The Good Wife

by Stewart O'Nan

  Casey just nods, keeping quiet, as if waiting for the conversation to be over so he can leave.

  “I’m hoping next year’s going to be better,” she says, almost a promise. Does she really believe that?

  It’s got to be. She has her application in at a bunch of places. The job she really wants is on the canning line at Ann Page Foods in Horseheads. Cy’s cousin Mary Beth told him about it, so it hasn’t even been advertised. It’s a long commute but steady work with union benefits and a shot at overtime. Her fantasy is that she gets the job and then saves enough so they can move into their own place—not in Elmira but right here, on the west side of town. She wants to keep Casey in the same school so he can be with his friends. It’s taken a while, but he seems to have found his crowd, and she doesn’t want to mess that up.

  She never hears back from Ann Page. She takes a job she saw in the paper—dispatcher at a trucking company in Nichols. It’s closer and pays almost the same, but instead of being with a dozen other women, she’s the only one. The office is a trailer crammed with file cabinets, and her boss chain-smokes little cigars. When she gets home at night she smells like a burning tire. For five months she keeps the job for the lack of anything better, but when one of the truckers makes a blatant pass at her and her boss treats it like a joke, she quits right then and there, grabbing her purse from her bottom drawer and stomping out to her car. Her mother says she did the right thing. Patty doesn’t tell Tommy the whole story, and doesn’t have to; it wasn’t like she ever thought of the job as long-term.

  So she’s between jobs again when their next FRP approaches. Belatedly, they’re going to celebrate Casey’s birthday. She’d hoped to have enough for the Atari by now, to show him things ultimately do work out. Instead, she’s going to make him a devil’s food cake. She doesn’t want to ask her mother for anything else, so she has to borrow forty dollars from Eileen to buy groceries. It’s not the first time Eileen’s helped her out, and driving home from the ShurSave, Patty tries to think of a way to pay her back. Make dinner for them, take them out to the races. Everything depends on her getting another job, getting some money, and as usual when it comes to her money troubles, soon she’s imagining Shannon and how easy her life is.

  She doesn’t want to be old and bitter, but here she is, almost forty, and broke, and they’re not even halfway yet.

  The only thing that keeps her going is the FRP, and now she’s worried about the four months after that. She catches herself looking past their visit, and she can’t afford to. She has to appreciate whatever time they have together and not try to hold the whole twenty-five years in her head at once, otherwise the size of it will drive her crazy. It’s like the AA bumper sticker she sees everywhere—One Day at a Time.

  When she gets home the house is empty. Her mother’s got an altar guild meeting and Casey’s bus isn’t due for another hour. Patty takes advantage of the unexpected privacy to stash the cake makings in the bottom of a box she’s started. She just needs to remember the eggs Saturday morning.

  She’s in the middle of burying the baker’s chocolate when the phone rings. She’s hoping it might be NYSEG calling about the meter reader job, but it’s the coordinator from Auburn. She’s calling about their FRP scheduled for the upcoming weekend. She hopes she’s caught Patty before she’s made too many arrangements because she’s afraid it’s been cancelled.

  “What?” Patty asks, because it doesn’t make sense.

  “I’m sorry,” the woman says.

  “Did something happen? Is Tommy all right?” She thinks of the stabbing. It has to be serious to cancel a visit this late. Either Tommy’s gotten into trouble or the whole place is on lockdown.

  “Your husband’s fine as far as I know. The reason for your visit being cancelled is that he’s been transferred.”

  “What?” she says. “That’s impossible. He hasn’t done anything.”

  “I don’t know what the reason for the transfer is, all I know is that he has been transferred.”

  Her certainty freezes Patty, and she understands that nothing she can say to this woman will get their FRP back. That’s minor.

  “Where is he?” she asks.

  THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE

  HE’S IN CLINTON, ALL THE WAY UPSTATE, ACROSS THE MASSIVE GREEN patch of the Adirondacks, near the Canadian border. Like Auburn, the prison itself isn’t on the map—as if it doesn’t exist—just the town of Dannemora. She has to prod Casey east to find it in the corner by Lake Champlain, a dot at a crossroads, even smaller than Owego.

