The Good Wife

by Stewart O'Nan

  “You must be new,” the woman says, and Patty nods, a refugee who doesn’t speak the language. “You need to go to the desk and fill out a slip.”

  They must be from the city, she thinks, making her way through the crowd, careful of people’s feet. She can feel them watching her as she passes, but in a different way than the guard in his blue uniform—checking out her figure, then hard-eyed, memorizing her, like she might try to pull something. There are too many little kids here for Casey to work on him. He shoves a form across the fake wood counter and turns his back to her, busy with a TV monitor. There’s a pen on a chain that doesn’t work. “Excuse me,” she says, and without a word he spins on his stool and clacks a pen down on the counter. She sets Casey’s carrier at her feet and elbows the diaper bag around to her side, digging in her purse for Tommy’s inmate number.

  The guard looks over the form like she might have left a box empty, then tears the carbon apart and pushes the pink piece at her. “Hold on to your slip. You’ll be called in the order you’re registered”—meaning she’s behind everyone here.

  A brown woman older than her mother shoos a boy in his church clothes to make room for her.

  “Thank you,” Patty says, resting Casey’s carrier across her knees.

  As they wait, Patty plays with Casey and furtively takes in the room, noting the elaborate hairdos and fancy nails and loud dresses on some of the women, the spaghetti straps and sheaths and cleavage she thought were against the rules. They’re so young, she thinks; they could be all done up for the prom. It’s got to be at least five hours from the city. When did they have to get up to make themselves beautiful?

  It’s time, and they let the guard know it. Everyone gradually stops talking. Mothers rein in their children as the whole room concentrates on the front desk. The guard checks his watch and then does nothing, setting off a round of muttering. Patty stays silent, too new to join in. The instruction sheet leaps to mind. She doesn’t want to do anything that might jeopardize the visit.

  The guard checks his watch again and looks back at his monitor. The grumbling runs around. It’s like he’s taunting them.

  And then he slides off his stool, stands at the desk and calls the first three visitors—by number, fast, rattling them off like a drill sergeant. One woman who doesn’t speak English is confused, thinking he might have called her. “Is this your number?” the guard asks, flashing the slip at her. “Then sit down.”

  The door to the next room locks and unlocks with a buzz. Between the groups of three stretch long lulls. As each goes through, the room slowly clears out, doughnut boxes and coffee cups littering the floor. The old lady beside her gets in around ten-thirty, smiling goodbye to Patty. Casey’s cranky, and she’s already missed an hour and a half. Tommy’s probably wondering where she is. Next time she’ll get up earlier. There’s no reason she shouldn’t be first, living so close.

  It’s almost noon when the guard calls the number she’s memorized. She grabs the diaper bag and lugs Casey’s carrier up front, keeping her purse handy to show their ID. The guard isn’t interested; he just needs to see her slip. Directly ahead of her is the tall woman who helped her earlier; she’s given herself a booster shot of perfume, and Patty thinks her Jean Naté’s probably evaporated by now.

  There are four more guards in the next room, and a metal detector. Patty follows the tall woman, copying everything she does. She has to show her ID to get her hand stamped, but then the stamp’s invisible. The tall woman explains: it only shows up under ultraviolet light.

  “No talking,” a guard says.

  They take her change for the vending machines and count it.

  “Please remove your shoes,” another guard orders. “Place any objects you have in your pockets in the basket. Remove all jewelry.”

  She pulls off her wedding ring.

  “You’re going to have to take the baby out of the car seat.”

  The tall woman’s already passed through the machine. Putty’s the last one left. She’s surprised when the metal detector goes off with a staticky wowing sound.

  A guard waves a black plastic wand over her, stopping in the middle of her back. It’s the hook and eye of her bra. It’s humiliating, yet Patty thinks they could have just as easily made her take it off.

  No one helps her put the baby carrier back together when they finish taking it apart. They stand there watching her repack the diaper bag, then stop her from adding the last two bottles. “You can only bring in one bottle, ma’am.”

  “Fine,” Patty says, and leaves them to go bad in a locker.

