The Wife's Tale

  “It’s not cheap! Jesus, everybody’s got their hand out! I hate it! I hate those guys who try to carry your bags! I hate those bathrooms where the guy wants a dollar for handing you a freakin’ paper towel!”

  “Think of it this way, Pete,” Dave had said. “They all wish they were you.”

  “They all wish they were me wondering when they’re getting laid off from the car factory? Fuck them. Be me.”

  “So you tip a waiter who brings you a bottle of wine but you don’t wanna tip the lady who cleans your pubes out of the tub?” Gooch had asked, laughing to defuse the tension.

  “He didn’t tip the waiters either,” Wendy had complained. “It was so embarrassing.”

  “It’s not even my country!” Pete had shouted, over the collective groan.

  As the bank doors were not yet open, Mary decided to stroll down the plaza. Crossing the parking lot, she spied a white Prius parked in front of the deli and remembered what Eden had said about arranging to meet Gooch out somewhere, to spare Jack. She strained to look through the window at the customers in the deli’s plush booths. Gooch and Eden were not among them.

  Scanning the plaza, she hoped to see her prodigal husband and her bob-haired mother-in-law emerging from behind the spraying fountain, or departing the coffee shop where they’d said their loving goodbyes. Her eyes floated over the sea of cars in the parking lot, where it seemed that the few cars that were not sports utility vehicles were shiny white Priuses.

  With Gooch nowhere in sight, she found the bench outside the bank and sat to breathe the morning air. Eden had said Golden Hills was close enough to the ocean that it didn’t suffer the famous L.A. smog. Mary pretended she could smell it in the distance, salty and sweet. Although she was undernourished, her muscles aching from her uncommon labour, and even with the unfortunate disappearance of both her husband and her purse, she thought she felt better than she had in some time.

  A short distance from the bank, the fast-food restaurant had begun grilling its crazy chickens. Mary watched the greasy grey smoke rise above the clay shingles. Behind the restaurant, a gathering of black birds crowed to one another, planning their assault on the trash bins outside the restaurant. Crows. Marys. Gay people. They were everywhere. But these crows, like the rest of the population, seemed genetically enhanced, a fortunate mutation making them bigger, stronger and blacker. They flapped between the enormous steel trash bins, which were sealed with heavy latched lids. One bird hawked at another, “There’s no way in!”

  She glanced around. There were no overflowing wastebaskets in the vicinity. In this world of plenty slim pickins for crows, with the clear civic agenda of cleanliness, Mary wondered just what the poor birds ate. Carrion? She wished she had some bread crumbs to scatter on the lawn. Her fear of crows, she realized, had been a fear of flying all along.

  A fleet of blue vans began to pull out of the parking spots in front of a pool service company near the drugstore. She was watching the vans when a smiling, attractive, middle-aged woman with a name tag that read Lucille Alvarez appeared, to open the bank doors at ten a.m. Mary saw it as a sign that, as Emery Carr had promised—as she had promised herself—things would go well.

  But the telephone call to her bank, which Mary realized she could have made herself earlier, from the hotel, suggested otherwise. As she had no identification, her identity could not be verified. Worse, she was largely unknown to the Leaford staff. She stopped herself from saying, “I’m the big woman.”

  When she reminded them that she had been in just over a week ago, and assisted by a new girl, the manager could only offer his apologies that they needed further proof. His tone grew suspicious when she could give only the most obvious and accessible information on the account. On the questions of Gooch’s first elementary school, or his mother’s maiden name (something Ukrainian), or his access code, she was stumped. When she couldn’t recite her bank account number, the manager’s tone turned frosty. A conversation with another manager, who was not currently available, was the next step.

  The Leaford manager suggested that Mary call back in an hour. She told him she’d call back in two. As frustrated as she was by her fiscal debacle, she was anxious to get to Jack and Eden’s in case they’d heard from Gooch. She left the bank, taking two bottles of water from the small cooler in the lounge area to drink on the way to their house.

