My Lovely Wife

by Samantha Downing

  “How is she?” I say.

  “Right now, she seems fine. But last week she seemed fine, and then—”

  “I’m not talking about Jenna.”

  She tilts her head, confused. Annoyed. Then, clarity.

  “We’re talking about Naomi,” she says.

  “Is she still alive?”

  “Yes.”

  I want to take that question back. I want to say something that makes Millicent laugh, that makes my adrenaline surge, that makes us both feel good.

  My mind is blank.

  We stare at each other, her eyes so dark they look like holes. I stare until I have to either stop or ask where Naomi is.

  I look away.

  Millicent exhales.

  I follow her back into the house. In the family room, we sit down on the couch, where Jenna and Rory are watching TV. Rory is the first to notice that we are looking at them, not the TV. He does not stick around for the talk.

  It goes well, I think. Jenna listens and nods and smiles. When Millicent asks if she has any questions, Jenna shakes her head. When I ask how she feels, she says fine.

  “Are you scared?” Millicent says.

  Jenna reaches up and touches her short hair. “No.”

  “Owen won’t hurt you.”

  “I know.”

  The irritated tone is reassuring. She sounds normal and looks normal, except for her hair.

  * * *

  • • •

  LATER, MILLICENT AND I are in our room. She is organizing, walking back and forth between the bedroom and the closet, putting some things away and taking out others. She fixes everything before bed so the mornings are easier. Frantic is not her thing. Nor is being late.

  I watch. Her red hair is loose, messy, and she keeps brushing it back with one hand. She wears thermals, the nubby old-fashioned kind, and striped socks. Her nighttime clothes are the least-fashionable thing about her, and I have told her how dorky they are. But I do not say that tonight. Instead, I go down the hall and check on Jenna.

  She is asleep, nestled between the orange sheets under the white comforter. Her face is relaxed, peaceful. Not afraid.

  Back in our room, Millicent has just gotten into bed, and I get in beside her. She looks at me, and I think she is going to mention our earlier talk in the garage. Instead, she turns out the light, like it meant nothing.

  I wait until her breathing slows, then get up and check on Jenna again.

  The second time I get up, I do not bother going back to bed. Throughout the night, I check on her three more times. During the hours in between, I watch TV. Around two in the morning, I doze off while watching an old movie. When I wake up, I see Owen’s face. A documentary about him is on TV.

  Several of these shows have been made with varying levels of detail about Owen’s crimes. I have managed to avoid them, just as I avoided reading about what Owen did to his victims. This time, I cannot, because I wake up at exactly the wrong time. Just as I see Owen’s face on the screen, the show cuts away. The next thing I see is the room where he kept each one of his victims.

  The video had been made for Owen’s trial, which never happened. It is fifteen years old and filmed with a handheld camera that shakes too much. Owen had gutted an abandoned rest stop, knocking down the wall between the men’s and women’s restrooms. The tiled floors might have been white but now were a greyish brown. One toilet remained, along with a sink, a mattress, and a table. Pipes ran up and down the cutout walls; they started deep in the ground and ran across the ceiling, down the other side, and back into the cement floor. They were the perfect size for handcuffs. A pair is still attached to one of the pipes.

  The video jerks and zooms in on the floor. The blood was not visible in the wider angle. Now, I see a smattering of blood here, a few drops there. The red spots are everywhere, as if someone had flung a brush of red paint at the floor. The camera moves across the floor, into a corner. A larger amount of blood is smeared on the wall. It is down low, inches from the ground, as if whoever was bleeding had been crouched down.

  The angle moves again, toward the mattress. I imagine Naomi lying on it.

  I change the channel.

  Thirty-six

  TWO DAYS PASS before I hear about Trista. Millicent is the one who tells me.

  It is Saturday evening. Rory is upstairs, and Jenna is staying over at a friend’s house. As soon as they are out of sight, I flop down on the couch and put my feet on the table. This is not allowed—not for me or the kids—but when Millicent sits down next to me, she does not mention it.

  This makes me remove my feet without being asked. It is that weird. “What’s wrong?” I say.

  She puts her hand on mine, and now I’m worried. Panicked, even. “Millicent, just—”

  “It’s Trista,” she says.

  “Trista?”

  “Her sister called me earlier. Andy is too upset to talk to anyone.”

  “Her sister? Why would her—”

  “She committed suicide.”

  I shake my head as if my ears aren’t working. As if she didn’t just say Trista killed herself.

  “I’m so sorry,” Millicent says.

  I realize this is real, and it knocks the wind out of me. “I don’t understand.”

  “From what she said, neither does anyone else. Especially Andy.”

  “How?” I say.

  “She hung herself on the shower rod.”

  “Oh god.”

  “I knew they were having problems, but I had no idea she was so upset.”

  Millicent has no idea what the real reason is, because I never told her about Trista, never mentioned she had dated Owen. And was still in love with him.

  My dinner feels like it is burning a hole in my stomach. I run to the bathroom and throw it all up. Millicent is at the door, asking if I am okay. I say yes even as the dry heaving starts.

