The Other Mrs.(33)

And then she goes. She steals away from the bedroom, her feet noiseless on the wooden floors as they must have been when she let herself into our room.

I lie in bed, sleepless and alert, listening vigilantly for her to return.

How long it goes on this way, I don’t know, until eventually I give in to my drowsiness and slip back to my dream.



SADIE


I go during my lunch break. I try to be subtle about it, slipping out the door when I think no one is watching. But Joyce spots me anyway and asks, “Taking off on us again?” with an edge to her voice that suggests she doesn’t approve of me leaving.

“I’m just grabbing a quick lunch,” I tell her, though I’m not sure why I lie when the truth might have been better.

Joyce asks, “When can we expect you back?” and I tell her, “In an hour.”

She grunts at that and says, “I’ll see it when I believe it,” which is by no means a fair assessment of me—that I let my lunch breaks drag on longer than the allotted hour. But there’s no point in arguing. I go anyway, still anxious about finding Imogen in our bedroom last night. She must have known as soon as she found my wineglass that I’d been in her room. She could have come right then and told me. But she didn’t. Instead she waited hours, until I was dead asleep, to tell me. She wanted to scare me. That was her intent.

Imogen isn’t some ingenuous child. She’s quite cunning.

I find my car in the parking lot and drive. I tried to talk myself out of going to the memorial service. At first I thought that there was really no reason to go, other than my desire to see Jeffrey Baines. We’ve lived in our home for a little while now, and in that time, I’ve never gotten a good look at the man. But I can’t shake the idea that he killed his wife. For my safety and the safety of my family, I need to know who he is. I need to know who my neighbors are. I need to know if we’re safe with this man living just across the street from us.

The Methodist church is white with a tall steeple, a sharply honed spire. Four modest stained glass windows line each side of the building. The church is small, your archetypical, provincial church. Matching evergreen wreaths hang from nails on the double doors, adorned with red bows. The scene is charming. The small lot is jammed with cars. I park on the street, follow others inside the building.

The memorial service is being held in the fellowship hall. Ten or fifteen round tables fill the space, covered in white linens. There’s a banquet table at the front of the room and, on it, trays of cookies.

I walk with purpose; I have as much right to be here as anyone else, no matter what Will said. A woman I’ve never seen before reaches out to shake my hand as I step into the room. She thanks me for coming. There’s a handkerchief crumpled in her hand. She’s been crying. She tells me she is Morgan’s mother. She asks who I am. “Sadie,” I say, “a neighbor,” followed with deference by, “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

The woman is older than me by twenty or thirty years. Her hair is gray, her skin a road map of wrinkles. She’s trim, dressed in a black dress that goes just past her knees. Her hand is cold and, as she shakes mine, I feel the handkerchief press between our hands. “It was sweet of you,” she says, “to come. It makes me happy, knowing my Morgan had friends.”

I blanch at that because of course we weren’t friends. But that’s something her grieving mother needn’t know. “She was a lovely woman,” I say for lack of anything better to say.

Jeffrey stands five feet back, speaking with an older couple. Truth be told, he looks bored. He displays none of the same grief that Morgan’s mother openly displays. He doesn’t cry. It’s a masculine thing, not crying. That I understand. And grief can manifest itself in many ways, aside from crying. Anger, disbelief. But I see none of this in Jeffrey as he pats the old man on the back, unleashes a laugh.

I’ve never been this close to him before. I’ve never gotten a good look at him until now. Jeffrey is a polished man, tall and refined, with a suave thatch of dark hair that combs up and backward. His features are dark, his eyes hidden behind a pair of bold, thick-rimmed glasses. His suit is black. It’s been tailored for him. He’s quite handsome.

The older couple moves on. I tell Morgan’s mother once more how sorry I am and step past her. I move to Jeffrey. He takes my hand into his. His handshake is firm, his hand tepid. “Jeffrey Baines,” he says, holding my stare, and I tell him who I am, how my husband and I live with our family just across the street from him.

“Of course,” Jeffrey says, though I doubt he’s ever paid attention to the goings-on across the street. He strikes me as one of those savvy businessmen who know how to work a room, adept at the fine art of schmoozing. On the surface, he’s charming.

But under, there’s more that I can’t see.

He tells me, “Morgan was thrilled to have new blood on the street. She would have appreciated your being here, Sandy,” he says, and I correct him and say, “Sadie.”

“Yes, that’s right. Sadie,” he says, trying it on for size. He’s self-deprecating as a means of apology. “I was never any good with names,” he says as he lets go of my hand and I draw it back, folding my hands together before me.

“Most people aren’t,” I tell him. “This must be a very hard time for you,” I say, rather than the standard I’m so sorry for your loss. That feels commonplace, a sentiment that’s being echoed over and over again around the room. “Your daughter. She must be devastated,” I say, my body language trying its best to be sympathetic. I drop my head, furrow my eyebrows. “I can’t imagine what she must be going through.”