The Innocent Wife

by Amy Lloyd

  In the kitchen, she saw Dennis’s MacBook out of the corner of her eye. When she opened it she felt her stomach sink. It was protected with a password. She asked herself why, if he had nothing to hide, would he need a password? She tried to ignore the feeling but it nagged at her, just as it had in the past. You’re bored, she told herself. You’re paranoid. But before she realised what she was doing she was sitting at the kitchen table trying to figure out how to unlock it.

  She tried ‘PASSWORD’ and ‘password’ and ‘Password’ without expecting any of them to work, but still felt a sense of disappointment when they didn’t. She tried her name, tried variations, and felt a renewed sense of insecurity as each failed. She tried Lindsay, and exhaled when it was rejected. Then she tried his name, she tried his birthday, and she tried his name and his birthday and suddenly the screen was on, just as she was about to start typing again. In a moment of horror she couldn’t remember what she had typed. Had she used a capital D? Was it just his birth year? And then she remembered and tore off a piece of a nearby envelope and wrote down ‘Dennisdanson1975’, slipping the paper into the pocket of her cardigan. She felt a little ache in her chest at his lack of imagination.

  On the screen was his book, the memoirs he was writing for his publisher, the cursor blinking away in the middle of a paragraph. She scanned the page for her name, but found herself reading:

  The years I spent as a child in the woods, playing solitary games and talking to myself for company, would in many ways prepare me for the solitude of Death Row. In my cell I would remember looking out into the endless wilderness and the feeling of insignificance it would give me …

  Promising herself she would read it when it was published, Sam minimized the window and opened his web browser. It was clear. She checked Dennis’s history but found nothing there. When had he learned to do that? she asked herself.

  The desktop had three files, ‘Book’ ‘Book2’ and ‘Book3’, drafts of the autobiography. In his notes were a list of his passwords, which Sam wrote down on the back of the envelope, just in case.

  The anticlimax was massive. Sam reopened the Word file, rolling her eyes as she caught the sentence, ‘I knew to never stop believing in myself because the minute I stopped believing in myself would be the minute I really lost my freedom …’ and snapped the lid shut. She looked around her, hoping for something else – anything – to give her a clue as to what he was thinking, who he was, whether Lindsay was right and he didn’t like her that much. She went through his case, unzipped every pouch, and found things that looked initially tantalising but turned out to be boring: a folded receipt for the dumpsters, a handwritten letter from his editor in New York, a Moleskine notebook that turned out to be empty aside from his name and telephone number written in the front and a promise of a twenty-dollar reward for turning it in.

  She went to his old bedroom and opened drawers and wardrobes, all empty, until she saw the box that Lindsay had taken care of all those years. The lid was broken and now there was an elastic band stretched around the box to stop the contents from spilling out. Sam slid the band off and put the photographs out on to the floor one by one as she finished looking at them again. It was different this time, she told herself. She’d already seen everything, so this wasn’t exactly snooping.

  Midway through the pile she came to a page ripped from a magazine. It was a full-page picture of them both from the photo shoot just after he was released. Dennis was behind her in a white shirt with the collar left unbuttoned, his sleeves rolled up and his arms over her shoulders, smiling. She felt terrible, then. Sick and guilty.

  She started packing away the photos hurriedly, and was stretching the elastic band back over the tin when the rusty yawn of the back door struck her in the chest. She was trying to get the tin behind the board games again as silently as possible but heavy footsteps were making their way quickly to the bedroom and she knew she’d been caught out.

  ‘I’m so sorry. I was bored. I was thinking we hadn’t cleaned this room yet and—’

  The man who stood in the doorway was large, with long black greasy hair that started closer to the back of his skull. As he took another step closer, she registered the look of anger in his eyes.

  Sam’s scream came out clear and sharp as broken glass. Howard’s hands shot to his ears and Sam picked up her crutch and thrust it into his stomach. He tipped sideways and cowered against the bookshelf. Sam launched herself forward on her bad foot, fuelled by adrenaline. She struggled down the porch steps, her crutch sinking into the too-soft grass. She glanced back every now and then, expecting to see him behind her. For a moment she thought she had really hurt him and then reminded herself that she had meant to hurt him, that it was OK.

