The Good Wife

by Stewart O'Nan

CONTINUING THROUGH DAYBREAK

  HER MOTHER’S STAYED UP FOR HER, WRAPPED IN AN AFGHAN, AS IF Patty’s back in high school, sneaking in from a date. The lawyer called twice, she says, impressed. The second time he left a message: everything went fine; all they can do is wait.

  “How did he sound?” Patty asks.

  “I don’t know. Normal.”

  Patty thinks of calling in sick tomorrow so she can talk to him, but knows it won’t make a bit of difference. It’s up to the judges now.

  Casey’s asleep, his blanky clutched to his cheek. Outside, the snow falls steadily, brushing like sand against the windows. Patty uses the bathroom and slips under the covers, her lower back clenched from driving all day. She’s exhausted but can’t sleep.

  Lying there alone, the snow sifting down outside, Patty multiplies today and tonight by twenty years.

  She closes her eyes, listening to the snow. She’ll sleep, she thinks. The night will pass, if only because it has to.

  THE LAST

  THE COURT MAKES ITS DECISIONS AVAILABLE ON THURSDAYS, SO every Wednesday she goes to bed thinking tomorrow might be the day. When she visits Tommy, they talk about anything else. He walks Casey to the vending machines and holds him up so he can put the change in, and again Patty wonders how much of this Casey will remember. Maybe if Tommy gets out, these hours will fade away, be replaced by Saturdays fishing Owego Creek, or Sunday dinner at Grandma’s. But Casey loves his cupcakes from the machine, he loves trying to slap Tommy’s hands on the table before he pulls them away.

  Patty still looks forward to holding Tommy’s hands across the table. She still needs to look into his eyes to know he’s all right. But since the lawyer told her the court was going to hear their appeal, Patty hasn’t been able to stop thinking of what will happen if they get turned down. She sees herself driving back and forth to Auburn for the next twenty years, both of them growing old as Casey grows up and learns how fucked-up his parents’ lives are. Tommy was being honest when he said he’d understand if she left him. Now she wonders if she could, if she had to for Casey’s sake.

  She goes to Eileen, stopping by after work. Eileen makes instant and listens without judging or giving advice. Patty knows she won’t discuss it with their mother—maybe Cy, but he’s safe, Eileen would never forgive him if he told anyone. As if to make things even, Eileen offers her a secret: they’re getting married.

  In June. Nothing fancy, just a small ceremony at their old church and a reception for friends at the Moose Lodge. Eileen’s news makes her own problems seem worse. She’s instantly jealous, wanting Eileen’s life—unfair, after everything Eileen’s been through, and just as quickly Patty’s sorry for being so selfish.

  “I want you to be my maid of honor.”

  “Matron of honor,” Patty corrects her. “Of course I will. Let’s see the ring.”

  Eileen holds her hand up to model a thin gold band. “We’re saving for a diamond.”

  “When did all of this happen?”

  “We’ve been living together for five years.”

  Patty wonders if she’s pregnant.

  “When are you going to tell Mom?”

  “Soon.”

  “Can I be there? Please?”

  “You’re going to: Easter.”

  “Oh shit, that is going to be classic.”

  “Thanks.”

  They have to throw a shower for her and have a last girls’ night out. Already Patty’s trying to figure out who she has to call and how she’ll fit this into her schedule. Shannon’s not going to plan anything.

  At home, Patty’s surprised at how easy it is to keep her secret. She’s gotten used to hiding her life inside, smuggling it through the day past Russ and her mother and Casey—past Tommy and Eileen, if Patty’s being honest.

  Thursday, nothing happens. And the next Thursday. And the next.

  Easter comes early. In the backyard, the plastic eggs glow against the snow. Bending down to grab one, Casey spills his basket, and Patty gets a cute picture of him. He gobbles chocolate and then won’t touch his ham. Cy’s dressed up and uncomfortable, but holds Eileen’s hand as she tells her mother over dessert. For proof, Eileen flashes the ring.

  First thing, her mother looks to Patty.

  “I knew the day would come,” her mother says to the room at large, ever the actress. “The last of my girls.” She gets up and hugs Eileen, and for the first time Patty can remember, her mother actually kisses Cy.

