“What are you doing?” I laugh. He points up and smiles.
“They’re playing our song.” He pulls me in to dance to the song of croaking frogs and rustling tree leaves. I play along, and we sway together for a few minutes. Then he picks up our beer to toast “desperately needed away time” and we sit, dangling our toes off the end of the dock.
“Ben asked how fireflies light up like that, and I didn’t know how to answer him, so now he thinks they take double-A batteries,” Collin says, wiping the light film of sweat from his brow. The humidity is miserable as usual. I laugh.
“You did not tell him that.”
“I have no idea how they light up. He asked me how the toaster works once. No idea. It just works when you plug it in. Bam. Superdad.” He makes a “mic drop” gesture.
“They’re bioluminescent,” I say.
“What are?”
“Fireflies. That’s how they talk to each other.”
“You’re so smart. See, you’re clearly the superior parent, that’s what I love about you so much,” he jokes, kissing me, then putting down his drink to kiss me some more. It feels strange kissing him. My husband of fifteen years and it feels so different, new, almost. We haven’t made love since...Luke. Things just got busy with school, his late hours, Claire’s health. It happens to the best of us. There may have been some avoidance on my part as well, if I’m honest.
“Well, you’re good at other things.” I pat him, laughing. We both pick up our beers and stare into the bayou.
“Are you okay?” he asks, out of the blue, and I feel a wave of nausea rise in my stomach.
“What do you mean? Of course.” I watch the low moon appear now and then between patches of vaporous clouds.
“You just seem...maybe a little distracted. Lately. I know you’ve taken on a lot, but I just want to make sure...everything is...okay, I guess.”
He looks at me with those adoring, hazel eyes and forces a smile. I have no choice. I need to tell him at least one secret so it can all make sense to him—so anything he’s sensed from me can be cleared up right now.
“There is something that I want to tell you,” I say, crossing my legs and turning to him to highlight the importance of what I’m about to say. The color drains from his face.
“What is it?”
“The only reason I haven’t said anything is because I promised someone I wouldn’t tell anyone, but if you’re feeling like I’m distracted or distant, then it’s affecting us and I feel like it’s important to just tell you.”
“God, Mel. What is it? Is it something with one of the kids?”
“No. No, sorry, I just...I saw something I shouldn’t have seen.”
“What do you mean? What?”
“We all went for a drink after writing group.” I have to add that this was a few weeks ago so it can explain away any strange behavior he’s seen in me this whole time. I don’t give him time to question why we’d go all the way out there. I don’t feel good about adding these details, but I have to. “Mia, from the group, she wanted to go for karaoke, and in the parking lot, I saw a guy assault a woman.”
“You saw it.”
“Yes, I saw him strike her. But he did more than that, Col. I didn’t see that part, but I saw enough to know it happened.”
“Like sexually?”
“Yeah. I tried to help her.”
I explain about going over to Lacy and giving her a ride home, and how she reacted when I asked what else he’d done to her. “But it gets worse.”
“Jesus, Mel. How could it get worse?”
“We know the guy who did it.”
“Um...okay? Wha—who?”
“It was Joe Brooks.”
“What? Ben’s coach?”
“Yeah.”
“He’s a cop, Mel. I mean, are you absolutely sure? That’s—”
“I am absolutely sure. It was fucking awful. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I promised her, swore to her I would keep this to myself.”
“Well, you know you have to report it.”
“I can’t!”
“Mel, there’s no way you can just—”
“This is why I’m freaking out. If I report it, it will be to one of his cop friends.”
“I’m sure there are plenty of higher-ups who are not Joe’s drinking buddies. I mean...”
“I promised her. It’s not my place. I mean, right? She’d get backlash once he finds out. Collin, if you’d seen him, the look on his face—it was horrifying. Who knows what he’d do?” We’re both silent for a few moments. “I can’t.” We pick up our drinks and look out into the water, an oval of moonlight reflecting off the surface.
“Jesus, I can’t believe Joe Brooks would do that,” Collin says.
“Me either.”
“I’m sorry you’ve had to keep this to yourself. That’s gotta be torture. You went to high school with the guy, didn’t you?”
“Yeah. Crazy,” I say softly, so relieved to tell him and also because he thinks this is what I’ve been holding in these weeks. He would trust me if I had just said I was sad over Claire’s deterioration, which I am, without a doubt, but this monumental ordeal I’ve witnessed wipes away even the smallest remnant of worry he may have had for me, and now he is an ally in the pursuit of helping find justice for this victim neither of us know.
“Did you know the woman?” he asks.
“No, her name’s Lacy. That’s about all I really know. She’s afraid of him, for sure. I thought maybe if I get to know her, try to befriend her, maybe I can help—get her to report him.”
“Be careful. Please. I can see why you want to help, but promise you’ll be careful.”
“I know. I will.”
“We’ll get that son of a bitch.”
I love that he cares. I love his heart, and how angry someone else’s pain makes him. I put my head on his shoulder and he tells me again how sorry he is that I had to deal with all this.
He says, “Men are pigs,” and kisses my forehead. Then he goes into a speech about the world his poor daughter has to grow up in.
