The Wife's Tale (26 page)

The driver of the taxi was surly and silent, a pleasing combination that Mary decided not to take personally. He might be
preoccupied by any number of things. Miserable for any number of reasons. He might be lonely. Filled with self-recrimination.
Maybe his relatives were dead. Perhaps, like her, he was recently arrived from a far-off land and was no longer certain who
he was.

With the morning unfolding in Golden Hills, Mary was glad for the chance to sit quietly in the back seat of the taxi to read
her own life story, which had been for so many years meandering and plotless, and which now appeared to be in the throes of
rising action. She became excited writing the next chapter, anticipating the moments of her future. A sharp black Escalade,
a gas hog (Gooch would have forgiven himself the indulgence when he rented it), parked behind the Prius at Eden’s house on
Willow Drive. The door opens and he is there, standing taller than she remembers. He’s not surprised to see her. He’s been
waiting. A sloping crease in his forehead begs her forgiveness, a lift of his shoulders and a wan smile say,
Ah, life.

Stopping at the intersection, she saw the Mexican men, many more than the day before, gathered around the utility pole that
anchored their collective. A brown pickup pulled into the lot trailing a cumulus cloud of gold dust. It took a moment, as
the dust settled, for her to see the men scrambling over each other, moments ago comrades, instantly contestants for the chance
at a day’s pay. Once the truck was full, the others shuffled back to the pole, scanning the road for the next employer.

Driving down the main road, she was once again stunned by the volume of cars, but also surprised to see humans dotting the
sidewalks or cycling beside them, dressed like the Tour de France athletes Gooch watched on TV, hunched over silver handlebars,
lean and grim. The walkers were dressed in workout clothes, ears plugged with music, pumping arms and marching feet. Most
but not all of them were slim. One woman, not nearly as large as Mary but of a standardly unacceptable body mass, was chugging
down the street with her head held high, eyes focused on a target, ignoring or celebrating the jogging flesh on her bones.
You go, girl,
Mary thought, and wished she could say it as convincingly as other women did.

She paid the driver and tipped generously, although she found it shocking to have to pay seventeen dollars to be carried such
a short distance. If she stayed in Golden Hills for any length of time, she’d have to find less costly transportation. There
must be a bus. Did all the nannies and maids have cars?
The maids
—she realized she had forgotten to leave money on the bed for them. She’d promised herself long ago that if she ever stayed
in a hotel she would tip the maids, prompted by a conversation over cards one night, François accusing Pete of cheapness when,
on a Mexican vacation the other couples had taken together, he’d refused to leave money on the bed. Gooch, who stayed in motels
when he needed to, had agreed. “You should tip the maids, Pete. Don’t be cheap.”

“It’s not cheap! Jesus, everybody’s got their hand out! I hate it! I hate those guys who try to carry your bags! I hate those
bathrooms where the guy wants a dollar for handing you a freakin’ paper towel!”

“Think of it this way, Pete,” Dave had said, “they all wish they were you.”

“They all wish they were me wondering when they’re getting laid off from the car factory? Fuck them. Be me.”

“So you tip a waiter who brings you a bottle of wine but you don’t wanna tip the lady who cleans your pubes out of the tub?”
Gooch had asked, laughing to defuse the tension.

“He didn’t tip the waiters either,” Wendy had complained. “It was so embarrassing.”

“It’s not even my country!” Pete had shouted, over the collective groan.

As the bank doors were not yet open, Mary decided to stroll down the plaza. Crossing the parking lot, she spied a white Prius
parked in front of the deli and remembered what Eden had said about arranging to meet Gooch out somewhere, to spare Jack.
She strained to look through the window at the customers in the deli’s plush booths. Gooch and Eden were not among them.

Scanning the plaza, she hoped to see her prodigal husband and her bob-haired mother-in-law emerging from behind the spraying
fountain, or departing the coffee shop where they’d said their loving goodbyes. Her eyes floated over the sea of cars in the
parking lot, where it seemed that the few cars that were not sports utility vehicles were shiny white Priuses.

With Gooch nowhere in sight, she found the bench outside the bank and sat to breathe the morning air. Eden had said Golden
Hills was close enough to the ocean that it didn’t suffer the famous L.A. smog. Mary pretended she could smell it in the distance,
salty and sweet. Although she was undernourished, her muscles aching from her uncommon labor, and even with the unfortunate
disappearance of both her husband and her purse, she thought she felt better than she had in some time.

