Hunter was sent home for the day, and Rory went to see the nurse, who bandaged his hand and gave him a sugar-free lollipop. The pain had already been forgotten.
That night, after the kids were asleep, Millicent and I talked about the paper cut. We were in bed. She had just closed her laptop, and I turned off the TV. School had just started, and Millicent’s summer tan hadn’t completely faded. She didn’t play tennis, but she loved to swim.
Millicent picked up my hand and rubbed the thin stretch of skin between my thumb and index finger. “Have you ever had a cut here?”
“No. You?”
“Yes. Hurt like hell.”
“How did it happen?”
“Holly.”
I knew very little about Holly. Millicent almost never talked about her older sister. “She cut you?” I asked.
“We were making collages of all our favorite things, and we cut pictures out of magazines and pasted them all on big pieces of construction paper. Holly and I reached for the same piece at the same time, and”—she shrugged—“I got cut.”
“Did you scream?”
“I don’t remember. But I cried.”
I picked up her hand and kissed the long-healed cut. “What favorite things?” I asked.
“What?”
“You said you cut out pictures of your favorite things. What were they?”
“Oh no,” she said, taking her hand back and turning out the light. “You’re not going to turn this into another crazy Christmas thing.”
“You don’t like our crazy Christmas thing?”
“I love it. But we don’t need another.”
I knew we didn’t. I was trying to avoid the subject of Holly, because Millicent didn’t like to talk about her. That’s why I asked about her favorite things.
I should have asked about Holly.
Five
LINDSAY DOMINATES THE news. She is the only one who has been found, and the first surprise is where her body is found.
The last time I saw Lindsay, we were in the middle of nowhere. Millicent and I had taken her deep into the swamp near a nature preserve, hoping the wildlife would find her before any people did. Lindsay was still alive, and we were supposed to kill her together. That was the plan.
That was the point.
It didn’t happen, because of Jenna. We had arranged for both kids to spend the night with friends; Rory was with a friend playing video games, and we had dropped Jenna off at a slumber party with half a dozen twelve-year-old girls. When Millicent’s phone went off, it sounded like a kitten. That was Jenna’s ring. Millicent answered before the second meow.
“Jenna? What’s wrong?”
I watched Millicent listen, my heart beating a little faster with each nod of her head.
Lindsay was lying on the ground, her tanned legs sprawled out on the dirt. The drug we’d knocked her out with was wearing off, and she had started to move a little.
“Honey, can you pass the phone to Mrs. Sheehan?” Millicent said.
More nodding.
When Millicent spoke again, her voice had changed. “I understand. Thank you so much. I’ll be right there.” She hung up.
“What—”
“Jenna’s sick. A stomach flu or maybe food poisoning. She’s been in the bathroom for the past hour.” Before I could answer, she said, “I’ll go.”
I shook my head. “I’ll do it.”
Millicent didn’t protest. She looked down at Lindsay and back at me. “But—”
“I’ll do it,” I said. “I’ll pick up Jenna and take her home.”
“I can take care of her.” Millicent was looking down at Lindsay. She was not talking about our daughter.
“Of course you can.” I never had a doubt. I was just disappointed I had to miss it.
When I arrived at the Sheehans, Jenna was still sick. On the way home, I pulled over twice so she could throw up. I sat up with her most of the night.
Millicent returned home just before dawn. I didn’t ask if she had moved Lindsay, because I assumed she had buried her in that deserted area. I have no idea how she ended up in room number 18 at the Moonlite Motor Inn.
The Moonlite closed when the new highway was built more than twenty years ago. The motel was abandoned and left to the elements, rodents, transients, and drug addicts. No one paid attention to it, because no one had to drive by it. Lindsay was found by some teenagers, who called the police.
The motel is a single strip of a building, one story, with rooms lining both sides. Room 18 is on the back side, in the corner and not visible from the road. As I watch aerial video of the motel on TV, I try to imagine Millicent driving around the back of the Moonlite and parking, getting out of the car, opening the trunk.
Dragging Lindsay across the ground.
I wonder if she is strong enough to do that. Lindsay was quite muscular from all those outdoor sports. Maybe Millicent used something to transport Lindsay. A cart, something with wheels. She is smart enough to do something like that.
The reporter is young and earnest; he speaks as if every word is important. He tells me that Lindsay had been wrapped in plastic, shoved into the closet, and covered with a blanket. The teenagers discovered her because they had been playing a drunken game of hide-and-seek. I don’t know how long she has been in the closet, but the reporter does say Lindsay’s body was initially identified with dental records. The DNA tests are pending. The police could not use fingerprints, because Lindsay’s had been filed off.
I try not to imagine how Millicent did this, or that she did it at all, but it becomes the only thing I can imagine.
The images in my mind stay there. Still frames of Lindsay’s smiling face, of her white teeth. Of my wife filing away Lindsay’s fingertips. Of her dragging Lindsay’s body into a motel room and shoving her in the closet. These all flash through my mind throughout the day, the evening, and as I try to go to sleep.
