The Good Wife

by Stewart O'Nan

  She tries taking the back way, skirting the frozen garden and the Union soldier’s statue, screened by the building. At the last second she gathers speed and rounds the corner, walks straight toward the crowd as if everything’s normal.

  They have their backs to her, mobbing someone else—not Donna but a tall woman hiding behind Jackie 0 sunglasses, her hennaed hair freshly done under a purple scarf. A guy wearing oversized headphones notices Patty and points, and they all turn. A flash dazzles her, makes her raise a hand, but she keeps walking, meeting them head-on. The reporters are two deep, the ones in back shoving their microphones over the front line.

  “Mrs. Dickerson,” one calls out, “do you have anything to say to the family of the victim?”

  “Excuse me,” Patty says, trying to push by. She bounces off the wall of people and barely stays on the sidewalk. Can’t they see she’s pregnant? She shoulders into them like a running back. “Excuse me, let me through. Excuse me.”

  “Mrs. Dickerson, did you know that Mrs. Wagner was legally blind?”

  She ducks her head to watch the steps, her lips clenched in a hard line.

  The cameramen push through the door with her and flare out, running ahead, walking backwards, blasting away like she’s Patty Hearst. She didn’t think they were allowed inside. She ducks into the ladies’ room to get away from their lights, taking a stall and blowing her nose with the stiff toilet paper.

  Blind. She closes her eyes to imagine it.

  A steel catch slaps open—she’s not alone. She waits for the other woman to finish washing her hands, leans forward and peeks through the narrow gap of the door and sees the purple scarf.

  The woman carefully lifts it off and checks her hair in the mirror. Without the sunglasses, her face is narrow, doll-blue eyes, a long jaw and horsey front teeth Patty remembers even without the whistle on a shoelace and the navy one-piece with the Red Cross patch and the chlorine-blond ponytail. Elsie Wagner. She looks old, her cheeks sunken and rouged.

  Patty waits until she hears the door swing open and the noise from the hall. In the mirror, she looks like she’s been smoking dope.

  The cameramen are waiting. She keeps her head down as if it’s raining and scurries across the hall. She knows they’re not allowed in the courtroom. The same elderly security guard shepherds her through, as always, without a word.

  The court is fuller today. She sees faces from the arraignment, including the two reporters. Elsie Wagner sits alone in the front row behind the DA’s table, and for a second, walking up the aisle, Patty thinks what it would mean if she sat down beside her and offered her her hand.

  Donna’s saving a place for her. She’s had her hair cut short, a neat shoulder-length swing. She’s not wearing any makeup and has on a dowdy flower-print dress.

  “What’s with all this?”

  “It wasn’t my idea,” Donna says.

  “You’re not wearing your rings.”

  Donna holds up her hands. “I know, I feel naked. They tell me it’s supposed to help. You’re lucky, you don’t have to worry about that.” She tips her chin at Patty’s belly.

  “Yeah, I’m real lucky.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  Patty wants to ask her why she didn’t call this week, but knows Donna could say the same thing.

  As they’re waiting, the door by the jury box opens and in walks a round woman in her forties with what looks like a makeup case—the court reporter. She takes the table in front of the judge’s bench and sets up her equipment while the lawyers file in, the DA first. Tommy and Gary must be sharing the defendants’ table, because her lawyer and Donna’s both come over, lean across the rail and shake hands with them.

  The lawyer’s already told her it’s a show. All the DA has to establish is reasonable cause, and he will. Patty doesn’t understand. They’re supposed to lose, and that’s okay?

  Across the aisle, the DA is consulting with Elsie Wagner, and Patty feels foolish for ever thinking she could have apologized to her.

  “Here they come,” Donna says, and the cops bring in Gary and Tommy in their prison scrubs. At least they let him shave and comb his hair this time. She hears a camera click and whir behind her, though she knows they’re not allowed either.

  Tommy’s face looks better, the swelling down to a mouse, the scratch a scabbed line. As the cops maneuver him to his chair, he nods as if everything’s under control.

