The Loyal Wife

by Natalie Barelli

  “That’s quite a segue, girlfriend, why do you care?”

  “Because you’re my friend! And I’m trying to understand why you’d say that! Do you really have an MBA? Or did you make that up, too?”

  “Has it occurred to you that maybe Madison made it up?”

  Her lips form a perfect O. “Did she?”

  I sigh. “No. She didn’t. Not exactly. The accountant part, that was an assumption on Mike’s part because that’s where he met me. And he told Madison, and I never got around to, you know, disabuse them of the notion.”

  “I see. What about the MBA?”

  “You do realize it’s none of your business, right?”

  “Hey, if I’m overstepping the line…”

  “You’re overstepping the line,” I snap, slamming my glass down. Some of it spills out. Lauren turns around to retrieve a cloth, but not before I catch the hurt on her shocked face.

  “I’ll do it.” I grab the cloth from her and take her into my arms. “I’m sorry, I really am. I’m so stressed, I don’t know what I’m saying anymore.”

  “I know,” she says. “But I’m your friend, and I need to understand. It’s not unreasonable, Tamra.”

  “Yeah, I know.” I mop the countertop and refill both our glasses.

  I tell her about the MBA, that I was just being stupid and I lied to shut her up. That shocks Lauren, I can see that. Then I tell her that I do think that Madison is unwell. “So yes, I did call her mother, but not the way she makes it sound. I had no idea she hated me so much.”

  “Well, you broke up her marriage…”

  “No, I didn’t! They were already apart when I met Mike. He told me. They only stayed in the same house for the sake of the children.”

  She gives a sly look, like she doesn’t believe me.

  “Anyway, that’s not the point! Madison is not well! Surely you can see it too! I found pills in her bedroom and I wanted to tell Deborah—”

  “You went snooping in her bedroom?”

  “It’s not like that! I was looking for something. Oh, never mind, me snooping or not is not the point. I’m worried about her. You know that.”

  “Don’t you think you’re being a tad too dramatic?”

  I don’t answer. After a moment I stand up. I blame a long, horrible day and a headache, and tell her I’m going to bed early. But as I reach the door, I turn to look at her. She looks so sad, twirling the stem of her wine glass, her thoughts a million miles away.

  “Dwayne’s gone, isn’t he.” I don’t make it sound like a question.

  She nods, rubs a hand over her eyes and her mouth distorts as the tears well up in her eyes. This time I’m with her in two strides and I take her in my arms.

  “What happened?”

  She shakes her head. “He left me Tamra, he’s gone.”

  “Oh Lauren, honey, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because I was embarrassed.”

  “With me? You must be joking. Haven’t you noticed what I’ve been going through lately?”

  She gives a small laugh, more like a snort, really. I ask her why he left but she won’t say. She’s not ready to talk about it, she says.

  “That’s okay, I understand,” I tell her. I hold her, and we stay like that for a long time, both of us sad.

  Then, from the corner of my eye, I spot something that looks familiar. It’s at the other end of the kitchen counter. A notepad, the corners of its pale yellow pages curling a little. I’ve seen that page before, or one just like it.

  I’ve got your back. Love you

  * * *

  Two hours later I’m lying awake, staring at the ceiling, trying to make sense of everything and generally losing my mind. I drift off to sleep just as I hear something, her voice, soft and low, like a whisper, on the other side of the door. I get up and tiptoe my way across and listen. When I hear her murmur my husband’s name, I slowly turn the doorknob and open the door. Just an inch.

  She’s sitting on the top step of the stairs, her back to me, the phone cradled in the bend of her neck. I can’t make out what she’s saying from this distance, but there’s an unmistakable tenderness in her voice that makes my heart burst with pain.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  “How did you sleep?” she asks. She’s got her back to me, making coffee. When I don’t answer she turns around and raises her eyebrows at me. “Not so good, hey?”