Millicent, however, looks normal. She looks the same when she gets home from work and throws together a salad, when she takes off her makeup, when she works on her computer before going to sleep. If she has been listening to the news, it doesn’t show. A half dozen times, I start to ask her why or how Lindsay got into that motel.
I don’t. Because all I can think about is why I have to ask. Why she didn’t tell me.
The next day, she calls me in the middle of the afternoon, and the question is on the tip of my tongue. I am also starting to wonder if there is anything else I don’t know.
“Remember,” she says. “We have dinner with the Prestons tonight.”
“I remember.”
I do not remember. She knows this and tells me the name of the restaurant without my asking.
“Seven o’clock,” she says.
“I’ll meet you there.”
* * *
• • •
ANDY AND TRISTA Preston bought their house from Millicent. Although Andy is a few years older than me, I’ve known him forever. He grew up in Hidden Oaks, we went to the same schools, and our parents knew one another. Now he works at a software firm, making enough money to take tennis lessons every day, but he doesn’t—that’s why he has a paunch.
But his wife takes lessons. Trista also grew up around here, but she’s from the other part of Woodview, not the Oaks. We meet twice a week, and she spends the rest of her time working at an art gallery. Together, the Prestons make twice what we do.
Millicent knows how much all of her clients make, and most earn more than us. I have to admit that this bothers me more than it bothers her. Millicent thinks it’s because she makes more money than I do. She’s wrong. It’s because Andy makes more money than I do, though I do not tell her that. She is not from the Oaks; she doesn’t understand what it’s like to grow up here and then end up working here.
Our dinner is at an upscale restaurant where everyone eats sa
lad, chicken, or salmon, and drinks red wine. Andy and Trista drink the whole bottle. Millicent doesn’t really drink and hates it when I do. I don’t drink around her.
“I envy you,” Trista says to me. “I would love to have your job and be outside all day. I love playing tennis.”
Andy laughs. His cheeks are red. “But you work in an art gallery. It’s practically the same thing.”
“Being outside all day and working outside all day are two different things,” I say. “I’d love to sit around on the beach all day, doing nothing.”
Trista scrunches up her pert nose. “I think that would be boring, just lying around like that. I’d rather be doing something.”
I want to tell her that taking a tennis lesson and teaching them are two different things. At work, the great outdoors is the last thing on my mind. Most of my time is spent trying to teach tennis to people who would rather be on their phone, watching TV, getting drunk, or eating. I don’t need even one finger to count the number of people who really want to play tennis, much less exercise. Trista is one of them. She doesn’t really love tennis; she loves to look good.
But I keep my mouth shut, because that’s what friends do. We don’t point out each other’s faults unless asked.
The talk shifts to Andy’s work, and I tune it out, catching only key words, because I am distracted by the sound of silverware. Every time Millicent cuts a piece of grilled chicken, I think about her killing Lindsay.
“Attention,” Andy says. “That’s the only thing software companies care about. How can we get your attention, and how can we keep it? How can we make you sit in front of your computer all day?”
I roll my eyes. When Andy drinks, he tends to pontificate. Or lecture.
“Come on,” he says. “Answer the question. What keeps you in front of the computer?”
“Cat videos,” I say.
Trista giggles.
“Don’t be a dick,” Andy says.
“Sex,” Millicent says. “It has to be either sex or violence.”
“Or both,” I say.
“Actually, it doesn’t have to contain sex,” says Andy. “Not actual sex. What’s necessary is the promise of sex. Or violence. Or both. And a story line—you have to have a story line. Doesn’t matter if it’s real or fake or who’s telling it. You just need people to care what happens next.”
“And how do you do that?” Millicent asks.
He smiles and draws an invisible circle with his index finger. “Sex and violence.”
“That goes for everything, though. Even the news is built on sex and violence,” I say.
“The whole world turns on sex and violence,” says Andy. He draws the circle with his finger again and turns to me. “You know that—you’re from here.”
“I do know.” Officially, the Oaks is one of the safest communities in the state. That’s because all the violence is behind closed doors.
“I know that, too,” Trista says to her husband. “Woodview isn’t that different.”
It is, but Andy doesn’t argue. Instead, he leans over and gives his wife a peck on the lips. As their lips touch, she touches his cheek with her palm.
I am jealous.
Jealous of their simple conversations. Jealous of their heavy drinking. Jealous of their simple foreplay and the sex they will have tonight.
“I think we all get it,” I say.
Andy winks at me. I glance over at Millicent, who is staring at her food. She thinks public displays of affection are distasteful.
When the check arrives, both Millicent and Trista leave the table and go to the restroom. Andy grabs the check before I can.
“Don’t bother protesting. I got it,” he says, looking over the bill. “You guys are cheap dates anyway. No alcohol.”
I shrug. “So we don’t drink much.”
Andy shakes his head and smiles.
“What?” I say.
“If I had known you were going to end up such a boring family man, I would’ve made you stay in Cambodia a lot longer.”
I roll my eyes. “Now you’re the one being a dick,” I say.
“That’s what I’m here for.”