  “All rise,” the bailiff calls, and the lawyer turns him away from her.

  Across the aisle, Elsie Wagner is staring at Tommy and Gary.

  It’s the same judge, the woman with the tight hair and dark lipstick. She leans over the edge of the bench to say hello to the court reporter, then settles herself The whole courtroom waits while she messes with her papers. She finds the one she wants and holds it up, reads the case number into her microphone, then instructs the DA to call his first witness.

  It’s a man named Ayres, Mrs. Wagner’s neighbor from Blodgett Road. Patty tests his voice against her memory of the late-night caller, but it’s not him. The DA takes forever to get his address and the exact location of his house with respect to Mrs. Wagner’s place, the day, the date, the weather, the moon, the visibility. Tommy’s lawyer scribbles notes on a yellow pad, and Patty wishes she’d brought something to write on. With the reporter tapping away and the courtroom nearly full, the proceedings seem more official, as if everything counts now. She wants to challenge everything he says, tries to remember back to that night, the moon on the fields, what time she got to bed. She listens intently, waiting for him to make a mistake.

  “You said in your statement that something outside caught your eye,” the DA feeds him.

  The questioning is a slow form of torture. Blodgett Road is a dead-end. Mr. Ayres can see the dead-end from his window, and the creek. Mr. Ayres saw the truck’s brake lights down in the dead-end. Mr. Ayres stood at the window for maybe ten minutes. Mr. Ayres could see the shadow of the truck in the moonlight; it had its lights off. Mr. Ayres saw two figures get out of the truck. Mr. Ayres saw the same two figures walk back up the road toward Mrs. Wagner’s house. This is when Mr. Ayres telephoned the sheriff’s department—the DA has the exact time of the call.

  This part is new to Patty, and she realizes how little Tommy has told her about what actually happened.

  That’s all the DA has for Mr. Ayres.

  “Does defense wish to cross-examine?” the judge asks.

  Andy lets Gary’s lawyer answer. “No, your honor.”

  The next witness is the deputy who responded to the call. The DA wastes a half hour asking him about the day, the date, the time of the call, the visibility, the road, the truck (caught in his spotlight, a dark color), the location of the two houses, what time the fire company arrived. Beside her, Donna shifts positions. Patty realizes she has her arms crossed tightly on top of her belly and folds her hands in her lap.

  “When I entered the residence there was a strong smell of gasoline,” the deputy testifies. “I also noticed a red metal gas can on a table in the dining room.”

  The DA is taking them through Mrs. Wagner’s, leading the deputy to the bedroom, and Patty can’t help but think of her mother, alone in their old house out on Tinkham Road, the key under the mat for anyone to use. She doesn’t want to hear what comes next, and focuses on Andy’s hand needling his pen across the page.

  “I would say the fire damage was basically confined to the rear hallway and the master bedroom where the deceased was discovered,” the deputy says.

  “And where was she discovered?”

  “On what was left of the bed.”

  “What was the condition of the deceased?”

  “She was burned over a good portion of her body.”

  “Were there any other indications of foul play?”

  “Her face was bruised and cut.”

  “Cut how?”

  “She had a gash under her left eye.” The deputy points to his own.

  Their la
wyer objects to this, since he’s not a medical professional. Across the aisle, Elsie Wagner is dabbing at her eyes with a wad of tissue.

  The deputy discovers the guns in the hockey bag with Gary’s name on it.

  “Let’s go back to the truck you saw parked at the bottom of the hill,” the DA says. “Did you have a chance to examine this truck?”

  “I did,” the deputy says, and identifies Tommy’s truck as if it committed a crime.

  Again, there’s no cross-examination. To Patty, it feels like they’re just letting the DA win.

  The third witness is another deputy, maybe her age, who goes through the whole day, date and time deal and then describes seeing Tommy and Gary running up the hill on the other side of the creek, their jeans soaking wet. “At that time I placed the defendants under arrest and advised them of their rights.”

  “Thank you,” the DA says.

  And that’s it, no cross-examination, no further witnesses. It’s not quite lunchtime.

