Dear Wife(81)

She laughed. “Speaking of banks, how much money do you have?”

“Not quite four thousand, including what’s on Nick’s card.” Sabine knew Nick because he was her idea. She was the one who told me how to set up the account, the one who dug him up from God knows where. She didn’t tell me, and I didn’t ask, though by then she was volunteering at that battered women’s shelter so I had my suspicions. But it was an unspoken agreement between us, to share only the most essential information, nothing more, a need-to-know basis. She’d lived here all her life, too, and she was all too aware of how much power you had in this town, how many people were watching. The less we knew about each other, the better.

She fumbled through her bag on the island, pulling out a wad of cash crumpled from her wallet. “Here. This is all I have on me, but I want you to have it.” When I didn’t immediately reach for the money, she wagged the bills in the air. “Please. It’ll make me worry a whole lot less if you take it.”

I pocketed the cash, because the truth was, I needed it. Four thousand dollars wouldn’t last me long.

And yet when it came to my interactions with Sabine, the money was the very last thing to be thankful for. Not only did she hand me the road map to a life away from you, she told me I was strong enough to go down it. She said not only that I should, but that I could. It wasn’t one thing she said but a million encouraging words piled on top of each other. Sabine believed in me, and she taught me to believe in myself. It’s because of her that I took back my power.

“I’m going to pay you back,” I said, standing. “Not just for the money, but for everything. I don’t know how yet, but I swear to you, one day I’ll repay all your kindness.”

“Oh, hush.” She smiled, her eyes going bright. “You know, when we first started talking about this, I didn’t think you’d go through with it. I thought it would take a tidal wave to get you away from him, but look at you now. I’m so stinking proud of you.”

There were so many things I should have said. That she was the strong one for stepping out of her marriage before the violence could become a cycle. That when she supported me, she gave me some of her strength. That her pride and friendship made me so much braver than I ever thought I could be. That I owed her everything.

But I thought I had plenty of time.

“Thank you,” I said instead. “I’ll never forget everything you’ve done for me.”

“Just be safe, okay? And be happy again. That’s the best thanks you could ever give me.”

We hugged and then she pushed me out the door, and I made my escape through the side yard. Right before I slipped into the bushes, I turned one last time, and I spotted her, proud and hopeful, in the kitchen window.

It was the last time I ever saw Sabine.



BETH

I don’t mean to fall asleep, but the news of Sabine so exhausts me, so drains me of energy and emotion and tears, that it’s all I can do to peel off my jeans and brush my teeth. I collapse on the bed in yesterday’s T-shirt, and I’m out the second my head hits the grubby pillow.

Shouting on the catwalk pops my eyes wide. A jumble of angry voices, right outside my room. I bolt upright in bed, springing onto the floor before I’m even aware of being awake. A woman’s voice hollers, something about money. A lower rumble answers, muffled and slurred, but the woman isn’t having it. Her words escalate in volume and urgency, her shrieks rattling the glass in the window.

I check the time on my phone. Just before 4:00 a.m.

“Shut the fuck up!” a third voice yells through the wall. My neighbor, the skinny black man in the next room, but it doesn’t do him any good. The people outside are still slinging curse words, still threatening each other with bodily harm. There’s forty dollars on the line, and both of them are convinced that it’s theirs.

The argument swells into a sharp pop, followed by a quick burst of three more—popopop—and I hit the floor. The commotion soon fades into footsteps, a heavy body making a noisy run for it, and the catwalk falls into silence. I peel myself off the grimy carpet, lift up a corner of the curtains and peek outside.

A light flickers outside my door, a short in the system that should come with a warning for epileptics. But there are no bodies as far as I can see, no blood on the concrete.

I drop the curtains and skirt past the window to the door, pressing myself to the cinder block wall. The silence stretches for three minutes, then five. I push off the wall and step into my jeans with the efficiency of a firefighter.

The silence lingers, but the adrenaline in my veins says I’ll never get back to sleep, so I fire up the laptop and navigate to the internet. Might as well get to work.

Work. Funny how I’ve come to think of my internet check-ins as work. Scouring the Pine Bluff police department’s website and Facebook page, monitoring the news and police scanner. Ever since finding out about Sabine, I’ve been pinging back and forth between the two sites, watching for news and waiting.

Sabine’s funeral is later today, a service at First Baptist that’s expected to be standing room only, followed by a private burial at Memorial Park featuring her husband, her lover and her sister, none of whom are getting along. Ingrid is suing Jeffrey for the money in Sabine’s bank accounts, and Jeffrey is countersuing to keep it. Trevor doesn’t want the money but a couple of personal effects—the photographs off her computer, a ring she was wearing when she died, an antique vase they bought on a clandestine weekend getaway. In response, Jeffrey sued him for $1.5 million in damages, blaming him for ruining their marriage. My heart pinches for Sabine, who would be horrified at their ridiculous bickering.