The Good Wife

by Stewart O'Nan

  She doesn’t need to go, and sits there with the engine off, wondering what’s in the box in the backseat. Pictures, she expects. She hopes he’s kept her letters, though the box doesn’t look big enough. His take up the whole top of her closet, a wall of shoeboxes.

  She’s debating whether she should go in and see if he’s all right when he comes out. He stops by the water fountain to take a look at the laminated map on the wall, then steps back to gawk at the little satellite dish on the corner of the roof. She wants to call to him to get back in the car, as if he’s in danger just standing there. She doesn’t know what she’s afraid of—that he won’t know what to do if a stranger approaches him. The parole officer who did their home visit told her it wouldn’t be easy for someone who’d been away for so long, to not expect too much from him at first. She resented the way the man talked about Tommy, as if she didn’t know him at all. The guy had never met Tommy in his life, and here he was trying to tell her what he was going to be like. She listened to him and let him leave her a folder, she even shook his hand at the door, but she didn’t believe a word he said. Now she wonders if she was wrong.

  He bangs his head as he gets in.

  “God,” he says, rubbing it, “can they make this car any smaller?”

  She doesn’t tell him it’s regular-size, just asks him if he’s all right.

  “The bathrooms haven’t changed,” he says, “that’s for sure.”

  With Casey she’d joke and ask if everything came out all right, but she’s afraid he may be sensitive.

  After they get going again, she tells him her mother’s staying the night at Eileen’s.

  “Get out,” he says.

  “I didn’t even have to ask.”

  “That’s pretty nice of her.”

  “Just make sure you thank her,” Patty says.

  “I will.” He’s overwhelmed by it, because a few minutes later, out of nowhere, he says, “Wow.”

  “She’s done a lot for us,” she says.

  “I know,” he says, just as serious.

  With so many miles alone together, they can’t avoid the chewedon topic of finding their own place. For everything her mother’s done for them, Tommy doesn’t want to live with her, and Patty can understand that. She’s had fantasies of renting their old house on Spaulding Hill, as if they can start all over again. She’s got enough money to go almost anywhere in the county, but her mother’s stood by them for so long. Patty can’t abandon her. She’s in her late seventies, and doesn’t drive after dark. She jokes that pretty soon Patty’s going to have to get her into Riverview, but really she’s terrified of the idea. Maybe if they could find someplace close by.

  Near Schroon Lake, they’re in the middle of discussing exactly what counts as close when—too late—she sees the cop hiding behind the rocks in the median. They’re flying downhill and in her concentration on Tommy’s argument she’s let the needle creep up to eighty.

  “Fuck,” she says, and takes her foot off the gas. They’re already in the right lane, so there’s nowhere to go. She doesn’t turn her head to look at the mirror, just flicks her eyes to the side. Has he moved? All she can think of is the cop looking in the window and noticing Tommy’s shoes.

  “How fast were you going?” Tommy asks.

  “Fast enough.”

  She risks a look, turning her head an inch, and finds the cruiser, still lurking in the median.

  “He’s just sitting there,” she says.

  “Don’t tell me we actually caught a break.”

  It does feel like luck. She doesn’t push it. They’re done with the fast part of the Northway anyway, hitting local traffic around Glens Falls and down through Saratoga Springs. They come into Albany around lunchtime, passing within a few miles of Troy, and Rensselaer. Tommy’s never seen the college; if they had more time, she’d detour across the river and show him Casey’s old dorm. As it is, she just lets the sign float by.

  She wanted Casey to be a part of the celebration today. She even offered to pay his plane fare, but the project he’s in charge of is way behind schedule and running round the clock and he has to be there if something happens. He’ll be home for Christmas. It’s only three weeks. When she broke the news to Tommy, he said he completely understood. Patty doesn’t, and thinks it will be a long time before she forgives Casey—or Tommy, for not expecting better.

