The Other Mrs.

by Mary Kubica

  The yard is covered in snowdrifts. They rise a foot high in some spots, the grass barely flecked with snow in others. The wind tries hard to push me down as I trek through the yard, making my way out to the dogs. The property is large, and they’re far away, pawing at something. I clap my hands and call to them again, but still they don’t come. The snow blows sideways. It gusts up the leg of my pajama pants and into the neckline of my shirt. My feet, covered in slippers alone, ache from the bitter cold. I didn’t think to put shoes on before I came outside.

  It’s hard to see much of anything. The trees, the houses, the horizon disappear in the snow. I find it hard to open my eyes. I think of the kids still in school. How will they get home?

  Halfway to the dogs, I think about turning around. I don’t know that I have it in me to make it all the way there. I clap again; I call to them. They don’t come. If Will was here, they would come.

  I force myself to go on. It hurts to breathe; the air is so cold it burns my throat and lungs.

  The dogs bark again and I run the last twenty feet to them. They look sheepishly at me as I come, and I expect to find a half-eaten cadaver lying between their feet.

  I reach out, grabbing ahold of one of the girls’ collars and pulling, saying, “Come on, let’s go,” not caring if there’s a maimed squirrel there, but just needing to be back inside. But she just stands there, whining at me, refusing to come. She’s much too big for me to lug all the way home. I try, but as I do I stagger from the weight of her, losing balance. I fall forward to my hands and knees where there, before me, between the dogs’ paws, something sparkles in the snow. It’s not a rabbit. It’s not a squirrel. It’s much too small to be a rabbit or a squirrel.

  And then there’s the shape of it, long and slender and sharp.

  My heart races. My fingers tingle. The black specks return, dancing before my eyes. I feel like I could be sick. And then suddenly I am. On my hands and knees, I retch into the snow. My diaphragm contracts but it’s a dry heave only. I’ve had nothing to eat but a few sips of coffee. My stomach is empty. There’s nothing there to come back up.

  One of the dogs nudges me with her nose. I latch on to her, steadying myself, seeing plainly that the object between the dogs’ feet is a knife. The missing boning knife. The blood on it is what’s piqued the dogs’ interest. The blade of the knife is approximately six inches long, same as the one that killed Morgan Baines.

  Beside the knife sits a hole that the dogs have carved into the earth.

  The dogs dug up this knife. This knife was buried in our backyard. All this time, they’ve been digging into the backyard to unearth this knife.

  I glance quickly back to the house. Though in reality I see nothing, just barely the softened periphery of the house itself, I imagine Otto standing at the kitchen window, watching me. I can’t go home.

  I leave the dogs where they are. I leave the knife where it is. I don’t touch it. I limp across the yard. My feet tingle from the cold, losing feeling. It makes it hard for them to move. I lumber around the side of the house, missing my footing because of my frozen feet. I fall into snowdrifts and then force myself back up.

  It’s a quarter-mile hike to the bottom of our hill. That’s where the town and the public safety building are located, where I’ll find Officer Berg.

  Will said to wait. But I can no longer wait.

  There’s no telling what time Will will be home, or what may happen to me by the time he is.

  The street is barren and bleak. It’s saturated in white. There’s no one here but me. I shamble down the hill, nose oozing with snot. I wipe it away with a sleeve. I’m wearing only pajamas, not a coat or a hat. Not gloves. The pajamas do nothing to keep me warm, to protect me. My teeth chatter. I can barely keep my eyes open because of the wind. The snow blows from all ways simultaneously, constantly airborne, swirling in circles like the vortex of a tornado. My fingers freeze. They’re blotchy and red. I can’t feel my face.

  Off in the distance, the blade of a shovel scrapes a sidewalk.

  There’s the littlest bit of hope that comes with it.

  There is someone else on this island besides Otto and me.

  I go on only because I have no choice but to go on.

  MOUSE

  In the middle of the night, Mouse heard a noise she knew well.

