The Widower's Wife

by Cate Holahan

  “Yes. Of course.”

  Her mouth twisted with disbelief. She always knew when I was lying. “Is everything okay with Tom?”

  My parents had enough problems. I wasn’t about to get into mine. “We’re fine. It’s nothing, just saudade.” One of the few Portuguese words I knew. It lacked direct English translation: homesickness mixed with longing and bittersweet memories, content with yearning for family and the past. Some said the word encapsulated the Brazilian temperament.

  Though I knew the term, I couldn’t actually relate to the feeling. My past was a blur. Bad events erase good history like fire burning through film. All that remained for me of my childhood were a series of images. The yard behind our two-family house. Bushy lavender plants, purple tips stretching to the sky. My mother bent over them, pruning scissors in her right hand, jean-clad legs spotted with dirt. Black-clad Immigration and Customs Enforcement officers storming through the kitchen to get her, yelling that she held a weapon. Her promising over and over that they’d be back in a little while. Just a little while.

  I’d spent my teens in a foster home, and though I’d blocked the visuals from my memory, I’d never forget the smell. Burnt hair and old carpet. Ms. Yvette had done weaves in the kitchen to supplement her foster income. I’d split my time between school, a Starbucks job, and babysitting my younger “siblings”—a.k.a. Ms. Yvette’s real kids and smaller foster children. I still think she’d volunteered to take me because it had been cheaper than hiring childcare.

  My parents had come back twice, each time just as illegitimately as the first. Immigration was on them within months. As far as ICE knew, they were dangerous identity thieves, not people who’d paid taxes for fifteen years, albeit under false social security numbers.

  “Saudade?” My mother’s voice showed that she doubted my explanation.

  I forced a smile for her benefit. “How are you and Daddy?”

  A halo of orange light surrounded her head, coming from an exposed bulb in the kitchen. Veined ceramic glass had shielded the ceiling light before. Had it broken? “Oh, you know. We’re fine. We miss you.”

  “Do you need anything?” I couldn’t afford for her to say yes. I’d sent the last check six months before, maybe even earlier. Tom had not been happy.

  My mom shook her head. I knew she wouldn’t ask for money outright, even though they had to be hurting. After getting deported, rebuilding their lives in Brazil had been next to impossible. They’d had no money and no documented work experience. My father had done construction for a few years, but it had never paid anywhere close to what he’d made in the States. Now sixty, no one would hire him. My mother still taught English, but she’d lost students to new language schools popping up in the area. There weren’t any savings.

  “You just worry about you and my beautiful granddaughter,” she said. “How is Sophia?”

  “Good. I’ll call back with her tomorrow.”

  A shadowed figure entered the kitchen, just visible behind my mother’s head. The form angled toward her before hurrying from the room. “Is Daddy there?”

  “No. He’s sleeping.”

  Who was in the house then? “I think I just saw him in the kitchen.”

  “Daddy’s tired. He must have just come in for a glass of water.”

  Too tired to say hi? My mother’s smile appeared constructed from a single pane of glass. One wrong word and it would shatter. Light shifted behind her head again. A figure lumbered in the kitchen. I recognized the outline this time: broad shoulders, thin build, a triangle atop a pole. “Daddy. Dad?”

  My mother moved closer to the screen, blocking the view behind her. Tracks ran beneath her eyes. Had she been sleeping? She looked older than I remembered. Older than a week ago. “Daddy’s in bed.”

  “Mom, I just saw him. Why won’t you let me talk to him?”

  “He doesn’t feel well.”

  “Dad, I see you. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong with him.”

  “Dad!” I shouted through the monitor. “Daddy, are you okay? Dad!”

  “It’s fine, Beatriz.”

  My mother folded into herself at the sound of her name, and my dad’s torso came into the picture. He pulled a seat from the dining table and dragged it next to my mother. I still couldn’t see his face.

  My mom’s eyes welled as he sat beside her, reacting not to my dad but to my expression as I saw him. He’d fought and lost. His cheeks were puffed like mushrooms caps. A deep purple bruise overwhelmed his left eye. Bloody scabs crusted in his eyebrow. A blood blister puckered from his lower lip.

