The Silent Wife: A Novel

by A. S. A. Harrison

  His death might be easier to swallow if it hadn’t been so grisly. The way it happened has affected her deeply. When her friends call she talks to them about it obsessively—the obscene public execution—and as time goes on her fascination with the particulars tends to grow rather than abate. She feels compelled to eviscerate every sordid detail, never tires of poking and prodding the tattered corpse. Her feeling is that it should add up to more than it does. It should amount to something meaningful, some unholy grail or inverted power that she can use to shield herself, but the scandalous facts remain inert and somehow negligible as compared with the overriding reality of his absence. Unable to share the truth of her situation she’s forced to fall back on conventional statements such as, “I can’t believe it happened” and “It doesn’t seem possible.”

  The family man has been to see her parents, has been plying them with questions. She takes comfort in their proprietary outrage, their annoyance that her honesty and decency should be in doubt, their objection to picking through the details of her private life. As always, her parents talk to her simultaneously, her father upstairs in the bedroom, her mother on the kitchen extension. They know of course what Todd was up to before he died and don’t quite say that he had it coming, but clearly that’s what’s on their minds. She finds it endearing that they’ve done this about-face on her behalf, setting themselves so thoroughly against him.

  The family man has also been visiting her friends, and they too are on her side.

  Corinne says, “Most murders are committed by someone the victim knew, and ninety percent of the time it’s the spouse or the ex, so they have to check up on you. Don’t worry, it’s just routine.”

  Ellen says, “I’m sure you wanted to kill him and God knows you ought to have killed him. Look at it this way: Somebody else did it for you.”

  June says, “I told the detective that you didn’t do it.”

  The friend she most wants to speak to is Alison, but Alison is not returning her calls. She doesn’t know quite what to make of this. There’s no reason she can think of why Alison would be on the outs with her. It can’t be a money issue: Alison has her money. She wasn’t sure about handing over the full payment in advance, but Alison promised to dole it out to Renny in fitting installments. “No worries,” she said. “I’ll give him a down payment of half, or maybe not even—enough to enlist his recruits—and the balance when he gets the job done.” Maybe Alison is just being cautious. It could be that she wants to avoid contact till things settle down. But if that’s the case she could have said so in the first place.

  —

  The day before the funeral she drives to Oak Street, which features valet parking and the best shops, to look for a black skirt suit, a black overcoat, and a black hat. She knows that dressing in black for a funeral is not obligatory, but she wants to go this extra distance, let people know what kind of person she is, show them that in spite of Todd’s latest indiscretion she has enough class to see him off with proper respect. When she’s back home unwrapping her parcels, a call comes in from Cliff York.

  “How are you holding up?” he asks.

  The call is unexpected. Cliff was a fixture in Todd’s life, but it was rare for her to see him or hear from him. It occurs to her now that Todd’s death must be quite a blow to Cliff.

  “I’m doing okay,” she says. “I guess this is bad for you, too.”

  “It’s just kind of unbelievable,” he says. “A lot of us are taking it pretty hard.”

  By “a lot of us” she knows he means the construction crew, which includes men who share years of history with Cliff and Todd both.

  “I know,” she says. “It doesn’t seem possible.”

  “I guess we’re all still in shock,” he says. “But listen, I wanted to check in with you about the funeral. I hope you’re planning to come, and I know some of the guys are thinking about you, and—well, if I could just say something on Todd’s behalf, he made some mistakes and did some stupid things, got himself into a mess of trouble, and I don’t want to make excuses for him, but the way it happened, things just kind of spun out of control. He was up to his neck before he knew what hit him. I hope you don’t think it’s out of line for me to say so, but he spoke very highly of you right to the end. He really did, you know. I think he felt kind of lost, that things had gotten away from him. I think if he’d seen a chance to get back with you and get things back to normal, he would have jumped at it.”

  As Cliff is saying this she’s thinking about the eviction letter. Cliff probably doesn’t know about that. Why would Todd tell him what’s really going on when partial truths could get him sympathy? But anyway it’s nice of Cliff to call. He really just wants her to know that he’s on her side, she can see that, and she’s grateful for the effort he’s making.

