The Wives Read online

  “That...you’ve been together. The plural marriage...”

  Regina looks like I’ve slapped her. Her slender neck jerks back. I can see the starburst pattern of pink rising above her neckline. I’ve made her nervous. I don’t know if that’s good or bad, but it’s something to be making her nervous.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, “I don’t know what you mean.”

  I know that if I jump out of my seat and shake her while screaming, Tell me the truth, you bitch! the police will be called. At the very least, I’d be escorted out of the building and one more person would think I was crazy.

  “Aside from the brief contact he made to tell me that you would be coming to see me, I have not seen or spoken to my ex-husband in years,” she says.

  Her words sever my next question. My mouth hangs open until I press my lips together, frowning.

  I stare at Regina and then my hands. My thoughts are dumb, thick. I don’t make sense and neither does Regina. I hear white noise and the pounding of my own heart.

  “What do you mean?” I manage finally.

  “I think you should leave.” Her face is blanched as she stands up and heads for the door.

  I follow her, not knowing what else to do. My thoughts are tangled between Regina and Hannah.

  “You need help, Thursday,” she says, looking squarely at my face. “You’re delusional. Seth said you were sick, but—”

  “I am not sick.” I say it with such force that we both blink at each other for a few seconds. I repeat it in a calmer tone. “I’m not sick, despite what Seth has told you.”

  “Get out.” She holds the door open and I stare past her, my thoughts spinning.

  “Just tell me one thing,” I say. “Please...”

  Her lips pull into a tight line but she doesn’t refuse.

  “Seth’s parents. Did you ever meet them?”

  She looks confused. “Seth’s parents are dead,” she says, shaking her head. “They died years ago.”

  “Thank you,” I breathe before walking out.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Hannah’s car is parked in its usual spot along the curb. I walk toward it and briefly lay my hand on the hood as I pass, checking for heat. Cold. She hasn’t driven it in a few hours. At least I know she’s home. I move quickly up the path, past the planters to the front door.

  I feel skittish, like someone is watching me, but in neighborhoods like this, there is always someone watching. It’s specifically why Seth and I chose the anonymity of a condo instead of a neighborhood and a house: neighbors bearing casseroles in dishes they want you to return, walking their dogs past your house in the evening so they can peer into your windows. I look over my shoulder, scanning nearby windows suspiciously. “You really are crazy, Thursday,” I say under my breath. New level of madness: talking to yourself in public.

  The pressure on my chest is almost too much to bear as I near the front door. I feel like I can’t get a good breath. My foot catches a pebble and I slide a little. Take it easy, take it easy. I stare down at my feet, the well-loved flats that are beginning to smell. If Hannah invites me in I don’t want to take them off. Had she made me take my shoes off before? I can’t remember. I ring the bell and step back to wait. What if it isn’t Hannah who comes to the door? What if there is indeed a husband who is living with her? What will I say? My heart is racing as I wait, fingernails pressing into my palms. I’ve begun to sweat. I can feel myself grow clammy.

  But then one minute turns into two, and two turns into three. I ring again and peer into the window. No lights are on, though that’s not really telling since it’s the middle of the day. But still, a dark day. The sun has been making short appearances every thirty minutes or so as it searches for holes in the clouds. I walk around the side of the house, past the large windows of the dining room and then through the gate, which is relatively easy to unlatch. If someone sees me they’ll surely call the cops—a strange woman who looks nothing like Hannah circling a home in this upper-class neighborhood.

  I’ve never been in the backyard, never even glanced at it when I was inside the house. It’s pretty, Hannah’s little secret garden. I can imagine in summer how the flowers must bloom, but for now the branches are bare, and the rose trellis is empty. There are two empress trees; one grows close to the back of the house, near a window.

