When I switch over, I’m right. There is a story about a new diet trend, and the anchors make jokes that aren’t funny as they banter back and forth awkwardly after the clip ends. Before I turn it off though, the female anchor changes gears. The face of a woman I don’t recognize is speaking into a mic, being interviewed by the media, but the audio on her is muted as the anchor voices it over, attempting to intrigue the viewing audience to tune back in to hear the full interview.
“Luke Ellison’s wife, Valerie Ellison, speaks out for the first time since her husband’s tragic death. See the whole exclusive interview with her when you join us at ten. You won’t want to miss it. And now, the weather.”
I feel as though I’ve been punched between my shoulder blades, the wind knocked out of me. He was married? No. That’s not possible. The hypocrisy in my outrage over this is not lost on me, but I don’t care. He knew who I was. He knew I wept with guilt, he knew all the times I felt I had to stop. I told him about my children, my life, how my academic dreams were cut short. How could he have not told me? He said he was newly on the market again. But he was married.
I switch off the TV quickly and think about how I can find a way to watch the interview at ten. I can’t record it. Collin might watch TV later on tonight and notice the pending recording before I can delete it. I’m sure they’ve mentioned his wife before—who he was “survived by” and I’d missed it because I can’t have a paper trail of googling his name and I can’t watch the coverage in front of my family. I can’t even begin to imagine what he would think if he saw me following the case—going out of my way to gain information about something that should be like every other devastating news story...unless of course, I knew the person in this unfortunate headline.
As dusk falls, we eat dinner on the deck. A string of decorative lights are crisscrossed above the table, and a citronella candle burns to keep away mosquitos. I swirl my grilled zucchini around on my plate and try to stay present. Collin sips his wine and Ben spreads his coloring sheets across the table as we all linger in the perfect evening air. Ben is an expert on crayon colors—he’s memorized all of them in the huge crayon box—and makes everyone play the crayon game. Collin obliges him. He holds up a green crayon, covering the label.
“Polished Pine,” Ben yelps. “No,” he corrects himself. “Wintergreen Pine.”
“Right!” Then he holds up a silver crayon.
“That one’s too easy. Quicksilver. Everyone knows that.”
“Everyone, huh?” Collin shoots me a smile, sharing in the knowledge that, of course, not everyone has this skill. I’m only half listening. I smile back, absently.
“Okay, I’ll make it harder on ya.” He holds up two reddish crayons.
“Rustic Red and Misty Maroon,” Ben says, pointing left, then right.
Collin laughs. “You are unbeatable.”
I put a hand on Ben’s back, giving him an impressed smile. He takes the red crayons from Collin’s hand, pleased with himself, and goes back to coloring. I watch him work on Winnie-the-Pooh’s shirt, and I admire him so much. The way he can so effortlessly forget who he is, where he’s been, or where he might go, and is utterly engrossed in the simple task of smoothing his hand across the waxy surface of a crayon drawing.
My mind, on the other hand, is fixated on Luke’s sheets in that ancient rented house. Had his wife been there with him in that bed? Why was he renting? Did he tell her he had to go away to work and needed to be alone, and she was so naive and blindly in love with him she just accepted it? Surely she wasn’t living in town while he was sleeping with other people. The town’s too small to easily get away with that. My God. What if there are children involved? If he lied about being married, could he have kids he didn’t tell me about? I’m sickened now by the thought that I was a part of this.
Collin nudges me, standing over me with the bottle of wine, offering me a refill. I didn’t even notice him get up to go inside and get it. So much for being present. I nod and hold up my glass. He meets my eyes.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. Yes. I was just thinking about Gillian’s book club,” I lie. “Now that the writing group is on a break, I wonder if it might be worth going back to for a while.”
It’s the first thing I could think of. Liz mentioned it to me at the Halloween party, and it may actually be nice to be in such vapid company right now.
“Sounds like a good idea,” he says, sitting across from me, topping off his glass, as well. “You’re in the house too much.”