  The hills of the Highlands stretched out before her. Already perspiring, Mary steeled herself for the ascent. Lift leg. Plant boot. Swing arms. Lift leg, plant boot, swing arms. Stop. Rest. Drink water. Climb higher and higher. Drink water. And higher. Swing arms. Beat heart. Higher. Breathe.

  On the sidewalk in front of one of the monster homes presiding over Willow Lowlands, she stopped to take more Aspirin. She blinked to see a familiar face, that accursed mother from the parking lot, trailed by the flight risk, Joshua, and his two squabbling siblings—triplets—climbing out of a shiny black Lincoln Navigator parked beside a huge white Dodge Ram pickup truck, in front of a sprawling two-storey home. The trunk door was open, glutted with paper bags full of groceries. The woman, wearing blue jeans and a sleeveless pullover with just the right amount of silver jewellery, carried two sacks in her toned, bare arms. Behind her, trailing like ducklings, the three blonde tykes sang a song and giggled. Mary caught a glimpse of a large shaggy dog lumbering toward the garage.

  Watching the woman, with her soft blonde hair and pretty face, Mary felt her cheeks flush with outrage, a craving for vengeance, an urge to scream about the lost purse and all the trouble the woman’s neglect had caused. But she hushed her instinct. She wouldn’t make a scene in front of the children, and she could see now, with high-density clarity, the utter pointlessness of blame. She stood watching from yards away, invisible to the mother, overhearing her beg the boys, “Help Mommy carry some bags in.”

  “No,” they cried.

  “Help me and you can watch TV. Just carry in a few bags and I’ll make sundaes.”

  Wendy and Kim had parented in the same curious way. Let Mommy visit with Auntie Mary and we’ll stop for Dilly Bars on the way home. But then, she supposed her own busy mother had done the same thing. Leaving packages of store-bought baked goods on the table as after-school snacks for Mary, pretending not to notice when she ate the whole tray. Offering forbidden foods as a reward for her discretion. “Don’t tell your father. Let’s go to the Oakwood for a honey-glazed.” Or “Be quiet while I’m trying on clothes and I’ll buy you a Teen Burger.”

  Permissive Parenting. Children in Charge. Nice Treats for Naughty Tots. She’d judged mothers harshly for their lack of control, but ultimately concluded that she’d probably be just as weak, and just as likely to offer foodstuffs as a reward for the smallest expectation met, or to quiet her own nagging guilt.

  Mary thought of her ancestors hand-plowing the clear-cut Leaford soil. What would pioneer mothers and fathers have said when the children complained about having to yank roots and clear rocks, she wondered. Work hard and we will survive another day.

  The small boy, Joshua, suddenly turned around to face her. His mother swivelled to see what he was looking at, startled to find Mary standing on the sidewalk in her paisley ensemble and heavy winter boots. “Hello,” the younger woman called out warily.

  “Hello,” Mary replied.

  “You’re the woman from the parking lot.”

  “Yes.”

  The mother squinted. “Do you live in the Highlands?”

  “I’m here visiting my in-laws. They live down the hill,” Mary explained, pointing with one hand, wiping sweat from her brow with the other.

  The woman set her groceries down, smiling apologetically as she approached. “I don’t think I even thanked you.”

  “You’ve got your hands full,” Mary allowed, as the boys pulled each other down on the soft green lawn, growling and yelping, a blur of swiping paws and sharp white teeth.

  “Joshua, Jeremy, Jacob,” the mother said, introducing the scrambled boys. “Where’s
the dog?”

  “He’s in the garage,” Mary said over the children’s shrieks.

  “Quit it, boys! Boys!” The mother clapped her hands once, then again when the ruckus continued. “Joshua! Jacob! Jeremy!”

  “They’re just adorable,” Mary said, to soften her sharpness.

  “Do I know your in-laws?” the woman asked, surrendering to the din. “I probably do. It’s a small town.”

  “Jack and Eden Asquith?”

  “I know Jack,” she said, and it was clear in her expression that she also knew Jack’s prognosis. “He used to have the pet supply place. He went to college with my dad back east. How’s he doing?”