  It was the squeak of the stairs, which had no reason to be squeaking since Mouse was already in her bed. As Mouse knew, there was one bedroom on the second floor of the old house. At night, after she was in bed, there was no reason for anyone to be upstairs but her.

  But someone was coming up the stairs. Fake Mom was coming upstairs, and the stairs themselves were calling out a warning for Mouse, telling her to run. Telling her to hide.

  But Mouse didn’t have a chance to run or hide.

  Because it happened too fast and she was disoriented from sleep. Mouse barely had time to open her eyes before the bedroom door pressed open, and there Fake Mom stood, backlit by the hallway light.

  Bert, in her cage on the bedroom floor, emitted a piercing screech. She rushed under her translucent dome for safety. There she held still like a statue, mistakenly believing no one would see her on the other side of the opaque plastic, so long as she didn’t move.

  In her bed, Mouse tried to hold real still, too.

  But Fake Mom saw her there, just as she saw Bert.

  Fake Mom flicked the bedroom light on. The brightness of it overpowered Mouse’s tired, dilated eyes, so that at first she couldn’t see. But she could hear. Fake Mom spoke, her voice composed in a way that startled Mouse even more than if it wasn’t. Her steps were slow and deliberate as she let herself into the room, when Mouse wished she would come running in, screaming, and then leave. Because then it would be over and through.

  What did I tell you about picking up after yourself, Mouse? Fake Mom asked, coming closer to the bed, stepping past Bert and her cage. She grabbed Mouse’s bedspread by the edge and tugged, revealing Mouse in her unicorn pajamas beneath, the ones she put on without anyone having to tell her to put them on. Beside Mouse, in the bed, was Mr. Bear. Did you think that picking up after yourself didn’t mean flushing a toilet or wiping up after you piss all over the seat, the same seat that I have to sit on?

  Mouse’s blood ran cold. She didn’t have to think about what Fake Mom was talking about. She knew. And she knew there was no point in explaining, though she tried anyway. Her voice trembled as she spoke. She told Fake Mom what happened. How she tried to be quiet. How she didn’t want to wake Fake Mom up. How she didn’t mean to pee on the seat. How she didn’t flush the toilet because she knew it would be loud.

  But Mouse was nervous when she spoke. She was scared. Her little voice shook so that her words came out unintelligibly. Fake Mom didn’t like mumbling. She barked at Mouse, Speak up!

  Then she rolled her eyes and said that Mouse wasn’t nearly as smart as her father thought she was.

  Mouse tried to explain again. To speak louder, to enunciate her words. But it didn’t matter because Fake Mom didn’t want an explanation, whether an audible or inaudible one. The question she’d asked, Mouse realized too late, was rhetorical, the kind of question that doesn’t want an answer at all.

  Do you know what happens when dogs have accidents inside the house? Fake Mom asked Mouse. Mouse didn’t know for sure what happened. She’d never had a dog before, but what she thought was that someone cleaned the mess up, and that was that. It was done. Because that was the way it happened with Bert. Bert was forever pooping and peeing in Mouse’s lap, and it was never a big deal. Mouse wiped it up, washed her hands and went back to playing with Bert.

  But Fake Mom wouldn’t have asked the question if it was as easy as that.

  Mouse told her that she didn’t know.

  I’ll show you what happens, Fake Mom said as she grabbed Mouse by the arm and pulled her from bed. Mouse
didn’t want to go where Fake Mom wanted her to go. But she didn’t object because she knew it would hurt less if she just went with Fake Mom than allowing herself to be pulled from bed and dragged down the squeaky stairs. So that was what she did. Except that Fake Mom walked faster than Mouse could walk, and so she tripped. When she did, she fell all the way to the floor. It made Fake Mom angry. It made her scream, Get up!

  Mouse did. They made their way down the steps. The house was mostly dark, but there was a hint of the night sky coming in through the windows.

  Fake Mom brought Mouse into the living room. She brought her to the center of the room, turned her in a specific direction. There, in the corner of the room, was the empty dog crate, door open as it never was.

