Such a Good Wife

by Seraphina Nova Glass

  I notice the smell of burnt toast and see the blackened bread squares smoking in the toaster. Collin comes in, in his T-shirt and flannel pants instead of a shirt and tie; he loves work-from-home days. He won’t change into jeans until the kids come home from school if he can help it. He goes to the toaster.

  “For me?”

  “I’ll make some eggs.”

  “No, I love it like this.” He smiles at me, sniffing the charred air. “Like roasted marshmallows. It’s perfect.” He scrapes some cold butter onto the toast and sits across from me, nibbling at its corners.

  I laugh, shaking my head at him.

  “Let me make something edible. It’s no trouble.” I pour him a cup of coffee and place it in front of him, and he pulls me to his lap.

  “It’s a culinary triumph, seriously.” He gives me a bite and we both laugh. He’s kind, and he’s funny, and I’m lucky. He knows I didn’t sleep well.

  “A kink in my neck,” I lied when he asked again, earlier in the morning, if I was okay. I get them a lot at night, sleeping wrong, so he’s trying to make my morning easier.

  “Great coffee,” he says, and I make a faux-shocked face. He enjoys hating anything brand-name or anything too mainstream, just for the principle of it, so I like to sneak things into his life and not tell him what it is until he admits to liking it. A little game we like to play. He’s only been fooled by my trickery once before. He swore whipped cream from scratch was far superior to Cool Whip, so last Thanksgiving I swapped it out and he raved about how good it was. When I pulled out the plastic Cool Whip tub, he knew he’d never live it down. Now I’ve got him good again, and it’s nice to be swept up in a silly moment—a short reprieve from my worrying.

  “What?” he asks.

  “Nothing?”

  “No!” He drops his head into the crook of his arm on the table.

  “I didn’t say anything.” I can’t help but laugh a little.

  “Just tell me.” He’s being charmingly overdramatic. I play along and hold my pause before I reveal the source of his coffee.

  “Starbucks. Breakfast blend.”

  “Ahhh.” He makes a knife-to-the-heart gesture. I love him. I’m laughing at his antics, but I want to cry at the thought of hurting him. What was I thinking?

  He stops goofing around and a serious look comes over his face. I wait for the joke to follow, but it doesn’t come. He’s looking past me. I turn, following the direction of his gaze. Out the front window, a police car pulls into our driveway.

  “Why are the cops here?” he asks, but I’m paralyzed.

  Two uniformed men step out of the car and make their way up to our front door, and the fear is making my heart quicken. I can’t even set my coffee down. I don’t answer, I just watch them, wondering what they’ll say, how I’ll cover in front of Collin.

  “My mom didn’t wander off again did she? Is she—?” He starts to move like he’s going to run and check on her. I cut him off, quietly, controlled.

  “No, she’s fine. I was just in there.”

  The hard rap on the door comes, and I don’t move to answer it, so he walks over. The kitchen and living room are one big open-concept space, and I can see him until he gets to the stone archway that separates the front entry from the rest of the house. I stay in the background, but I hear him greet them. I put my coffee down and force myself to take a breath. I can’t literally be trembling if they want to talk to me. I smooth my hair with my hands, and as I start toward the front door, Collin is ushering them into the main room. Collin gives me an uneasy look and I immediately know why.

  Joe Brooks is standing in my house. Detective Joe Brooks now. I can’t tell if Collin’s pallor is because of our mutual disdain for Joe or because they want to ask me a few questions.

  “Uh...come on in. Have a seat,” I say.

  I think about asking Collin to put another pot of coffee on to get him out of the room, but he would see through that. Joe introduces his partner as Al Davis, a tall man about Joe’s age with a military haircut and slender build—a serious, unmoving face, a stark contrast from Joe’s floppy, pop-star haircut and bodybuilder physique. They sit on the sofa, careful to perch on the edge of it and not get comfortable. I sit across from them in a green armchair.