  “Oh my God, Daddy.”

  “It looks worse than it is.”

  “What happened?”

  My mother’s face shattered. “Oh, Ana,” she wailed. “It’s the gangs.”

  “Not real gangs. Young punks.” My father crossed his arms, revealing scabbed lines. Defensive wounds.

  “With bats and knives,” my mom cried. “They demand money from anyone with family in the U.S. They say it’s an import tax on the dollars they know we have coming in. We’d paid for years—”

  “How much do they want?”

  My dad’s chin fell. “It’s all right, Ana. They know I can’t pay.”

  “Then why are they beating you?” I almost shook the computer screen. How had they not told me that they were being blackmailed? For years? I could have helped before. I had to help now.

  “It’s okay. They will understand. We don’t have it anymore.”

  I’d confessed Tom’s job loss to my parents after he’d been out of work a few months and I’d needed to reduce the amount of money I sent each month. At first, I’d mailed two-thirds the usual amount. A few months later, I was sending half that. They’d never asked when the checks stopped coming. They both knew what it meant.

  “Tell me how much.”

  “A thousand.” Tears gurgled in my mother’s words. “It was a hundred a month, but we haven’t paid in a while and they say there’s interest.”

  I’d once taken eighty thousand dollars from Tom’s seven-figure bonus check and bought my parents an apartment. Tom had complained that, in the right investment, the amount could balloon into a healthy retirement savings. But I’d convinced him that the missing money wouldn’t mean anything to us. At the time, it hadn’t. Now I couldn’t imagine how I’d find a spare hundred dollars, let alone a whole thousand.

  “I’ll get it. When are they coming again?”

  “You don’t have it,” my father said. “And when they want more than a thousand, what do we do? It’s better they realize now.”

  “And what, kill you? It was enough before, right? When are they coming?”

  “Next month,” my mother mumbled.

  My father scowled at her from beneath his swollen eye. “You have to take care of Sophia and Tom right now.” His hands reached out toward the screen, toward me. The gesture made me hurt. It had been so long since I’d felt the touch of either of my parents, so long since I’d hugged them. “You have to take care of your family.”

  “I am taking care of my family.”

  “How will you do it?” My mother couldn’t hide her hope.

  I didn’t know, but I’d find a way. I’d always come up with money before, even when I’d only had a Starbucks job. Now I was working for a multibillion-dollar hedge fund.

  “I’ll figure something out.”

  11

  November 24

  Ryan stood outside a former furniture warehouse off I-95. A plastic banner hanging above a stairway leading to a basement door read, “Appleday, Where Kids Can Play.” Each letter was colored differently, as if children with perfect handwriting had constructed the sign.

  He knocked, crossing his fingers that his GPS had led him to the correct place. Amazing, the number of daycares with apple in the title located in the NYC suburbs. AppleView, AppleSeed, AppleTree, Apple Montessori, Appleday. He’d called no fewer than eight places before getting a harried aide on the line that
had remembered Sophia. The woman had referred him to her boss, a lady named Ms. Donna, who hadn’t bothered to return his message. Ryan figured showing up would prove more effective than playing phone tag.

  He would rather have been confronting Michael about the paternity of Ana’s unborn child than interviewing employees at Sophia’s old daycare, but he didn’t have a choice. Even if he did manage to reach Ana’s old boss in the Bahamas, Michael wasn’t likely to confirm that he’d been sleeping with his secretary while on vacation with the wife and kids.

  In the meantime, he would try to get a better handle on the Bacons’ finances by speaking with someone they’d needed to pay regularly, who could also confirm or deny Michael’s story that Ana had picked up Sophia often. With luck, one of the daycare workers might even have some insight into whether Ana had seemed stressed or depressed. Afterward, he could gauge Tom’s reaction to questions about Ana’s working relationship with her former boss.

  A broad woman with screaming red hair opened the door. Children’s shouts drifted into the cold outside. The woman looked down at Ryan’s knees before returning her suspicious gaze to his face. “You’re here to drop off?”