  “I’m glad you called, Cliff,” she says. “I am planning to be at the funeral, so I guess I’ll see you there.”

  But Cliff has something else on his mind. He wants to talk business.

  “I don’t like to add to your burden, but I just want to say that the timing couldn’t be worse. The apartment house—another couple of weeks and it would have been done. It’s that close. And now the work has stopped, and I hate to think how long it’ll be on hold if we don’t do something about it. So I was thinking that—maybe after the funeral—you wouldn’t mind getting together. We could talk it over, look at some of the details, deal with the outstanding accounts, maybe find a way to carry on.”

  She understands that this is the real reason for Cliff’s call. Not that he didn’t mean everything he said, but uppermost in his mind is that Todd owes him money and the project is stalled.

  “I wish I could help,” she says, “but I’m in much the same position as you are. Maybe you should talk to Natasha.”

  He’s silent for a couple of beats, but then he comes back strong. “Todd didn’t write you out of his will if that’s what you’re thinking. He meant to provide for Natasha and the baby, of course, but he was going to wait until after the wedding. He thought it made more sense, the way the law works. But no. You’re safe there. As far as that goes, Natasha is out of the picture.”

  —

  The funeral takes place at the Montrose Cemetery and Crematorium on the northwest side. June and Corinne have teamed up as Jodi’s escorts. When they buzz her from the lobby she’s standing in front of the foyer mirror assessing the effect of her jet-black pillbox hat. Embellished with nothing but a puff of black netting, the hat is discreet—very funereal, very widow, very Jackie Kennedy. She’s wearing no makeup to speak of and her bloodless, waxy complexion for once appears fitting and seemly.

  She, June, and Corinne enter the chapel together, and heads turn. They seat themselves midway up the aisle. The coffin, resting on a plinth by the altar, is mercifully closed. She may be struggling to accept the fact that he’s dead, but she has no interest in seeing the evidence.

  Sheltered between her two friends, she’s feeling pleased that she decided to come, pleased that the chapel is filling up, pleased on Todd’s behalf that people are gathering in force to say their good-byes. The crowd, the setting, the trappings remind her of every funeral she’s ever attended, and she takes comfort in the congruity: the people coming together for a solemn common purpose, the pensive yet theatrical atmosphere, the flowers in their stiff arrangements, the mawkish scent of old wood, the daylight straining through colored glass, the dank chill, the self-important rustling of the crowd, and the hush that falls as the pastor steps up to the pulpit. Even the sermon is familiar, not tailored in any meaningful way to the identity of the deceased. Once dead we’re all alike, recruited into a common human denominator presided over by a scriptural template.

  Because death is the end of troubles, trials, pain, sorrow, and fear.

  Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was and the spirit shall return unto God who gave it.

  Naked came I out of my mother’s womb and naked shall I return thither. The Lord gave, and
the Lord hath taken away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.

  She is less gratified when the sermon veers toward Todd’s position as bridegroom and father-to-be, the all-important provider snatched away on the eve of matrimony. But the preacher has scant comfort to offer the bereaved bride.

  In all things give thanks. Gratitude looks beneath the surface. It is a deep and abiding acknowledgment that goodness exists, even behind the worst that life brings.

  The exodus when the service is over happens according to protocol, with the front rows of occupants peeling off first, followed by subsequent rows in stately, sober procession. Jodi has never encountered the adult edition of Natasha, but the girl grown up is not hard to spot as she moves past with chin raised and eyes averted. Aside from being taller and out of pigtails she looks much the same; her features had that swollen, sensual cast even in childhood. She’s attended by a cluster of friends, girls of her own age who surround her protectively. There’s no sign of Dean, not that Jodi was expecting to see him.