  The judge sums up: “The court determines there is reasonable cause to believe that the felony of murder in the second degree was committed, and reasonable cause to believe the defendants committed such felony. Defendants are ordered held without bail for action of the Tioga County grand jury.” She raps the gavel, and everyone starts talking.

  The cops come to take Tommy away. He says one last thing to Andy, then turns and looks back at her and winks. Donna stands there with her, watching as they file through the door in their slippers. When they’re gone, Patty sees that Elsie Wagner is watching her. Patty turns away.

  “Well that sucked,” Donna says, oblivious.

  “It doesn’t mean anything,” Patty says.

  She keeps her back to Elsie Wagner, takes her time pulling on her coat and then fishing a Tic Tac from her purse. When she’s finally ready to go, she sees that it worked—she’s gone.

  They catch up to her in the hallway, surrounded by TV cameras and wearing her sunglasses. She’s reading a statement from a piece of paper, something Patty thinks she and Donna could never get away with.

  Outside there are more reporters, more lights. Donna’s parked behind the Great American, so they split up. Patty doesn’t hide this time, just keeps a closed, concerned face as the pack bombards her with questions. She takes the back way, and once they realize she’s not going to say anything, most of them give up. Only one photographer follows her to the Dart, clicking as she turns the key and fastens her seatbelt, then checks her mirrors and pulls into traffic.

  On the way home, she feels even more deeply that they’ve lost something. From the evidence—and now that evidence is official—one of them did it. She’s not a lawyer, but she doesn’t see how they’re going to beat the charges if they’re tried together. It’s clear to her, though Tommy’s not going to want to hear it: he’s going to have to testify against Gary.

  FOR THE RECORD

  “WHY?” SHE FINALLY ASKS HIM, NOW THAT SHE’S NOT GIVING ANYTHING away. “That’s what I want to know.”

  “I don’t know,” he says. “Money.”

  “We don’t need any money.”

  “Everybody needs money.”

  “That’s crap.” She sits back from the table to see if he’ll take it back.

  He shrugs like there’s no good answer.

  “You know, you’re an asshole,” she says.

  “Now I am. I wasn’t before.”

  “Yes,” she says, “you were.”

  SAYING GRACE

  SHE’S NOT SUPPOSED TO BRING ANYTHING, AT LEAST THAT’S WHAT her mother’s been broadcasting all week. It’s a dance: she doesn’t really expect Patty to show up empty-handed, even in the middle of moving. It’s Thanksgiving. She’d be disappointed, though she’d never say a word. At the same time, Patty’s not allowed to upset her plans by duplicating a dish she’s assigned someone else, so Wednesday after lunch Patty has to check in and warn her that she’s baking a pie.

  “Not pumpkin,” her mother says. “Shannon’s doing pumpkin.”

  “Is anyone doing apple?”

  “Apple’s fine.”

  Patty agrees to this before she realizes she doesn’t have any apples, meaning a trip to the store.

  She cheats, driving cross-country to Iron Kettle Farm, where she doesn’t have to stand in line and face the racks of accusing newspapers. The big-boned girl in the apron who bags her apples asks if she’s having a boy or a girl. Do they have a name yet? Patty chats with her, then walks back to her car, humming in the bright air.

  The feeling’s brittle, though it returns as she’s rolling out dough for the crust and slicing the apples. It’s sunny and the house smells of flour and cinnamon. Finally she’s doing something useful. And then she thinks how she’d make Tommy all of his favorites if they’d let her bring food in.

  The pie turns out nicely. Eileen admires it as she drives Patty the next morning. Eileen’s the only one of them that doesn’t bake. Her assignment, like every year, is the sweet potatoes, impossible to ruin. Patty has no lap, and traps the slippery casserole dish against her legs as she cradles the pie plate. The Bronco reeks of Eileen’s cigarettes, a smell that nauseates Patty even as she craves one. It’ll be worse at her mother’s, everyone drinking, sneaking peeks at her as they cook and watch football.

  “How does Cy get out of going again?” Patty asks.