  I peer inside, scanning the house for any sign of life, and notice that the window is open, the screen the only thing that separates me from the inside. “Hannah...?” I call. “Are you okay? I’m coming in...” I wait, listening. Nothing—not even a shuffle. I consider the screen—it would be easy to pop out. I’d done it before in my childhood home when my mother accidentally locked us out while watering the garden. The fact that the window is open means she hasn’t gone far. Perhaps she took a quick run to the grocery store or post office. Since her car is parked out front, was it Seth who picked her up? I have to move quickly if I really want to do this.

  Before I can change my mind, I use my keys to pry the screen off and lower it gently to the grass. My hands are shaking as I pull myself over the ledge and lower myself into the living room. I wait for an alarm to sound, my whole body tense, but after a few seconds when nothing happens, I take a few cautious steps forward. I don’t recall ever seeing Hannah mess with an alarm.

  The house smells like someone’s been cooking. I don’t need to peek into the kitchen to know that Hannah was in the middle of something before she left. I take off running, around the corner and up the stairs, my feet pounding loudly on the wood floors. The first door at the top of the stairs is the master bedroom. I push it open, my eyes scanning the room for...what? I run to the nightstand closest to the door and yank open the drawer. A box of tissues, a few paperbacks, Tylenol—the normal junk. There has to be a photograph of Hannah and her husband somewhere.

  I look in the dresser drawers, but they are sterile in their organization: underwear—squarely folded in tidy rows. Tank tops in various shades of neutral, socks, lingerie—nothing for men. Where are his drawers? I move to the closet, a tiny walk-in, and eye the gem-toned sweaters and row of jeans. No suits, no dress shirts, no brown loafers next to the line of pumps and flats. If a man shares this bedroom, one couldn’t tell.

  There is a small bathroom next to the closet, a single sink, a single toothbrush, peony-scented shower gel resting on the lip of the tub. The medicine cabinet: a diaphragm in its plastic case, various bottles of headache medicine, TUMS. No prenatal vitamins, no shaving cream. I scan the floor for Seth’s dark hairs, so different than Hannah’s blond. If he’d used this bathroom there would be hair—I was always sweeping it up in mine. Nothing, nothing, nothing. What is happening?

  I move to the next room, an office. A desk sits against the far wall, so unlike Hannah. It’s modern and square with hard lines—something cheap from IKEA. A cup of pens, a stapler... I search for a bill—something with her name on it or even his. It doesn’t matter, I just need answers. One way or another, I have to know if I’m crazy or if Seth is crazy.

  No bills, no mail. Everything is sterile, staged. Oh, God, why is everything so staged? The single closet in the room is empty except for a vacuum. No photos on the walls. Hadn’t I noticed photos when she gave me the tour? A buffalo, perhaps—no, an alpaca! She’d had a large framed photograph of an alpaca. I’d thought it strange.

  I run my hands over the space of wall where it had hung, searching for a hole in the paint where the nail had been. It’s there, I find it, smoothed over and repainted to blend.

  One more bedroom on this floor, and a bathroom. A floral comforter folded down on the bed, an antique lamp on the nightstand. Nothing personal, nothing as I remember.

  What had I smelled downstairs when I climbed in the window? She’d been cooking something and left abruptly. I jog down the stairs and stop in the doorway to the kitchen. A plate of freshly baked cookies, plump, their chips still soft fr
om the oven. I walk closer to the island; there’s something else...a stack of papers...applications. I pick one up, my hand shaking as I lift it from the counter.

  “Excuse me...” A voice behind me. Not Hannah. Clearly not Hannah.

  “How did you get in here? Appointments don’t start for another hour.”

  A woman stands in the doorway, her brows drawn in suspicion. She has the look of a Realtor or property manager: hair in a low ponytail, black slacks and a pink button-down. Positive but not overbearing. She’s shoeless, her feet in panty hose. In her hands she holds the box of socks visitors are to place over their shoes when viewing the house.

  “I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “My mistake. I can come back, of course...let me get out of your way.” My heart is hammering in my chest as I move toward the front door. But when I go to pass her, she doesn’t step aside.