  At the next counter she’s checked against the official visitor sheet. An older man with steel-rimmed bifocals who calls her Mrs. Dickerson carefully unfolds Casey’s birth certificate. There’s a problem with the hospital bill; it’s not considered a legal ID. She needs to apply for a Social Security card for him, but the guy lets her slide this time. While he calls up to have them send Tommy down, he makes faces at Casey, popping his eyes, making a clownish O of his mouth. He assigns Patty a table, telling her she can go right in.

  The visiting room is like a cafeteria, rows of neatly spaced tables, a bank of vending machines to one side. The light’s brighter in here, as if they’re onstage, and there are cameras watching from all four corners. A letter designating each table hangs from the drop-panel ceiling. Hers is T. She sees faces from the waiting room, but also the men they’ve come to see, prisoners dressed in the same faded dark green workshirts and pants like a legion of janitors. Most are young and muscled, biceps straining their short sleeves, and she can’t help it, she wonders if they’re dangerous, if right here a fight won’t break out. Patty feels their eyes on her and tries not to stare at the dark tattoos on their arms. She follows the farthest row past S, where the tall woman and a man who’s large all over are lost in prayer, eyes closed, hands clasped atop an open Bible. Not five feet away another couple are practically having sex, the guy’s whole arm up her dress.

  The table Patty finally sits at is scratched with graffiti—linked initials and pierced hearts, lightning bolts and skulls. She sets Casey on the tabletop. He’s grabby, clawing the air, so she breaks out his bottle. He holds both sides with splayed starfish hands, kicking his feet as he drinks, and she worries, though it’s impossible, that someday he’ll remember this and hold it against them.

  She needs to be upbeat for Tommy, and tries on a smile, but it feels false. Shannon’s always been the actress in the family. Across the room, lines of kids feed the vending machines, a constant clatter of change dropping through slots, the clunk of treats falling. It’s almost one; no wonder Casey’s hungry.

  Visiting hours end at three-thirty. They’ve already wasted half the day.

  And still she waits. She takes the bottle from Casey, saving it for later, then burps him on her shoulder, glad to have something to do. She feels stupid, the only one alone in the whole room. She couldn’t have been more than five minutes behind the tall woman, now sharing a vending-machine hamburger with her man. Patty wants to go back and ask the nice guard if something’s happened, but the door’s closed and she doesn’t dare approach anyone in here. Even if she’s allowed, she doesn’t want to stand up and call attention to herself.

  He’ll come. It’s not like he could go anywhere.

  As the minutes tick by, her imagination adds to her fears. She can’t help it, she sees him being beaten, sees him bandaged and unconscious in the infirmary. She squeezes Casey tighter to make it go away.

  And then, perversely, she thinks that if he doesn’t come, she won’t have to tell him about selling the car. She won’t have to admit that she’s broke and has to move in with her mother. She won’t have to confess that when she called Mr. Mallon, he said they’d had to cut back, so no, he was sorry, but in all fairness they couldn’t hold a spot open for her.

  In the far corner by the door, a family’s singing “Happy Birthday to You.” Other voices join in, but softly, as if afraid they might wake someone. Patty li
stens for the name, and then can’t pick it out. Tommy’s birthday’s in October, she doesn’t know what day of the week it is this year.

  “Come on,” she says.

  Every time she’s tempted to blame him, she realizes the slowness is deliberate on the part of the guards and not his fault—that they hassle her not because of anything he’s done but just because they can.

  She rubs her face—her nose is oily, her hair’s a wreck, but it’s too late to fix it. She licks her lips, thinking of kissing him (no prolonged embracing), and before they’re dry again she sees the door closest to her open and there he is in the same green outfit as everyone else, a guard dogging him.

  He waves, and she has to stop herself from rising and running to him. She’s still not used to the short hair, a reminder of the trial. All week she’s promised herself she wouldn’t cry, afraid it would make him feel bad, and now she sneaks a shallow breath to quell the tears she feels coming. He shows his ID to a guard at a desk and walks up the aisle to where she stands.

  She kisses him, takes him in her arms and squeezes him as hard as she can, as if to leave her imprint on his body. She holds him, feeling his back as if to make sure nothing’s missing. They break and take their separate chairs, never letting go of each other’s hands. She turns Casey toward Tommy to show him how big he’s gotten. Tommy smiles, wagging a finger at him.