  The tricky interchange with its swooping ramps makes her pay attention. The Thruway’s always crazy. Tommy doesn’t like the chaos of the toll plaza, or the curves, or the way people trade lanes like slot cars. “Is that legal?” he asks about a FedEx double trailer rig. They’re both hungry but the only service area’s on the wrong side. She’s almost glad—those places can be madhouses.

  She waits till they’re on the quieter I-88 and she needs gas, combining the two stops. Tommy’s surprised at the high prices. He gets out to pump but is stumped by the screen asking for payment information. Patty shows him how to use the Speedpass on her keychain.

  They do the drive-thru at a Wendy’s and get back on the road. It’s only twelve-thirty but she needs to keep an eye on the time. Tommy’s got to check in with the parole office in Elmira, so they’re going there first. Her mother’s expecting them around five-thirty. Patty’s made his favorite lasagna ahead of time. She has fresh strawberries and pineapple chunks waiting for him, and Boston cream pie. She’s bought new towels and flannel sheets and cleaned the whole house, emptying it of alcohol like the parole officer told her. She’s even had Cy and Eileen help her resurrect Tommy’s old recliner from the basement, wiping down the cracked naugahyde with mink oil. She can’t wait to see his face.

  The temptation on 88 is to blast it because there’s no traffic. For miles there’s nothing but forest, a dusting of snow highlighting the rocks and deadfall. She sets the cruise control eight miles above the limit and flexes her foot inside her shoe. Her tailbone hurts from sitting in the same position for so long, and she shifts her weight.

  “Want me to drive?” he asks. “I’ve got my license.”

  “I’m all right,” she says.

  “It’s pretty,” he says a few minutes later, meaning the gray woods.

  She doesn’t tell him this, but the drive seems to take longer with him in the car. By herself, she’d space out to the radio, her attention on the road dipping in and out with the songs and talk, the miles and sights passing without comment. She’s gotten used to that kind of waking trance, letting the hours slide by, her mind emptying until she can really think. She shouldn’t miss it, not with him right beside her. As if to prove her point to herself, she reaches over and takes his hand.

  81 funnels them into Binghamton.

  “Wow,” he says as they shoot through Johnson City, “this place has really built up.”

  They’re getting closer, and he’s noticing everything that’s still there, everything that’s changed, everything that’s gone. Even the road is different; Route 17’s slowly been switching over to Interstate 86.

  “That’s weird,” Tommy says.

  “It’s just the signs,” she says. “They’ve still got the stupid stoplights at Horseheads.”

  Past Apalachin with the massive Citgo plaza he’s never seen, past the new exit. The Amish farmers’ market’s gone. At least the chicken barbecue is still there, and the soft-serve.

  The biggest shock is coming up, as they near the main Owego exit, closed due to construction. The approach to the new Court Street bridge goes right over the road. Above them, a crew in optic yellow sweatshirts is working on the railings, and she wonders if Russ is at the house yet. It bugs her: Casey couldn’t make it because he says he’s busy, but Russ found the time to come all the way from Texas.

  “Holy shit,” Tommy says, looking across the river. The new bridge is almost done, lined with quaint, fake gas lamps. The pilings of the old bridge poke out of the water like stepping stones.

  “It took them three years.”

  “That’s just nuts.”

&nb
sp; He’s quiet, processing it, until they pass the new Best Buy warehouse going up across from the truck stop.

  “I’ve heard of them,” he says. “What do they sell?”

  Patty’s never been in one, but she knows from their flyers in the Sunday paper that they’re an appliance store. She can’t believe he hasn’t seen their commercials, but doesn’t call him on it. She doesn’t mind being his guide. It actually feels good having the answers to his questions.

  In the same way, she tries to help in Elmira, when they sit down with his parole officer, a tall guy in his early thirties with the bullet head and rigid posture of a marine. He has an inch-thick file on Tommy he spreads on his desk, the old mug shot stapled to a corner of the folder. He wants to double-check his information, and Tommy turns to her for the address and phone number of Riverview, his hours, the name of his supervisor. Patty has it all.