  The shower turns out to be a pleasant distraction. There are only a couple of awkward pauses when Patty introduces herself over the phone. When she explains she’s arranging a surprise party for Eileen, everyone forgets about her and wants to know what to bring. It’s a relief to decide what kind of cake to have, to choose the lilac pattern for the paper plates.

  Tommy’s sorry he won’t be there for the wedding. Patty doesn’t say you never know, he might be able to make it after all. She wants to think it’s a good sign the court is taking so long, but by now she’s so turned around that she thinks it doesn’t matter.

  And then, when her mother calls the garage after lunch one Thursday to tell her the lawyer just called, Patty’s not ready. After the years and months and weeks, after the long days and nights, the endless hours of waiting, she stalls before the phone in Russ’s office, stealing a last few seconds of quiet before she dials the number and learns what she knew all along.

  MAID OF HONOR

  SPRING, THE BUSY TIME, IS OVER. THEY’RE DONE WASHING THE sand from the roads with the sweepers and lumbering water trucks. They’re done getting the ballfields in shape and painting the gazebo on the courthouse square, done spreading bark mulch on the traffic islands and turning on the water fountains in the town parks. It’s June, and while school isn’t out yet, it feels like the middle of August. Like every summer, they patch the roads, shoveling hot asphalt into the potholes. Patty drives the mini-steamroller, wearing an old golf hat of her father’s to keep off the sun. The sweatband is leather, blackened and cracked over the years; it smells like the inside of Eileen’s softball glove and leaves a gritty streak across her forehead. The steamroller vibrates under her, an oversized motorcycle. When she climbs down at the end of the day, her body’s still shaking inside her skin. But better than flagging traffic. She’d go crazy if she had to stand there all day again, nothing to concentrate on but her own thoughts.

  It’s racing season, and every day on the way home she drives by a black and blaze-orange billboard advertising that fact. Sometimes she hates Trace for being so close. They’ve seen each other in passing—once twice in one day. He smiled, said “Got you again.” The young guys on the truck gave her shit, but not Russ. When she imagines spending time with Trace she wonders if Russ would tell Tommy anything.

  There’s a reason for her worry. Trace is going to be an usher. As the matron of honor, Patty’s going to be matched up with the best man, but she won’t be able to avoid him at the reception. They’ll be drinking and dancing, and everyone will be watching. If they disappeared—say they went to the bathroom at the same time, just by coincidence—she knows people would talk.

  And still, she thinks of sneaking out with him, using the noise and confusion as a screen. Her mother’s shelled out for the Parkview instead of the Moose. At first Patty minded because it’s a block from the courthouse, but she’s fine with it now. She imagines her and Trace slipping across Front Street and disappearing into the shadows of the trees, finding their way by moonlight down to the river, just walking and talking, their glasses empty. They wouldn’t have to do anything special, they could just watch the cars going over the bridge. Maybe if it was cool out he’d drape his jacket over her shoulders, the satin slippery on her skin.

  It’s silly. He’ll be with Kristi Coughlan, and—guaranteed—she’ll be wearing something sexier than her robin’s egg bridesmaid’s dress.

  Shannon’s offered Kyra as a babysitter; she’s thirteen, just old enough. Tommy says to have a good time and sleep late Sund
ay and not worry about him. She protests, promising she’ll come Sunday afternoon. He’s been down since the court denied their appeal, they both have, but Patty doesn’t know what else she can do. It’s not like she’s missing the visit on purpose; it’s just bad timing.

  She’s checked with Prisoners’ Legal Services. They can ask the lawyer to go even higher and ask the court of appeals if it will hear the case. The lawyer’s not sure it’s worthwhile. “If there was something of constitutional interest, I’d say let’s go for it,” he says, “but they’re not going to want to mess around with an insufficient counsel claim.”

  “What’s it going to hurt to try,” Patty asks, and feels—as she always feels, dealing with the state—that she’s being made to beg. By the time she’s done with him, he agrees to do it, except now he’s convinced her it won’t work.

