The Other Mrs (ARC)

by Mary Kubica

  Berg’s accusation this morning, I wonder if we can ever be happy

  here, or if bad luck is destined to follow us wherever we go.

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  Camille

  After that first time together, my meetups with Will became

  a regular thing. There were other hotel rooms, ones that be-

  came more fancy the more I begged. I didn’t like the hotels he

  first took me to. They were dank, dingy, cheap. The rooms had

  stuffy smells to them. The sheets were scratchy and thin. They

  had stains on them. I heard people on the other side of the walls,

  they heard me.

  I deserved more than that. I was too good for budget hotels,

  for the criticism of a minimally paid staff. I was special and de-

  served to be treated as such. Will should have known that by

  then. I dropped a hint one afternoon.

  I’ve always dreamed of seeing the inside of the Waldorf, I said.

  The Waldorf? he asked, standing before me, laughing at my

  suggestion. We were deep in the alcove of an apartment complex

  where no one could see us. We never talked about his marriage.

  It was one of those things that’s just there. One of those things

  you don’t want to believe is there, like death, aliens, malaria.

  The Waldorf Astoria? he asked when I suggested it. You know that’s like four hundred dol ars a night, maybe more.

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  MARY KUBICA

  I asked, pouting, Am I not worth that to you?

  As it turned out, I was. Because within an hour’s time, we

  had a room on the tenth floor, champagne compliments of room

  service.

  There’s nothing, Will said as he opened the door to the lavish hotel suite and let me in, that I wouldn’t do for you.

  In the room, there was a fireplace, a terrace, a mini bar, a

  fancy bathtub where I could soak, staring out at the views of

  the city from the luxury of a bubble bath.

  The hotel staff referred to us as Mr. and Mrs. Foust.

  Enjoy your stay, Mr. and Mrs. Foust.

  I imagined a world where I was Mrs. Foust. Where I lived in

  Will’s home with him, where I carried and raised his babies. It

  was a good life.

  But I didn’t ever want to be mistaken for Sadie. I was so much

  better than Sadie.

  Will meant what he said: that there was nothing he wouldn’t

  do for me. He proved it time and again. He showered me with

  sweet nothings. He wrote me love notes. He bought me things.

  When no one was there, he brought me to his home. It was

  far different than the gloomy apartment where Sadie and I used

  to live, that two-bedroom in Uptown where drunks and bums

  hung around, accosting us for money when we stepped outside,

  not that we had any to spare. Even if I did, I wasn’t about to

  share. I’m not known for my generosity. But Sadie was, always

  digging away in her purse, and they clung to her, the drunks

  and the bums did, like lice to hair.

  They tried the same with me. I told them to fuck off.

  Inside Will and Sadie’s home, I ran my hands across the arm

  of a leather sofa, fondled glass vases and candelabras and such,

  all clearly expensive. The Sadie I once knew could never afford

  these things. A doctor’s salary came with all the perks.

  Will led the way to the bedroom. I followed along.

  There was a picture of Sadie and him on a bedside table, a

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  wedding picture. It was charming, really. In the picture, they

  were standing in the center of a street. They were sharply in focus while the rest of the picture gradually blurred. The trees cano-pied over them, full of springtime blooms. They weren’t facing

  the camera, smiling cheesy grins at some photographer’s request

  like most brides and grooms do. Instead, they were leaned into

  each other, kissing. Her eyes were closed, while his watched her.

  He stared at her like she was the most beautiful woman in the

  world. His hand was wrapped around the small of her back, hers

  pressed to his chest. There was a spray of rice in the air. For pros-perity, fertility and good fortune.

  Will caught me looking at the picture.

  To save face I said, Your wife’s pretty, as if I’d never seen her before. But Sadie was a far cry from pretty. She was ordinary

  at best.

  He wore a hangdog look, said, I think so.

  I told myself he had to say that. That it wouldn’t be right for

  him to say anything else.

  But he didn’t mean it.

  He came to me, ran his hands through my hair, kissed me

  deeply. You’re beautiful, he said, the superlative form of pretty, which meant I was prettier than her.

  Will led me to the bed, tossed pillows to the ground.

  Don’t you think your wife will mind? I asked as I sat on the edge of the bed.

  I have little moral compass. I’m sure that much is clear. I didn’t

  mind. But I thought maybe he did.

  Will’s smile was mischievous. He came to me, slipped a hand

  up my skirt, said, I hope she does.

  We didn’t talk about his wife anymore after that.

  What I’d come to learn was that Will was a ladies’ man before

  he got married. A philanderer, the kind of man who thought

  he’d never settle down.