  It was dark on the road, and Sam couldn’t see much behind or ahead of her but she kept going, breathing too loud to hear whether Howard was approaching or not, unsure where she was heading.

  Her ankle started to throb, and soon Sam had to slow down. She was sure Howard was close, expected to feel his hands around her throat, but there was no sign of him. She had to walk up the middle of the road, as the sides were deep puddles of mud. The road was unlit but the moon was full, and Sam looked up into a sky with more stars than she’d ever seen in her life. Something buzzed by her ear and she flinched, losing her footing and falling on to her hip in the mulch of the roadside.

  She stayed on the ground for some time, the seat of her leggings now soaking with what she knew would be filthy water. She felt a tickling sensation on her neck, slapped at herself, dug her crutch into the ground and pulled herself up. She screamed and it cut the dark. She carried on, not knowing whether Howard was pursuing her, or if he was waiting for her back at the house. Her ankle throbbed harder, the compression bandage soaked.

  Sam heard the engine before she could see any car. She stayed in the centre of the road, waiting to see lights emerge in the black. They appeared ahead of her, blinding her as they came closer so she couldn’t see who it was. As the vehicle approached she waved with her free arm, then raised her crutch when the truck showed no signs of stopping. It was coming too fast, even seemed to be speeding up, and she froze in disbelief before hopping clumsily to her left, diving into the grass and lying face down. The truck swerved, its tyres skidding on the loose ground, and the engine stopped. Sam heard the sound of laughter that got louder as the window rolled down.

  ‘Sam? What are you doing?’ Dennis leaned out of the window.

  ‘You didn’t stop!’ She sat with her legs outstretched in front of her.

  ‘Why are you out here?’ His voice more serious now, something that bordered on concern but wasn’t quite.

  ‘At the house … Howard was at the house. I was cleaning and—’

  The engine started abruptly, the car moved forward and Sam scrambled up to her feet.

  ‘Wait! Don’t leave me!’

  They drove away quickly, the lights disappearing in the distance. Sam stood still in horror. It could be another prank, she thought, but with every second this seemed less likely, and her body started to ache with hatred. Lindsay, who thought it was funny to pretend to run her down. Lindsay, who sped off leaving her in the dark again. She wondered if Dennis had laughed and told her she was the worst.

  The crutch was hurting her arm, every hop pinched and bruised her skin, and her head was starting to ache. Just as she’d resigned herself to walking the whole way back to the house, she heard the truck again, approaching slowly, and saw the lights which flashed to show her they had seen her too. The passenger seat was empty.

  ‘He told me to come get you,’ Lindsay said.

  ‘Where is he?’ Sam pulled herself up into the truck.

  ‘I don’t know. Hurry up! Fuck.’

  ‘Was Howard still there? I hit him.’

  ‘Not hard enough, obviously. He’s gone.’

  ‘Well, where is he? He wasn’t following me on the road.’

  ‘No shit.’ Lindsay turned around, the truck bouncing off the road
and back on again.

  ‘He came from nowhere. There was no sign of a car—’

  ‘He knows this place as well as Dennis. Maybe better, now. There’s a shortcut from the trailer park, if you don’t mind getting dirty.’

  ‘Through the woods?’

  ‘You can cut through, save you walking the road. Takes maybe half the time.’

  ‘I think he’s been watching us,’ Sam said, realising it was the first time she had admitted this. ‘There’s been noises and once there was someone staring through the bathroom window.’

  ‘Howard’s creepy, all right.’

  ‘Is he … like, a rapist?’

  Lindsay started to laugh. ‘You thought he was going to rape you? Oh my God. Dennis will love that.’

  Sam held her breath. She imagined grabbing Lindsay by the hair and pulling it out in handfuls. ‘Then what was he going to do?’ she asked.

  Lindsay sighed. ‘He doesn’t give a shit about you, I can tell you that much. He’s always been totally obsessed with Dennis. Like some kind of fucking puppy. It’s sickening, really.’

  ‘Obsessed?’