  “Sorry to come unannounced like this, Mel,” Joe says. Collin is hovering somewhere behind me. I wish he’d sit down.

  “What’s this about?” Collin asks, friendly enough, but I can feel him looking at me. I look back at him and take his hand—I guess an attempt at solidarity, and he sits next to me, on the arm of the chair. Detective Davis starts.

  “I’m sure you’ve heard about our investigation into the murder of a local man. Luke Ellison.”

  “Sure,” Collin says. “It would be impossible not to.”

  “Right,” he says, “but I’m actually asking Mrs. Hale.” All three men look at me and wait for a reply. I’m doing my absolute best to keep my breathing steady and keep my voice at a normal pitch.

  “Of course,” I say, quieter than I meant to. I clear my throat. “Yes.”

  “Did you know Mr. Ellison?” he asks pointedly. I resist looking over to Collin to gauge his expression.

  “Um, I know of him.”

  “How well do you know of him?” he asks, and I know that my answer sounded evasive and sketchy. Do I lie outright, or do they already have the cap?

  “I don’t know him well, I mean.”

  “But you have met him?” Joe asks. I have to admit to having met him. Did the person who sent me that disposable phone tip them off? Did they follow me and take photos, do they have proof?

  “Yes, just at the bookstore. Classics. I have a writing group that meets there.”

  “You weren’t friends?”

  “Friends?” I swallow hard. I feel prickly heat crawling up my back. “No. Why would you think that?”

  “Was he a part of this writing group, did you get to know him that way?”

  “No, I—He just gave a reading there one night and I met him then. A lot of people did.”

  “But you chatted with him, exchanged information.”

  “It was a meet and greet. Like I said a lot of people chatted with him. About his book.” I try to keep a look of genuine confusion on my face, but my nervous, fluttery voice betrays me.

  “Did you give him your personal info, a business card or anything?”

  “Business card? She doesn’t have a business card,” Collin says, exasperated with their questions, certain they are talking to the wrong person. “Why in the world are you asking her about this guy?”

  “Records from his computer show that he searched your name. Quite a bit. He seemed to have scoured your social media pages. If you weren’t friends...” the way he says the word implies that he means much more than friends “...then can you think of any other reason the man would be looking you up so excessively?” Joe asks, matter-of-factly.

  Collin still isn’t looking at me with mistrust; he keeps his bunched-up expression pointed at the detectives, baffled as to why they would be questioning me of all people.

  “He offers private writing courses—lessons. I signed up at his table for more info. We discussed it, briefly.”

  “That’s all. You didn’t take the private lessons?” His emphasis on the word private again, is smug and connotative.

  “I didn’t end up pursuing the lessons.” I didn’t pull this particular lie out of this air. I’ve been thinking, incessantly, about how I could dismiss any vague connection if someone had seen me with him. He’d mentioned the private lesson idea once. It made sense. It should explain this.

  “So, if you didn’t take the lessons, why do you think he would be looking at your photos and searching your name to the extent he did?”

  “I imagine that if he was considering taking on a private client, he’d want to search
them. Isn’t that what everyone does these days? That doesn’t seem so odd.”

  “So you never had any contact besides the bookstore?” Davis is doing the talking now.

  “She already told you she didn’t.” Collin answers for me. “I know you guys have to follow all your leads or whatever, but this is a stretch, don’t you think?”

  But Davis doesn’t respond to Collin, he just waits for an answer from me.

  “No, just the bookstore.”

  “I don’t like what you’re insinuating.” Collin stands, growing angry that he’s being ignored.

  “We’re not insinuating anything. We just need to do our jobs.”

  “What made you change your mind about lessons with him?” Joe asks. A knot of pain twists in my gut and my pulse is racing.

  “Oh, I don’t know. I was just starting to get back into writing—nothing too serious. It sounded interesting in the moment after hearing a good reading, but you know how that goes—the excitement fades and you realize you don’t want to spend that much money on a hobby.”

