The Wives

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.

Her face is bare when she opens the door. In the few minutes she’s been home she’s already washed off her makeup. It’s interesting that she’s the type who immediately washes off her day while I fall asleep in mine.

She doesn’t even try to hide her shock; she moves quickly, shoving the door closed. It swings toward me with force, but I am too fast. I wedge my foot in the gap and flinch when it squeezes painfully against my toes.

Regina yanks it open, glaring at me. Without her makeup, she looks like a child. An angry, insolent child who isn’t getting her way.

“What? What do you want?” She holds the door trying to keep me out, red nails sharp against the peeling gray.

“You know what I want,” I say. And then I do something I am even surprised by: I push past her and enter her home without invitation.

She turns her body to face me, her mouth slightly open. I see her eyes search around the room, looking for her phone. Who will she call—Seth or the police? I find it before she does, lunging toward it on the dining table. I pocket it before she can stop me and stare at her solemnly.

“I just want to talk,” I say. “That’s all I’m here for.”

She considers the hallway outside for a moment. I can feel her decision in the air. If she screams for help who will come?

She must decide that her chances are better with me because she closes the door, all rigidness gone from her body. There is a feverish nervousness about her as she walks past me. It’s smell and energy, a woman trapped in a room with someone she’d rather avoid. I’m contemptuous about the fact that she’s not as interested in me as I am in her. Isn’t it the mark of a woman to want to know things about other women? We abuse the information...compare ourselves rather than keeping it all separate. Even as I study her clean face and thick hair, I’m comparing.

“All right, Thursday,” she says. “Let’s talk.”