  She frowns. “How did you get in here?” she repeats, folding her arms across her chest. She’s one of those tough Sally types. Her kid gets shoved on the playground and she’s taking it to the school board. The neighbor’s dog keeps barking and she strong-arms the homeowner’s association into fining them. I could tell her the truth, but chances are she’d call the cops. I eye the phone clipped to her belt. Such a professional.

  “Look,” I say. “I didn’t mean to be a bother. I’ll just let myself out.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t.” She takes up residence in the doorframe, reaching for her phone. I can see the open window behind me, the tree branches outside trembling in the wind. If she turns her head to the left, she’ll know. I get my shit together. Compose my face, square my shoulders.

  “Move. Now.”

  She does, the military stance she took a minute ago melts away. Her face looks suddenly cautious as she watches me unlock the front door and step outside. I think about walking around back and replacing the screen, but that will only give her time to call the police.

  Large strides get me to my car. I don’t look back as I climb inside and turn on the ignition. I drive without purpose for several miles before I pull into the parking lot of a drugstore. I pull out the application tucked into the back of my pants and stare at the words. Hannah had never mentioned anything about moving. Where was she? Last night she’d been there, watching TV with someone, and today, the house is up for rent.

  Without my phone, there’s no one to call, nothing to search online. I could look for a library, use their computer. But no, there is still one person to follow, one story that isn’t adding up. I don’t know nearly enough about Seth’s first wife. There is something about her that is nagging at me, something I can’t place. I need to know more about Regina Coele. For now, Hannah and Seth can wait.

  TWENTY-NINE

  I am not crazy.

  Seth is playing dumb, and Hannah has conveniently disappeared, which leaves me with one option: Regina Coele. She knows something. I’m convinced of it. She wouldn’t have been so eager to get me out of her office if she didn’t, claiming she hadn’t seen or spoken to Seth in years. But I was there the night she texted him while we were at the market. I’d seen her name flash on his phone. She’d claim it was a courtesy call about their dog.

  There was something about the careful way she worded everything. It was practiced, planned—they’d come up with it together to make me look crazy. But why? And what was Hannah’s involvement in all of this? My stomach clenches at the thought of Hannah. I’d knowingly deceived her by not telling her who I really was. If Seth told her who I was after he found out what I’d done, I wouldn’t blame her for being afraid of me. But would she really put the house up for rent because Seth’s other wife had found her?

  Maybe Seth made her pack up and put the house up for rent when he thought I would keep talking about his polygamy. But why? He isn’t legally married to either of them, and in no danger with the law. Plenty of men have affairs; there’s no punishment for fucking women outside of one’s marriage. Has it been to protect his reputation? The business? Seth has never been the type of man who cared about what others thought of him, but then plural marriage struck up images of Warren Jeffs and dusty fundamentalist compounds in Utah—things no businessman in their right mind would want to be associated with. Would he go to these extremes just to protect his reputation? That’s what I need to know. Before I can make my plans, I need to know what theirs is.

  I’m strangely optimistic as I weave my car through end-of-the-day traffic toward the white stone building where Regina is wrapping up her day. I will not leave without answers. I imagine she’s on the last of her clients, or second-to-last, since she works long hours.

  “She stays later, works harder,” Seth once told me.

  The pride in his voice had confused me. Shouldn’t he be complaining instead of making it sound like an admirable quality? I try to imagine what she will do when she leaves the office. Is she the type who grabs a drink with her friends after work? Or does she go home to heat up a TV dinner that she eats in front of the TV? I picture her office, the lack of anything personal to speak of who she is. No, she’s not the type to waste hours drinking casually in a bar. She’s the type who works at home. Every night she tucks cream folders under her arms, which she sets on the front seat for her drive home. She eats dinner at the end of a long table, the files open around her, glasses perched on her nose. That is the image Seth had given me, the one that caused me to dislike her. Too busy to meet our husband’s needs. Perhaps he fed me that story so I would jump into action, overcompensating for what Regina didn’t do. And I did, didn’t I? Always wanting to be more than enough. When Seth first married Hannah, I’d been sick with jealousy. I felt so guilty about it, too; it was my fault we were unable to have a baby, my broken body that had failed my marriage. In an attempt to understand my role, I’d asked him what he got from each of us, how our roles were different. He’d told me to think of the sun.

