Page 18 of Dear Wife

“Where from?”

“Out west.”

She twitches a brow that says she wants more.

You’re a great liar. For years I’ve watched you tell the truth whenever possible, and not embellish with too much detail you’ll only forget later. Lies multiply, contradict, proliferate. Sticking to something close to the truth is the only way for you to keep track of all your lies, to keep them from piling up and you from stumbling over the simplest answers.

I follow your example now. “I’m not reallyfromanywhere. Not anymore, anyway. I move around a lot.”

It’s enough for Miss Sally. She turns on her heels, raps on a door with a knuckle. “We’ve got three bathrooms,” she says, shoving the door open, “one for every four bedrooms, and they pretty much all look like this one.”

She steps aside so I can see. Two pedestal sinks, a toilet and at the far end, a glass-enclosed shower, utilitarian and blinding white. The room smells clean, like Old Spice and bleach.

“Shower time is three minutes. Seems short, I know, but you can get everything you need to get done in that time if you’re efficient, and if you’re not...well, we know what you’re doing in there. And you donotwant to be going over. People start pounding on the door at two minutes, fifty-nine seconds, and they won’t be polite about it, either. Bitches who hog the hot water aren’t so popular around here, I can promise you that.”

“It’s very neat.” No toothbrushes, no sticky tubes of cream or paste, no forgotten towels on the floor. The place is spotless.

Miss Sally gives me a nod that says she’s pleased I noticed. “That’s because anything you leave behind gets confiscated, if not by me, then by whoever goes in after you. Don’t leave your shit lying around—that’s one of the house rules.”

“What are the others?”

She ticks them off on Jolly Green Giant fingers. “No smoking, no drugs, no sleepovers, and if you’re not in the door by midnight you’ll be sleeping on the lawn. Other than that, just don’t be an asshole and you’ll do fine.”

“Does that mean I’m in?”

In lieu of an answer, she turns and moves farther down the hall. “Kitchen’s down there, and the laundry room is in the basement. A buck a load, drop it in the lockbox on the wall. We live by the honor code here, and don’t even think of stiffing me. I’m not saying I have cameras everywhere, but it’s best to assume I have cameras everywhere.”

I start at the wordcameras, and my gaze wanders to the ceiling, searching out the corners.

Miss Sally laughs, a big sound that fills the hallway like a cello chorus. “Well, I’m not going to be that obvious about it, now, am I?”

I can’t tell if she’s fucking with me or not.

“And the price?”

“Single rooms are twenty-four dollars a night. Rent is due in cash on Sundays at noon. No exceptions. Come to me either short or late, and you’re out.”

A few bucks more than Wylie Street, but also a million times nicer. I nod.

She looks down her nose at me, and the silence that fills the hallway tightens the skin of my stomach. She’s waiting for something, and so am I—for her to pose the question I’ve been dreading since I walked through the door:Can you prove you are who you say you are?

She opens her mouth, and my heart gives a sudden kick. “Who is this friend you mentioned earlier?”

I shake my head, confused. “I’m sorry, what?”

“When you knocked on my door, you said a friend gave you the address. Who? Tell me his or her name.”

I think about how Beth should answer, if she’s the type of person to lie easily and effortlessly, like you. The opposite of Old Me, who’s never been a natural liar, though I’ve certainly sharpened my skills some. Don’t change your voice. Don’t fidget or become too still. Hold a steady, confident gaze, and whatever you do, don’t look up and to the left.

But now I’ve waited too long to answer—the dreaded, too-telling pause. It’s too late to blurt out a name and hope for the best, and my gut tells me this is some kind of test. That Miss Sally, with her third-degree tone and squinty eyes, would see straight through me.

“So maybe ‘friend’ was too big a word,” I say, lifting an apologetic shoulder. “Maybe it was more like some random person I met at Best Buy.”

Miss Sally’s shiny lips spread in a grin. “Girl, welcome to Morgan House.”

I celebrate securing a new room by falling onto the bed fully clothed and conking out for five hours straight. It’s still light when I awaken, but the sun has dipped below the trees, giant pines that sway in the air above my window. My few belongings are tucked in the drawer to my right, an easy arm’s reach from my bed. When Miss Sally shoved open my door, she handed me two keys—one for the door and the second for the drawer—but if she’s the type to spy with secret, hidden cameras, then she’s also the type to have a master key. My dwindling wad of cash is strapped to a belt inside my shirt.

Somewhere below me, people are starting to trickle in. The front door opens and closes, opens and closes, and voices worm up through the floor like distant waves. I wonder about the proper etiquette here. Do I go down and say hello? Stay in my room? I hear a sudden burst of laughter, and I am overcome with uncertainty. Venturing downstairs means talking to people. Introducing myself as Beth. Answering questions like the ones Miss Sally asked. Up here in my room, behind my closed door, I am invisible.

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