  “Not well,” Mary said.

  “Where are you from?” the woman asked, trying not to notice Mary’s winter boots.

  “Canada.” Mary hoped, on her country’s behalf, that she would not be seen as a fashion ambassador.

  “You must be enjoying the weather,” the mother said, then noticed how Mary was perspiring. “I thought Jack just had daughters. You must be Eden’s …?”

  “I’m Gooch’s wife. Eden’s son’s wife.”

  “Are you and your husband staying until Jack …?”

  “I’m here by myself.” The words felt lonely.

  The woman’s cellphone rang inside her leather handbag and she excused herself to answer. After a brief and heated exchange she hung up, explaining her tone to Mary. “I’ve got a Lydia Lee party tonight. Home jewellery sales? You know it?” She flashed a business card from her bag. “And that was the agency calling to say they’re sending a new sitter.” She turned toward the tangle of triplets in the grass, adding darkly, “The boys don’t like new sitters.”

  “No!” one of them cried to his brother, as if proving the point.

  The woman smiled, offering a lovely hand with manicured fingers. “I’m Ronni Reeves.”

  “Mary Gooch,” Mary said, shaking her hand, struck by the contrast of her own plump, chapped hands against the woman’s slender fingers.

  “Nice to meet you, Mary Gooch. Thanks again for the other day. And give my best to Jack. Come on, boys.”

  Mary watched them disappear inside their immodest home: Livin’ the dream.

  WEALTH OF FOOD

  Farther down the hill, Mary saw the white Prius parked in the driveway of the Asquiths’ small home, but no other car. Maybe Gooch had got a ride. She imagined her huge husband perched on the expensive sofa across from his mother, describing the view from the hiking trails, expressing his hopes for reconciliation with his wife. Her feet were hot within her boots, and sticky with blood from her wound.

  Finally at the door, she rang the buzzer. When no one answered she became impatient. She hit the button again. After a moment, Eden cracked the door. “Oh Mary. It’s you.”

  “Hi Eden, I’m sorry to bother you—”

  “You can’t come knocking on my door every day until he calls, Mary. We’ve got much too much going on here.”

  There was dead silence within the house. No beeping micro wave. No motorized vehicle. No draw of breath. “Is Jack …?”

  “He’s sleeping. Chita called in sick and I’ve got food to make for prayer circle. Now, I said I’d call and I will.”

  “I lost my phone.”

  “You lost your phone?”

  “Well, my whole purse actually.”

  “You lost your purse!”

  “I wanted to remind you that I’m staying at the Pleasant Inn if you need to reach me.”

  “All your identification!”

  “I know.”

  “Your bank card?”

  “I’m getting that sorted out.”

  “Fine, Mary, well, I’ll call you at the hotel then, if I hear from Gooch. I really have so much to do.”

  “But I don’t have your number. I need your number. It’s unlisted.”

  “It killed me to pay extra for unlisting,” Eden complained. “But that phone just rang incessantly. Poor Jack. You’re letting in the heat.” She opened the door and started down the hall, gesturing for Mary to follow while shushing her with a fingertip. At the back of the house they entered a cluttered kitchen with sliding glass doors leading to a small patio and a neglected green swimming pool.

  Eden found a pen and paper and wrote the number with her gnarled fingers, then set about unloading the sacks of groceries on the table. Mary noticed that there were dishes in the sink. Trash and recycle bins full. “I don’t want Jack to find you here and start asking questions. It’s exhausting for him to have to think these days,” she said.

  “I can only imagine,” Mary said, taking the heavy juice from Eden’s crippled hands, pulling groceries from the bags on the counter.

  “Chita usually does this. They expect more than iced tea and crackers out here. You’re expected to put on a spread.”

  “Oh.”

  Suddenly noticing Mary’s footwear, Eden clucked her disapproval and disappeared down the hallway, returning in a moment with a pair of flat black loafers that she gave to Mary. “You can’t wear those boots in California.”

  Mary nodded her thanks, kicked off her boots and attempted to stuff her stocking feet into the shoes.