“Well, you know those girls though. They actually don’t even read the books,” I admit. “It’s just an excuse to get away from the husbands and drink.” He laughs, and I add, “I’m the only lucky one who doesn’t feel the need to do that, apparently.” He laughs again at this and raises his glass.
“Good answer.”
“I’m serious,” I say, laughing back and playfully tossing a tea towel at him from the messy dinner table. “But maybe I could get them to actually read the books. I’m not sure how, but probably not by starting with The Catcher in the Rye.”
“Suggest smut. Everyone likes smut.”
“Oh, do they?” I smile.
“Discussing Fifty Shades of Grey over cocktails is better than discussing Karen and Bob’s fabulous new boat. Gag.”
“They got a boat?”
“Oh, didn’t you hear? Everyone needs a boat that sleeps six. I gotta golf with these guys.”
“Gotta, huh?” I joke. “You’re forced to.”
“I’m just saying, why do we have friends we don’t like that much?” he asks, not really seeking an answer. We both give something between a scoff and a chuckle.
“’Cause that’s the part of being an adult they never tell you about.” I stand and start to clear plates. He offers to help, but I tell him I have it.
By ten, Ben is in bed, and I can hear Rachel on her phone, talking to Katie, no doubt, considering the giggles and “whatevers” I can hear muffled from down the hall. Collin is asleep on the couch next to me. His laptop open on the coffee table and half a glass of wine left. His head is rolled back and resting on the back of the couch. His mouth is wide-open; he’s snoring lightly, so I can tell he’s out. I flip the channel quietly from some show about living in Alaska over to the news. I turn down the volume a bit so the change doesn’t startle him awake.
I can’t get away with recording it, but I have the remote ready to push the back button if I need to, and if he does wake up suddenly and I don’t have time to switch it, it’s just the news. I was catching the weather and this popped on. It can be dismissed. I can’t help what pops up on the news, after all.
There she is, as promised. Valerie Ellison. A woman roughly my age. Chestnut hair pulled back into a neat ponytail. She has wide-set green eyes and olive skin. She’s pretty in her own way. Not the beauty queen I imagined him with. But I guess it’s only after success that men trade up, so maybe she was on her way out. Maybe he had a slew of twentysomethings, and he made them all feel like they were the only ones he asked to accompany him in Italy. So why me? I quietly chide myself for being so cynical. I know Collin would never do that to me. He gives me the “a woman is like a fine wine” crap and I eat it up every time. But he means it.
“My husband was a good man,” she starts. She uses all the clichés you’d expect to hear family say after someone passes away. “He made everyone smile. He didn’t have an enemy in the world.” There are no tears, I notice. He must have had at least one enemy, I think to myself.
This is telling me very little. There is no mention of their life together, where she lives, how long they were married. It’s just a plea for anyone who knows something to come forward. She’s “just heartsick about the whole thing.” It’s not a sit-down interview with lighting and multiple cameras in a studio like they made it sound. It’s just her in front of her house it looks like, where they caug
ht her for a statement. I guess that’s what constitutes an “exclusive interview” these days. I switch back to the Alaska show, a little deflated.
They must be questioning her. They always look at the spouse first. Maybe they are and it’s too early to disclose any information. I resist the urge to look her up online. I still fear that if they ever really suspect me and search my computer, that sort of thing could look really bad. Talking to her at all is probably a terrible idea, but I can’t help but wonder if she found out about me, and maybe that’s the reason Luke is dead. She wasn’t shedding a tear during that interview.
I kiss Collin on the forehead to wake him up. He starts with a snort and looks around groggily.
“Huh?” He blinks and rubs his eyes.
“Come to bed. You have an early morning,” I say, softly. He shakes his head like a dog shaking out its fur, waking himself up.
“Right.” He clicks off the TV and brings his glass to the kitchen to wash. I take the opportunity to beat him upstairs. I pad lightly past the kids’ rooms and quickly look in on them, I make sure Claire is asleep and close her door. Then, I go into the bathroom to pull out the disposable phone and respond to the blackmailer. I don’t expect a new message when I pick it up, I only expect to send a reply.