A short distance from the bank, the fast-food restaurant had begun grilling its crazy chickens. Mary watched the greasy gray
smoke rise above the clay shingles. Behind the restaurant, a gathering of black birds crowed to one another, planning their
assault on the trash bins outside the restaurant. Crows. Marys. Gay people. They were everywhere. But these crows, like the
rest of the population, seemed genetically enhanced, a fortunate mutation making them bigger, stronger and blacker. They flapped
between the enormous steel trash bins, which were sealed with heavy latched lids. One bird hawked at another, “There’s no
way in!”

She glanced around. There were no overflowing wastebaskets in the vicinity. In this world of plenty slim pickins for crows,
with the clear civic agenda of cleanliness, Mary wondered just what the poor birds ate. Carrion? She wished she had some bread
crumbs to scatter on the lawn. Her fear of crows, she realized, had been a fear of flying all along.

A fleet of blue vans began to pull out of the parking spots in front of a pool service company near the drugstore. She was
watching the vans when a smiling, attractive, middle-aged woman with a name tag that read
Lucille Alvarez
appeared, to open the bank doors at ten a.m. Mary saw it as a sign that, as Emery Carr had promised—as she had promised herself—things
would go well.

But the telephone call to her bank, which Mary realized she could have made herself earlier, from the hotel, suggested otherwise.
As she had no identification, her identity could not be verified. Worse, she was largely unknown to the Leaford staff. She
stopped herself from saying, “I’m the big woman.”

When she reminded them that she had been in just over a week ago, and assisted by a new girl, the manager could only offer
his apologies that they needed further proof. His tone grew suspicious when she could give only the most obvious and accessible
information on the account. On the questions of Gooch’s first elementary school, or his mother’s maiden name (something Ukrainian),
or his access code, she was stumped. When she couldn’t recite her bank account number, the manager’s tone turned frosty. A
conversation with another manager, who was not currently available, was the next step.

The Leaford manager suggested that Mary call back in an hour. She told him she’d call back in two. As frustrated as she was
by her fiscal debacle, she was anxious to get to Jack and Eden’s in case they’d heard from Gooch. She left the bank, taking
two bottles of water from the small cooler in the lounge area to drink on the way to their house.

The hills of the Highlands stretched out before her. Already perspiring, Mary steeled herself for the ascent. Lift leg. Plant
boot. Swing arms. Lift leg, plant boot, swing arms. Stop. Rest. Drink water. Climb higher and higher. Drink water. And higher.
Swing arms. Beat heart. Higher.
Breathe.

On the sidewalk in front of one of the monster homes presiding over Willow Lowlands, she stopped to take more aspirin. She
blinked to see a familiar face, that accursed mother from the parking lot, trailed by the flight risk, Joshua, and his two
squabbling siblings—triplets—climbing out of a shiny black Lincoln Navigator parked beside a huge white Dodge Ram pickup truck,
in front of a sprawling two-story home. The trunk door was open, glutted with paper bags full of groceries. The woman, wearing
blue jeans and a sleeveless pullover with just the right amount of silver jewelry, carried two sacks in her toned, bare arms.
Behind her, trailing like ducklings, the three blonde tykes sang a song and giggled. Mary caught a glimpse of a large shaggy
dog lumbering toward the garage.

Watching the woman, with her soft blonde hair and pretty face, Mary felt her cheeks flush with outrage, a craving for vengeance,
an urge to scream about the lost purse and all the trouble the woman’s neglect had caused. But she hushed her instinct. She
wouldn’t make a scene in front of the children, and she could see now, with high-density clarity, the utter pointlessness
of blame. She stood watching from yards away, invisible to the mother, overhearing her beg the boys, “Help Mommy carry some
bags in.”

“No,” they cried.

“Help me and you can watch TV. Just carry in a few bags and I’ll make sundaes.”