  I used to have a dog once, Fake Mom said. A springer spaniel. I named him Max, mostly because I couldn’t think of a better name. He was a good dog. A dumb dog, but a good dog. We took walks together. Sometimes, when we’d watch TV, he’d sit by my side. But then Max went and made an accident in the corner of my house when I wasn’t home, and that made Max bad, she said.

  She went on. See, we can’t have animals urinating and defecating inside our homes, where they’re not supposed to go. It’s dirty, Mouse. Do you understand that? The best way to teach a dog is by crate training. Because the dog doesn’t want to have to sit with its own piss and shit for days. And so it learns to hold it. Same as you can, Fake Mom said as she grabbed Mouse by the arm and yanked her the rest of the way across the living room for that open dog crate.

  Mouse fought back, but Mouse was a child, only six years old. She weighed less than half of what Fake Mom weighed and she had nearly no strength at all.

  Mouse had had no dinner. Only three Salerno Butter Cookies. She’s just been woken from sleep. It was the middle of the night and she was tired. She wiggled and writhed, but that was the best she could do, and so she was easily manhandled by Fake Mom. She was forced into the dog crate, which was not even as tall as she was when she sat down. She couldn’t even sit all the way up inside the cage, and so her head rubbed against the hard metal bars of the cage, her neck kinked. She couldn’t lie down, couldn’t stretch out her legs. She had to keep them pulled into her, so that they went numb.

  Mouse was crying. She was begging to be let out. Promising to be good, to never pee on the toilet seat again.

  But Fake Mom wasn’t listening.

  Because Fake Mom was making her way back upstairs.

  Mouse didn’t know why. She thought maybe Fake Mom was going back up to get her poor Mr. Bear.

  But when Fake Mom returned she didn’t have the bear.

  She had Bert.

  It made Mouse shriek, seeing her sweet guinea pig in Fake Mom’s hands. Bert never did like to be held by anyone other than Mouse. She was kicking her tiny feet in Fake Mom’s grasp, squealing her high-pitched squeal, louder than Mouse had ever heard her before. It wasn’t the same squeal she made for carrots. It was a different kind of squeal. A terrified kind of squeal.

  Mouse’s heart was beating a million miles a minute.

  She beat on the bars of that dog crate but couldn’t get out.

  She tried forcing the door open but it wouldn’t budge because there was some sort of padlock on that door.

  Did you know, Mouse, that a dull knife is more dangerous than a sharp one? she asked, holding one of her knives up in the air to examine the blade in the moonlight.

  How many times, she asked, not waiting for an answer to the question she’d already asked, do I have to tell you that I don’t want one rodent in this house, let alone two?

  Mouse closed her eyes and pressed her hands to her ears so that she couldn’t see or hear what came next.

  * * *

  It wasn’t a week before Mouse’s father had another work trip.

  He stood in the doorway saying his goodbyes as Fake Mom stood beside Mouse.

  I’ll only be gone for a few days. I’ll be back before you can miss me, her father said as he stared into Mouse’s sad eyes, promising her that when he got home they’d pick out a new guinea pig for her, one to replace Bert. Her father was of the opinion that Bert had merely run away, that she was getting her kicks somewhere in the voids of the house where they couldn’t find her.

  Mouse didn’t want a new guinea pig. Not then, not ever. And only Mouse and Fake Mom knew the reason why.

  Beside her, Fake Mom squeezed Mouse’s shoulder. She stroked her mousy brown hair and said, We’re going to get along just fine. Aren’t we, Mouse? Now say goodbye to your father so that he can go on his trip.

  Mouse tearfully said goodbye.

  She and Fake Mom stood beside each other, watching as her father’s car pulled from the drive and disappeared around the bend.

  And then Fake Mom kicked the front door closed and turned on Mouse.

  SADIE

  The public safety building is a small brick building in the center of town. I’m grateful to find the door unlocked, a warm, yellow light glowing from the inside.

  A woman sits behind the desk, pecking away on a keyboard as I let myself in. She startles, clutching her bosom when the door bursts open and I appear. On a day such as this, she hadn’t expected anyone to be outside.