  “Without your socks,” Eden huffed.

  Mary settled upon one of the stools near the counter, straining to reach her socks over the lump of her gut, hoping her mother-in-law wouldn’t notice her struggle.

  “For heaven’s sake, Mary,” Eden tsked. She leaned down, scrunching her face as she helped Mary remove her damp, stained hosiery, disturbed to see the cut on her bloody heel. “That needs to be cleaned.”

  “I know.”

  Eden sighed as she searched the drawers and found the little first aid kit she was looking for. “I hope I’ve got a big enough bandage.” It was clear that Mary couldn’t dress her own wound, so Eden pulled a chair up beside her stool and gathered her daughter-in-law’s plump foot onto her bony lap. “Have you never had a pedicure?” she asked.

  Mary knew the question was rhetorical. She watched Eden’s stern face as the old woman roughly cleaned the cut. “Eden?”

  “Yes?”

  “You will call me when Gooch calls, right?”

  “I said I would.”

  Mary paused. “Heather said you’d lie for him.”

  “Heather said I’d lie!” Eden laughed.

  “She looked really good, Eden. Heather looked good.”

  Eden was careful not to glance up. “So Jimmy said,” she conceded.

  “She quit smoking.”

  Eden snorted but kept to her work of drying the cut and applying a healing salve, and did not ask questions about her wayward daughter. Mary wondered if Gooch had told his mother about Heather’s found son, and was about to deliver the news when she noticed her mother-in-law’s frustration in trying to open the bandage with her clumsy hands. “Here, let me.”

  Before passing the bandage back, she found Eden’s eyes. “Thank you.”

  “It wasn’t as bad as it looked.”

  Mary shoved her feet inside the still-snug black loafers. “I guess I haven’t exactly been thinking about shopping. What with my purse and all.”

  “I hope you’re not going to ask me for money.”

  “No.” Mary watched Eden open the refrigerator, astonished to see a wealth of food, as it appeared that the frail woman and her dying husband dined on little more than hope.

  “Because I’ve been writing cheques all week, and even if I wanted to—”

  “No, Eden. No. I don’t need money. I’m sure the bank in Leaford is going to sort it all out. Or my purse will be returned. The sheriff’s office could have it right now.”

  “I’ve got to get going on the food.” Eden reached for a knife, her twisted fingers losing their grip, silver clattering on the counter.

  Mary stopped her. “I’ll do it.”

  “They expect a spread,” Eden reminded her, watching Mary root through her cupboards for a cutting board, too grateful to object.

  “What?
??s your maiden name, Eden?” Mary asked, remembering that it had been one of the questions from the manager at the bank.

  “Why?”

  “The bank asked me. To verify access to my account. Gooch’s first elementary school. His mother’s maiden name. I’m going back to the bank after I leave here.”

  “St. Pius Catholic School. I was estranged from my family.” Eden’s people were from Western Canada, her father a farmer, her mother a seamstress. An only child, she’d left home at fifteen, married at seventeen and been a widow at twenty when she met James Gooch Senior at a restaurant in Ottawa. Her ancestry was Ukrainian. “My father was Gus Lenhoff.”

  Mary felt the weight expressed by her response—whatever had happened between Eden and her family, she could still, a lifetime later, not claim the name as her own. Mary wanted to pursue the details of their estrangement, but saw that the older woman was too fragile for such a remembrance.

  In the refrigerator Mary found strawberries and fresh melon and sharp expensive cheeses, boiled eggs, cured meats and olives. She would have eaten the things whole a few weeks ago, gobbled handfuls of the berries, devoured the cheese in chunks and gulps, washed it down with the big baguette, belched, wanted more. Now she gazed upon it like a colour palette, deciding how she would mix and compose it. Halved berries as garnish for goat cheese on crostini. Cured ham wrapped around crescents of melon.

  “Chita usually gets the groceries. I had to go this morning and leave Jack by himself,” Eden said. “I’d never be able to live with myself if that man had to die alone.”