Chapter 37
Henry has been waiting for the wife all day. He’s desperate to see her, to speak to her again. She’s all he’s been able to think about ever since their first conversation.
He’s been lingering in the living room, risking the judgment of his mother, risking her catching on to his plan, a plan that is still slightly unfocused, its edges blurred.
Finally, nearly noon, the unhappy couple’s front door swings open. His lungs swell with relief.
The wife emerges, then seems to falter on her porch, perhaps stunned by the humidity, the heat of the day.
He’s ready, a paperback under his arm—A Suspension of Mercy, even though he finished it already—hoping it will spark a prolonged conversation.
But she quickly steps off her porch, suddenly moving far too fast.
She’s going out for a walk, he realizes. She moves down her driveway, dark ponytail brushing her upper back. He can’t catch her.
The idea comes to him quite suddenly then. It might work, but he must time everything perfectly.
He retrieves his keys quickly, tosses his book onto the sofa, cuts through the yard to where his car is parked at the curb.
He goes to the McDonald’s drive-through, where he buys a Coke and a sweet tea, then tosses an empty Gatorade bottle onto the floor of his car to make room in the cupholder.
The line of cars ahead is far too long, and it drags.
Henry taps his left foot anxiously while his right presses into the accelerator during his drive home. It’s 12:17 when he turns to his street, and he’s afraid he’s too late. He’s afraid he’s missed her. He doesn’t think she’d stay out too long, not in this heat, at this time of day.
But then he sees her up ahead. She’s moving slowly up the hill, ponytail tumbling like his fizzing Coke, and Henry smiles.
He parks in his usual spot and leaves the car on, letting the air-conditioning blast his face while he watches the wife in his rearview mirror.
The beep of a car being unlocked, and his eyes fly to the wife’s house, but it’s not there.
He can see in the mirror that his next-door neighbor is climbing into her car.
It’s an eyesore, a fifteen-year-old Honda Civic, faded gold, paint chipped almost completely off the roof and hood.
She usually leaves it in the garage, but lately it’s been in the driveway on occasion.
Henry has noticed overflowing trash cans and recycling bins outside her house on collection days.
One day last week, he saw an unmarked white truck come by and collect various boxes and bags resting at the curb, likely a donation pickup.
She must be cleaning out the house, getting ready to list it. It’s about time.
It’s actually astonishing that she’s lived there all these years.
Henry was young at the time of the murder. He vaguely remembers the screaming sirens, the yellow police tape, his parents’ urgent whispers, Laurel’s unrelenting curiosity and his mother’s terse replies, hissed assurances.
The little Honda backs slowly out of the driveway. He watches the wife lift her hand in a wave as the car passes her.
Henry waits a few seconds more, until she’s almost directly beside his car, then he turns off the engine, flings the door open, and steps out.
“I skipped my walk today,” he says brightly, and the wife visibly startles. “Shit,” he says quickly. “Sorry.” His face is engulfed by flames, and he’s mortified that he’s fucking this up already.
“It’s fine,” she says, hand to her chest. “I just didn’t notice anyone was in that car.”
“Right,” he says, disappointed that she wasn’t looking for him or hoping to see him. Of course she wasn’t. Henry feels a dark sort of hopelessness descending, settling around him, but he pushes through. He reaches into his car and removes the two fountain drinks.
“I was just out getting lunch and I picked these up on the way home,” he says. “It’s such a hot day. Would you like one?”
“Oh,” she says, and she seems to recoil slightly, shoulders curling inward. “No, thank you.” She glances behind her, toward her house.
“Are you sure?” he asks. “It’s a Coke and a sweet tea. Take your pick.”
“No, really,” she says. Her shirt is white and sweat-damp, the outline of her bra straps drawing his attention.
He forces himself to look into her face, to read her rising unease.
She’s still staring at the cups, and Henry suddenly realizes that she might have a rule never to accept an open drink from a stranger.
But he’s hardly a stranger. And it’s not as though he would have drugged one of these drinks before offering it to her—not to say he’s never drugged a drink before.
He thinks of Ashley, who worked for the marketing company next to the IT firm where Henry was employed after graduating from his master’s program.
She wore her raven-black hair in a single braid.
That night, it was rumpled, strands pulled loose from the elastic.
She wasn’t as beautiful as the others, but she was more willing.
He’d come so close—he was in her apartment—but then, several drinks in, she still rejected him. Somehow he’d known that would happen, and her lids were already heavy, gaze unfocused. The feel of her skin, the sight of her bare breasts, the taste of her. It was what he, and she, deserved.
A few weeks later, Henry left that job in favor of his most recent company. He never saw Ashley again; she never accused him of anything. He was careful, and she was ashamed. And everything was going just fine until Lacey. Until she turned him down.
“Suit yourself,” Henry tells the wife now, shrugging as though her refusal hasn’t bothered him at all, as though he’s not offended by her discomfort. He takes a long sip of the Coke just to show her that it’s safe. “How’s everything going?” he continues. “Read anything good since we talked?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t.” She looks behind her again, then takes a step away from him.
“I started reading A Suspension of Mercy,” says Henry hopefully. “It’s brilliant.”
“Of course.” The wife uses a finger, slides her sunglasses up her nose. “How far along are you?” she adds, although she sounds almost reluctant to ask.
He improvises quickly, tugging the most memorable scene from his reserves. “Sydney has just rolled up that area rug and taken it out of the house.”
She laughs, sniffs. “It’s crazy, isn’t it?” But she doesn’t give him time to reply. “Look, I’ve got to go, but thanks anyway.” She nods toward the drinks in his hands, smiling tightly, taking another step away.
She turns quickly, barely giving him a chance to reply. “See you later,” he calls out as she crosses the street, heading toward her house. He doesn’t think she heard him.
He’s frozen for a few seconds, until he realizes that if she notices him standing here, looking after her, she won’t like it. He bumps his car door closed and locks it.
He returns to his own house, through the front door, because he doesn’t want the wife to see him going around back to the basement.
He’s beyond disappointed. He’s devastated, actually.
He thought that offering her a drink after she returned from her walk would be such a considerate gesture. So why didn’t she bite?
Twice she looked toward her house. She was thinking, Henry could tell, of her husband. He’s not home, but his presence lingers. He’s in the way.
That makes more sense—that she’s afraid of her husband, rather than Henry. How could she be afraid of Henry? He’s done nothing. And they’re such an unhappy couple, the husband too possessive. He might be livid if he knew she was speaking to another man.
Inside, Henry doesn’t see his mother, but he knows she’s around. He goes straight to the basement and into his bedroom.
He tries not to let himself feel too defeated. He settles onto his bed, on its unmade, twisted sheets, and lets the air-conditioning swirl around him. It’s only the beginning, he reminds himself. There’s so much more he can do.