  “How are you doing?” he asks.

  She laughs—it’s such a huge question.

  “I’m all right,” Patty says. “Just tell me you’re okay.”

  “I’m okay.”

  “You mean it?”

  “It’s boring. It’s like the army. You have to do whatever they tell you.”

  “But you’re okay.”

  “Hey,” he says, “would I lie?”

  “Do you have a reason to?”

  “Not anymore,” he says.

  “Did you have lunch yet?” she asks. “I brought change.”

  The rule is that prisoners can’t put money in the machines, so she leaves him with Casey and braves the lines for a pair of fish sandwiches and two Cokes in flimsy cups. When she gets back, Casey is burbling at him, the two of them having their own conversation.

  “I wish you didn’t look so good,” he says.

  “No, I’m fat,” Patty insists, pinching her hip.

  “You look great to me.”

  “That’s just ‘cause you’re not getting any.”

  The sandwiches are cardboard, but they laugh at it. As they chew through the dry bites, sipping their melting Cokes, he lists all the dishes of hers he misses. She wouldn’t believe how bad the food is here, the same crap over and over—oatmeal and cabbage soup and liver, cherry Kool-Aid. Patty listens intently, watching his face, soaking him in. He seems all right, though she knows he’s putting up a front. They’re both trying. If he can survive in here, she can find a way to get by on the outside. All week she’s waited for this, and now she lets herself fall into him, the lost morning, like her normal worries, forgotten. Around them the guards are watching, but she no longer sees them. Even Casey fades a little, she’s concentrating so hard on Tommy. She knows it’s a trick, but, leaning forward and holding hands across the table as if this is a candlelit dinner, Patty can almost pretend they’re the only two people in the world.

  BACKROADS

  THOSE FIRST MONTHS, THE DRIVE HOME MAKES HER SICK, A HEADACHE clamped down like a helmet, her bowels backing up into her stomach. The gold and green countryside doesn’t care, the cows and fields shimmering in the heat, the families picnicking at rest areas. Slipping invisible between the other cars, she feels conspicuous, singled out, when there’s no reason. For all they know she could be coming from anywhere.

  She has the schedule down now. She gets up early to beat the crowd, her mother waving them away from the porch. She’s done experimenting and sticks to the quickest route up and back, passing through the same one-stoplight towns and shadowed valleys until she knows every church and farm stand and convenience mart. If she lived down one of these dusty roads, things would be different, she thinks, but it’s not a real wish, just a what-if. She shouldn’t be dreaming, and keeps her speed up, watching for cops. She needs to get home and get ready for the coming week. Between work and visiting him, she barely has time to do her food shopping.

  And then Monday she’s up at six and has to say goodbye to Casey—the hardest part of her new job. Russ has gotten her onto his truck (Russ has done everything for them, he’s the only one of Tommy’s friends who’s stuck by them; the rumor is that Gary and Donna are gone, their emptied apartment for rent). She used to bust Tommy’s chops about how easy he had it—long coffee breaks and catnaps, knocking off early; now, standing for hours in the sun in her hardhat and reflective vest with a heavy lollipop sign while the guys patch asphalt, she thinks she’s earning her paycheck. Hell, summer’s easy, they tell her. Wait’ll they do the leaves. And winter, forget it. Part of it’s just them giving her shit, she understands, being new, but every night she’s tired and every morning wakes up aching. Some days she doesn’t think she can go on, but shows up and punches in with the rest of them anyway. She makes sure she never shirks, never complains, and still, she knows some of them will never give her respect just because she’s a woman. She doesn’t care, as long as they don’t hit on her.

  Being outside is good, and working with her body, sweating her skin clean. In no time she’s lost the baby weight and grown muscles, and she’s tan. Sometimes she can feel drivers scoping her out as the line files by. It’s a feeling she doesn’t know what to do with, just as she doesn’t know what to do with the heat she feels after seeing Tommy. It’s been five months since she had Casey, and her dreams have turned animal.

  She gets paid on Friday. The guys hit the Iroquois and bug her to come along. Russ will be there, but still, it doesn’t feel right. Her mother’s waiting with Casey, and tomorrow she has to be up at five to be first in line.