After a few more beers and exchanges about the injustices in the world, we find ourselves tipsy and giggling again about fireflies with battery packs. When he kisses me, he pulls my shirt over my head and lays me down on the dock. I kiss him back.
“Race ya!” I say, pulling off the rest of my clothes and jumping into the black water. He strips and jumps in beside me. I squeal at the mush between our toes and we splash each other until that turns into our bodies touching in the murky, shadowed water. Then we make love, and I try to hold him close enough and kiss him hard enough to erase everything I’ve done.
9
THINGS FEEL BACK TO normal at home when we get back from our weekend away. The week is filled with mundane tasks that comfort me: spreading peanut butter on bread, cutting the crusts, stuffing Ziploc bags with carrots and baked chips for the kids’ lunches, listening to Rachel figure out what other sports to try out for, helping Ben with his long and short vowels on colorful worksheets.
On Tuesday night, I bathe Claire as usual in her en suite bathroom. It’s tough to maneuver her in and out of the shower. When I get her seated on the handicap bench inside the shower, I try to help her hold the sprayer on her own. It helps with her strength and coordination. I smile at her blank face and wrap her hand around it gently when she suddenly grabs my hair with much more strength than I thought she was capable of and pulls. Before I can even react, she’s wrenched my head so violently, it crashes into the shower tile.
“Dirty!” she screams.
I sit in shock a moment, now wet, fully clothed, on the shower floor touching the spot of blood on my head. I call for Collin. I know he can’t hear me in the front of the house from way back here, so I don’t try again. I want to cry and run out, but I can’t leave h
er by herself like this. Rationally, I know she doesn’t know what she’s saying, I know that arbitrary, violent outbursts can be part of the disease, but it doesn’t make it easier to take. Of course she doesn’t know what I’ve done, but it feels...personal. It feels like she meant to hurt me for hurting Collin. I know it’s totally irrational. I blink back tears and take a breath. Now soaked, I stand and squeeze some shampoo into my hand and massage her hair with it.
“It’s okay, Miss Claire. We’ll get you all clean. No worries. You’re okay.”
When I finally get her into a clean nightgown and propped in front of her sitcom and box fan, the kids are in their rooms. I peel off my soggy clothes, hang them over the side of the washer to dry out a bit, and go up to slip into a bath and assess how bad my head wound is. I don’t tell Collin about it. I’m not sure why. I examine my scalp in the mirror as the bath runs. It’s not bad. Cuts on the head are deceiving because they bleed more, but no one will notice it once it’s cleaned up. I quickly dab a warm cloth on it and pull my hair up to cover it.
Then I sink to my chin in bubbles and close my eyes.
I wish Luke’s face would not visit me every time I’m alone. I could go there right now, to his house, say I’m meeting Liz or Karen for a drink. I could say Gillian needs some last-minute help with her fundraiser—doesn’t matter what it’s for, she’s always working on one. There would be no question. I took Ben to the community pool all afternoon in the early autumn heat, so he’s out like a light. Collin will be engrossed in work or a game on TV. I sit up sharply at the thought of this.
Right this minute I could simply drive over there and spend an hour in his now-familiar bed on the second floor inside a massive, historic bedroom—the creaky wooden floors and simple white sheets. I imagine the musky sweetness of his breath from the drink he’d fix us, a sultry dampness on his skin from the muggy air.
My phone buzzes. I dry off one hand on the towel hanging on a rod above me, and feel around on the floor outside the tub to pick it up. It’s a notification. Lacy accepted my friend request. She sent a message. Thanks for your help the other night...and for not saying anything.
I start to type back, then wonder if it’s too quick a response and will make me look like I’m just sitting here waiting to hear from her. I get out of the bath, wrap a towel around my head, put on yoga pants and a tank, and sit out on the back deck to take advantage of the evening breeze. I’m grateful the air is actually moving today and it’s feeling cooler. I curl up on an Adirondack chair and, feeling I’ve waited long enough, reply back.
Of course. How are you doing? I ask, not wanting to invite her to meet too soon. I’ll see if she opens communication or shuts me down.
I’m fine, thanks. Fucker called me a dozen times the next day. I just don’t want him showing up at my place, drunk.
I’m glad she feels like she can talk to me about this.
I can’t believe he’d call you after that. I’m so sorry you have to deal with it, I text back.
Yeah. Prick, she says.
Hey, do you wanna get coffee or a drink sometime?
I wait, hoping she doesn’t think it’s weird. Making new friends as an adult is weird in general. I feel like I’ve asked a boy out and fear he’ll reject me. Text bubbles pop up a few times and then disappear. Jeez, she doesn’t know how to respond.
Sure, is all she replies.
Great. Just let me know when you’re free.
Thurs or Fri are good.
Okay, I have a group at Classics Bookstore Thursday at six. The Local has a good patio happy hour on Friday, starts around five.
That works. Sorry, gotta go. C U then.
Her green dot vanishes off my phone. I have no plan, and I have no earthly idea how I’ll help this woman, but how can I just pretend it didn’t happen? What sort of person would I be?