  I can’t tell if I’m rambling. I’m trying to offer a solid answer—one that doesn’t beg more questions and gives them what they need so they can leave. I wish I hadn’t used the word excitement.

  “I see. Well, there were no records of instant messages or emails between you, so maybe he just had a crush or something. One-sided, of course,” Joe adds, looking to Collin. “We just needed to see if you could offer any more insight.”

  Joe Brooks and Detective Davis stand, and I hate Joe for implying there was a crush and leaving it at that. He hands me a business card.

  “If you think of anything else that might be useful, give us a call.”

  “Okay.” I take it, but I don’t stand to see them out. I let Collin go instead. He shakes their hands, and Joe turns back to me.

  “Say hi to Ben for me.”

  I nod mutely and force a terse smile. When the front door clicks shut and Collin comes back in, I don’t know what to expect. Will he privately have an entirely different demeanor than he had with the cops?

  “What a cocksucker,” he says, red-faced.

  I let out the breath I’ve been holding. He’s still on my side.

  “The woman beater, that bully, is gonna come in here and do the same thing. Try to bully you. I cannot believe that prick is walking around in uniform after what he’s done, and we just have to accept it. He should be in prison, but instead, hell, let’s give him authority and firearms!”

  “Yeah, I mean are they going into everyone’s house like that? There were a lot of other women at that reading. Jesus.” I hate myself, but I have to play the game.

  “They’re grasping at straws. Hick-town detectives with no experience asking idiotic questions.”

  “I know. Right?” Is really all I can think to say.

  “Well, I’m sorry you had to deal with Tweedledee and Tweedledum.”

  “It’s fine. Just weird.”

  With that, Collin’s phone rings. I hear Richard on the other end, talking about some tax form they need to make available for investors. I mime drinking coffee to ask him if he wants me to bring him the rest of his cup. He gives me a smirk, remembering I tricked him into liking Starbucks, but nods and mouths a thank you back, and just like that, he has switched gears into work.

  But as I walk away from him toward the kitchen, I catch his reflection in the glass of the French door windowpanes, and he is watching me—still on his call—but with his eyes on me, and his face changes when he thinks I don’t see. There is something in his expression that resembles...doubt, suspicion. It’s subtle, a quick double take at my back as I go, but it’s there. I’ve never seen him look at me like that before.

  19

  A FEW DAYS GO by and I can’t stop checking the disposable phone. It feels like someone is deliberately manipulating me, trying to make me feel crazy by telling me they know what I did, and then letting me sit and agonize instead of just telling me what they want—or who they are.

  Tonight, we’re taking the kids to dinner to celebrate the A Ben got in his math class—a subject he struggles with. He wants Mexican, so we head to La Haciendas. We go early so we’re back early enough on a school night for the kids to have some homework time. From the backseat, Ben is reciting facts about Mexican food. When he really likes something, he tends to memorize everything about it.

  “Did you know in traditional Mexican food they use the whole cow, even the testicles and uterus?”

  Collin and I look at one another on this one. I turn to look back at Ben.

  “Is that what you’re ordering tonight?”

  He looks at me like I have two heads.

  “No. This restaurant isn’t traditional.”

  Well, I guess he told me.

  “Good point,” I say, but before I turn back around, I notice a truck behind us, driving a bit too close.

  A flutter of familiarity brushes over me. I pause and squint to take it in. It looks like Luke’s truck. In fact, it is exactly like his, down to the heavily tinted windows and cactus-shaped air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror. I take in a sharp breath. The license plate isn’t the same. Maybe it’s just a coincidence. Maybe I can’t really make out the dangling air freshener shape and I’m just overly paranoid. There are a lot of pickups that look like that, I’m sure.

  “What?” Ben asks. Rachel is lost in her headphones, leaning against the car door on the opposite side, paying no attention.

  “Nothing, hon. Tell me what you’re gonna order.” I try to distract him.