  At least she can make it there taking all interstates: 88 from Binghamton to the Thruway, then straight north on 87. She uses the weblike guide on the back to add up the mileage. It’s over six hours with pit stops. They’ll have to leave around two in the morning to beat the bus from the city—except where is she going to get the money to pay for gas? And how is she going to drive twelve hours after waking up at two? What about in winter, when it snows, because it’s like being at the top of Vermont, and she can’t afford a motel. It’s just too far.

  They’re never given an official reason. When Tommy finally calls, he says the guards pulled him out of the plate shop in the middle of his shift. They’d already broken down his cell. One of them was carrying a cardboard box with his stuff; the other had his paperwork. The three guys in the van with him were all in the middle of long bids and up for good time. He says it like they made a mistake, like there are rules.

  It’s only later, when she’s talking with Prisoners’ Legal Services, trying to find out how to reapply for their FRP, that a volunteer explains that inmates sometimes get moved just because they’ve been in one place too long. They get to know the guards too well. They can get away with stuff that other inmates can’t, and the others naturally resent it.

  Patty doesn’t buy it—Tommy’s never mentioned being friendly with any guards, only that some of them are assholes and some aren’t—but it makes as much sense as anything else. And really, at this point the reason doesn’t matter.

  The woman at Legal Services seems to understand. Her husband’s a lifer; he’s been all over. Because she’s been through it, she has answers to questions Patty hasn’t even thought of, like how to request the package guidelines for Clinton, since they’re different from Auburn. Visiting’s going to be different too. “From what I hear it’s not as bad as Attica or Greenhaven,” she says. “Just cold.”

  They talk a long time, almost like friends. Patty admits that lately it’s been hard on her financially; the transfer couldn’t have come at a worse time. The woman asks if Patty’s in touch with any support groups, then gives her the number of an outreach ministry in Elmira that runs a bus every weekend. “They take donations,” the lady on the phone says, meaning it’s okay if she can’t pay.

  They can help her find a job; in the meantime, if she’s having trouble making ends meet, they can help her apply for welfare.

  Patty says she’s just interested in the bus for now.

  She decides not to make Casey go with her this first time, and she can tell he’s relieved. Eileen drops her off in the parking lot at midnight. On the bus a minister wearing an expensive-looking sweater hands her a pamphlet and encourages her to sit anywhere, they’re not full tonight. The pamphlet’s religious, and for a minute she’s afraid they’ll have to listen to a sermon as they ride, but once they close the doors and get going, he just sits up front by the driver.

  17’s empty, the lights whizzing by outside.

  She wakes up in a city that turns out to be Albany. The door’s open, letting in the cold. It’s four in the morning and people are climbing aboard, filing down the aisle. A woman her mother’s age shuffles past, clutching the unwanted pamphlet to her purse. Someone up front has a baby that only stops squawling when they get back on the interstate. By then Patty’s wide awake, her feet swollen and crampy from sitting for so long. There’s no smoking, no scenery but a wavering strip of guardrail in the darkness that hurts her eyes. All she can do is ta
ke off her shoes and tuck her legs up on the seat, make a pillow of her bag and try to ignore the clip of the tires galloping over the expansion joints. Eventually she succeeds, dropping into a series of weird dreams she can’t remember when they pull into a truck stop outside of Plattsburgh for gas.

  Dawn is breaking. In the pink light she can see other buses in the plaza with them—the women from downstate she used to wake up early to beat. She knows it’s wrong, but she wants the driver to hurry up so they can be first in line. While they’re sitting there, one bus pulls out, then another, and another.

  When they finally set off again, the driver leaves the interstate and heads straight into the hills. The two-lane blacktop follows a brown-bottomed trout stream between steep slopes of pines. Everyone’s awake now, trying to put themselves together, teasing and spraying their hair. Patty’s mouth is sour and her cheeks are hot, as if she has a fever. As they wind through the valley she joins the line for the bathroom, her toothbrush in her makeup bag. When it’s her turn she splashes water on her face only to discover they’re out of paper towels. She has to pat herself dry with toilet paper, then appraises what she sees in the mirror.