  It’s hard, in the middle of all this, to feel as happy for Eileen as she really is. She finds the perfect gift at the mall—a big new microwave with a carousel like Eileen’s always talking about—and splurges. She buys too much beer for the shower and then has to encourage Eileen’s friends to drink it up. Most of her softball team is there, so they do, toasting her with dirty jokes and then solemnly promising to always keep a spot in the lineup for her. Patty’s saving her big speech for the reception, but stands at the dining room table and raises a bottle to Eileen, saying what she can’t say tomorrow when Shannon’s there: that she’s always been her favorite sister. Everyone laughs and claps as Eileen staggers over and throws her arms around her and the flashbulbs pop. But then, when all the cars out front are gone and Eileen’s helping her clean up, Patty’s not sure if she’s relieved or insulted that no one asked after Tommy.

  It’s worse at the wedding, surrounded by so many couples. She’s matched up with the best man, Woody, Cy’s buddy from the nursery, a total Deadhead. He wears Blues Brothers shades to hide his pink eyes and giggles in the middle of the vows. In the receiving line outside, friends of her mother’s from church kiss Patty’s cheek and congratulate her, comment on her road crew tan (has she been on vacation?), then have nothing to say. “And Shannon’s just graduated from college,” her mother says over and over. To Patty, it sounds like bragging. Isn’t this supposed to be Eileen’s day?

  Trace is there with Kristi, like she figured. He looks good in his tuxedo, clean-shaven, his long hair combed back like a rock star’s mane. When they met on the lawn before the ceremony, he shook her hand and asked how she’s been, but since they’ve been outside, Kristi’s attached herself, hanging on to one hand like she’s afraid he’ll run away. The two of them stand with the other ushers and bridesmaids on the sidewalk, passing a bag of rice, waiting for Eileen and Cy to run for the limo. Patty keeps an eye on him between greeting people, as if they’re there together, Kristi the intruder.

  The line dwindles to a last few old couples who didn’t feel like standing, and then the photographer has the family pose before the doors (Shannon conspicuously not part of the bridal party with her grasshopper-green sundress and matching bag), and then just the bride and groom. Patty has her own camera out as the photographer finishes and ducks for cover as everyone lets loose, a hail of rice bouncing off Cy and Eileen and the side of the limo as they pull away.

  There’s a noticeable letdown after they’re gone, a momentary confusion, people trying to find their rides. Trace is driving a shiny black Firebird with a gold phoenix on the hood. He opens the door for Kristi, dips to tuck in the train of her dress before closing it, as if they’ve been doing this forever. Woody’s disappointed when Patty tells him to go ahead without her, as if he had plans for them. She finds Kyra and Randy entertaining Casey in a playground behind the church (she remembers the shiny, dented slide) and they all pile into her mother’s ugly LeSabre.

  Her mother drives dangerously slow, hunched over the wheel, giving way to other cars at stop signs. Patty’s impatient with her for no reason and turns to the backseat. Kyra’s trying to amuse Casey with a pop-up book. She’s almost as tall as Patty now. Randy’s a teenager, his forehead bumpy with zits. Even Casey seems huge to her, pudgy legs sticking out of his car seat; pretty soon he won’t need it. It’s just the wedding—a kind of milestone—but Patty feels like she’s been standing still while time’s passed her by.

  “Didn’t she look beautiful?” her mother says.

  “She did,” Patty agrees. She can’t remember her mother ever talking this way about Eileen. It’s just the emotion of the day. Patty doesn’t remind her of all the names she’s called Cy over the years (“a ne’er-do-well,” “a no-goodnik,” “Mr. Hippie Dippy”). God knows what she’s called Tommy.

  By the time they get there, the lot of the Parkview’s full and they end up walking along the shady block, the river off to their right, glinting through the trees. It’s pretty, the last afternoon light soft on the grass, and Patty resolves to forget everything for one night and have a good time.

  It seems that everyone’s beat them there. The bar’s mobbed, the wedding party at the raised head table already eating their salad. There’s an open spot between Woody and Trace. She locates Shannon and Marshall and tells Kyra to come get her if Casey gives her any trouble. He’s clingy after being with Kyra all day. “It’s okay,” Patty says, pointing, “Mama be right here.”