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  As they say, old habits die hard. It was something Sadie tried

  to keep in check.

  But, try as we might, we can’t change people. So she kept a

  tight rein on him instead, same as she once did me. Long ago,

  my lighters, my smokes would disappear if she found them, locks

  would change when I’d forget to close the apartment door be-

  hind myself. She was quite the disciplinarian, quite the despot.

  I could see in his eyes the way she enfeebled him, the way

  she emasculated him.

  I, on the other hand, made him feel like a man.

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  Sadie

  It’s seven thirty. Imogen still isn’t home. Will doesn’t seem wor-

  ried, not even when I press him on it, asking who she’s study-

  ing with and where the friend lives.

  “ I know you want to believe the best in her, Will. But come on,” I say to him. “We both know she’s not studying Spanish.”

  Will shrugs and tells me, “She’s just being a teenager, Sadie.”

  “ A delinquent teenager,” I retort, my face expressionless.

  Otto, at fourteen, is a teenager too. But it’s a school night and

  he’s at home with us as he should be.

  Will wipes down the table from dinner and tosses the dirty

  dishrag into the sink. He turns to me, smiling his magnanimous

  smile, and says, “I was a delinquent teenager once, and look how I turned out. She’ll be fine,” as Otto comes into the room with his geometry folder.

  Will and Otto spread out at the kitchen table to work on

  homework. Tate turns on the living room TV and settles in,

  snuggled up under an a
fghan, to watch a cartoon.

  I carry my glass of wine upstairs. A long soak in a warm

  bath is what I have in mind. But at the top of the steps, I find

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  myself drawn not to the master bathroom, but instead to Imo-

  gen’s room.

  It’s dark when I enter. I press my palm against the door, open-

  ing it wide. I ignore a sign on the door that tells me to keep out.

  I let myself into the room, feeling the wall for a light switch,

  and turn it on. The room becomes visible and I discover a jum-

  ble of dark clothing strewn across the floor, enough of it that I

  have to move it to avoid stepping on it.

  The room smells of incense. The box of sticks lies there on

  Imogen’s desk beside a coiled snake–shaped holder. The sticks

  go inside the snake’s mouth, the smell still potent enough that

  I wonder if she was here, after school, burning incense in her

  room before she disappeared to wherever she is. The desk is

  wooden and old. Imogen has carved words into the wood with

  the sharp edge of some sort of blade. They’re not nice words.

  Indeed, they’re angry words. Fuck you. I hate u.

  I take a swig of my wine before setting the glass on the desk-

  top. I trace my finger across the wooden trenches, wondering

  if this is the same handwriting that was left on my car window.

  I wish, in retrospect, that I had thought to take a photo of my

  car window before blasting that word away with the defrost.

  Then I could compare the handwriting, see if the shape of the

  letters is the same. Then I’d know.

  This is the first time I’ve stepped all the way inside Imogen’s

  room. I didn’t come with the intent of snooping. But this is

  my family’s home now. It feels within my right to snoop. Will

  wouldn’t like it. I just barely make out his and Otto’s muffled

  voices coming from the kitchen. They have no idea where I am.

  I look inside the desk drawers first. It’s just what you’d ex-

  pect to find in a desk drawer. Pens, paper, paper clips. I stand

  on the desk chair, running my hands blindly along the book-

  shelf above the desk, coming up with only a palmful of dust. I

  ease myself back down to the floor.

  I leave my wine where it is. I go to the bedside table, pull on

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  the drawer knob. I sift through random things. A child’s ro-

  sary, wadded up tissues, a bookmark. A condom. I reach for the

  condom, hold it in my hand a moment, debate whether to tell

  Will. Imogen is sixteen. Sixteen-year-olds, these days, have sex.

  But a condom at least tells me Imogen is being smart about the

  choices she makes. She’s being safe. I can’t fault her for that. If we were on better terms I’d have a conversation with her, woman

  to woman. But we’re not. Regardless, an appointment with a

  gynecologist isn’t out of the question now that she’s of a certain

  age. That might be a better way to handle things.

  I put the condom back. Then I find a photograph.

  It’s a photograph of a man, I can tell, from the body shape

  and what’s left of the hair, that which hasn’t been scuffed off

  in apparent anger. But the man’s face, on the other hand, has

  been obliterated like a scratch-off lottery ticket, scored with the edge of a coin. I wonder who the man is. I wonder how Imogen knows him, and what made Imogen so angry that she felt

  the need to do this.

  I drop to my hands and knees beside the bed. I look beneath,

  before foraging in the pockets of the misplaced clothing. I rise

  to my feet and go to the closet, sliding the door open. I reach

  in, feeling blindly for the light string, and give it a pull.