  Too much food, I tell her.

  She reaches down and checks my forehead; it is not warm. I sit down on the floor against the wall and wave my hand, letting her know I am fine.

  She walks away. I close my eyes, listening to her in the kitchen, rummaging through the refrigerator. Hunting for whatever made me sick.

  I want to tell her it is us. We have a daughter who brought a knife to school and has cut off all her hair. Now a woman is dead. Not Naomi, a different woman.

  Because of Owen. Because of me. I wrote those letters to Josh.

  Millicent runs back into the bathroom with a bottle of the pink medicine.

  I chug it down and get sick all over again.

  * * *

  • • •

  THE FUNERAL SERVICE is held at Alton’s Funeral Parlor, the same place Lindsay’s was held. I did not attend hers but read about it. Lindsay had a closed casket, because of what Millicent had done to her. Trista has an open casket.

  Andy is still her husband, and he arranged everything. The room is large, and every chair is filled. I think Trista would have been pleased to know her funeral is standing room only. Everyone is here, dressed in their finest black clothing, either to pay their respects or to gawk. I am here because I am responsible.

  Millicent is with me, though she still has no idea why Trista killed herself. Neither does anyone else. For days, people at the club have talked about the breakup of her marriage, depression, money problems. At any given moment, she could be a drug addict, an alcoholic, a nymphomaniac. She was pregnant, or had been, but lost the baby. Maybe she was dying anyway, a terminal disease or a brain tumor.

  No one seemed to remember, or even know, she had dated Owen Oliver Riley some twenty years ago.

  Her sister is at the service. She is a heavier, brunette version of Trista. She says Trista used to take care of her while their parents worked; she fixed dinner and did their laundry.

  “We grew up
on the other side of town. She didn’t always live in Hidden Oaks.”

  It sounds like an insult. Trista’s younger sister still lives on the other side of town.

  She does not mention Andy.

  Next is one of Trista’s more recent friends. She is as thin and blond as Trista was, and she tells a long story about how Trista was always willing to listen, help, and pitch in whenever she could.

  The last one to speak is Andy. He has cut his hair since the last time I saw him, and he is wearing a dark suit instead of sweatpants. He talks about how he met Trista. She was an unpaid intern at a museum, still looking for a job that used her art history degree. He was there attending a benefit, and their paths crossed in front of a sculpture. She told him all about it.

  “I was enchanted. By her, by the way she spoke and what she said, and even the tone of her voice. I can’t think of a better word. Trista was simply enchanting.”

  Andy breaks down as he says this. First tears, then sobs.

  No one moves.

  I look away. This makes me feel sick all over again.

  Andy’s brother walks up to him and whispers in his ear. Andy takes a deep breath and collects himself. He keeps talking. I do not listen. I am thinking about that word.

  Enchanting.

  When he is done, we have a chance to walk by the coffin, to say our final goodbyes to Trista. Just about everyone does. Only a few hang back. Millicent and I do not.

  The coffin is made of wood so dark it is almost black, and the interior is pale peach. It is not as bad as it sounds. The color complements Trista’s blond hair and that apricot lipstick. She looked good in that color, and I am glad someone knew to put it on her.

  But her outfit is the opposite. It is a solid dark blue with long sleeves. A single strand of pearls hangs from her neck, and she has pearl studs in her ears. None of this looks like Trista. It looks like someone bought the outfit yesterday, because they thought she should be buried in something dignified instead of something she would have liked.

  It upsets me, unnaturally so. I do not like to think of Trista spending eternity in an outfit she hates. I hope she is not looking down on this funeral.

  “She looks beautiful,” Millicent says.

  If I could say something to Trista, I would tell her I am sorry. Sorry for the clothes, for asking her about Owen, for bringing Owen back.

  I would also tell her that Andy is right. She was enchanting. I know this because I understand exactly what Andy meant.

  Millicent is enchanting. This is exactly as I would describe her. She was enchanting when I met her, and she is enchanting now. And if she died and I had to speak at her funeral service, I would be just like Andy. If I had to describe how enchanting she was, at the same time knowing I would never be with her again, I would shake my fist at the sky. Or at whoever had ruined everything.

  In Andy’s case, it would be me. His friend.

  Thirty-seven

  THE MAN ON TV is overweight and unhealthy-looking, half-dead in his fifties. He has a soft, round gut, the beginning of jowls, and sprigs of grey hair around his head. I know the type. My clients are like him, or used to be.

  Josh is interviewing him in front of the Lancaster Hotel. This man is the first to say, or even insinuate, that Naomi was anything other than the girl next door everyone says she was.

  “I’m not saying she did something wrong,” he says. “I just think if we’re going to find her, we have to be honest about who she was.”

  He was a frequent guest at the Lancaster and came to town twice a month for work. He had spoken to Naomi several times, as well as to some of the other regulars. “Let’s just say she didn’t always keep things businesslike with some of the guests.”

  “Can you elaborate on that?” Josh says.