  Up on the dais, Woody stands to help push her chair in. “You’ve got to be careful not to lean back too far,” he says, because the edge is right there. She lays her napkin in her lap and nods “hey” to Trace, who glances up from his conversation with Eileen’s shortstop Carol, then turns away again.

  “Can I get you something from the bar?” Woody asks.

  “A margarita. If they have them.”

  “If not?”

  “Jack and Coke?”

  He leaves her alone with Trace, still talking with Carol. He’s halfway through a tallneck Rolling Rock and hasn’t touched his salad. He’s still wearing his jacket but has ditched his bow tie and unbuttoned the top stud of his shirt, his Adam’s apple filling the notch. She notices his hands are dirty, grease worn into his fingertips. She’s so close she could sneak her hand under the table and touch him. She scans the room for Kristi to see if she’s watching them but can’t find her. Woody’s caught in the crowd at the bar.

  Carol gets up and pushes her chair back carefully, and Trace swivels around to face Patty, as if they’ve been talking all along. She’s about to ask if he isn’t racing tonight when he reaches back between them and hands a waiter his empty and orders another.

  “And a margarita,” he adds.

  “Salt?” the waiter asks, and Trace deflects the question to her.

  “Please,” she says, sending him off. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. It’s nice.” He motions to the dance floor and the tables with tall lilies for centerpieces, the whole place draped in twists of white and silver crepe paper.

  “It was my mom’s idea. Eileen was going to have it at the Moose.”

  “This is better.”

  And Patty hasn’t been mistaken all these months; she feels the same way she did that night in the Iroquois. He makes her sit up a little straighter, aware of her bare shoulders. All she wants to do, she thinks, is keep talking like this.

  “You’re not racing tonight?”

  “I’m letting my little brother drive. I haven’t been running so hot anyway.”

  “No, I see you in the paper all the time.”

  “Not lately.”

  “I didn’t know your brother drove.”

  “Yeah,” he says, and as he explains, Patty watches his face and loses her grip on the words. They’re not important, only that the two of them are finally here together, the way she and Tommy are after a long week apart.

  It’s so like her to think of him now, to ruin this. She’s not even flirting with him, but she can see how Tommy would take it, as if he’s watching over her. Where is he right now, in line for dinner, watching TV? Who’s he talking to?

  “What about
you?” Trace is saying. “What are you up to?”

  “Just working,” she says.

  “I see you driving a steamroller the other day?”

  The news thrills and terrifies Patty. She tries not to let it show. Eileen and Cy are crossing the dance floor toward them. A clinking starts up, grows loud, whole tables chiming their knives against their water glasses. To silence them, Eileen and Cy kiss. Patty and Trace clap like everyone else. Woody’s headed toward them with their drinks. She still hasn’t seen Kristi and wonders if they had a fight. The Coughlan girls seem so prim and proper. His family probably approves, thinking she’ll steady him.

  Woody hands the drinks up from the front, then comes around. Eileen and Cy have taken their places in the middle. The busboys in their black vests are clearing the salad plates, the servers bringing in trays of stacked silver covers. Carol hustles back from across the room, lifting her hem to climb the three steps at the end. With everyone there, there’s no chance of talking, and Patty licks the salty rim of her glass and takes a long, chilly sip.

  “That looks good,” Trace says.

  “Have a sip.”

  “That’s all right,” he says, craning around for the waiter. “I’ve got a beer coming here somewhere.”

  “You can have that other margarita if you want. I can order another one.”

  “No,” he says, and she doesn’t press him, not with everyone around. She busies herself with her clasp purse, pinching out her cigarettes and lighter and the folded yellow paper with her speech.

  When the chicken cordon bleu arrives the waiter lifts the cover in front of Patty, releasing lukewarm steam that wilts her bangs. She drinks too fast because she’s nervous, then just picks at her food.

  “How do you rate?” Carol jokes when her second one arrives.

  Patty tries to take her time with it. She has to make her speech soon. After that she can have as many as she wants.

  Ding ding ding ding, and they kiss again, Cy dipping Eileen deep to hoots and whistles. It’s only been seven years since that was her, Patty thinks. But like any drunken thought, it never connects, just fizzles away, replaced by a sneeze, by the next bite of chicken, by a sip from her sweating water goblet.