My Lovely Wife

It happened when Rory was eight years old. He had friends but not too many, a middle-of-the-road kid on the popularity scale, so it came as a surprise when a boy named Hunter gave Rory a paper cut. On purpose. They had been arguing about which superhero was strongest, when Hunter got mad and cut Rory. The cut was in the crease between the thumb and index finger of his right hand. It was painful enough to make Rory scream.

Hunter was sent home for the day, and Rory went to see the nurse, who bandaged his hand and gave him a sugar-free lollipop. The pain had already been forgotten.

That night, after the kids were asleep, Millicent and I talked about the paper cut. We were in bed. She had just closed her laptop, and I turned off the TV. School had just started, and Millicent’s summer tan hadn’t completely faded. She didn’t play tennis, but she loved to swim.

Millicent picked up my hand and rubbed the thin stretch of skin between my thumb and index finger. “Have you ever had a cut here?”

“No. You?”

“Yes. Hurt like hell.”

“How did it happen?”

“Holly.”

I knew very little about Holly. Millicent almost never talked about her older sister. “She cut you?” I asked.

“We were making collages of all our favorite things, and we cut pictures out of magazines and pasted them all on big pieces of construction paper. Holly and I reached for the same piece at the same time, and”—she shrugged—“I got cut.”

“Did you scream?”

“I don’t remember. But I cried.”

I picked up her hand and kissed the long-healed cut. “What favorite things?” I asked.

“What?”

“You said you cut out pictures of your favorite things. What were they?”

“Oh no,” she said, taking her hand back and turning out the light. “You’re not going to turn this into another crazy Christmas thing.”

“You don’t like our crazy Christmas thing?”

“I love it. But we don’t need another.”

I knew we didn’t. I was trying to avoid the subject of Holly, because Millicent didn’t like to talk about her. That’s why I asked about her favorite things.

I should have asked about Holly.

Five

Lindsay dominates the news. She is the only one who has been found, and the first surprise is where her body is found.

The last time I saw Lindsay, we were in the middle of nowhere. Millicent and I had taken her deep into the swamp near a nature preserve, hoping the wildlife would find her before any people did. Lindsay was still alive, and we were supposed to kill her together. That was the plan.

That was the point.

It didn’t happen, because of Jenna. We had arranged for both kids to spend the night with friends; Rory was with a friend playing video games, and we had dropped Jenna off at a slumber party with half a dozen twelve-year-old girls. When Millicent’s phone went off, it sounded like a kitten. That was Jenna’s ring. Millicent answered before the second meow.

“Jenna? What’s wrong?”

I watched Millicent listen, my heart beating a little faster with each nod of her head.

Lindsay was lying on the ground, her tanned legs sprawled out on the dirt. The drug we’d knocked her out with was wearing off, and she had started to move a little.

“Honey, can you pass the phone to Mrs. Sheehan?” Millicent said.

More nodding.

When Millicent spoke again, her voice had changed. “I understand. Thank you so much. I’ll be right there.” She hung up.

“What—”

“Jenna’s sick. A stomach flu or maybe food poisoning. She’s been in the bathroom for the past hour.” Before I could answer, she said, “I’ll go.”

I shook my head. “I’ll do it.”

Millicent didn’t protest. She looked down at Lindsay and back at me. “But—”

“I’ll do it,” I said. “I’ll pick up Jenna and take her home.”

“I can take care of her.” Millicent was looking down at Lindsay. She was not talking about our daughter.

“Of course you can.” I never had a doubt. I was just disappointed I had to miss it.

When I arrived at the Sheehans, Jenna was still sick. On the way home, I pulled over twice so she could throw up. I sat up with her most of the night.

Millicent returned home just before dawn. I didn’t ask if she had moved Lindsay, because I assumed she had buried her in that deserted area. I have no idea how she ended up in room number 18 at the Moonlite Motor Inn.

The Moonlite closed when the new highway was built more than twenty years ago. The motel was abandoned and left to the elements, rodents, transients, and drug addicts. No one paid attention to it, because no one had to drive by it. Lindsay was found by some teenagers, who called the police.

The motel is a single strip of a building, one story, with rooms lining both sides. Room 18 is on the back side, in the corner and not visible from the road. As I watch aerial video of the motel on TV, I try to imagine Millicent driving around the back of the Moonlite and parking, getting out of the car, opening the trunk.

Dragging Lindsay across the ground.

I wonder if she is strong enough to do that. Lindsay was quite muscular from all those outdoor sports. Maybe Millicent used something to transport Lindsay. A cart, something with wheels. She is smart enough to do something like that.

The reporter is young and earnest; he speaks as if every word is important. He tells me that Lindsay had been wrapped in plastic, shoved into the closet, and covered with a blanket. The teenagers discovered her because they had been playing a drunken game of hide-and-seek. I don’t know how long she has been in the closet, but the reporter does say Lindsay’s body was initially identified with dental records. The DNA tests are pending. The police could not use fingerprints, because Lindsay’s had been filed off.

I try not to imagine how Millicent did this, or that she did it at all, but it becomes the only thing I can imagine.

The images in my mind stay there. Still frames of Lindsay’s smiling face, of her white teeth. Of my wife filing away Lindsay’s fingertips. Of her dragging Lindsay’s body into a motel room and shoving her in the closet. These all flash through my mind throughout the day, the evening, and as I try to go to sleep.

Millicent, however, looks normal. She looks the same when she gets home from work and throws together a salad, when she takes off her makeup, when she works on her computer before going to sleep. If she has been listening to the news, it doesn’t show. A half dozen times, I start to ask her why or how Lindsay got into that motel.

I don’t. Because all I can think about is why I have to ask. Why she didn’t tell me.

The next day, she calls me in the middle of the afternoon, and the question is on the tip of my tongue. I am also starting to wonder if there is anything else I don’t know.

“Remember,” she says. “We have dinner with the Prestons tonight.”

“I remember.”

I do not remember. She knows this and tells me the name of the restaurant without my asking.

“Seven o’clock,” she says.

“I’ll meet you there.”

* * *

• • •