  No. Not so good. Barely at all, in fact. “I had the weirdest dream,” I say, taking the steaming coffee cup that she hands me. “I dreamt you were talking to Mike on the phone.”

  She doesn’t answer, turns back to the espresso machine. Finally, she says, “He called. He wanted to know how you are.”

  I snort, spraying coffee all over the table.

  She turns around to face me, a look of surprise on her pretty face. “What?”

  “Cut it out, Lauren. What did he really want?” Because he would never call you, I want to say. He can’t stand you, and you can barely stand him, isn’t that right, Lauren? And yet I heard her last night, all sweet and soft, and I stayed up all night trying to make sense of that, and I think I did.

  “I just told you. He’s really worried about you.”

  “Yeah. I bet he is. What about you, Lauren? Are you worried about me? No, don’t answer that. I know what you’re going to say. Why don’t you tell me why Mike really called.”

  “What’s the matter with you? He wants to know when you’re coming home. Did you get any sleep? You look awful.”

  I tilt my head at her. “Oh, thanks for that. How sweet! What did you tell him?”

  “I didn’t know, that’s up to you. That’s what I told him.” I can tell from her tone that this conversation is grating on her nerves. Well, tough.

  “Why did Dwayne move out?” I ask, cocking my head to the other side.

  “You keep asking me that. I told you already, I don’t want to discuss it.” She turns away from me again and inserts a capsule into the Espresso machine. There’s a convenient whirr of noise that makes it impossible to hear ourselves. If she thinks that’s enough to distract me, she doesn’t know me very well.

  “Why not?” I ask, when she releases the button and silence returns.

  “What it is with all the questions, Tamra? What difference does it make to you?”

  “I think you’re lying to me.” We’re not playing goody-goody anymore. My tone is sharp and means to cut.

  “Do you?” she says, one hand on her hip. “Whatever you might think, Dwayne is none of your business.”

  “Why are you lying?”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake! Just—”

  “Just what? What were you going to say? Just shut up, Tamra? Is that it? Just fuck off? Why are you having sweet, loving talks with my husband in the middle of the night? If he’d called to talk to me, why didn’t you come into my room last night to get me? What the fuck is going on here?” I feel myself getting worked up. I have a vision of Lauren and Mike together, sitting on the top of the stairs like I saw her last night, she with her head resting on his shoulder, he, holding her hand in his.

  “How long has this been going on?” I ask. I feel the tears pricking the back of my eyes. I will myself to hold them back. I don’t want to give her the satisfaction.

  She’s breathing hard, her nostrils flaring. She starts to say something, then stops herself, like she can’t get the words out.

  “What’s the matter, Lauren, cat got your tongue?”

  Her face is going red. It’s not a pretty sight. Her lips are tight and twitching. Finally she says, “Why are you doing this?”

  I step closer to her so I can look into her eyes. Her mouth twitches and she looks away.

  “Because I don’t trust you,” I say.

  She gasps. Nicely done, I think. She could have a career on the stage.

  Just then, her cell phone rings. She shoots me a look of fury, but she snatches it and answers the call with a brusque hello, turning her back to me.

 
; “Sorry, who is this? I see. Yes.”

  She turns and faces me again. Her eyes are squinty, hard, and there’s a certain look in there… triumph?

  “When? No. That’s a mistake. I drove to Mrs. Mitchell’s house that night, but she wasn’t there. There was no one home. Of course, I’m sure. I will, this afternoon. Yes.”

  I’m almost climbing over the countertop, trying to snatch the phone from her, but it’s too late. She’s hung up.

  “What did you just say? Was that the police?”

  “I have to go to work,” she says coldly. “Please don’t be here when I get back.”

  The realization dawns on me that she held my future in her hands just now, and she threw it away. “Oh, my God, Lauren! What have you done? Did you just deny my alibi? You promised! How could you?”