  “The sun provides light, warmth and energy.”

  “So you’re...what...earth?” I’d quipped back. “Seems like we’re the ones who revolve around you, not the other way around.”

  He’d tensed up at that, even as he moved his mouth into a smile. “Don’t get too technical, Thursday. You asked me to explain.”

  I’d shriveled back, afraid my snark would make him love me less.

  “So what am I?” I’d asked in a saccharine voice. His analogy had irritated me. I tried to hide it by bouncing my leg under the table. That’s what I did—I hid things where he couldn’t see. The three of us were there to primarily meet his needs, so what exactly did the sun get from the earth? My parents’ marriage was far from perfect, but they needed each other mutually.

  “You’re my energy,” he’d answered quickly. At the time I’d liked that, being Seth’s energy. I was temporarily sated in verbal orgasm. I was the one who filled him with motivation and drive, who kept him going. In my mind, I’d made it sound more important than the other two. Regina being light, and Hannah being warmth. I mean, how could you enjoy warmth and light if you didn’t have energy?

  Now, as I wait in the parking lot for Regina, I grimace at all the ways I justified what was happening. Hannah was Seth’s warm, new pussy. Regina was his first love. A woman in love loses her sight first and then her courage. I tap on the steering wheel with my finger. I’m not crazy...or maybe I am...but there’s really only one way to find out.

  Regina walks out of the building an hour and forty minutes later. This is exactly the way Seth described her. She outstayed the secretary, who left over an hour ago, racing out of the parking lot in her Ford like she had a million better places to be. I watch as she walks briskly to an older-model Mercedes, her briefcase held stiffly in her hand. The car has seen better days; I note the wear on the paint and the dent in the bumper as she climbs into the front seat. It’s the type of car that isn’t old enough to be vintage, but it’s too old to be considered “nice” by most people’s standards. Since Regina is
a private attorney, I expected her to drive a flashy new model. I turn on my ignition as she pulls out of the lot, following close behind.

  My stomach drops when she pulls onto the freeway. I clutch the steering wheel tighter and focus on her bumper. It’ll be hard keeping up with her in this traffic. I manage to stay a few cars behind, and when she veers off the highway, I’m right behind her, my heart beating hard, several people honking at me. Ten minutes later, after trailing her through a dull suburban neighborhood, she pulls into a dingy apartment complex called Marina Point. There is no marina in sight, just blocky buildings with hard edges painted prison gray. The measly plots of grass surrounding them are yellow and patchy. Everything looks jaundiced, and the few people who are milling about outside are congregated on a staircase, smoking. If I opened my window I’d know if it was pot or cigarettes, but I don’t have time. Regina drives over the speed bumps like they’re not even there. I wait for her to zip past the buildings, like maybe this is a shortcut, but she pulls into a numbered space—a resident.

  I look around at the shabby disarray, my car idling in the road. This isn’t right. A woman with a Louboutin collection doesn’t drive that car, or live here. I decide she’s visiting someone, a quick stop on her way home. Maybe she’s dropping papers off to a client. But when she gets out of the car she takes her briefcase and folders with her, struggling to hold on to everything while she locks the car manually. I have to be able to see which unit she goes into. I quickly park across the street and wait until she’s up the stairs before hopping out. Jogging, I reach the third floor just in time to see her door close. The sound of the dead bolt echoes in the concrete corridor as Regina locks herself inside. I glance around. There are no welcome mats, no plants decorating the doorsteps, just four empty doors, their numbers displayed beside them on cheap plastic plaques. A place of last resort. I stare solidly at her door for several minutes, 4L. And then I knock.