My Lovely Wife

by Samantha Downing

  On Wednesday, I will see her again. She doesn’t know it.

  * * *

  • • •

  OWEN’S PICTURE IS everywhere. The computer experts have aged him up, theorizing about what he looks like now. They even consider how he might disguise himself. I am bombarded by these pictures; they are all over the news, in the paper, on the Internet. Flyers are taped to telephone poles. Owen with a beard, a mustache, dark hair, bald, fat, and thin. Owen with long hair and short, sunglasses and contacts, with sideburns and a goatee. Owen looked like everyman and no man.

  I did this.

  Well, Millicent did it. Or started it. But I did it, too.

  I have not achieved much—certainly nothing out of the ordinary— but because of me, everyone is looking for Owen Oliver Riley.

  I always wanted to be more than above average.

  First, it was tennis. My father played, my mother pretended to, and at the age of seven I hit my first tennis ball. It was the first sport I was interested in, so they hired a coach, bought me my first racket, and sent me on my way. Within a few years, I was the best young player at the club. I still didn’t get their attention, not the way I wanted, but that only made me better. I had no idea how much anger I had until I hit that little yellow ball.

  I wasn’t average then, wasn’t a disappointment to anyone but my parents. I was better than everyone else, right up until I wasn’t. Then I didn’t know how to be average anymore, so I went overseas, away from my parents, in search of a place where I could be better than average, better than a disappointment. With Millicent, I am.

  It’s terrible to say, but my life has been so much better since my parents died.

  And since Millicent came into my life. She makes me feel better than everyone. She is so impressed with my letter. In bed, she talks about it.

  “I wish I could cut it out and paste it on the fridge.”

  I laugh and rub her leg. It is slung over mine in that lazy way. “The kids might think it’s weird.”

  “They wouldn’t even notice.”

  She is right. Our refrigerator is a mishmash of pictures, taped and mounted and pasted together into a family album of sorts. The details are so blurred nothing stands out. “You’re right,” I say. “They wouldn’t.”

  Millicent rolls over and puts her face close to mine. She whispers, “I have a secret.”

  My heart jumps a little, and not in a good way. “What?” I say. Not a whisper.

  “I watched her.”

  “Her?

  “Annabelle.” She mouths the name, not making a sound. My heart relaxes a little. We did this last time; we watched Lindsay and reported back.

  “And?” I say.

  “She’s going to look perfect on TV.”

  The lights in our room are off, but it’s not pitch-black. Our bedroom is on the second floor and faces the front. The light from a street lamp glows around the edges of the curtains. I have stared at it many times since we have moved into this house. The square of golden light seems so unnatural.

  “Penny,” I say.

  She laughs. “What?”

  “I love you.”

  “And I love you.”

  I close my eyes.

  Sometimes, I say it first; other times, she does. I like that, because it feels even. But she said it first. Originally, I mean. She was the first to say she loved me.

  It took three months. Three months from the time we met on the plane to the moment she said she loved me. I’d loved her for at least two and half months of the three I had known her, but I didn’t say it. Not until she did. When it happened, we were literally up a tree. We were young, broke, and in search of something to do, so we climbed a tree.

  As expected, Woodview does have trees. We have a park full of giant oak trees, perfect for climbing. But on that day, Millicent and I were up a maple tree. I should have known that when Millicent said she wanted to climb a tree, she would pick one that required trespassing.

  The tree was on private property, in front of a house set a few hundred yards back. The only thing between the road and the front door was a flat green lawn and that giant maple tree.

  It was the middle of August, the height of summer heat, and we stared at the tree from inside my air-conditioned car. We had parked down the block, a spot with a good view of everything, and we waited for all the lights in the house to go off. Just one was left, upstairs on the right. Millicent clutched my hand, as if she were on edge.

  “You really want to climb that tree?” I said.

  She turned to me, her eyes shining. “Don’t you?”

  “I never thought about it before.”

  “And now?”

  “Now, I really want to climb that damn tree.”

  She smiled. I smiled. The light finally went out.

  I turned the key, shutting down the air-conditioning. The inside of the car immediately felt hotter. Millicent got out first. She held the handle as she closed the door behind her, making as little noise as possible. I got out and did the same thing.

  I stared down at the maple tree, which suddenly felt too open, too exposed, and I wondered if the punishment for trespassing included jail time.

  Millicent took off running. She bolted across the street, over the lawn, and she disappeared behind the trunk of the tree. If she made a sound, I didn’t hear it.

  I ran the same path. My feet felt heavy, plodding, as if every step were booming through the neighborhood. I kept running until I got to Millicent. As I reached the tree, she pulled me against her and kissed me. Hard. I had to catch my breath when it was over.

  “Ready to climb?” she said.

  Before I could answer, she had hoisted herself up using a large burl. From there, she reached up to grab the lowest branch, and then climbed higher. I watched, waiting for a light in the house to turn on. Or waiting for her to fall so I could catch her. Neither happened.

  “Come on,” she whispered.

