The Good Wife

by Stewart O'Nan

  She wanders through the house as if she’s searching for something. She needs to get dressed. She needs to call her mother.

  She blasts the shower, slapping the suds out of her hair. Toweling off, she rubs her skin red, and still there’s too much time to think. The idea that he might have done it—that the two of them might have done it together—takes her over slowly, like a drug, paralyzing her. Obviously they’ve been lying to her and Donna all this time. And she’s gone along with it. She thinks of all the poker nights he didn’t get home till three in the morning, and the money he said he won (how could he never lose?). She keeps moving, to her dresser, where she hauls on a cold pair of stretchy jeans, the waist an equator around her belly. She piles on layers—a T-shirt and then a sweater—steals a pair of his wool hunting socks. The blow-dryer fries her bangs. It’s not even five; she should be asleep, waiting for the alarm to go off.

  The coffee fills the house, but she’s afraid to put on the radio. In the driveway, a few flakes twirl down through the outside light. Where the fuck is Eileen?

  She can’t wait for her to save her. She digs her bankbook from her bag and sits at the kitchen table. The rent and the car payments are due around the same time she’s going to get her check. He should be getting paid this week. Next week is Thanksgiving, and then Christmas right after that. She was going to get him new workboots, waterproof ones.

  Her car is worth two thousand, maybe—but then how would she get to work?

  If she has to ask Shannon for the money, she will.

  She thinks if she just waits another hour, her mother will be up. That way she won’t have to wake her.

  She goes to his dresser and roots through the drawers, turning up a scuffed wallet and a dress belt she gave him last Christmas, still curled in its see-through box. She’s digging through his shoes in the bottom of the closet when the doorbell stops her.

  “Pats,” Eileen says, taking her in her arms.

  “It’s bad, Leenie, it’s so bad. I talked to Donna.”

  “What’d she say?”

  “It sounded like they killed someone.” She looks to Eileen as if to confirm how crazy the idea is.

  “What did she say exactly?”

  From the way Eileen concentrates, Patty understands that she believes it could have actually happened.

  “Did you call Perry?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about Mom?”

  “Not yet.”

  Eileen clamps a hand over her mouth, then shakes her head. “We need to find out what’s going on.”

  “Tommy told me not to talk to Donna over the phone.”

  “That’s probably smart.”

  “What if we called the jail?”

  “They won’t tell you shit. You don’t want to be talking with them anyway. We just have to wait till he’s arraigned and see what they charge him with.”

  She’s seen enough TV to know it will be murder. And it is like TV, it still doesn’t seem real, except that Tommy’s in jail and all they can do is wait.

  “You should call Mom,” Eileen says.

  PROOF

  HER MOTHER’S SILENCE STRETCHES BETWEEN THEM, GROWS UNTIL Patty has to fill it, spilling as little information as possible. She lies to her, says they don’t know what the charges are.

  Still no response. Patty paces, the cord reeling her back into the kitchen.

  “We’re trying to see what a decent lawyer will cost.”

  “Do you have the money for that?” her mother asks.

  “No,” Patty admits, and the answer hangs in electronic space between them. “I figured I might as well check. Otherwise we’ll end up with a court-appointed one.”

  Eileen shakes her head at Patty, holds out an open hand to show there’s no talking with her.

  “That’s all we know right now,” Patty says. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything.”

  Her mother doesn’t offer to come over, just thanks her for letting her know. Not a word about Tommy and how he is. It’s no secret: she’s always thought Patty could have done better, and Patty’s always held it against her, has held up their happiness as proof that she was wrong about him. Now it’s her mother’s turn.

  They stumble toward a goodbye. “I love you, Mom,” she says, stooped over the receiver so she can hang up.

  “Pats,” her mother interrupts—the first thing she’s really said the whole call. “You know I’ll do what I can.”

  “Eileen’s helping me.”

  “God save us,” her mother says.