  The corpse remains where it is, soon to be taken away and cremated. Outside, people are milling around exchanging greetings. Everyone feels the relief of the bracing air, the social crush, and the imminent escape to the parking lot. Harry LeGroot stands before her and with no trace of embarrassment offers his condolences. Others line up behind him. Todd’s real-estate agent, a small man who talks too fast. Cliff and Heather York, Cliff looking dapper in his double-breasted suit. Various tradesmen who know her as Todd’s wife. All of them say how terrible it is and how sorry they are. Stephanie appears, flanked by tenants, asking what will happen to the office building. She says there are bills to be paid, that she isn’t authorized to sign checks. She wonders if she ought to stay on and try to deal with things. She’s worried about her pay.

  All this solicitation does Jodi good. It was the right decision to come here and show her face. There’s a sense that something fitting and proper is happening. Through Todd’s death her rightful position as his wife and heir has been restored. Embracing her newfound authority, the authority bestowed on her by the crowd and the occasion, she tells Stephanie that she will look into matters and get back to her. Jodi is grateful to Stephanie for tipping her off about the canceled credit cards, sparing her the indignity of finding herself in a shop unable to pay for her purchases. Stephanie didn’t need to stick her neck out like that.

  The postmortem takes place on the way home in the car. Corinne kicks it off by saying that Todd would have been pleased with the turnout. “The place was packed. There were even people standing at the back.”

  “A lot of people I didn’t recognize,” says Jodi. “Probably guys he’s worked with. Maybe a few nosy parkers who read about it in the paper.”

  “Some of it must have been family,” says June.

  “Todd didn’t have any family,” says Jodi.

  “None at all?”

  “Maybe a cousin or two somewhere. No one he knew.”

  “What about your family?”

  “I persuaded them not to come. It wasn’t that hard.”

  “Do you think Natasha made the arrangements?” asks Corinne.

  “Had to be Natasha. It was all a bit tawdry if you ask me. I was kind of embarrassed for Todd.”

  “What was wrong with it?”

  “It was obviously done on the cheap. You know. She had a closed coffin so she wouldn’t have to pay for embalming. Opted for cremation to save money on the coffin. Todd didn’t want to be cremated; he wanted to be buried. He might have liked a proper Catholic mass as well.”

  “I didn’t know Todd was a Catholic,” says June.

  “He wasn’t a practicing Catholic. But he was raised Catholic.”

  “I guess the coffin was a rental job,” says Corinne. “I think that’s how it’s done for cremations.”

  “It was definitely a rental job,” says Jodi.

  “I wonder if he was there,” says June. “You know how they say that people show up at their own funeral. Drift around the room to check attendance and listen to what’s being said about them.”

  “He would have been desperate to upgrade it,” says Jodi.

  “I guess Natasha will get the ashes,” says Corinne.

  “She’s welcome to them,” says Jodi.

  “Did you speak to her at all?”

  “No. Thankfully. She kept her distance.”

  “She knew enough to steer clear of you.”

  “What could she possibly have to say to me now that she has nothing to gloat about?”

  “It’s great that things worked out in your favor,” says Corinne. “As far as the will goes, I mean. I’m so happy for you, Jodi. After all you’ve been through, you really deserve this.”

  “God works in mysterious ways,” says June.

  —

  After the funeral, life picks up its normal rhythms. She’s back to her morning dog walks, her workouts, her clients, and dinner with friends. But her habitual poise and self-assurance are gone. She no longer inhabits her world with any degree of composure, and over the passing days she comes to feel appalled by what she’s gone and done, unable to grasp how it could have happened. Every morning when she wakes up there’s a time delay before she remembers, a peaceful second or two before it hits her, and it always hits her in the same way: like a news flash. Time passes but the facts refuse to settle and recede.

  She feels that in killing him off she killed off parts of herself as well. But at heart she knows that those parts perished long ago—the parts that were guileless and trusting, wholehearted and devout. Places where life once flowed, having lost their blood supply, became dead spots in her psychic tissue, succumbed to a form of necrosis that also invaded the thing that was neither her nor him but the ground between them, the relationship itself. You’d think that she, a psychologist, would have put a stop to it, found a way to save herself, to save the two of them, but the process was subtle, insidious, all but imperceptible. It happened the way your face changes as you age: Every day you look in the mirror and every day you fail to notice the difference.