I hear the sliding glass door behind me open. Rachel comes out and sits at the patio table.
“Hey, I thought you were in bed,” I say.
“Yeah,” she says. She turns her phone to show me an image of a girl with French braids forming a round crown on the top of her head. “Pretty, huh?” she asks.
“Yeah. Your hair would look beautiful like that.”
“Do you know how to do it?” she asks, hopefully.
“I bet I could figure it out,” I say, getting up and sitting behind her. I’ve braided her hair for years, and I always love this time with her. Just us, without her glued to her phone or rolling her eyes at the burden of having to speak to us because we are so uncool.
“There’re auditions tomorrow for Grease.”
“Grease? You’re trying out for a musical? Honey, that’s great.”
I’m surprised. She’s never shown interest before.
“Katie is trying out for Sandy, but I just want to be one of the dancers in the back.”
She wants to do everything her friend Katie does, so this makes more sense now.
“I love it. They’d be crazy not to make you one of the dancers.”
She doesn’t say anything, but I see the corners of her mouth turn up into a smile as I section her hair to braid.
“Katie has to get Sandy. It’s the biggest role,” she says with tension in her voice. Then she lets out a sigh.
“There are probably a lot of girls trying out for that.”
“Mom. She has to.” Her voice breaks.
“Why’s that, hon?” I ask, but she doesn’t answer right away. I hear her sigh, and her head droops down. “What’s wrong?”
“Her dad’s been screwing Ms. Mendez.”
“What?”
“So she has to get the part.”
I don’t understand the correlation, but I’m still trying to figure out what she’s telling me.
“The gym teacher?”
“Yeah, and the whole school knows. Her mom left and she’s trying to pull Katie out and send her to some school wherever she moved to. It’s, like, twenty miles away.”
I can’t believe I haven’t heard about this. Stuff like this doesn’t stay quiet in this town, but I’ve been so preoccupied. I should tell her not to say the word screwing, but I stop braiding and give her a confused look, unable to think of a response.
“So she has to get the role of Sandy?” I don’t know what she’s getting at.
“Yeah, we have a plan to fix everything. If she gets the lead, her mom won’t be able to take her out of school. Her mom wouldn’t do that to her ’cause it’s, like, a big part. Plus, maybe kids will stop making fun of her if she’s the star.”
“The kids make fun of her?” I ask, fixated on this part.
“Everyone says Ms. Mendez is illegal and doesn’t have papers. They say Katie is probably her kid if her dad is screwing her.”
Again, I resist the urge to scold her for the language. She keeps going.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” I say.
“Doesn’t need to,” she adds. “They say she looks more like Ms. Mendez than her mom and that she should go back to Mexico.”
“Jesus!” I blurt out.
“Yeah. Someone spray-painted ‘build the wall’ on her locker.” She looks down at her hands. I hate that she even knows about these adult things. A few years back, our neighbor Judy Ainsley’s daughter, Mary, was spotted in the cafeteria with a spot of blood on the back of her white jeans. The kids called her “Bloody Mary” for the rest of the year and left tampons in her locker. They were relentless. An Instagram account was created by some anonymous classmate, dedicated to humiliating her with all things menstrual. Mary was hospitalized after a suicide attempt, and the family had to move. They left the state altogether. Rachel was younger then. Mary was in high school, so I don’t know if she’s heard the story. I hope not.
I want to scoop her up in my arms and shield her from all of this. Instead, I’ve put her in danger.
What would kids find to use and make her life hell if my secret was ever exposed? It could be anything. Luke’s writing is provocative, almost pornographic. There would be countless ways they could spin the situation and make it their mission to ruin her.
I take Rachel’s hands and hold them inside of mine on her lap. I want to say something magical to fix the situation and transform her mood. A few years ago, I would only need to suggest constructing a tent out of couch cushions and bedsheets and watching Finding Nemo with pints of Rocky Road, and no matter what her trouble was, it would be forgotten. It’s different now.
“Kids are shitty,” I say. Not my best parenting moment, but her eyes widen in surprise, and then she laughs. I laugh with her. I tell her to get her music for her dance number and we can work on it. I push the grill and the patio furniture to the side to clear a space on the deck, and she runs back to her room for her Bluetooth speaker, delighted she’s allowed to stay up late, and we get to work.
* * *
On Thursday, I am excited to get to the bookstore for our group. I have been working on a story. I don’t know the people in this group well, so I finally decide that no one would think it anything but steamy romance, but I’m nervous, so I plan to share just a few pages. I made sure to write in third person and give the protagonist a different and unusual name, keeping as much distance from the truth as I can, in a sense, but I ache to tell someone without telling someone.
I’m not overdressed this time. I’m in skinny jeans, a T-shirt and a Saints ball cap that I have to steal back from Ben’s room because he likes to wear it to school. I arrive a little late. As I walk through the lot, I see what I think is Luke’s truck. I slow down and peer over as I pass. I leap back, holding my chest when I see he’s sitting behind the wheel, looking down at his phone.
“Luke?”
He rolls down the window.
“What are you doing here?” I ask. I am immediately aware of how I look—thrown together.
Such a Good Wife Page 8