  The officer talks to them like they’ve just been arrested—calmly threatening—going over the rules one by one from the handbook, pausing to make sure they understand. Possession of illegal drugs or drug paraphernalia or any controlled substance without proper medical authorization constitutes a violation. Patty’s got a copy of the book at home, and knows it by heart. Tommy’s not allowed to be out past nine unless he has to for work. He needs a travel pass if he’s going to leave the state (even though, technically, they just crossed the PA state line where 17 makes that little dip south of Waverly). If he fails to report, or to report a change of address or employment, that’s considered absconding. By law the officer will have to issue a warrant.

  “And believe me,” he says, “that’s the last thing I want to do. The better you do, the happier I am.”

  To Patty, he sounds false as a politician, especially when he sends Tommy into a closet-sized bathroom right behind him to produce a urine sample. Throughout his time inside, Tommy’s been strip-searched and forced to give urine samples hundreds of times, but she’s never had to see it. Now when he comes out of the bathroom with the lidded cup half filled with beer-colored pee, she’s angry and ashamed for him.

  “That wasn’t so bad,” Tommy says when they’re in the car again, and she has to agree. It’s a relief to be out of there, done with their one obligation. He has to register with the Owego police, but that can wait till tomorrow.

  She crosses the river at Nichols so they don’t have to backtrack, and takes him into town the way they used to come from their old place, along the train tracks, past the cemetery and the speedway. There’s no avoiding the courthouse—completely restored, floodlights showing off its repointed, steam-cleaned brick. She turns up North Street, leaving it behind, dips under the railroad bridge and past the blocks of ratty townhouses and the Open Door Mission with its thrift shop.

  “Hasn’t changed much,” he says.

  “Not this part.”

  A couple miles out of town, they come alongside the new Public Safety Building—the county jail—long and low and lit up like a factory, curls of razor wire glinting in the dark.

  “Mighty fancy,” he says.

  “It cost enough.”

  The turnoff’s not much farther. She’s probably going too fast, but she knows the roads, and she’s tired of driving. She just wants to get home.

  “Thanks for coming to pick me up,” he says as they head into the hills, because these are their last minutes alone together before they have to face everyone. It’s silly—what was she going to do, make him take the bus?—but she knows what he’s saying. He doesn’t mean just today.

  “You’re welcome,” she says.

  And then, a minute later, they’re there, turning into the driveway, her headlights catching the handmade banner hung from the porch roof—WELCOME HOME TOMMY. The front door opens before they can get out, and Eileen and Cy and Russ and her mother swarm the car, hugging Tommy and patting him on the back, taking their bags, whisking them inside where the food is laid out buffet-style on the dining room table. Her mother says their timing’s perfect, she just took the lasagna out of the oven.

  Tommy can’t believe Russ is here. He laughs at the recliner with the big bow on it; Eileen takes a picture of him testing it out. While they wait for the lasagna to cool, Russ catches him up on the old crew. Shawn’s still in Elmira, but most of them are gone. Perry’s in Florida and has his own motorcycle shop—which leads to the story about the time Perry spent the whole winter building the ultimate dirtbike and then broke both wrists the first time he jumped it. Patty sits on the couch, sipping a Coke for the caffeine. The house is too bright, too loud. She feels like she’s still moving. She must be crashing from the drive, because all of a sudden she’s mad at Casey for not being here. She wants to call him and put Tommy on, except she knows he’s working late, and with the time difference he won’t be home for hours. She’s tempted to leave a message: I guess we missed you. I just wanted to let you know: your father’s home.

  They eat off of their laps, gathered in the living room, passing the basket of garlic bread. Getting seconds, Tommy compliments her mother, and Eileen cracks up with her mouth full of salad.

  “I made it,” Patty says. “She just turned on the oven.”

  “It’s the best thing I’ve had in years.”

  “I think there’s going to be a lot of that tonight,” Eileen says.

  “I sure hope so,” Patty seconds.

  Before they cut the pie, Tommy gets serious, standing and thanking them for believing in him, and for helping Patty and Casey all these years. He says he knows he’s got a lot to make up for, and that he’ll do his best. He raises his glass of soda and toasts them. “I wish this was champagne.”