  “How could I? When you’re being such a bitch? I’m not lying for you, Tamra. I have no idea what you’ve done or why you’d want me to. But you’re on your own.” Before I have time to come back with a cutting remark, she’s thrown her coffee cup into the sink. It breaks with a crash, and rivulets of coffee slide down the outside. She strides out of the room without looking at me.

  I’m so angry, I’m almost vibrating. “Lauren! Get back here!”

  “Screw you!” she yells, and the front door slams so hard it makes the glass shake.

  Great big tears roll down my cheeks. They gather on my chin and slide down my neck. I lean on the kitchen bar and drop my head into my hands. I stay like this, sobbing, for a long time, my breath ragged and my world crushed. I don’t know what to do anymore. I don’t know who to trust.

  I’m going to get arrested. They’re coming for me, I’m sure of it. And this time it won’t be just for a little chat. I wipe my tears with the back of my hand and calm myself with deep breaths.

  I have to get out of here. I can’t even tell what’s most upsetting, that Lauren turned on me and is ganging up with my husband, or that I’m about to get thrown in jail for murder. That’s the kind of loser I am.

  My cell phone rings with a number I don’t recognize so I let it go to voicemail. There’s no way I’m picking up a call right now.

  I open all the drawers in the kitchen, all the cupboards. I’m not sure what I’m looking for, but I’ll know it when I see it. The thought that those two are up to something is making me ill. I pull out piles of napkins and tablecloths, placemats and table runners. I mess up the cutlery drawers just because I can. Then I go in the living room and go through the bookshelves, the glass-fronted antique cabinet. I pull out all the drawers, and in one of them I find a small pile of those flyers with my name on them. My legs feel like jelly. My eyes hurt with the sudden welling of tears. That was Lauren?

  I run upstairs and go through her dresser, and I’m about to close the drawer when something catches my eye. My stomach flips. Slowly, I reach for it and lift it so that it drops against the light.

  It’s a bra.

  It’s blue.

  A lovely, cornflower blue. The kind of shade that would look lovely for the drapes in my living room.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  There’s a particular kind of grief that takes hold when a friendship dies. When your best friend, someone you trusted to love you, turns out to be your enemy. It’s as if one of the anchors that grounds you in this world has come undone. I sure hope there’s a special kind of hell for people like that.

  I bite my knuckle until I draw blood and rock on my knees, the bra lying at my feet. I throw it against the mirror, and, clutching the top of the dresser, I stand, and in one gesture, I knock off all the perfumes and creams and face powders into the plush carpet. There, that should make the place stink like a brothel. Appropriate, too, I should think.

  I can’t bear to stay here a minute longer. I’ve barely unpacked so it takes no time to gather my things, and I’m outside and in my car in minutes. My hands are shaking, the tears are running down my face. I am the loneliest person in the universe. Everyone has discarded me. I am unwanted, and unloved, and I have nowhere to go.

  There’s a spot I know, about ten miles from here, where I could drive the car off the road and into the river and have little chance of surviving. If the impact doesn’t kill me, the water will. I wonder how long it takes to drown?

  My cell phone rings again. I need to get rid of it so the police don’t find me. But when I pull it out, I see that it’s Fiona. Against my better judgment, I take the call.

  “Did you call to gloat?” I snap. “Are you up for a Pulitzer or something? I hope you thank me in your acceptance speech.”

  “You knew what you were getting into, Tamra. We talked about that.” She sounds like she’s biting into something, like an apple.

  “You told me already. What do you want?”

  “I have an update to the story,” she says, in between crunches.

  I press the heel of my hand between my eyes to ward off the headache that’s nipping at my brain. “Okay, I’ll bite. What update?”

  “We spoke to your husband, did you know that?”

  Hearing that makes my stomach lurch. “What did he say?” What I really want to ask is, ‘How bad is it?’

  “He confirmed he engaged in an affair with Charlene.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep, and that he arranged for her to have an abortion.”

  I almost drop the phone. “He said that? How did you get him to admit to that?”