  MANNERS

  THERE’S NO NUMBER FOR THE COUNTY JAIL. THE BLUE PAGES IS NO help; the operator says they show no listing. She tries the courthouse but it just rings. Finally she gives in and calls the sheriff’s department, sure she’s being recorded.

  “I’ll transfer you,” the woman says.

  “Can you give me the number in case I get cut off?”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, I can’t. Please hold.”

  The guy at the jail sounds tired, as if she’s interrupting his sleep. “What’s the name of the prisoner you’re looking for?” he asks, then says she’s not allowed to talk to him.

  He doesn’t know what time his arraignment is.

  No, he doesn’t know who she could call to find out.

  The courthouse opens at nine o’clock.

  “Thank you,” Patty says, as if being polite might help.

  THE DIFFERENCE

  THE PLOWS ARE OUT, SCRAPING THE MAIN ROADS, BUT THE SNOW’S falling hard and they can’t keep up. It’s a blowing snow, swirling, flying sideways, cars coming the other way suddenly bursting through the white curtain with their brights on and their wipers flipping. The clouds are right down on them, the hills invisible. The windows are steamed. She can barely see the trees at the far edge of the fields, just a dark band that follows them down the valley. Eileen’s driving too fast, Patty thinks, because now she pictures the worst happening, disaster lurking everywhere. She’s afraid they’ll never get there, the Bronco overturned in a ditch or rammed under the back of a salt truck. She’s afraid they’ll be too late to save him.

  She has her bankbook and her checkbook, for what little good it will do them. Perry’s lawyer wanted a retainer of five thousand dollars up front. The only way she could raise that much would be to sell his truck, and that was just to look at the case, that didn’t include the actual cost of the trial. When she started to cry, the guy told her that public defenders are better than most people think and gave her some names. The list is in her purse, along with the tide to the truck.

  She’s called in sick—another thing to feel guilty about. Russ must have talked with Perry or Donna; he knew Tommy wasn’t coming in.

  At least her mother won’t tell anyone.

  They approach Owego from the west, snaking along the river with the railroad tracks, past the boat launch and the cemetery and the speedway. It’s the heart of rush hour, a parade of taillights. West Main takes them straight downtown to the historic brick courthouse, where the streets change to one-way, circling the square with its gazebo and Civil War statue and chained-off garden and empty park benches. The clock tower glows through the snow. The light poles are decorated with cookie-cutter bells and reindeer, tinsel bristling in the wind. Eileen nabs the last parking spot, gunning the Bronco across two lanes and cutting some guy off, slapping her signal on—and like that, they’re right on time.

  It feels like a trap, as if they’ll arrest her once she steps out of the car, wrestle her to the ground. The Great American is lit, posters in the windows advertising the price of turkey and canned pumpkin pie filling. She’s surprised to see the drive-thru of the Dunkin’ Donuts where she sometimes stops is doing its usual business, as if it were any other day.

  The courthouse is different too, no longer a beautiful antique, harmless and picturesque. She’s driven by it thousands of times yet has never been inside. In third grade she missed the field trip to the mayor’s office because she had chicken pox; when Eilee
n got busted she would have gone to her trial except Eileen pleaded guilty. It’s as if the place has been waiting for her all these years.

  “Ready?” Eileen asks.

  She clambers down out of the Bronco. It’s snowing, and her coat doesn’t zip all the way closed. The footing’s tricky; Eileen takes her arm. They put their heads down and trudge for the side entrance, jostling each other—tracked, she imagines, by every passing car.

  The door’s locked, and they check their watches. Any regular day, she’d already be at work. She’s imagining herself in one of the cars smoking past, headed across the bridge, when Donna comes slipping and sliding up the sidewalk in her kneeboots and jeans and black leather jacket, her dark hair blowing across her face like a scarf.

  Her eyes are a mess, her nose red. Patty thinks she’s dressed wrong for the part but doesn’t say anything, just holds her a minute before passing her on to Eileen. It’s like their father’s funeral; they don’t know what to say.