  “I don’t think I really need to do that. People are smart enough to figure it out on their own.”

  This is the first time anyone mentions Naomi’s extracurricular activities. It is not the last.

  Other coworkers come forward, claiming to know the truth about Naomi. She slept with a number of men. Some were guests at the hotel. No one mentioned money, just sex. She was not a prostitute. Naomi was a twenty-seven-year-old woman who’d had sex with more than one hotel guest.

  The first of her lovers to come forward does not reveal his identity. On TV, he appears as a silhouette, and his voice is garbled.

  “Were you ever a guest at the Lancaster Hotel?”

  “Yes, I was.”

  “And did you know a front desk clerk named Naomi?”

  “I did.”

  “And did you have sex with her?”

  “I am ashamed to say that I did.”

  He goes on to say that Naomi was the aggressor. She is the one who came after him.

  Another man comes forward. And another. More shadows, more garbles. All remain anonymous. None of the men who slept with Naomi will reveal themselves. It is not because they are married, because at least two are identified as single or divorced. They just do not want to admit that they were one of her men.

  Or her conquests. Someone on TV calls them that.

  At the club, the talk starts to change. People stop saying it is a travesty and a shame. Some even stop saying Owen is a monster. Instead, people start asking how Naomi could have prevented it. How she could have avoided being a victim.

  Kekona is one of them. The stories about Naomi confirm her belief that trouble comes to people who look for it. And in her mind, sex counts as trouble.

  On TV, they will not stop talking about Naomi’s personal life. Josh is front and center on the story; everyone who comes forward goes to him first. The more I watch, the more mesmerized I become. Naomi is one person and then another in the blink of an eye.

  The first time I have a chance to discuss it with Millicent is after we attend Jenna’s latest appointment with her psychologist. We take her back to school, where she joins her friends to decorate the gym for an upcoming fund-raiser. Millicent then takes me back to the club, where my car is parked. She turns on the radio and the news blasts out of it. The announcer says that yet another man, who remains unnamed like the others, has claimed he slept with Naomi while staying at the Lancaster. That makes seven.

  “Fantastic,” Millicent says.

  “Fantastic?”

  “As long as they’re talking about her, or Owen, we don’t have anything to worry about.”

  I want to bring up Jenna and how this might be affecting her. While I would like nothing more than for my daughter to be a virgin for the rest of her life, even I can admit that is not healthy.

  Millicent reaches over and squeezes my hand. “You were right to switch. Annabelle wouldn’t have been the same.”

  This is true. It also makes me squeeze her hand back.

  * * *

  • • •

  I GO UP to Jenna’s room to say good night. She is lying on her bed, reading an actual book, because her laptop is downstairs. Her hair is a tiny bit longer now, and it is starting to look quite stylish, I think. She looks at me over the top of the book, asking without asking what I want.

  I sit down on the edge of her bed.

  “You want to talk, don’t you?” she says.

  “You’re getting too smart for me.”

  Jenna narrows her eyes. “Why are you flattering me?”

  “See? Too smart.”

  She sets down her book with a sigh. It makes me feel stupid, which is pretty common when I am around my children.

  “How are you?” I say.

  “Fine.”

  “Seriously. Talk to me.”

  She shrugs. “I’m okay.”

  “Do you like the doctor?”

  “I guess.”

  “You’re not still scared of Owen, are you?”

  Another shrug.

  For
the past few weeks, our conversations have been like this. They used to be different. Jenna used to tell me about all her friends and teachers—what this one did or what that one said. She would babble on forever if I let her.

  I even knew about her first crush. He sat in front of her in English, which was part of why English had become her most difficult subject.

  Now, she will not say anything, and it’s because of the psychologist. I think she is tired of talking.

  I lean down and kiss her on the forehead. As I do, something flickers in the corner of my eye. Between the bed and the nightstand, underneath the mattress, something is sticking out. I recognize it from our kitchen.

  My daughter has taken another kitchen knife and hidden it under her mattress.

  I do not say anything.

  Instead, I say good night and leave, closing the door without a sound. As I walk down the hall, I pass by Rory’s room and hear him on the phone. I am about to go in and tell him to go to sleep, but then I hear him talking about Naomi.

  It’s impossible to keep the news blocked out of the house.

  Thirty-eight

  I HAVE KEPT A few things from Millicent. Like the broken-down truck from so many years ago. And Trista. I did not tell her Trista had dated Owen Oliver Riley. Never mentioned that was why she left Andy, why she committed suicide.

  Petra. It would be silly now to mention Petra, the woman who suspected I was not deaf. No reason to bring her up.

  And Rory. I have not mentioned Rory’s blackmail, because that would lead back to Petra.

  Then there is Crystal.

  Millicent never wanted any help at the house; she did not trust that anyone would clean the way she wanted, nor did she want anyone raising her kids. The only time we did hire someone, it was to carpool the kids to and from school and to their various activities. That was a few years ago, when Millicent and I were both so busy at work we just could not get to everything without some help.

  This was also right after Holly was killed. Before the rest.