  Millicent was sitting on a high branch and looking down at me. The moonlight turned her into an outline of herself. I could see her long hair swinging in the breeze, and her feet dangling on either side of the tree branch. Everything else looked like a shadow.

  I climbed the tree, which was a lot harder than I expected, and again my grunts and pants sounded loud enough to wake anyone in a ten-mile radius. Still, the family in the house next to us continued to sleep. Their rooms stayed dark.

  By the time I made it up to Millicent, I had broken out in a sweat. It was that hot. The air was thicker in the trees. It smelled of sweat and moss and bark.

  Millicent grabbed my T-shirt, pulling me close to her, smothering my mouth with hers. I swear she tasted like maple syrup. She buried her face in my neck, as if she were trying to burrow into it, her breath hot against my skin.

  “Hey,” I said.

  She lifted her head and looked at me. A damp strand of hair stuck to the side of her face.

  “I love you,” she said.

  “I love you.”

  “Do you? Do you really?”

  “Of course I do.”

  She put her hand against my cheek. “Promise.”

  “I promise.”

  Twenty-two

  AUTOMATIC COFFEE MACHINES are one of the most convenient inventions ever. No baristas, no full-fat milk instead of 2 percent, no missing extra flavor shot. All I have to do is make my selections, choose the type of coffee, milk, flavor, and even the temperature, then hit the green GO button. Out comes my coffee. And it’s cheap.

  The downside is that these elaborate but simple machines are available only at gas station convenience stores. Real coffee shops don’t have self-serve machines.

  My favorite machine is at the EZ-Go store and gas station two miles from the Oaks. Even if I don’t have the time, I go anyway. The cashier is a nice young woman named
Jessica; she’s the type who always smiles and has a nice word for everyone. Maybe she is part of why I drive the two miles to the EZ-Go. The point is, EZ-Go is part of my regular routine. And everyone has a routine.

  Annabelle certainly does.

  Every Wednesday night, she and her parents eat at the same Italian restaurant. My guess is that they order the same food, the same drinks, maybe even the same dessert. Dinner starts at six thirty and ends by eight. Annabelle walks, and it takes her eleven minutes to walk from the restaurant to her apartment, unless she stops at a store, gets a phone call, or runs into someone she knows. Like me.

  While Annabelle is looking at her phone, I bump right into her.

  She looks up at me in surprise. Then, recognition.

  “Hi there,” she says.

  She is wearing more makeup than she does during the day. Her lipstick is darker, eyes outlined. Her short, cropped hair makes her face look even more attractive.

  I take out my phone.

  Well if it isn’t the nicest meter maid in town 

  She rolls her eyes. “How are you?”

  I nod and point to her.

  She gives me the thumbs-up.

  What are you doing out alone? Don’t you know there’s a serial killer on the loose?

  She smiles as she reads it. “I’m headed home right now.”

  Care for a drink first?

  She hesitates.

  I point to a bar down the street.

  Annabelle looks at her watch. I am surprised when she says yes. She should say no, especially with the whole Owen Oliver thing, but Annabelle is even lonelier than I thought.

  * * *

  • • •

  THE BARTENDER, ERIC, greets me with a wave. I have been here several times, always alone, always waiting for Annabelle to walk by on her way home from dinner with her parents. Eric knows me as Tobias. I taught him all the sign language I know. He can spell out my name and my drink, gin and tonic.

  Annabelle orders the same. “Heavy on the tonic,” she says.

  She does not trust me, and I do not blame her. I am just a guy who begged her not to give me a ticket. A probably very nice, nonthreatening deaf guy.

  “So you know him?” Annabelle speaks to Eric while pointing at me.

  “Sure, I know him. Tobias is a light drinker and a big tipper. He doesn’t say much, though.” He winks, letting her know he is kidding.

  She laughs, and it is a nice sound. I start to picture being in bed with her. This makes me wonder how long it will take before she asks me to her place. I already know she will, and I know her place is not far. The power of knowing so much and choosing what will happen next—this is what I like.

  “You’re a tag team,” she says, motioning to Eric and me. Annabelle is careful to face me when she speaks. She does not forget I am deaf.

  After the first sip or two of our drinks, Eric fades to the other end of the bar. It is just Annabelle and me, and she tells me many of the things I know and some I don’t. For example, I did not know that she had linguine with mushrooms tonight. But now I know this is what she eats on Wednesday nights.

  I tell her my Tobias story. I am an accountant, divorced, no kids. I loved my wife very much, but we met in high school and married too soon. It happens.

  Annabelle is a good listener and nods in all the right places.

  What about you? Boyfriend?

  She shakes her head. “I haven’t had a boyfriend in a while.”

  I know it won’t be long now. I expect that invite will come after drink number two and before number three.

  Why don’t you have a boyfriend?

  The question is not just conversation. I am genuinely curious.

  Annabelle shrugs. “I haven’t met anyone?”

  I shake my head.

  Too generic.

  It takes her a minute. I assume she is about to tell me her last boyfriend was an asshole. He cheated on her. He was always out with the guys. He was a selfish prick.