  “It’s his folks’ year. I’m getting out of going.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Hey, don’t apologize,” Eileen says. “They’re no picnic either.”

  “I wonder if Marshall will bring his olives again.”

  “How much you want to bet Mom bought him some special.”

  “Watch, they won’t be the right kind.”

  She wishes she and Eileen could just keep driving like this, never get there, but the county’s only so big. When she looks out over the open fields and pines and miles of gray sky, she thinks of Tommy locked in his cell, and the day seems unreal and pointless, an empty ceremony. They’ll waste the whole afternoon trying to ignore the obvious—and she has so much to do for the move.

  Here’s the hump where the culvert runs under the road, and ahead on the left, the dark box of the house, Marshall’s custard-yellow boat of an Eldorado nosed up against the garage.

  “I can’t believe I’m really going to do this,” Patty says.

  “What are you going to do, sit home by yourself?” Eileen says. “Besides, it’s not like you’re flying solo.”

  Her mother’s oversalted the walk; pellets crunch under their feet. They come bearing gifts, each carrying their own dish. The front door’s not locked, but Patty rings the bell anyway, then stands back.

  “Maybe no one’s home,” Eileen jokes, just as they hear the tread of footsteps in the hall. The knob crunches, the door opens, and there’s their mother, her hair just done, wearing an apron patterned with holly and candy canes.

  She holds the door for them, waving them inside. “Come on, don’t let the cold in. You’re just in time for Santa Claus.”

  She takes the pie from Patty, and Eileen follows her to the kitchen. As Patty hangs her jacket in the front hall closet, shoving her scarf into one arm, Shannon appears with a glass of wine, her little black dress too sexy for Thanksgiving. She gives Patty a bony hug. She’s deeply tanned, her chest freckled from some vacation. Beside her, Patty feels pasty and dumpy with her egg of a belly.

  “How are you?” Shannon asks. “Mom’s been telling me about Tommy and what’s happening.”

  All Patty can do is shrug and nod.

  “If there’s anything we can do,” Shannon says, waving a palm across the space between them, erasing a word on a blackboard. “I mean it.”

  Patty thanks her, already moving toward the living room and the brassy clatter of the parade.

  Marshall stands up to kiss her skimpily, his mustache brushing her cheek. He’s neat—perfect dry-look hairstyle, blue blazer, cologne. Even on a holiday he’s dressed to make a sale with his creased slack
s and Italian loafers.

  “How’s it going?” he asks, subsiding.

  “Good,” she says, and that’s the extent of their conversation.

  She has to bend down to kiss Randy and Kyra, both too absorbed in the TV to get up from the couch. Patty tickles Randy just to bug him, but Santa’s coming, and she flees to the kitchen and sits at the table sipping a Tab while her mother frets over how there’s no space left in the refrigerator. Shannon and Eileen try to help but just end up getting in the way.

  “If you want to do something useful, stay out of my hair,” their mother says, then asks Eileen to run downstairs and grab a new milk for her. Shannon takes the onions and the cutting board to the far end of the counter.

  It could be any year, except that Patty’s allowed to sit and watch it all play out.

  Randy and Kyra cruise through, bored and lobbying for sodas.

  “Why don’t you go up to your mother’s old room and see what kind of toys you can find.”

  “It’s all girl stuff,” Randy mopes, but goes, clumping up the back stairs after Kyra.

  “The game’s starting!” Marshall calls from the other room, but there’s too much work to do. Patty snaps the green beans while Shannon assumes her usual job peeling the potatoes. Eileen checks the turkey, pulls it out, the fat crackling in the pan. Their mother runs a finger down a recipe, her lips moving as she wipes her floury hand on the holly and candy canes. At one point all four of them are working quietly, the kitchen warm, the window on the backyard fogged.

  “Think he’s okay out there all by himself?” their mother asks, meaning Marshall.

  “He’s fine,” Shannon says, then goes out to check on him. She comes back with an empty tumbler and pours him another gin, forking out three olives from a tall jar in the fridge door. Eileen gives Patty a wink.