  The weeks fly by like this, her bank balance inching above a thousand, a figure she’s secretly proud of, admiring the blue and red punched numbers in her passbook as if they have some magic power.

  Her mother’s been incredible, watching Casey all day, doing laundry. After dinner, they sit in the cool backyard as the fireflies rise out of the tall grass. When the mosquitoes get too bad, they leave the lawn chairs there and go inside. Her mother reads by the radio while Patty has a glass of beer. Her father watches her watching TV. After Eileen’s, it seems quiet, but Patty doesn’t mind. The bathroom smells of Comet, and she feels welcome in her old bed, as if it remembers her. In the basement, piled high, the musty contents of the self-storage lurk in a corner, Tommy’s recliner buried under boxes.

  Friday nights, Patty goes to bed early so she can wake up with the sun; in the morning her mother slips her robe on and starts a pot of coffee. They don’t discuss how he’s doing, and Patty would never ask if she wants to come along. Her mother can’t acknowledge that after everything Tommy is still at the center of her life.

  “I can’t tell you what to do,” she says. “If you want me to tell you how I feel about the whole situation, I’ll tell you, but you’re probably not going to like what I have to say.”

  “I already know how you feel.”

  “Then you know why I feel that way, or you should.”

  “I do,” Patty says.

  “There’s nothing I can do for him. I know that sounds cruel, but it’s true. I’m worried about you now. You’re the one who has to pick up the pieces, and 1 know from experience how hard that can be, so I’m going to do everything I can to help you. But I’m not going to lie and say I’m happy about it.”

  “You don’t have to lie,” Patty says, twisting the word. “Just don’t pretend like he doesn’t exist.”

  It is cruel of her mother, writing Tommy off and then saying she’s doing it for her sake. It wouldn’t bother Patty so much if she didn’t find herself drifting through the weeks, catching herself making a sandwich for he
r lunch pail or mindlessly waiting in line at the bank as if everything’s fine, as if she’s succeeded in forgetting that side of her life.

  Because as much as she needs to see him, she’s come to dread the drive to Auburn. She feels sick now even before she leaves, sometimes the night before, her stomach gnawing on itself. Tommy’s losing weight; his gums bleed. The visit’s always too short, ruined by their shared knowledge that it can’t last. Unfairly, she anticipates the hours of letdown after she passes her stamped hand under the black light, and the guilt she’ll feel for leaving him there. Later, in the truck, she doesn’t speak, as if a careless word might break the delicate spell that holds them together. It’s only when she clears the southern tip of the lake—twenty miles, a suitable period of mourning—that she turns on the radio and discovers, once again, that the rest of the world is still there.

  PRECIOUS MEMORIES

  ONE PRETTY DAY IN SEPTEMBER WHEN THEY’RE REPLACING A stretch of guardrail down along the river on 17C, Casey rolls over on his own. “You should have seen him,” her mother gushes. He babbles now, yammering at them, and she’s afraid she’ll miss his first word.

  Telling Tommy is hard. She wants him to care but not be hurt.

  “Wow,” he says, proud. “He’ll be walking pretty soon.”

  Patty doesn’t say it, but thinks of all the things he’ll miss, the Christmases and birthdays. The appeal process hasn’t even started yet. She remembers the days she missed her father most—her graduation, her wedding—times she felt abandoned, even though she knew it wasn’t his fault.

  At home she takes pictures of Casey asleep in his crib, Casey in his high chair, Casey shaking his key ring. She has her mother take shots of them together in the backyard and picks the best to show Tommy, and then the guards won’t let her bring them in unless they’re wrapped like a package. What’s the difference, she wants to say, but swallows it and comes back the next weekend and fills out the forms. The guards X-ray the package before tearing it apart. They’re sorry, but inmates are only allowed a total of ten photographs in their cell at any time, those are the rules. What she needs to do is find out how many her husband already has, then wrap a couple from this stack and resubmit them next week, because, as the sign behind them says, visitors can only leave one package per visit and she’s already had hers. And while she knows it’s pointless to argue, that it’s exactly the reaction they want from her, something they’ll joke about later in the break room, Patty launches a volley of curses at them that would make his hockey buddies proud (all the while patting Casey and swaying)—and loses the visit.