  “Can I get a margarita?”

  “You’re a few years away from that, bud.” I smile at Collin, trying to share the amusement in our son’s witty comment, but he can tell there’s something else going on. He’s beginning to catch on to my chronic unease.

  I try to shake it off and be present for my family during dinner. A mariachi band plays on a weathered wooden platform in the corner. Ben asks if he can say it’s his birthday so they will sing to him and he can have free ice cream, but he settles for a round of “La Bamba” and the promise of a poquito sundae and seems happy enough.

  I push a paste of refried beans around on my plate and listen to Rachel answer Collin’s simple question, “How’s school?” She’s going over every detail.

  “Oh my God, so Lindsey Shaw and Celeste Ricke wore the same exact romper to school, and Lindsey told everyone it was Juicy Couture and then she saw Celeste wearing it and everyone knows Celeste is, like, poor, like, no offense, but people just know. Anyway, Celeste said the romper is actually from Target. And then Wendy looked it up, and it was from Target and Lindsey stayed home the rest of the week, she was so embarrassed.”

  She starts to scroll through her phone to find a photo for us, and Collin doesn’t ask what the hell Juicy Couture is. He just looks to me to say something relevant.

  “Mom,” she says, wanting me to look at the romper photos. “I mean, it’s not funny, but she’s such a bitch, so it’s kind of funny.”

  “Language,” I say, without much conviction, and move over to sit next to her in the wraparound booth to look at her phone.

  “Sorry,” she mumbles under her breath, and then switches gears. She shows me photos of the scandal, giggling. From where I’m now seated, I can see out the windows on the side of the building where the parking lot extends around. The truck is there. This can’t be a coincidence. The truck is facing the restaurant windows, and whoever is sitting behind those tinted windows can surely see us.

  “Mom, she said ‘bitch.’” I am fixated on the truck, and I only partially hear my son.

  “Don’t say ‘bitch,’ honey.” I dismiss him, barely paying attention.

  “I didn’t. She did!” he protests, and Collin gives him a look to let it go, which he does because the promise of a sundae is still lingering. I need to go out
there. I need to see who is behind the wheel, if it’s Luke’s truck. Who would have it? But I can’t. I can’t do a thing except sit here and concentrate on acting normal, keeping calm.

  When we finish eating and walk out to the car, it’s dusk. I look for the truck, not that I could do anything about it right now, but it’s gone. It doesn’t matter if it is Luke’s truck or not. The fact remains that someone is following me.

  On the drive home, Collin turns the radio from his NPR preset to a light pop station. I wonder if he’s avoiding the news. But when the song ends, it’s the top of the hour and they’re summarizing local news headlines. When I hear Luke’s name, I want to change the channel, but I wonder if it will make me look like I’m hiding something, so I don’t. I wonder though, if Collin wants to switch it off, or if, deep down, he wants to know more—to see if there is any way to connect me to Luke.

  “A new discovery has been made in the Luke Ellison homicide case. A witness said he saw an SUV screeching away from the Ellison home around the time the crime took place. The witness did not get the plate or model of the vehicle, but did say it was large and black in color. If anyone has any further information that could help the investigation, please notify police.” The reporter rattles off more news headlines in an unfeeling voice, but I don’t listen. I’m thinking about my Jeep Cherokee. It’s dark gray, not black, but close enough to the witness description to be anxiety inducing.

  Collin doesn’t say anything or look over. We’re both pretending that it’s like any other day, listening to any other bits of news headlines. I don’t say anything either, and the news fades into a commercial for a mega sale at Benny’s Used Cars.

  At home, I resist the urge to go directly upstairs and check for a message on the burner phone under the bathroom sink. Not just because I’m becoming obsessive, but because I feel suddenly under the watchful eye of my husband. I entertain the idea that it’s my paranoia talking, and maybe he has no suspicion whatsoever, but I can’t be sure. I need to be careful.