  I don’t want Will to know I’m nosing around in Imogen’s

  room. I hold my breath, listen for noises coming from down-

  stairs, but all that I hear is Tate’s cartoon on the TV, the sound

  of his innocent laugh. If only he’d stay this age forever. Will

  and Otto are quiet and I envision them folded over notebooks

  on the kitchen table, lost in thought.

  Not so long after what happened with Otto, I read an article

  about how to best snoop in your teen’s room, the places to look.

  Not the obvious spots like desk drawers, but instead: secret pock-

  ets in the lining of coats; inside the electrical sockets; in false-bottomed soda cans. What we were to look for wasn’t so obvious

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  medicine—all of which were easily misused by teens. I never

  actually snooped through Otto’s room. I didn’t need to. What

  happened with him was one and done. Otto had learned his les-

  son. We talked about it. It would never happen again.

  But Imogen is a closed book to me. She hardly speaks, not

  more than a sentence at best, and even that is never forthcoming.

  I know nothing about her, about who she’s having sex with (and

  does she have sex here, in this room, when Will and I are gone,

  or does she sneak out the bedroom window at night?), about

  those girls she smokes cigarettes with, about what she does in

  this missing hours that she’s not with us. Will and I should have

  a better handle on these things. We shouldn’t be so uninformed.

  It’s irresponsible that we are, but every time I’ve broached the

  subject with Will—Who is Imogen real y?—he puts me off, saying that we can’t push too hard. That she’ll open up to us when

  she’s ready.

  I can’t wait anymore.

  I search the closet. I find the letter in the pocket of a charcoal

  sweatshirt. It really isn’t hard to find. I check the shoe boxes first, the back corners of the closet where only dust resides. And then

  on to the clothing. It’s on the fourth or fifth try that my hand

  folds around something and I pull it out of a pocket to see. It’s

  paper, folded many, many times so that it’s small, no more than

  an inch tall by an inch wide, and thick.

  I bring it out of the closet. I gently unfold it.

  Please don’t be mad, is scrawled on the page, the ink pale like maybe the sweatshirt was run though the washing machine with

  it. But it’s there and visible, written in print, far more masculine than my own spidery script, which leads me to believe it was

  written by a man’s hand, which I could have guessed anyway

  from the content of the note. You know as well as I do how hard this is for me. It’s nothing you did. It doesn’t mean I don’t love you.

  But I can’t keep living this double life.

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  From downstairs, the front door suddenly opens. The door

  slams closed.

  Imogen is home.

  Inside my chest, my heart begins to hammer.

  Will’s voice greets her, more cordial than I wish he would

  be. He asks if she’s hungry, if she wants him to w
arm her up

  some dinner—which goes against the rules we laid down for

  her, that she eats dinner with us or she doesn’t eat our dinner

  at all. I wish Will wouldn’t be so obliging, but it’s the way Will

  is, always eager to please. Imogen’s replies are short, brute— no, no— as her voice drifts toward the steps.

  I react, moving quickly. I refold the note and jam it back into

  the sweatshirt pocket, tousling the clothes into place. I pull the

  string light and slide the door closed, hurrying from the room,

  remembering at the last minute to turn the bedroom light off,

  to pull the door closed just so, as it was when I found it, open

  a smidge.

  I don’t have time to double-check that everything is as I found

  it. I pray that it is.

  Our paths cross in the stairwell and I offer a tight smile but

  say nothing.

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  Mouse

  Once upon a time there was an old house. Everything about the

  house was old: the windows, the appliances, and especially the

  steps in the house were old. Because anytime anyone walked on

  them, they groaned like old people sometimes groan.

  Mouse wasn’t sure why the steps did that. She knew a lot of

  things, but she didn’t know anything about how treads and ris-

  ers rubbed together, grinding against nails and screws on the

  other side, somewhere below the steps where she couldn’t see.

  All she knew was that the steps made a noise, all of them did,

  but especially the last step, which made the most noise of all.

  Mouse thought she knew something about those steps that no

  one else did. She thought it hurt for them to be stepped on, and

  that was the reason they groaned and pulled back from under-

  foot whenever she did—though Mouse only weighed forty-six

  pounds and couldn’t hurt a fly if she tried.

  It made Mouse think of the old people across the street, the

  ones who moved like everything hurt, who groaned just like

  the stairs sometimes groaned.

  Mouse was sensitive in a way other people weren’t. It wor-

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  ried her to walk on that last stair. And so, just as she was care-

  ful not to step on caterpillars and roly-polies when she walked

  down the street, Mouse took extra care to step over that last