Before I can respond, our wives return to the table and we stop talking about drinking. And about the check.
The four of us walk out together and say our goodbyes in the parking lot. Trista says she will see me at her next lesson. Andy says he’ll start soon. Trista is behind him rolling her eyes and smiling. They drive off, leaving Millicent and me alone. We have two cars, because we met at the restaurant.
She turns to me. Under the streetlights, she looks as old as I’ve ever seen her. “You okay?” she says.
I shrug. “I’m okay.” I do not have any other option.
“You worry too much,” she says, staring out over the sea of cars. “Everything is fine.”
“I hope so.”
“Trust me.” Millicent reaches out and slips her hand into mine. Squeezes it.
I nod and get into my car, but I don’t go straight home. Instead, I drive by the Lancaster Hotel.
Naomi is behind the front desk. Her dark hair falls loose around her shoulders, and although I can’t see the freckles on her nose, I think I can. I am relieved to see her, to know that she is still working behind the front desk and probably still engaging in her extracurricular activities. There is no reason for me to think anything has happened to her, because we have agreed to wait. Checking on Naomi is irrational, but I do it anyway.
This is not the first time I have been irrational. Ever since they found Lindsay, I have not slept well. I wake up in the middle of the night, my heart pounding, and it is always about some irrational thing. Did I lock the front door? Are those bills paid? Did I remember to do all the little things I am supposed to do so the house won’t burn down or get taken by the bank, and the car won’t crash because the brakes weren’t checked on time?
All these little things keep my mind off Lindsay. And the fact that I cannot do anything about her now.
Six
SATURDAY MORNING, JENNA’S soccer game. I am alone because Millicent has to show a house. Saturday is the biggest day of the week for both real estate and tennis lessons. It is also the biggest day of the week for our kids’ activities. Millicent and I trade off Saturdays with the kids, and the last time we were all together was more than a year ago, when Rory went to the finals in a preteen golf tournament. He is playing golf now—I dropped him off early this morning before his sister’s game started—and he is at the same club where I teach tennis. He plays golf because it is not tennis, and I hate that just as much as he wants me to.
So far, Jenna has not displayed any of the same rebelliousness. She does not try to be difficult. Jenna does something because she wants to, not because it will make someone else angry, and I admire that quality in her. She also smiles a lot, which makes me smile back and then give her everything she wants. I have no idea what I am missing, and because I can’t figure it out, Jenna scares the hell out of me.
Soccer is not my game. I learned the rules only when Jenna started to play, so I am not much help. I cannot tell her what to do or how to do better, like I could if she played tennis. It’s only by some stroke of luck that she plays goalie, so at least I know her job is keep the other team from scoring. Beyond that, all I can do is encourage her.
“You can do it!”
“Nice job!”
“Great effort!”
I often wonder if I am embarrassing her. I think so, but I do it anyway, because my only other option is to watch her games in silence. That seems cruel. I would rather be embarrassing. When she blocks the ball from going in the net, I lose my mind. She smiles but waves her hand, telling me to shut up. In these moments, I do not think about anything but my daughter and her soccer game.
Millicent interrupts by sending a text.
&nb
sp; Don’t worry.
This is all she says.
On the field, the kids are yelling. The other team tries to score, and my daughter has to block the ball again. She misses.
Jenna turns around, her back to me, hands on hips. I want to tell her it’s no big thing, everyone makes mistakes, but that would be exactly the wrong thing. All parents say that, and all kids hate it. I did.
Jenna looks straight down at the grass. A teammate walks up and pats her on the shoulder, says something. Jenna nods and smiles, and I wonder what her teammate said. I think it is the same thing I would’ve said, but it meant more.
Play resumes. I look back down at my phone. Millicent has not said anything else.
I pull up the news and gasp.
The medical examiner’s report states that Lindsay has been dead only a few weeks.
Somewhere, somehow, Millicent kept her alive for almost a year.
* * *
• • •
I HAVE AN urge to run. To where, I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. To do what, I have no idea. I just want to run anywhere.
But I cannot leave Jenna here, alone at a soccer game with no one to cheer for her. I cannot leave my daughter. Or my son.
When Jenna’s game is over, I pick Rory up at the club and the three of us have our usual post-sport pizza followed by frozen yogurt. It is difficult for me to stay with the conversation. They notice, because they are my kids—they see me every day and know when something is wrong. This makes me wonder what they think about Millicent.
Except she never looks like anything is wrong. For the past year, she has been calm, even for her. She’d mentioned finding the next woman a month ago.
Everything falls into place. She didn’t mention the next one until after she had killed Lindsay.
For me, the past year had been filled with work, the kids’ activities, chores around the house, arguing about bills, and getting the car washed. Nothing stood out. No single event, day, memory, was anything I would remember twenty, thirty, or forty years from now. Jenna’s soccer team almost went to the city finals but didn’t. Millicent had another good year at work. Gas prices went up and then down, a local election came and went, and my favorite dry cleaner went out of business and I had to find another.
My Lovely Wife Page 3