  “My last boyfriend was killed,” she says.

  The shock almost makes me speak out loud.

  That’s horrible. How did it happen?

  “Drunk driver.”

  I vaguely remember that Annabelle had posted something online about a fund-raiser against drunk driving. There was no indication it was personal.

  I ask her more about him. His name was Ben, and Annabelle had met him through work. Ben had been a cop. He took night classes in criminal justice and wanted to work his way up to detective, then sergeant.

  She no longer keeps his picture on her phone, because she didn’t think it was healthy to stare at it.

  This statement is so sad that I have to look away.

  “Hey,” says Annabelle. She taps me on the arm, telling me to look at her. “I’m sorry. This is all too serious.”

  No, it’s okay. I asked.

  “I’m tired of talking about me. What about you? Girlfriend?”

  I shake my head no.

  “Your turn. Why not?”

  It’s been hard to get back into dating. I was married for ten years. And being deaf . . . it just makes things harder, I guess.

  “Well, any woman that won’t go out with you because you are deaf isn’t worth it.”

  I smile. Her words are generic, but from her they sound genuine. It makes me wonder what she would say if I told her the truth.

  Then I decide. I am not going to sleep with her.

  Instead, I shift the conversation and we stop talking about ourselves. We talk about music, movies, current events. Nothing personal, just random talk that doesn’t cause pain. When I stop flirting, so does she. The air between us changes.

  Eric returns to our end of the bar and asks if we want another drink. Neither of us orders one.

  She does not want me to walk her home. Understandable, but I insist that Eric call her a cab. She takes it, and I’m sure it’s because of Owen Oliver. Before she leaves, I ask for her number. She gives it to me, and I give her the number to the disposable phone.

  Annabelle thanks me for the drink with a handshake. It is both formal and endearing. I watch her walk out of the bar.

  I will not text her. Of this I am sure.

  I am also sure that Annabelle is not the one. She will not go missing on Friday night.

  * * *

  • • •

  IT IS BECAUSE of her boyfriend. As soon as I heard the story, I knew it wouldn’t be her.

  Maybe because it would be too much tragedy for one young life. To lose a loved one in a violent crash only to be murdered.

  None of this is fair. Our system of choosing her was developed, in part, by Owen, but how we did it was arbitrary. I just happened to see Annabelle that day. It could have been anyone.

  Now, I am back at the Lancaster Hotel, watching Naomi. She is still a bit too tall for Owen’s profile. I know her only through the computer and the glass doors of the Lancaster. I have never spoken to her, have never heard the sound of her voice.

  I want to, though. I want to hear her laugh, to see how she acts after a drink or two. I want to know if she really has a thing for older men or if she just needs the money. I want to know if I like her, dislike her, or feel nothing for her. But I won’t. I cannot take the chance that something will make me want to let her live.

  So I do not go inside the hotel; I do not approach her. When her shift is over, I watch her leave. She has changed out of her uniform and into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. She talks on the phone as she walks to her car, a tiny thing the color of a lime. At eleven fifteen on a Wednesday night, her only stop is at a fast-food drive-through. Minutes later, she is home, walking to her apartment, bag of food in one hand and uniform in the other. Naomi lives on the first floor of a quiet building that caters to people who don
’t make much money. The yard is overgrown, with thick bushes near her front door.

  Perfect. We have lots of choices for Friday the 13th, from the hotel parking lot to Naomi’s apartment building.

  Now I just have to tell Millicent I’ve changed my mind.

  Twenty-three

  AT SIX IN the morning, the radio announcer’s voice booms into my ear, and it’s loud enough to make me jump. Millicent likes her clock radio. It is an old one, the kind with flip numbers and faux wood casing, and it annoys me to no end. The radio is her way of leaving the toilet seat up.

  “Good morning. It’s Thursday, October 12, and you’ve got one more day to lock up, ladies. Owen Oliver is coming to get one of you pretties—”

  The radio goes silent. I open my eyes to see Millicent standing above me.

  “Sorry,” she says. “Forgot to turn it off.”

  She turns and walks back to the bathroom. Her red hair, cotton shorts, and tank top dissolve into a long dark ponytail and a blue uniform with gold trim.

  I had been dreaming about Naomi when the alarm went off. She was behind the desk at the Lancaster, chatting with a man so old he wheezed when he spoke. Naomi threw her head back and laughed. It sounded like the cackle of a witch in a fairy tale. Then she turned to me and winked. The freckles across her nose started to bleed. I think I had been about to say something when the alarm went off.

  Millicent lied; she did not forget to turn the alarm off. She is still a little upset with me. Not because we had to switch back to Naomi at the last minute, but because I made the decision without her.

  Last night, we had another date night in the garage. She thought it was a last-minute planning session to run through everything before the big day. And originally it was, at least until I told her it couldn’t be Annabelle.

  “I don’t understand,” she said.

  “I said we should switch back to Naomi.”

  “Naomi is too tall. She doesn’t fit the profile.”