  Even in the weak light, the bags and worry lines draw her attention. In two months she’ll be forty, an age she never thought she’d be. She rubs in cover-up and takes extra time to fix her eyes, ignoring a knock on the door. Some blush and lipstick for color. It’s not perfect, but it’ll have to do.

  She’s back in her seat and ready for action when the bus pulls into Dannemora. The town’s even smaller than Auburn, a dozen square blocks dwarfed on all sides by the endless green hills. The prison comes right to the curb of the dinky main street, the long front wall looming over the road like a dam. Thirty feet up, railed catwalks connect glassed-in gun turrets like the tops of lighthouses. On the other side of the street sit white frame homes with garages and yards, a Winnebago, a boat under a tarp. The bus slows to turn into the visitors’ lot and the baby up front wails, inconsolable. There are marked spots in the middle for buses. There have to be at least six of them there already.

  The prison seems even bigger when she steps down. It’s cold for this time of year, and quiet: she can hear the wind in the flags out front. When she stands still, she catches clouds sliding west across the top of the hills. It looks like rain.

  Once everyone’s off, the minister leads them inside a separate visitors’ center like they’re a tour group. They’re lugging packages, bags, dresses on hangers. The waiting room’s bigger here, but louder, more crowded. The other buses must be from the city. A lot of the women look like they’re dressed for church, in flashy outfits with matching hats. Patty’s aware of her whiteness, and the guards’. Since it’s her first time, she has to fill out new paperwork—or the old guard fills it out for her, incredibly slowly—meaning that of all the people on her bus, she’s the last to get a number.

  The waiting is the same, and the lazy pace of processing, the head guy at the desk calling three numbers and then a few minutes later three more. The guards stand aside, businesslike, trying not to get involved. She reads the paperback of The Mammoth Hunters Eileen lent her, checking her watch every so often. When the guy finally calls her, it’s ten-thirty.

  They walk across the lot to the prison entrance. The scanners here are different—fancier, brand new. If you beep at all, they pull you aside and wave a black wand shaped like a Dustbuster over you, front and back. Patty leaves her bag in a locker, knowing her cosmetics will never make it through.

  She passes and moves with the group to the visiting room. There aren’t separate tables for them to sit at, but a series of long counters with visitors on one side and prisoners on the other, everyone packed in shoulder to shoulder, kids sitting on laps. When she takes a seat at an empty place, she finds there’s a divider underneath. While she waits for Tommy to be brought down, she tries to ignore the private conversations on both sides of her and looks around the room for clues to how much contact is allowed. All over, couples are holding hands, and there, a pair leans across the counter and clinches, then sits down. The guard at the desk notices but doesn’t stop them. It must be permitted, Patty thinks. No one would come this far and risk losing a visit. Still, she needs to make sure, and she’s relieved when she spots another couple embracing.

  It always surprises her how he looks the same no matter how she’s feeling. He’s still lean and muscled—in better shape than she is. His hair hasn’t changed in years, maybe a few white threads in his sideburns, and he’s wearing the same dingy state greens she’ll never get used to. She stands and squeezes him, the stubble of his jaw brushing her cheek, a feeling she’s forgotten she missed until now. Every time, seeing him in person reminds her of how weak her memory is.

  They break because they have to, pull their chairs close and take each other’s hands.

  “How was the bus?”

  “Easy,” she says. “I should have brought Casey.”

  “How’s he doing?”

  “Good. He’s ready for school to be over, that’s for sure.”

  “I thought he was getting straight A’s.”

  “His trouble’s getting up in the morning. He keeps missing his bus. I swear, one of these days I’m going to make him walk.”

  Patty knows at some point she’ll have to tiptoe around her money troubles and how it’s going to make visiting him that much harder, but their problems can wait. They talk about the coming summer and what she wants for her birthday (nothing, just their FRP). They talk about her mother’s garden and laugh at how Patty trapped that skunk one year. Tommy says she won’t believe it, there are gardens here called courts, a whole hillside of them out back where different cliques hang out.