  “No. Actually, I was—”

  “Picking up?” She pulled her chin into her neck. “I don’t think we have you on the authorized list.”

  “No. I called before. I’m here to ask questions about Mrs. Ana Bacon. I understand that her daughter Sophia went here.”

  The woman’s red strands didn’t move as she shook her head. Cherry-scented something wafted into the air. Hairspray? “I can’t let unauthorized adults inside. It’s for the safety of the kids.”

  Ryan grabbed the door before it could close in his face. “I understand. Could we talk outside? I only need a couple minutes of your time.”

  “I’m not supposed to leave the children with just two aides. It’s too high a ratio for this age group. State rules.” The woman’s voice sounded nasal and hoarse. Part South Jersey, part smoker. Ryan wished he had a cigarette to offer. He didn’t smoke, given that 90 percent of lung cancer fatalities in men stemmed from cigarettes. Folks who avoided cancer sticks, lived more than fifteen miles from a major city, and got their home radon tested were statistically immune from lung disease. Ryan had checked all the boxes.

  The aide grimaced at his hand on the door. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  Why couldn’t people just invite him in for once? It was cold, damn it.

  “Mrs. Bacon had a large insurance policy, and I am trying to figure out if there were any contributing factors to her accident.”

  The woman stopped trying to shut the door in his face, though she didn’t remove her hand from the knob. “If they get this insurance policy, do they have to use it to pay debts?”

  Part of the appeal of life insurance was that creditors couldn’t easily claim the payments. Owed parties could sue for a portion of benefits if the recipient was a spouse that shared the deceased’s debts. But the Bacons had avoided that by designating Sophia as the beneficiary. Ryan scratched the hair at the nape of his neck. “In some cases.”

  The aide identified herself as Ms. Donna. She stepped out onto the stairs, closing the door behind her. “Mrs. Bacon pulled Sophia midyear. You can’t just do that when you sign up for twelve months. You still gotta pay the remainder.”

  “Were the Bacons good about paying?”

  “Well, they paid each month. But like I said, they still owe us for the rest of the year, even if they don’t send their kid. We hire aides based on the expected number of children. We can’t just fire them when someone drops out, even if there’s a tragedy. And they pulled Sophia before anything happened to her mom.”

  Ryan feigned sympathy. “Seems like the Bacons didn’t get the costs involved in running a daycare. I heard that they were often late picking up Sophia as well.”

  Ms. Donna chewed at her bottom lip. “I only charged them the once. So you think I could apply for some relief if the policy goes through?”

  “They were only charged once? I thought Mrs. Bacon was late all the time.”

  Ms. Donna shook her head. “I don’t know where you’re getting your information, but that’s not right. Usually it was Mr. Bacon who picked up Sophia. Mrs. Bacon just picked her up the one time, the day I had to charge her because she was ninety minutes overdue. Few days later, she called to say she wouldn’t send Sophia anymore.”

  Ryan couldn’t see a motive for Ms. Donna not to tell the truth. But he could imagine Michael lying about Ana leaving work early to obscure the fact that he’d fired her after their relationship went sour.

  “When did she stop sending Sophia exactly?”

  The answer was important. If Fernanda was right and the human resource department hadn’t known that Ana had quit, then her old job wouldn’t have an accurate date for her departure. Whatever had caused Ana to stop working had happened earlier than the late August day her firm had provided. Ryan needed the when to figure out what. Whatever had made Ana stop working just might have started her downward spiral to suicide.

  Ms. Donna rubbed her reddening nose. Ryan bet she regretted not inviting him in. “August eighteenth. I know because she sent in a check with a note that said ‘final daycare payment’ through that Tuesday. I haven’t cashed it. I don’t want Mr. Bacon thinking I’m giving up my claim to the outstanding bill, you know?”

  Ryan nodded. “Could I see the check?”

  The aide opened the door and stepped back inside. “I got all these kids, I’m not gonna go look for it now. Gimme your number. I’ll call with it.”

  Ryan’s numb fingers fumbled with his wallet. He pulled out a business card and slipped it into Ms. Donna’s hand. “My fax is on the bottom.”