You love your kids, don’t you? You can make this go away, the message says, and my hands flutter to my mouth. They know who my children are. I know this already because I have been followed and I’m certain I was being watched at the restaurant that night, but to have it written this way—as a threat—I feel nauseous. It’s infuriating and terrifying at the same time.
How much do you want? I type and push Send urgently, then tuck the phone away again before Collin comes up. I lie awake, anguished, wondering what sort of amount they will demand. If they know me—if they’ve looked into my family, my life—they’ll know we are comfortable, but not rich. If they ask for some insane number, I’m screwed. If they ask for something they know I can get, which would be the smarter, more reasonable move, I need to find a way to get it. I will do whatever I need to do to get it.
22
IN THE MORNING, AS I make the thirty-minute drive to Pawn City, I wonder what sort of customer at a pawnshop is going to buy my used Birkin bag. When I called the shop, I didn’t think in a million years that they’d buy this sort of item, but then I thought, if they look for watches and jewelry, maybe. The shop owner seemed very excited to have a look at the bag.
The text I got back, when I had tossed and turned to my limit most of the night, and then checked the phone when I got up to pee at 3 a.m., said, $50,000.
It’s a number that’s heart-stopping, but at least it’s not a million. That may be an amount I can come up with, but if I can get only part of it, I’ll explain that it’s the best I can do. Maybe they’ll accept it. At least it’s something. If Collin discovers missing money, everything would come out, so I have to find a way without touching the joint account.
I’d texted back that I could come up with ten thousand to start. My Birkin bag was twelve thousand new. It’s a despicable amount to pay for a handbag, but it’s my only expensive one, and Collin gave it to me as a gift on our tenth wedding anniversary. I had mentioned how cute Gillian’s similar bag was at a Christmas party months before, and he had asked her about the details of the bag so he could surprise me with one. I would have liked to have seen his face when he eventually looked up the stats on the bag and saw the price tag.
I would have much rather had a trip together—France or Italy—I never really wanted the bag and I rarely use it. I just mentioned it was lovely to Gillian’s face. Of course, he was so proud of himself when he gave it to me, I couldn’t tell him that I couldn’t care less about a brand-name bag and, call me naive or unsophisticated, but it looks just like the one I got for thirty bucks at H&M, which I actually prefer. Still, it breaks my heart to pawn it, because it was a gift from him, but I have no choice. If ten thousand can keep this person at bay while I figure out the rest, it’s necessary.
Inside the pawnshop, a pile of old bikes fills out the center of the room. It smells more like a garage, oily and dusty. Racks of used kitchen gadgets sit beneath a wall of tools, every kind imaginable, hanging messily from hooks on the corkboard wall. Glass cases protect guns and boxes of ammo. Rows of pawned jewelry someone desperately parted with to pay for bills, or more likely meth, are brightly lit and displayed inside the counter that wraps around the checkout area.
I place my bag in front of the man behind the register, who greets me with a smile, not taking his eyes off of it. I run my fingers across the rolled-leather top handles and goatskin exterior, remembering the dinner at Riccio’s when Collin pulled a box from the trunk of the car on our way in and made me wait until dessert to open it. It doesn’t matter that it isn’t something I care for, it is the kindness and incredible thoughtfulness from which it came that makes it so hard to part with.
“You must be Mrs. Hale.” The elderly man holds his hand out to shake. I thought about using a false name, but he’d mentioned before during the phone conversation that ID would be required, so I have to take the risk.
“What a lovely piece,” he says, examining the bag. “May I?”
I let him take it. He looks at it from all angles, examines the inside and frowns at a minute lipstick stain that I can’t believe he notices. Then he clicks away on his computer a moment, no doubt looking up what others in the same condition sold for.