  “So do I,” Cy jokes, and Eileen smacks his leg.

  Her mother serves coffee with dessert, and they kick back and tell stories, letting the dishes sit. Looking around the room, Patty thinks her world has gotten so small. She misses Russ. She has friends at work, but she’s had to keep her distance. The tactic has become a habit, and she wonders if that might change now. She’s grown so dependent on those closest to her.

  And on Tommy. It’s hard, now, to share him with everyone else, to not follow him to the bathroom. While he’s gone, she steals his recliner just to get his attention, like a little kid. She barely contributes to the conversation, and feels selfish, wanting everyone to leave so they can be alone. Russ has come so far, but Tommy can see him tomorrow.

  “Well,” her mother says during a lull, “I’m sure you’ve had enough excitement for one day.”

  Eileen picks up on her cue, and gathers Cy. Russ follows them to the front hall, where they all pull their coats on. Her mother whispers something in Tommy’s ear as she hugs him, and then they’re on the front porch, waving them away.

  “What did my mom say to you?” she asks as they’re cleaning up.

  “Nothing,” he says. “She said to be good to you.”

  Patty shakes her head. “I swear, she’ll never get it. You already are.”

  “I know what she meant,” he says.

  They close up the downstairs—or she does, going from the front of the house to the back while he stands there with his box of stuff. He wants to take a shower, giving her a chance to peek at the contents: her tetters—at least some of them—old pictures of her and Casey, his course certificates, a wad of birthday and Christmas and Father’s Day cards, a cloud chart Casey sent him when he was at Bare Hill, then just shirts and pants and underwear, a few rolled pairs of socks in the bottom, some stray pencils, a single tennis ball. She closes the flaps again, strips and joins him in the shower.

  It’s been eight years since they’ve been together, and since she’s had a desk job she’s put on weight. He’s thicker too, and gray in places, but still strong. The three scars on his back have magically disappeared.

  They barely towel off before slipping into bed.

  “Your hair’s freezing,” he says, but he doesn’t want her to leave. The flannel sheets slowly warm them.

  “It’s so quiet,” he says.
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br />   They make love, then agree to sleep. It’s been a long day, so many miles behind them, the jump from one world to another. He still sleeps on his side, she still fits him. He drifts off first, and she listens to him breathe. She almost can’t believe it. For so long this is all she wanted. Now that he’s finally here beside her, she swears that no one will ever take him away from her again.

  HOUSEKEEPING

  HE HAS TO START FROM SCRATCH. HE’S NEVER HAD A REGULAR DOCTOR , and he has to take a physical to qualify for her insurance. His name’s still listed on their bank account, but he needs an ATM card. He’s never used an ATM before, or a beeper, or a cell phone. He’s got a certificate in computers but he’s never been on the Internet. The first time he e-mails Casey he sends the message three times because he’s not sure it worked.

  She’s added him to their car insurance, but she has to push him to drive. He’s still timid of other traffic, going too slow, balking at stop signs. He says he’s not comfortable, that her car’s too small. He’s also not good with keys, forgetting his every morning, as if he doesn’t need them. It’s easier if she just chauffeurs him to work.

  At home he won’t answer the phone. The ringing drives her mother crazy. He wakes up every day at six o’clock sharp, no matter how late he stays up, takes an eight-minute shower and has their bed made before Patty can dry her hair. The top of his dresser is empty except for his watch and wallet, returned to the same spots every night, lined up square with the edge. His drawers are just as neat, the piles precise, his rolled socks all in a row. If she didn’t know better, she’d think he just got out of the Marines.

  Because he’s so regimented, she expects him to do well at Riverview, where there’s a set daily schedule. She doesn’t have to be in till nine, but goes in an hour early to make sure he’s on time. They split in the parking lot and don’t see each other the rest of the day, trying to defuse any gossip. Like every new hire, he’s on ninety-day probation, but his supervisor’s Holly, a friend of hers. Patty’s told her that he’s a good worker, and motivated. He shouldn’t have any problems.