My Lovely Wife

Not that it mattered at this point, because Naomi has been found. And tomorrow, Josh will get my letter.

He won’t wait to get it on the air. Last time, I had expected the police to spend more time examining it, but the news about it came out almost right away. This one should be the same. It looks exactly the same, smells the same, and even the paper comes from the same ream. There will be no doubt it came from the same person as the others. If I were a gambling man, I would bet the letter will be all over the news before I even get home from work.

But I am not a gambler. In thirty-nine years, I have turned into a planner. Maybe even a pretty good one.

Forty-nine

Hard to tell if I won or lost my imaginary bet. It is a matter of degrees, or in this case a matter of hours.

My thought was that Josh would go live with the letter just before the evening news, so it would be on every channel by the time people sat down for dinner. Instead, it comes hours earlier, while Jenna and I are at Dr. Beige’s office. He thinks she needs therapy more often. I think she needs a new doctor. Since Jenna started seeing him, she has gone from cutting off her hair to making herself sick to hitting someone with a rock.

Millicent and I divide up the appointments now. We both cannot take off from work three times a week, which is what Dr. Beige recommends after the Krav Maga incident. Today is my turn in the waiting room, where my options are therapeutic comic books, educational magazines, or TV. No one else is around, except a stern-looking receptionist who wears a jet-black wig and ignores everyone. I turn on a game show and play along in my head.

The story breaks about ten minutes into Jenna’s appointment. Josh appears on the screen, and after a brief introduction, he starts reading Owen’s letter out loud.

The receptionist looks up.

As Josh reads the words I wrote, a chill runs up my back. When he gets to the end, to Owen’s final goodbye, I have to stop myself from smiling. Owen really sounds like a cocky bastard in that letter.

Goodbye.

Finally.

Josh rereads the letter two more times before Jenna comes out of Dr. Beige’s office. She looks bored.

The doctor is behind her. He looks pleased.

“Switch,” she says. It is my turn to go into the office, so Dr. Beige can feed me a bowl of his oatmeal-colored nonsense.

Today, I refuse. “I apologize, but we just don’t have the time. Would you be available for a call later?”

The good doctor does not look pleased with me.

I do not care.

“That would be fine,” he says. “If I’m unable to take the call, just leave a—”

“Sounds great. Thank you so much.”

I offer my hand, and it takes him a second to shake it. “Well, then. Goodbye.”

“Bye.”

As soon as we walk into the parking lot, Jenna looks at me sideways.

“You’re being weird,” she says.

“I thought I was always weird.”

“Weirder than usual.”

“That’s pretty weird.”

“Dad.” She crosses her arms over her chest and stares at me.

“Want a hot dog?”

Jenna looks at me like I’d suggested we have a drink. “A hot dog?”

“Yeah. You know, a little tube of meat or whatever, in a bun with mustard and—”

“Mom doesn’t allow hot dogs.”

“I’ll tell her to join us.”

I think Jenna’s head explodes a little at this thought, but she gets into the car without another word.

* * *

• • •

Top Dog serves thirty-five varieties of hot dogs, including tofu. This is what Millicent orders. And she does not say a word when Rory orders two all-beef chili dogs. It feels like a celebration, because it is. Owen is gone for good. The news is all over the TV screens mounted above our heads. Today, everything has gone according to plan and everyone seems to feel it.

“Can home go back to normal now?” Rory asks.

Millicent smiles. “Define ‘normal.’ ”

“Not on blackout. Back in civilization.”

“You want to watch the news?” I say.

“I don’t want to be banned from watching the news.”

Jenna rolls her eyes. “You just want to impress Faith.”

And just like that, I know Rory’s blond friend is named Faith.

“Who’s Faith?” Millicent says.

“No one,” Rory says.

Jenna giggles. Rory pinches her, and she squeaks.

“Stop it,” she says.

“Shut up.”

“You shut up.”

“Wait, are you talking about Faith Hammond?” Millicent says.

Rory does not answer, which means yes. It also means Millicent knows Faith’s parents, likely because she sold the Hammonds their house.

“Why didn’t they catch him?” Jenna says. She is staring up at the TV.

Maybe we are not quite back to normal.

“They caught him before,” Rory says. “And he got out.”

“So they can’t catch him?”

“They will. People like him don’t stay free forever,” I say.

Rory opens his mouth to say something, and Millicent shuts him up with a look.

Everything I think of to say sounds stupid in my head, so I keep my mouth shut. Not even Rory speaks. No one does until Jenna says something.

“I don’t feel so good.” She rubs her stomach. Jenna had the barbecue-and-onion dog, which was almost as large as my chili cheese dog. I do not think it’s the stress that has upset her stomach today.

Millicent gives me the look.

I nod. Yes, this is my fault for suggesting the hot dogs.

Millicent grabs her bag and motions for us to go. She has been a good sport about the hot-dog thing, considering we did not discuss it beforehand, and I take her hand in mine. We follow the kids out to the parking lot.

“And how’s your stomach?” she says.

“Perfect. Yours?”

“Never better.”

I lean over and try to kiss her. She turns away.

“Your breath is disgusting.”

“And yours smells like tofu.”

She laughs and I laugh, and my stomach does not feel nearly as good as I claimed. As soon as we get home, both Jenna and I are sick. She goes upstairs to the bathroom, but I can’t make it. I end up using the one in the hall.

Millicent runs between the two, bringing us ginger ale and cold compresses.

“Sick as dogs!” Rory yells. He laughs, and inside I am laughing with him.

Tonight, everything is funny, even while I am sick on the bathroom floor. Tonight, it feels like I have exhaled.

I didn’t even realize I’d been holding my breath.

Fifty

That hot dog kept me up at night, so I sleep in a little the next morning. By the time I get out of the house, it’s too late to stop at the EZ-Go. Instead, I go to a coffee shop just outside the Hidden Oaks gate. It’s the kind with five-dollar coffee and a male barista who has an obnoxious beard and stares at the TV. He shakes his head at it as he pours me a plain cup of coffee.

“I gotta stop watching the news,” he says.