  “We didn’t, he called us and said he wanted to make a public statement. He wants us to publish this, so we are.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “You didn’t know?”

  I scoff. “No, I most certainly didn’t. But I’ll tell one thing for free: he’s got an angle. There’s no reason at this point for him to volunteer that information. Something must have happened. Did he say anything else?”

  “That he was deeply sorry for the hurt caused. He never meant for it to go this far. But he maintains that he had nothing to do with Charlene’s death.”

  Yeah. Right.

  “You still maintain you had nothing to do with her death?”

  “Damn right, I do.”

  “I figured you’d say that,” she says, and sighs.

  “Did you really call me to tell that? About Mike?”

  “Actually…” There’s a beat of silence. I imagine the cogs in her brain hard at work. “I want to show you something,” she says at last.

  “What’s that?”

  “Will you meet with me? Now?”

  “You must be joking. You think I’m stupid? You’re trying to set me up. You’re taking me to the cops and you’ll have a nice photo of my arrest. Nice try, Fiona.”

  “Wow, that’s harsh.”

  “Yes, well, I’m all out of trust right now.”

  “If it helps, I have it on good authority that the police don’t have a warrant out for you. Yet.”

  “Really?”

  “You didn’t hear from me, okay? The judge won’t give them one. Apparently, he’s not satisfied that there’s enough for probable cause.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “The police don’t have enough actual evidence tying you to the crime. So it gives you, and anyone else, your husband included, the opportunity to produce any relevant alibis. That’s what I’d do if I were you. If you went somewhere after you dropped Charlene off at the clinic, then you should contact anyone who might have seen you at that night.”

  I don’t tell her that neither of us have an alibi for that night. He was there, and I saw him. That puts the both of us at the scene of her murder, although not together.

  “The bad news however, is that they are frantically gathering evidence. It would not surprise me if they came to search your house, especially your cars. Someone drove out to dig her up the other night. There could be traces.”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Do you know how long?”

  “Hard to tell. Maybe forty-eight hours, maybe a bit longer.”

  T
wo days, this is too much. I can’t deal with this. I massage my temples, as if that will help me think. “I can’t meet right now, but I’ll call you later and make a time.”

  She sighs. “Fine. But don’t wait too long. If you’re telling the truth about what happened that night, then what I have to show you could be the key.”

  “Wow, you’re really going to reel me in, aren’t you?”

  “I sure hope so.”

  Then something occurs to me. It’s probably stupid but hey, I’m all out of smarts. “There’s something you can do for me, Fiona. How good are you at finding people?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to find someone. Why do you think, Sherlock?”

  “You can start by dropping the attitude, Tamra, and we can go from there.”

  I close my eyes. “Forgive me for being touchy, but you wrote an article that has set me right into the frame of being a murder suspect.”

  “Who do you want to find?”

  I tell her about Dwayne. His name, his home address. That’s all I have. I don’t know where he works, and I don’t know his mobile number. But I want to know where he is, and I want a way to contact him.

  “How is he connected to Charlene’s death?” she asks.

  He’s not, of course. Heck, that would be one hell of a development. But I don’t tell her that because if I did, she’ll tell me to go to hell. “I’m not sure, call it a hunch.”

  “Really? In my experience, hunches end up in a wild goose chase.”

  “Then call it an educated hunch.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. If you’re really innocent, Tamra, as you claim, then I hope for your sake that this will prove it.”

  Except I’m not really innocent. I know that. I’ve always known that, otherwise, I could have just walked into the police station and told them what I saw.

  What’s the penalty for failing to report a murder? I don’t know. I tried to find out. I Googled it until my eyes bled and I still don’t know. I considered hiring a criminal lawyer to ask, but let’s say that life moved on, and most days I could convince myself that I imagined the whole thing and it never happened. The other days I just forgot about her, and those days began to run together. But that was when I thought I was living my Happily Ever After.