  “You guys hear anything?” Donna asks.

  “No,” Patty says, “you?”

  “I talked to Lori. Her brother went out on a call last night around two-thirty.”

  “What else did Gary tell you?” Patty asks. She leans in close to Donna, almost whispers it. Eileen’s part of the huddle.

  “He said it was an accident. The old lady was supposed to be away. I guess she hit her head on something.”

  “What were they doing there?”

  “What do you think, Patty?” Donna asks. “Don’t pretend like you don’t know.”

  “I don’t,” Patty says. “I swear to God.”

  “They were drunk and riding around. Things just got out of hand.”

  “No shit they got out of hand,” Eileen says.

  “The old lady freaked on them. I talked to a lawyer in Corning. He says because it was an accident they’re probably looking at manslaughter.”

  Drunk, an accident. Patty clings to these facts as Donna goes on—and Donna can’t stop talking, it’s like they’re the only people who’ll listen to her. Patty feels sorry for her. It’s unfair to blame her for something Gary did. They’ve never been close-close friends, but it seems wrong to treat her so coldly.

  If it’s not manslaughter, it’s murder, and that’s a lot harder to prove.

  Inside, a shriveled security guard with a white shirt and a gold badge is walking up the hall, picking through his keys. The three of them turn to him, then wait as he fiddles with the lock.

  He holds the door for them. Her shoes are wet and the marble floor is treacherous. She was so eager to get inside; now she realizes she has no idea where she’s going. The old guy waves for them to follow him.

  The courtroom resembles a bare church, the judge’s bench a pulpit surrounded by high-backed pews, the dozen empty chairs of the tiered jury box a choir stall. The ceiling is vaulted; their footsteps echo. They hesitate in the aisle, not wanting to sit down yet, as if taking the front row amounts to a confession.

  “I’m so tired,” Donna says. “I swear I haven’t sat down since I got the call.” She can’t stop babbling, her hands flapping like birds.

  Patty worries that Tommy will be mad at her for sitting with Donna. She tries to think of a way to tell him they can’t afford a lawyer, that they’re just going to have to trust a public defender. She has the names in her bag, and knows she won’t share them with Donna. It’s selfish, but they’re not married, Donna’s not about to have a baby. She doesn’t need Gary the way Patty needs Tommy.

  “What is taking them so long?” Donna interrupts herself.

  “I know,” Patty says. “My butt’s falling asleep.”

  From the hall comes a flurry, the clash of heavy doors closing, a herd of footsteps. They turn in time to see a team of cops tromp past. Beside her, Donna rises. It’s Gary, his bowed head visible for just a second in the throng, his dark beard. Patty uses the back of the bench to push herself up on one knee, but the action’s over.

  “Did you see Tommy?”

  “No,” Donna says, still standing and staring at the open door as if they might reappear.

  “Just Gary,” Eileen seconds.

  Secretly, Patty’s glad. She thinks it’s a good sign that Gary’s first—as if his case is more serious.

  Donna sits down, then gets up again and hurries to the door for another look. She comes walking back, followed by a guy in a suit who looks like a lawyer—wearing glasses, carrying a thick file of papers. He notices them but passes without a nod, pushes through the waist-high gate and takes a seat at a table.

  A door opens in the paneling beside the jury box, and in wander two cops and another guy in a suit. He goes over to the lawyer and shakes his hand. The two of them stand there chatting like old country club buddies. They’re only a couple of feet away from Patty but it’s like the rail’s a force field.

  “Excuse me,” Eileen says, to get their attention. “Excuse me?” They both turn to her. “Is this the hearing for Gary Rooker and Tommy Dickerson?”

  The guy with the file has to look at his paperwork. “Rooker’s first, Dickerson’ll be right after him.”

  Behind them, the doors to the hallway fall shut with a clank.

