My Lovely Wife(7)

“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.”



* * *



? ? ?

Andy and Trista Preston bought their house from Millicent. Although Andy is a few years older than me, I’ve known him forever. He grew up in Hidden Oaks, we went to the same schools, and our parents knew one another. Now he works at a software firm, making enough money to take tennis lessons every day, but he doesn’t—that’s why he has a paunch.

But his wife takes lessons. Trista also grew up around here, but she’s from the other part of Woodview, not the Oaks. We meet twice a week, and she spends the rest of her time working at an art gallery. Together, the Prestons make twice what we do.

Millicent knows how much all of her clients make, and most earn more than us. I have to admit that this bothers me more than it bothers her. Millicent thinks it’s because she makes more money than I do. She’s wrong. It’s because Andy makes more money than I do, though I do not tell her that. She is not from the Oaks; she doesn’t understand what it’s like to grow up here and then end up working here.

Our dinner is at an upscale restaurant where everyone eats salad, chicken, or salmon, and drinks red wine. Andy and Trista drink the whole bottle. Millicent doesn’t really drink and hates it when I do. I don’t drink around her.