26. Wheres my wife?
CORRADO
26
The second I enter the parking garage of the Manhattan apartment, I know my wife isn’t here. I know this because her car’s missing. On the one hand, she finally took the damn car I bought her. On the other hand, I expected her to be here at ten at night, but she used the car as a getaway vehicle.
I park my bike in her slot for a moment, considering going upstairs and retiring for the night, but I doubt I could relax without knowing her whereabouts. Pretty sure the order for installing our app on Michela’s phone went through. I open the app marked with a blue serpent on a pot of gold and search for our linked accounts.
Nothing there.
I dial Hank, and he answers on the second ring.
“Sir?”
“I know you’ve got your hands full, but I need to know if our app is on my wife’s phone.”
“It isn’t, sir. Your brother blocked the order.”
Ah. “When?”
“This afternoon. Right after Gemma linked her profile with yours.”
“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
“You were in a meeting.”
I’m silent while I consider how to handle this. Hank knows not to double-check if I’m still on the line just because I’m not speaking.
“Hank?”
“Yes, sir.”
“From now on, anything having to do with my wife is considered a priority. Unless I’m dead, you will notify me immediately of anything you think I should handle with regard to her.” I hang up and think about dialing my brother, but I want to cool off a bit before I speak with him.
Instead, I dial Gemma, then think better of it and pocket the phone. I rest my fists on my hips, throw my head back, and close my eyes for a moment while I think of places Michela could be at this hour. She could be either at her house or in bed so she can get up early in the morning and start her new job.
Because she never intended to move in with me.
And that won’t do.
I place the helmet back on my head, backpedal the bike, then peel out of the garage, gunning for her apartment.
The ride’s shorter than I remember it being while sitting in the back of my car. I park the bike on the sidewalk right next to Michela’s car on the street before taking off the helmet and putting it away. I look up and spot her sitting on the stairs.
The moment she recognizes me, she gets up and starts to come down.
“Stay,” I say as I dismount. “I’m coming to you.”
Michela makes her way down anyway.
“Stay,” I repeat as I rush up the stairs.
Once there, I face her, hands on my hips, ready to unleash hell for not meeting me at home like she’s supposed to, according to our signed agreement. But self-control is important, and I pause, surveying her face as I would any other opponent’s before a fight.
Her face is red, and her eyes are puffy as if she’s been crying. She’s wearing a white shirt, black tights, and dark gray flip-flops.
I gather myself, put away the confrontation for later, and lean against the rail. “What’s wrong?”
“My mom fell down the stairs,” she says, and when my eyebrows shoot up, she adds, “It’s not as bad as it sounds, but since it’s my mom, it’s catastrophic. I’m staying the night.”
Unlikely. “Does she need to see a doctor?”
“Probably, but she won’t go, and now that the booze and drugs she’s been taking are wearing off, she’s getting the shakes from withdrawals and the pain from the fall.”
“What can you do for her?”
Michela shrugs. “Prevent her from choking on her own spit.”
She says it causally, almost jokingly, but I can tell she’s worried.
Michela’s kept the door ajar, and now a strained voice calls, “Michela.”
“Coming,” Michela says, sounding defeated. With a half-assed wave at me, she says, “See you tomorrow.” She climbs the steps, thinking that she’s dismissed me.
I climb after her, and together, we walk down the hallway.
At the door marked two-twenty, she stops and turns. “My mom doesn’t know about you.”
“That’s fine.”
“If you come inside, she’ll ask questions. I don’t bring guys here.”
“Then she’ll know I’m not just a guy, and you’ll have a head start on telling her about me.”
“That’s the thing, Corrado. I don’t know what to say.”
“Tell her you’re my wife like you did with Hank.”
“I’ll tell her you’re my boyfriend.”
“You’ll say I’m your husband, or I’ll put a real baby inside you, and your belly will show everyone you and the baby have a daddy.”
Her eyes widen. “You don’t mean that.”
“With the day I’ve had? Disobey me and find out.”
We’re at a standoff. Her gaze roams my face, seeking confirmation that I’ll do what I say I’d do.
“I’m going inside,” I say. “You can either let me in, or I’ll let myself in.”
Behind me, a door opens, and I turn around.
“What’s with all the noise out here?” An older woman wearing rollers and a purple robe stands at the door of the apartment across from Michela’s.
“Jarrette!” Michela shouts before she flings the door to her apartment open and marches inside. She returns right away, dangling a small plastic bag full of pills. She flings them at the lady in the robe. “Stay away from my mom!” The pills hit the lady right in the face, and the woman stumbles back, slips, and falls on her bottom.
Michela takes no pity on her. In fact, she walks right up and tries slamming the woman’s door closed. The door bounces against the woman’s slipper, which is caught in the way, but Michela doesn’t seem to notice while she and the lady, who’s up now and screaming back, argue.
I better help.
I kick the slipper, and the door slams closed. My wife looks up at me as if she just now realized I’m still there. Her cheeks are red, her hair’s a mess, and she’s breathing heavily, nostrils flaring.
An angel with ruffled feathers and no hellfire.
She clears her throat. “Sorry about that.”
“Not at all. Is there anyone we should shoot?”
She smiles and laughs for a bit. “Not yet.”
I nod and walk into her apartment through the open door, where I find a small living space extending into a kitchen with a table for four stationed next to an old white refrigerator. On the right, in between the kitchen and living space, is a hallway that I take to the end and find two doors. The one on the right is open, and inside lies a woman with graying dark hair. A wet gray cloth covers her face.
I identify the smell of alcohol that often whiffs off a person’s pores. I hope it’s not too late for this woman’s liver. Or pancreas.
I return to the living room and sit on the couch. “Give me a minute to think about how I’ll handle this,” I tell Michela, who’s sitting at the kitchen table.
“Handle what?” she asks.
“This.”
“My mother?”
I nod.
“She is not a this. She’s a person, Corrado.”
“She’s in the way of what I want.”
“Well, we won’t be shooting her.” Michela sounds serious.
“Hmmm.” I pretend to think about it, playing it off as if it doesn’t bother me that my wife thinks I’d shoot her mother.
“Corrado, no.”
“Fine, I won’t. Now shut up so I can think.”
Michela huffs and talks to herself in the kitchen while getting me a glass of water, which she slams on the table in front of me.
“Thank you,” I say, eyes narrowed. “Go pack a few things.”
“I can’t leave her.”
“But you’re okay leaving me, even though you agreed you wouldn’t.”
“I was only visiting with my mom.”
I chuckle. “That’s what my mother said before she left the house. Guess what?”
“What?”
“She never came back.”
Michela’s eyelids drop, and her face softens into what I perceive is pity. I wish I’d never shared that piece of my past with her, but now I have, and I’ll have to deal with it.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Corrado.”
“It was a long time ago.”
I pick up a framed picture from the side table on my left. Two kids stand against a dated rainbow background, holding a sign that reads: First Grade. Even though Michela’s brother is a head taller than her and wider in the shoulders, which means he’s taking up most of the frame, Michela’s smile can’t be missed because of the single front tooth she’s proudly showing.
I pick up another photo. It’s a teenager on a motorcycle. Leather cut. Tattoos. Looks like he’ll murder someone for taking this picture. The boy in the pictures has a birthmark near the corner of his mouth. Her brother Gordon, the one serving time for nearly killing a man with his bare hands.
During the deposition, which I made a point of reading last night, Gordon said he’d kill any man who got his hands on his sister without her wanting their hands on her. Then he’d leaned in and said, “My baby sister is a fucking angel, and I’m the devil born with her.”
Well, the devil wears many faces, and when it comes to Michela, he favors mine.