  ‘He was probably trying to get hold of some of his things. He used to do that a lot, at school. Take stuff, mostly Dennis’s.’

  ‘What does Dennis have that Howard would want?’ Sam said.

  Lindsay seemed to be thinking for a while.

  ‘Howard was great to have around because he would just do whatever you wanted. His dad gave him so much cash. So he was always getting beer or buying gas or whatever we needed. But once Dennis started to get a life outside of Howard, it was like Howie couldn’t stand it. He just wanted him to himself. Looks like nothing’s changed.’

  Thirty-five

  Being back at the house made Sam uncomfortable. Though it still looked the same, with the lights left on, and the television flickering on mute, it had the feel of a place altered, as if everything had been moved a centimetre or so. She walked down the hallway and glanced into Dennis’s old bedroom.

  ‘Howard took his memory box,’ Sam said, noticing it was missing from the junk that littered the floor.

  ‘His what?’ Lindsay said from behind her.

  ‘The tin, the one you were looking after.’

  ‘Better hope Dennis catches up with him or he’ll be pissed.’

  ‘What’s so important about it, anyway? It’s not like there’s anything special in there,’ Sam said.

  ‘You looked in there?’ Lindsay’s eyes were wide with shock.

  ‘He showed me,’ Sam said. ‘Old pictures. There’s some deeds to the land but it’s not worth anything.’ Sam stopped and watched Lindsay, who stared past her, face tight with anger. ‘You never looked?’

  ‘Never. He asked me to take care of it. He asked me never to open it, and I promised I wouldn’t.’

  ‘You were never even curious?’

  Lindsay shrugged. ‘It was locked.’

  Sam wondered at this. In the same circumstances she knew she wouldn’t have kept that promise. After he was sentenced, what had stopped Lindsay from opening it? The lock was flimsy enough; Dennis had prised it open with a screwdriver easily. Again she thought of how innocuous a thing it was to be so secretive about.

  ‘I promised,’ Lindsay said again, before making her way to the kitchen.

  Sam could tell she was rattled, jealous that Dennis had allowed her to see what he had kept from Lindsay. As she started to stack the items back on to the shelves, she smiled. It was desperate, she thought, how subservient Lindsay was.

  Dennis returned, the back door crashing against the wall with the force of him. He had the box. Sam was relieved until she saw how upset he was, his skin pale, his eyes red. He threw the box on to the sofa and Lindsay stared at it before tearing her eyes away.

  ‘What happened?’ Lindsay asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ Dennis said.

  Sam noticed the grass stains on his jeans. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. Dennis fell back on to the sofa and she saw him shaking slightly. ‘Your hands …’ Sam looked at his knuckles, the skin peeled back, shades of red and purple.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ he said absently. ‘His teeth …’

  ‘We need to clean that up,’ Sam said. Dennis nodded slowly and stood.

  In the bathroom, Sam ran cold water over his hands and watched blood creeping to his wrists.

  ‘Come here,’ he said, pulling her to him suddenly. She felt his sweat on her skin.

  ‘He scared me,’ she said, apologising.

  ‘I know.’ He kissed her hair.

  ‘Do you think it was Howard looking through the windows? Hanging around?’ Sam asked.

  ‘I’m sure it was,’ Dennis said, holding her tighter. He kissed her again. ‘It’s fine now.’

  Instead of going out for a run the next morning, Dennis stayed in. He toasted Sam a bagel and layered it with peanut butter and blueberries, placing her Vicodin neatly on the side. They dabbed his wounds with antiseptic.

  ‘I think human mouths are even dirtier than a dog’s, or something,’ she said, wrapping his knuckles with bandages, trying to keep it loose enough so he could still bend his fingers. ‘You need to be careful this doesn’t get infected.’

  There were bruises that appeared on his arms, as though Howard had grabbed him hard and held tight. Sam thought of how lucky she’d been, and feared that he might come back.

  ‘I’ll be here,’ Dennis reassured her. But she was edgy, every noise made her jump, and she felt eyes follow her around the house.

  Mid-morning, a car screeched into the driveway, and Howard’s father, Officer Harries, stepped out, leaving the car door open and the engine running. This time he was alone, and there was no need for him to feign civility.