  “That’s weird,” she says, trying to picture it, and the conversation stalls, letting in the clunk of the microwave’s door, the electric hum of something cooking. It’s not awkward anymore; after so many years they’ve gotten used to the silences.

  “You hungry?” Tommy asks, and they hit the vending machines—picked clean, only some coconut yogurts and soggy meatball subs left, a few rusty cans of tomato juice. She brought all this change and there’s nothing to spend it on.

  She knows she shouldn’t let it get to her, but she’s tired. She’s kept things together for so long that she doesn’t know what to do now that they’re falling apart. She wants to confess everything to Tommy, to melt down right here so he’ll comfort her, except she’d never do that to him, especially not now, in a new place.

  “Hell,” she says, “let’s live dangerously,” and punches the button for a meatball sub.

  They talk about getting back their FRP. Patty tells him about Prison Families and how they hooked her up with the holy roller bus. She doesn’t mention what the lady said about applying for welfare.

  “So how is it?” she asks.

  “It’s not bad.” He thinks, tipping his coffee cup to see it’s empty. “It’s different. You get used to having the same people around so you know what to expect. I don’t have a work assignment, that’s the worst thing.”

  “It’s going to be cold,” she says.

  “Yeah, I was going to ask you to order me some long johns. A lot of my stuff didn’t make it.”

  “I’ll send a money order,” she says, as if it’s no problem.

  She misses the privacy of their FRP, the luxury of whispering in bed, cooking for him. Soon they’re at the part where Tommy asks after her mother and Patty dismisses him: “You know her, she never changes.” It’s nearly three. Around the room, people are watching the clock to make sure they get every minute. Even before the guard calls over the PA that visiting hours are over, Patty feels flat and disappointed.

  And there’s no reason to be. He seems healthy and in decent spirits, considering, and whatever was going on at Auburn is over, she hopes. She mulls it over on the bus, green scenery sweeping by the window. The rain’s gone and the sky’s rosy. Around her everyone’s changed back into their street clothes. They’re chat
ting and laughing, riding the high of seeing their men. Usually Patty’s happy after a visit, still full of him, already looking forward to the next one, but today she feels strange and out of it, as if she’s getting sick. Part of it’s how far away he is, because as much as she wants to believe the distance doesn’t matter, it does make a difference, but part of it’s also that her life is such a mess right now that she feels she can’t help him.

  The first thing she needs to do is get a job and hang on to it, it doesn’t matter what. Tomorrow she’ll hit the classifieds; Monday she’ll call Prison Families. Visiting won’t be easy, but she’ll find a way, even if it means taking the bus every other week. Eventually they’ll get back their FRP. Things can only get better.

  LAST NAME FIRST

  THE WOMAN AT PRISON FAMILIES WALKS HER THROUGH THE GUIDELINES over the phone. What surprises Patty the most is how they’re eligible for welfare. Their family income is well below the maximum, and has been for years, meaning they could have been getting checks all along. Patty thinks she was stupid not to do this before. After how much the state has taken from them, she’s not ashamed to ask for something back.

  She doesn’t tell anyone she’s applying. She drives down to the state office one morning and submits last year’s tax forms and signs the papers for a woman who doesn’t ask her any questions, then drives back home and tries to forget about it. If she’s approved, the first check should arrive in thirty days. In that time, with Cy’s help, she lands a job as a health aide at Riverview Manor and does what she swore she’d never do: goes back to Ruby Tuesday’s.

  She gets up at six and makes Casey breakfast, then leaves her mother in charge of getting him on the bus. The job at Riverview is half dealing with patients and half housekeeping—mopping up bathrooms, peeling wet sheets off beds. Her shift starts at 7:30 and ends at 4, which gives her just enough time to get home and feed Casey before the dinner shift. She works lunch Saturday and Sunday for the tips, but because of visiting she sets up her schedule so she has every other weekend off.