  She inspected the print and then waved the card in the air. “All right, I’ll call you. Maybe I can get back some of what she owed. It takes months to get kids into an open spot. It’s not like we have a wait list.”

  The door shut. Ryan hustled back up the steps as fast as he could hop, using his good leg and the railing for support. Excitement made him forget his throbbing thigh. Lies were leads, and Ryan had just found one.

  12

  August 13

  I tiptoed down the back stairs, a thief in my own house, careful to avoid the guest room that I’d heard Tom stumble into around two AM. The refrigerator’s hum masked the sound of my movements as I crept into the kitchen. I scurried across the first floor to the basement stairs and then descended into enemy territory: Tom’s bar.

  My husband’s wine collection was the only semiliquid possession we had left. I prayed that Tom’s liquor store would repurchase the bottles at a discount.

  A small duffle scratched at my side. The bag was Christmas party swag: flimsy vinyl stamped with the name of Tom’s old firm. It would hold between six and eight bottles. As I approached the back room, I whispered my justifications for planning to fill the sack: Tom’s drinking had become a problem. He needed to stop boozing and my parents needed money. Like a stiff drink, the alcohol could make my problems vanish—at least temporarily.

  Tom’s wine cellar reminded me of a glass shower enclosure. Chrome wine racks attached to metal scaffolding inside. Swan-necked bottles had once graced each grooved space between the metal bars. Now the majority of the unit was empty.

  The fridge could lock, but Tom drank far too often to bother turning the key each night. I pulled back the sliding glass door. Cold air pricked my arm. Goosebumps spread on my skin, spurred by fear as much as the change in temperature. How would Tom react if he caught me?

  The best vintages rested on the top shelf. I stood on the pads of my feet and tipped a bottle from its cradle with my fingertips. It landed in my palm. Near black glass obscured the wine inside. A stamp, reminiscent of the wax seal royalty used to shut envelopes, caught the glow of the wine shelves’ embedded LEDs. A white-and-black label spread across the front of the bottle: Gaja Barbaresco. Italy. 1990.

  I knew little about alcohol, other than to tru
st my husband’s recommendations. Wine was Tom’s hobby, and he didn’t enjoy anything inexpensive. The bottles in the cellar wouldn’t warrant storage space if they’d cost less than one hundred dollars. The stuff at the top of the cabinet would be hundreds of dollars.

  I placed the Gaja in the duffle and then tipped another bottle into my waiting hand. Silver foil decorated this one’s cap. The label showcased two concentric circles that resembled a star in Van Gogh’s famous painting. Any label appropriating famous artwork had to be pricey. I scanned the top shelf for another reachable bottle. There was one with a silver etching of a stallion. I stretched. My fingertips grazed the neck. The bottle jostled in the cradle but couldn’t be coaxed into my open palm. Without a boost, I risked breaking it, and there was no way I could cart the stepladder from the garage and down the stairs without making a racket loud enough to wake Tom.

  The rest of the top shelf remained out of reach. I grabbed half a dozen bottles scattered around the giant fridge, hoping my husband would be less likely to notice random missing bottles than a raided shelf.

  Tom hadn’t rearmed the alarm when he’d come home. That was good, since turning it off made a steady beeping noise for several seconds. I opened the door and carried the duffle into the garage. The lot went into my Camry’s trunk. I’d sell them first thing in the morning, before Tom sauntered into the basement for whatever liquid passed as his breakfast these days.

  I crept back up the rear stairs to my bedroom. Tom’s snoring echoed from the guest room down the hallway. I slipped beneath the covers and watched the time on my cell change from three thirty to four AM. Sleep remained a dream.

  *

  The wine store beckoned from behind refurbished factory windows. The modern, industrial look reminded me of Tom’s bar/theater room, only five times the size. No wonder he loved this place.

  A pleasant ding signaled that customers had arrived. Sophia looked for the source of the sound as I led her into the store. A bewildered expression crossed her face as she undoubtedly tried to understand why I’d told her father that we would run to Payless after dinner to get her measured for new sneakers and then taken her to a liquor store.