  I trip over the door’s threshold on the way in. I didn’t see the one-inch rise. I fall to my hands and knees just inside the doorway, not having it in me to catch myself in time. The floor isn’t as yielding as the snow; this fall hurts far more than the others.

  “Oh dear,” the woman says, rising quickly to her feet to come help me to mine. She nearly runs around the edge of the desk and reaches for me on the floor. Her mouth hangs open, her eyes wide with surprise. She can’t believe what she’s seeing. The room around me is boxy and small. Yellow walls, carpeted floors, a double pedestal desk. The air is miraculously warm. A space heater stands in the corner, blowing heated air throughout the room.

  I’ve no sooner found my feet than I go to the heater, dropping to my knees before the oscillating fan.

  “Officer Berg,” I just manage to say, lips sluggish from the cold. My back is to the woman. “Officer Berg, please.”

  “Yes,” she says, “yes, of course,” and before I know what’s happening, she’s screaming for him. She graciously reaches past me to turn the space heater to a higher speed, and I press my hands to it, burning from the cold.

  “There’s someone here to see you,” she says uneasily, and I turn.

  When he appears, Officer Berg says nothing. He walks quickly because of the screaming, because of the edge in his secretary’s voice that warns him something is wrong. He takes in my pajamas as he moves past me for the coffeepot. He fills a disposable cup with coffee and extends it to me in an effort to warm me up. He helps me rise to my feet, pressing the cup into my hands. I don’t drink it, but the heat off the cup feels good to touch. I feel grateful for it. The storm perseveres outside, the entirety of the little building shuddering at times. Lights flicker; the walls whine. He reaches for a coat on a coatrack and wraps me in it.

  “I have to speak with you,” I tell him, the desperation and fatigue in my voice palpable.

  Officer Berg leads me down the hall. We sit side by side at a small expandable table. The room is bare.

  “What are you doing here, Dr. Foust?” he asks me, his tone thoughtful and concerned, but also leery. “Heck of a day to be outside,” he says.

  I find myself shaking uncontrollably. For as much as I try, I can’t warm up. My hands are wrapped around the cup of coffee. Officer Berg gives me a nudge and tells me to drink up.

  But it’s not the cold that makes me shake.

  I start to tell him everything, but before I can, Officer Berg says, “I received a call from your husband a short while ago,” and my words get stuck in my throat. I’m at a loss, wondering why Will called him after we’d agreed that we’d come see him together.

  �
��You did?” I ask instead, sitting upright, because these aren’t words I expected to hear. Officer Berg nods his head slowly. He has an uncanny way of maintaining eye contact. I struggle not to look away. I ask, “What did he want?” bracing myself for the officer’s reply.

  “He was worried about you,” Officer Berg says, and I feel myself relax. Will called because he was worried about me.

  “Of course,” I say, softening in the chair. Perhaps he tried to call me first, and when I didn’t answer the phone, he called Officer Berg. Perhaps he asked Officer Berg to check on me and see if I was all right. “The weather. And the ferry delay. I was upset the last time we spoke.”

  “Yes,” he says. “Mr. Foust told me.”

  I start, again sitting upright.

  “He told you I was upset?” I ask on the defense, because this is personal, not something Will needed to tell the police.

  He nods. “He’s worried about you. He said you were upset about some washcloth,” and it’s then that the conversation shifts, because it’s patronizing the way he says it. As if I’m just some stupid ninny running off at the mouth about a washcloth.

  “Oh,” I say, and I leave it at that.

  “I was getting ready to head to your house and check on you. You saved me a trip,” he says. Officer Berg tells me the afternoon commute will be messy because the local schools weren’t called off ahead of the storm. The only saving grace is that the snow is to slow in the hours to come.

  And then Officer Berg begins to pry. “You want to tell me about this washcloth?”

  “I found a washcloth,” I tell him slowly, “covered in blood. In my laundry room.” And then because I’ve said that much already, I go on. “I found the knife buried in my backyard.”

  He doesn’t so much as blink. “The knife that was used to kill Mrs. Baines?” he asks.