  From the door in the paneling come two more cops, Gary shuffling between them, his head bent as if he’s trying to hide his face. His hair hasn’t been combed and hangs down over his eyes, and he’s wearing wrinkled sea-green hospital scrubs. Donna stands and cranes over the rail, and automatically Patty and Eileen are up and by her side. Gary finds her, gives her a look from under his hair that Patty reads as resigned, then ducks his head again. The cops walk him to the judge’s bench and stand there with their backs turned.

  “All rise,” one of the other cops announces, and the paneling behind the bench opens. The place is like a haunted house, full of secret passages and trapdoors.

  To Patty’s surprise, the judge is a woman a little younger than her mother, and tiny, child-sized in her black robe, her hair neatly pulled back, dark lipstick. Under one arm she has a yellow legal pad on a clipboard. She surveys the court like a queen before letting them sit down—all of them except Gary and the cops.

  The lawyer takes a paper from his file and approaches the bench with it, hands it up to the judge, who glances at it—too fast to actually read it—then looks directly at Gary. For a second she doesn’t say anything, just looks at him, and Patty knows the look. It’s the look of her mother when she knows she’s right, a look that dares you to even try to justify yourself.

  Donna takes Patty’s hand and squeezes. Patty feels Eileen doing the same on the other side.

  “Mr. Rooker, you are charged by the State of New York with one count of murder in the second degree and one count of burglary in the second degree. You have the right to hire your own private lawyer in this matter. If you can’t afford an attorney the court will assign one to represent you.”

  She runs through the words too fast. Patty’s still catching up to “murder.” Beside her, Donna is biting back tears.

  “Do you understand, Mr. Rooker?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Will you be hiring a private lawyer to represent you?”

  “No, your honor. I can’t afford that.”

  “All right then, I’ll assign a lawyer to represent you. Please have them here with you for arraignment tomorrow, the twenty-second of November. In the matter of bail, I’ll ask for a recommendation from the district attorney’s office.”

  The lawyer stands up at his table. “The district attorney’s office advises that the charge is a class A felony, therefore defendant must be remanded without bail.”

  “Defendant is ordered held without bail at this point.”

  The judge smacks the gavel, and that’s it. The cops start hauling Gary away.

  It seems too short, like they’ve skipped something. Gary looks back at Donna as the cops lead him out, and again Patty feels like she’s eavesdropping on something private. And then the door by the jury box closes
, and he’s gone.

  Donna gets up and heads for the hall. Patty’s first reaction is to go after her, but Eileen reaches over and stays her.

  She didn’t notice anyone come in, but there are more people in the court than before, including two younger guys in suits a few rows behind them, both of them sitting alone and taking notes.

  “I thought she said it was going to be manslaughter,” Eileen whispers.

  “That’s what she thought. I don’t know what the difference is exactly.”

  Patty’s expecting the worst now. Donna’s leather jacket slumps between them, and she thinks she doesn’t really wish her any harm, she just wants things to be fair for Tommy. They both know Gary’s an instigator, that after a couple of beers he can talk Tommy into anything. Tommy was just going along with one of Gary’s crazy schemes. He probably just needed a ride.

  She wonders if it would have happened if he hadn’t scored that goal. If they hadn’t won, there would have been nothing to celebrate.

  It’s going to be murder, she knows it the same way she knows she’s going to have a boy.

  Meanwhile, they wait. Donna hasn’t come back. The lawyer is talking with the other guy again, jabbing at his tie to make a point. The judge straightens her papers like an anchorwoman. The tall radiators hiss. The snow from Patty’s boots has melted to a dirty puddle someone will have to clean up, and she thinks of the building standing in the middle of town all these years, how she never suspected things like this went on inside it day after day. They were just stories in the paper or on TV, juicy rumors her mother brought home from the beauty parlor and unwrapped like gifts over dinner.

  Donna returns. They’re just getting settled when the door by the jury box opens again, followed by the scuff and clatter of footsteps. The lawyers separate, the judge looks over. Eileen takes Patty’s hand and stands with her. So does Donna, and she takes back every selfish thing she’s thought so far.