Dear Wife(42)

“I’m a real backseat driver,” I say, nudging her out of the way so I can step into the hall. “You don’t want me in your passenger’s seat, I promise. I’ll only make you crazy, and besides, I like to drive.”

What I really like is to stay in control. No way I’m strapping myself into somebody else’s car and letting them steer me Lord knows where, not with every penny I own strapped to my middle. I’m not about to relinquish my cash or my shiny new command on life that easily. At least behind the wheel of my own car, I am the one in charge.

As long as things are on my terms, I wouldn’t mind the company.

Martina opens her mouth to argue, then becomes distracted by a door opening at the far end of the hall. Tom, the red-faced, sweaty guy who lives in the room across from mine, steps out of the bathroom in a puff of steam. He’s soaking from his three-minute session under the shower, water streaming in rivulets down his short, square body and onto the hallway runner. His hair, usually wrapped into a complicated comb-over that’s not fooling anyone, hangs in thin strands onto his bare shoulders.

“Good morning, ladies,” he says. “You two are looking awfully spiffy today. Matching outfits, I like it.”

Better than his outfit, which is a tiny slip of ancient terry cloth slung low around his potbelly. It flaps open when he walks, providing intermittent views of something I’m trying hard not to notice.

Martina makes a face. “Put some clothes on, Tom.”

“Gotta dry off first.”

“I thought that’s what the towel was for.”

I make a sound in the back of my throat. “Towel” is a generous term.

“Nope. Towel’s for modesty.” He stops at his door, giving us his hairy back while he works in his key. “My body parts function best when they air-dry. You two have a good day, now.” He steps inside and shuts the door.

Martina turns to me with a concerned frown. “Is that true? Am I supposed to be letting my parts air-dry?”

I laugh and head for the stairs. “Come on. I don’t want to be late.”

We run into Miss Sally in the hallway below, her hair wound around fat curlers the same hot pink as her silk robe, a floral kimono wrapped loosely around her body. It hangs open between her breasts, two jiggly mounds of flesh right at eye level. What is it with half-naked people in this place?

“Well, don’t you two look like the Doublemint twins,” she says, taking us in from head to toe. “I see our Martina got you a job, huh?”

I glance at Martina, flashing her a smile. “She did. For which I am forever grateful.”

Martina grins and bumps me with a shoulder.

“I hear good things about that place. A friend of mine goes there every Sunday. Sits front and center, right in front of the big cross. He’s been trying to get me to go, but I keep telling him not to bother.” Miss Sally’s gaze dips to my chest, and the text written across my shirt. “Unlike your souls, I’m pretty sure mine is doomed.”

“Don’t be fooled,” I say, laughing. “I’m going to need more than a T-shirt to save my soul.”

Miss Sally laughs like we’re in on the same joke, even though all those things I used to believe about my inherent decency are no longer true. I’ve lied, I’ve cheated, and before this thing is through, I will have done much worse.

Some might say that makes me just as bad as you, but I don’t believe that. This is nothing like the times you held me down and spit in my face, punched me in the stomach so hard I stopped breathing, held my neck and tried to make me swallow a whole bottle of Ambien. “I don’t want to do these things,” you told me after every instance. “It must be you. You are the one who brings this out in me. I wouldn’t be like this if you were a different woman.” What I’m doing is self-defense. For me, this is survival.

We say our goodbyes to Miss Sally and head out the door. Sometime during the night, clouds rolled in, bringing with them a humidity that makes it feel like we’re walking through water, the air so thick it has a weight to it. The inside of the Buick is even worse. The dampness has seeped through the cracks in the windows and turned the upholstery clammy. We sink onto it, and it belches up a bouquet of scents I’ve not noticed before, none of them pleasant. Cigarettes and body odor and something sour and rotten, like spoiled milk. I start the engine and hit the buttons for the windows to air out the stink.

“Sweet ride,” Martina says, sliding her hand up and down the armrest, and I wonder if she’s messing with me. Either way, it doesn’t make me any more eager to ride in her car.

I pull up the map app on my phone, and Martina waves it away, directing me out of the neighborhood. She chatters as we wind our way through streets that are already crowded with the morning rush, people like us going to work and school, and I wonder how we look to them. Normal, probably. Like one of them.

Once we’re hurtling toward the highway—a route I recognize—she settles back into her seat, kicking off her sneakers and swinging her feet up onto the dash. Her toenails are painted a bright metallic blue. “So, what’s the deal with you, anyway?”

The question is broad enough that it could refer to any number of things. I glance over, trying to judge which one, but Martina’s profile doesn’t give anything away. She points at the light and says, “Green.”