“I can offer you seven thousand eight hundred.” The papery skin of his hands shows the blue veins beneath, and as I watch them touch my sweet gift from Collin, I think about backing out.
“I need to get ten,” I say, meekly, feeling as though I have no control over the situation.
“I’m sorry, but...”
“It was twelve, new. That gives you room to make money,” I interrupt.
“Yes, ma’am, but it’s not new, it’s used, and it has a stain inside. I won’t get more than ten myself.” I see the small collection of expensive handbags in a case behind him, locked up. I can’t imagine he comes across that many, and I still have no idea who would buy one at a pawnshop. Maybe I’m better off selling direct, online, but there’s no time. The person demanding money wants to meet today.
“Nine, then,” I say in desperation.
“I’ve given you my best price.” He keeps the fake, customer service smile on his face, and I close my eyes a moment and sigh.
“I won’t go less than eight thousand,” I say. It’s only two hundred dollars more, barely worth haggling over, but I want to feel at least a modicum of control over my situation. He nods silently, and pushes some paperwork across the glass case for me to sign.
It’s two more hours until I meet this mystery person at the Starlite Motel to hand over the money—two thousand less than I promised. I have imagined every scenario, and I know how profoundly stupid it is to do this alone. They could take the money and shoot me if they know I may not be able to get more. The Starlite is off a desolate frontage road a few miles from the highway. It wouldn’t be hard to slit someone’s throat and leave them to bleed out until housekeeping discovered the body in the motel bathtub the next morning. I have no true link to this person, no paper trail—just an untraceable phone under the sink that will probably never be found. I also have little choice.
I didn’t dare bring the phone with me. It has to stay in one place so I don’t get sloppy. The kids are always in my purse for something, or I could drop it, forget it in the car, anything, if I got distracted, so I am not chancing it. This person said 2 p.m. at the Starlite, room 108. So, that’s where I’ll go. If they’re not there... I don’t know what, but that’s how I need to handle this. I’ll wait as long as I have to.
I drive around for a little while. It’s a dreary day, dark and wet, and it feels like night outside. I buy a stale coffee from the Shell station and pour packs of powdered cream into
it, deciding I’ll go and sit outside the motel and wait. I might lose my nerve if I spend too much time thinking about it. I have the upper hand, I think, if I’m there first. If I’ve scoped out the scene.
Outside the motel, I park under a pecan tree that drops damp leaves on my windshield. I stir my coffee with a tiny red straw and watch the door of 108, that rests underneath the dilapidated Starlite Motel sign. The neon on the sign is alight on this overcast day, and the S has come off a screw that’s holding it up: it hangs upside down and sways a little. There is no light on inside 108. I don’t know why here of all places. Is this person staying here? It would explain why they need to exploit me for money. It’s an utter shithole.
My nerve endings feel electric with stress. I recheck my purse to see that the cash in its Pawn City envelope and the gun are still right there where I put them. Just in case, I unlocked the safety box we keep in the bedroom in case of an intruder, and stuffed it down underneath my wallet, pack of tissue and makeup bag. It’s been years since I learned how to use it at a shooting range, for my own protection, and I hate touching it. I barely recall how to handle it, truth be told, but coming without any sort of protection seemed beyond foolish. Everything is there. I take a few deep breaths.
After another tension-filled hour of torturing myself with all the worst-case scenarios, a vehicle pulls into the lot. I turn my wipers on to remove the debris from the front window and my ears turn instantly hot when I see it. Luke’s truck is pulling into a vacant spot in front of 108. Reflexively, I duck down in my seat a bit, peering over the steering wheel to see who gets out.
I’m relieved to see only one person, so I can rest easier that I won’t be ambushed or ganged up on, violently. He’s wearing a rain poncho with a hood, and the truck is blocking the rest of his body, so I can’t get a handle on who it is. He holds his head down against the drizzle as he opens the motel room door. I see the door shut and a warm light flip on inside. He draws the curtains, so I don’t see anything else.
Such a Good Wife Page 18
