamily, “I think I finally understand feminism.”
“Do you now?”
“Well, I know what it isn’t,” he said. “It isn’t pretending to know things you don’t.”
“That’s definitely part of what it’s not,” I agreed.
“And also,” he continued, “not eating things off trees without asking first.”
I laughed and held his hand. “That’s just common sense, Gene.”
“That too,” he said, and closed his eyes.
The next day, Lucy called to check on him. I told her he was fine, just embarrassed.
“Well,” she said, “tell him we’re discussing tax policy at the next meeting. We figured he might actually have something to contribute.”
“That’s kind of you,” I said.
“Also,” she added, “wine night is back on. But tell Gene no presentations allowed.”
When I hung up, Gene was watching me from the couch, wrapped in a blanket despite the summer heat.
“Lucy says you’re invited to discuss tax policy at the next meeting,” I told him.
“Really?” he said, perking up. Then he narrowed his eyes. “Wait, is this a trick? Are they actually discussing something else?”
“No trick,” I said. “Just be yourself. Your actual self, not the other self you think people want you to be.”
Gene nodded slowly. “I can try that,” he said. “But I might need some notecards.”
“Fine,” I said. “But no fake email addresses.”
“Deal,” he agreed. “By the way, did you know the mitochondria are actually the powerhouse of the cell, not a feminist icon? I looked it up.”
I patted his hand. “Baby steps, Gene. Baby steps.”