  She never saw the point in fighting with a man who was not going to reform. Acceptance is supposed to be a good thing—Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change. Also compromise, as every couples therapist will tell you. But the cost was high—the damping of expectation, the dwindling of spirit, the resignation that comes to replace enthusiasm, the cynicism that supplants hope. The moldering that goes unnoticed and unchecked.

  There are practical problems, too. For one thing she must now provide for herself entirely, taking up the slack where income is concerned. Her practice generates enough to cover household costs, and for everything else she can continue to sell off her trinkets, but sooner or later she’ll run out of trinkets and the bills will overtake her. She may be Todd’s acknowledged heir, but she is far from home free. As much as she would like to, she can’t shake the feeling that the walls are closing in on her. The family man is hard at work looking for evidence that will bring her down, talking to everyone she knows, pursuing her like a well-trained bloodhound. Her friends have been calling to tell her as much. Like her, they find him unnervingly methodical, perversely polite. June, Corinne, and Ellen agree on this. There’s been no word from Alison, but this doesn’t mean that Alison has been overlooked. The family man has ways of finding things out. He even showed up at the funeral; she noticed him after the service, standing alone at the edge of the crowd. He smiled when he caught her eye, just to let her know that he hadn’t forgotten her, that he was watching her, that he’d be back to see her with more questions or the same questions. In case she thought she was off the hook.

  Remembering her promise to Stephanie she calls Harry LeGroot to ask for details of Todd’s estate. He suggests they meet for lunch. She doesn’t look forward to it, but once they’re seated at Blackie’s he begins the process of winning her over. He’s sorry about the eviction letter; he had no choice but to follow his client’s instructions. He understands tha
t Todd was not an easy man to live with. He, Harry, was forever urging Todd to settle down and spend more time at home. Philandering is for men with ugly wives or boring relationships, whereas Jodi is beautiful and accomplished. There was no need for Todd to carry on the way he did. He had a wild streak that couldn’t be tempered. Todd was a maverick, a dissident, a man in pursuit of an illusive and ill-defined ideal. Whatever he managed to achieve or attain or accumulate was never going to be enough.

  This is Harry talking and Jodi gradually surrenders. Harry is charming, persuasive, and knowledgeable. His twin specialties are real estate and family law, two areas where she greatly needs assistance. Harry is not only on her side, he’s optimistic about her prospects. Still, she needs to get ready for a battle. Although she is named in the will as executor and sole beneficiary, and although the will is legal and proper, Natasha Kovacs will doubtless stake a claim on behalf of herself and her unborn child. She will argue that the deceased meant to change his will after he married her. And her claim will have merit. But Harry has seen this kind of thing before, and there’s no trusting a young woman who takes up with an older man. God knows he’s a cynic—fired in the kiln of too many youthful wives—but it wouldn’t surprise him to learn that Natasha had lovers aside from the deceased.

  “We shall see,” says Harry.

  Even in the event that Todd’s paternity is verified, he adds, there’s really nothing to worry about. She, Jodi, can afford to be generous. A settlement for child support would not make much of a dent in her assets.

  Harry is eager to proceed on her behalf. He will file a probate claim. He will see about power of attorney. He will start to prepare his case. And according to Jodi’s wishes he will get in touch with Stephanie and arrange to retain her on behalf of the estate.

  —

  Every day she waits for the family man’s return, catches herself waiting in spite of her resolve to put him out of her mind. But his next move is unexpected. When the knock comes—in the early afternoon as she’s writing out a shopping list—and she succumbs to the inevitable by opening the door, the man standing there is not him but a colleague he’s sent in his place, a colleague as thin as a rail who can’t be more than thirty, but who nonetheless shows her his ID and tells her that he is Detective Somebody-or-Other. The man has the eyes of a psychopath, a nearly colorless blue with pupils like pinpricks and white half-moons riding beneath the irises. He pushes past her, moving uninvited into her living room. Like everyone else he gravitates to the view, which gives her a moment to take stock of the back of him in his black jeans and nylon bomber jacket. Skinny legs, skinny ass, sloped shoulders, big head. But he doesn’t stand there for long.