Wendy and Kim had parented in the same curious way.
Let Mommy visit with Auntie Mary and we’ll stop for Dilly Bars on the way home.
But then, she supposed her own busy mother had done the same thing. Leaving packages of store-bought baked goods on the table
as after-school snacks for Mary, pretending not to notice when she ate the whole tray. Offering forbidden foods as a reward
for her discretion. “Don’t tell your father. Let’s go to the Oakwood for a honey-glazed.” Or “Be quiet while I’m trying on
clothes and I’ll buy you a Teen Burger.”

Permissive Parenting. Children in Charge. Nice Treats for Naughty Tots. She’d judged mothers harshly for their lack of control,
but ultimately concluded that she’d probably be just as weak, and just as likely to offer foodstuffs as a reward for the smallest
expectation met, or to quiet her own nagging guilt.

Mary thought of her ancestors hand-plowing the clear-cut Leaford soil. What would pioneer mothers and fathers have said when
the children complained about having to yank roots and clear rocks, she wondered.
Work hard and we will survive another day.

The small boy, Joshua, suddenly turned around to face her. His mother swiveled to see what he was looking at, startled to
find Mary standing on the sidewalk in her paisley ensemble and heavy winter boots. “Hello,” the younger woman called out warily.

“Hello,” Mary replied.

“You’re the woman from the parking lot.”

“Yes.”

The mother squinted. “Do you live in the Highlands?”

“I’m here visiting my in-laws. They live down the hill,” Mary explained, pointing with one hand, wiping sweat from her brow
with the other.

The woman set her groceries down, smiling apologetically as she approached. “I don’t think I even thanked you.”

“You’ve got your hands full,” Mary allowed, as the boys pulled each other down on the soft green lawn, growling and yelping,
a blur of swiping paws and sharp white teeth.

“Joshua, Jeremy, Jacob,” the mother said, introducing the scrambled boys. “Where’s the dog?”

“He’s in the garage,” Mary said over the children’s shrieks.

“Quit it, boys! Boys!” The mother clapped her hands once, then again when the ruckus continued. “Joshua! Jacob! Jeremy!”

“They’re just adorable,” Mary said, to soften her sharpness.

“Do I know your in-laws?” the woman asked, surrendering to the din. “I probably do. It’s a small town.”

“Jack and Eden Asquith?”

“I know Jack,” she said, and it was clear in her expression that she also knew Jack’s prognosis. “He used to have the pet
supply place. He went to college with my dad back east. How’s he doing?”

“Not well,” Mary said.

“Where are you from?” the woman asked, trying not to notice Mary’s winter boots.

“Canada.” Mary hoped, on her country’s behalf, that she would not be seen as a fashion ambassador.

“You must be enjoying the weather,” the mother said, then noticed how Mary was perspiring. “I thought Jack just had daughters.
You must be Eden’s…?”

“I’m Gooch’s wife. Eden’s son’s wife.”

“Are you and your husband staying until Jack…?”

“I’m here by myself.” The words felt lonely.

The woman’s cellphone rang inside her leather handbag and she excused herself to answer. After a brief and heated exchange
she hung up, explaining her tone to Mary. “I’ve got a Lydia Lee party tonight. Home jewelry sales? You know it?” She flashed
a business card from her bag. “And that was the agency calling to say they’re sending a new sitter.” She turned toward the
tangle of triplets in the grass, adding darkly, “The boys don’t like new sitters.”

“No!” one of them cried to his brother, as if proving the point.

The woman smiled, offering a lovely hand with manicured fingers. “I’m Ronni Reeves.”

“Mary Gooch,” Mary said, shaking her hand, struck by the contrast of her own plump, chapped hands against the woman’s slender
fingers.

“Nice to meet you, Mary Gooch. Thanks again for the other day. And give my best to Jack. Come on, boys.”

Mary watched them disappear inside their immodest home: Livin’ the dream.

F
arther down the hill, Mary saw the white Prius parked in the driveway of the Asquiths’ small home, but no other car. Maybe
Gooch had got a ride. She imagined her huge husband perched on the expensive sofa across from his mother, describing the view
from the hiking trails, expressing his hopes for reconciliation with his wife. Her feet were hot within her boots, and sticky
with blood from her wound.

Finally at the door, she rang the buzzer. When no one answered she became impatient. She hit the button again. After a moment,
Eden cracked the door. “Oh Mary. It’s
you
.”

“Hi Eden, I’m sorry to bother you—”