  ‘Danson,’ he yelled, though Dennis was already standing behind the screen door, waiting. ‘You ever lay a hand on my boy again … it’ll be the last thing you fucking you do! Hear me?’

  Sam watched from the living-room window.

  ‘Your son ever lays a hand on my wife again he’ll get more than a beating. You hear me?’ Dennis mimicked Harries’s drawl.

  At this Officer Harries stepped towards the house, close enough that Sam could see the sweat rolling off him and the scatter of broken veins that made his nose and cheeks light up red. ‘He did no such thing. You mark my words he won’t be back here, not again. But he did not touch anybody.’

  ‘Samantha?’ Dennis asked.

  ‘It’s true,’ Sam said, opening the window slightly. ‘He crept into the house yesterday and grabbed me from behind. I hit him to get him away.’ She waited for a response, but none came. Harries looked at her, face twisted.

  ‘See?’ Dennis said. ‘I told her she needs to protect herself round here.’

  ‘Liars. You and she deserve each other.’ Harries spat on to the grass. ‘Fucking liars.’ The car door slammed behind him and, with the growl of the engine, he drove away.

  Dennis came into the living room, put his arms around her, and told her she was good.

  ‘I thought he was going to arrest you or something,’ she said as he ran his nails down her back.

  ‘He won’t, don’t worry.’

  As he kissed her, his hand moved up and down her back over her T-shirt, his fingers catching the strap of her bra. When he let her go she felt drunk, warm.

  ‘Wait here,’ he said, ‘I just need to check on something quick.’

  She lay down on the air mattress and ran her fingertips over her stomach, thinking of him. He was gone a while, but she could hear him outside: the rusted yawn of the storm-shelter hatch being lowered, the sound of debris being kicked around. When Dennis came back in she closed her eyes, pretending to sleep. She heard him undo his belt, his shoes being kicked off, his jeans sliding to the floor, the sound of his glasses being placed on the table. He lay down beside her and pressed himself against her.

  ‘I know you’re awake,’ he whispered. She smiled. ‘I can tell.’ She let him curl around her, still keeping her eyes closed, an
d let herself ache until she fell asleep.

  She was dreaming, pushing herself against him while he thrust. Then she wasn’t dreaming, and he was pressing back into her. She reached back to pull him closer, deeper. He rolled her on to her stomach, her arms trapped underneath her, her face in the pillow, his weight on top of her. Was she dreaming? Limbs heavy with Vicodin, she moaned.

  ‘Shhh.’ His lips on her ear. He rested his head on hers, pressing her into the pillow again. She wanted to tell him to slow down; she tried to turn but he put his hand into her back and whispered, ‘Stay still.’

  She was sore. Dennis pushed himself deeper inside her and she felt a strange mixture of pleasure and pain. Then his body tensed and his breath caught; she felt him twitch inside her, and stop. He lay on top of her for a while, breathing, his fingers in her hair. When he rolled off her she turned on her side. He held her against him and she sank back into sleep, sore and smiling, not even sure it had been real.

  The hot afternoon woke them up. Sun pouring in directly over them as they lay there. They peeled away from each other, confused with sleep.

  ‘I never nap,’ Dennis said, putting his glasses on, recoiling from the midday sun like a vampire. ‘I need to make some calls.’

  Sam felt it warm and sticky on her inner thighs. She wiggled back into her underwear and stayed curled in the sheets. She touched herself; she was still sore. It had finally happened. It was all she wanted.

  Lindsay arrived late afternoon while Dennis was emptying a box of magazines into a metal trash can outside, ready to burn them. Sam was sitting on the porch bench, flicking idly through her phone.

  ‘You didn’t answer my text,’ Lindsay said, shading her eyes with her hand.

  ‘I was asleep,’ Dennis said, crushing down the trash to make room for more.

  ‘At eleven?’

  ‘We fell asleep,’ he repeated.

  ‘Did you need a ride to Wholefoods? We could do something.’

  ‘Not really, Linds. We’re kind of busy.’ He gestured to Sam. We, Sam thought. It felt good that Lindsay wasn’t a part of it.