Page 24 of Dear Wife

She squirts a generous blob in each mug, reaches in a drawer for two spoons. “I’m Martina, by the way.”

A first name, nothing else. I follow her lead. “I’m Beth.”

“Nice to meet you, Beth.” She grins at me over her shoulder. “How you liking it here at Morgan House?”

“I haven’t really been here long enough to know, and you’re the only other person I’ve met besides Miss Sally.” I lower my voice to a whisper. “She scares me a little.”

Martina turns, swiping a hand through the air, her bracelets jangling. “Oh, don’t you worry about Miss Sally. As long as you’re cool, she’s cool. Ditto for most of the people staying here. They might need more than a three-minute shower, but they keep to themselves, mostly, and they won’t grab your ass or try to steal your shit, because they know Miss Sally would eat them for supper. Keep your head down and don’t ruffle any feathers, and you’ll do fine. How long will you be staying?”

“I don’t know. It depends on how quickly I can get a job.”

The kettle clicks off, the water gurgling in a rolling boil, and she pours it into the mugs. “The place I work for is always looking for some new help. Nothing fancy, just mopping floors and scrubbing sinks, but still. The work is steady and it pays enough to afford the rent here.”

Your voice bubbles up in my head, as clearly as if you were sitting at the table across from me.No such thing as a free lunch. Somebody offers you something, you best be thinking about what they want in return, because they always want something.I study Martina’s back as she dunks the tea bags up and down, up and down, and I wonder what she wants from me. The money strapped to my belly, most likely.

She glances over a shoulder. “Don’t like cleaning toilets, huh?”

I push your words aside and flip the script. Tell myself this isn’t about what this girl wants from me but whatIwant fromher. The thing is, I already know that becoming Beth Murphy,reallybecoming her, is a pain in the ass, and maybe an impossible one. I need a Georgia driver’s license, and for that I need documents that seem as elusive to me as sprouting fairy wings or finding a flying unicorn. A birth certificate, a social security card and not one but two documents proving residency, something like a utility or credit card bill. Miss Sally doesn’t seem like the type who could be persuaded into slapping my name onto a rental agreement for a couple of crisp bills; I’m pretty sure she’d toss me onto the street if I even asked. And what about the other documents? The utility bills, the birth certificate and social security card? My Photoshop skills are nowhere near good enough, and I’m pretty sure forging a government-issued document is a felony.

“It’s not that I mind cleaning toilets,” I say. “It’s just that I lost my ID.”

Martina gives me a look. “You lost it, huh? That happens a lot around here.” She carries the mugs to the table and holds one out to me. “You don’t have anything? Not even an old, expired one?”

Especiallynot that. My Arkansas license is a charred lump at the bottom of a hotel trash can four states away. I take the tea and shake my head.

But according to the internet, this city has more than three hundred thousand undocumented workers. The question isn’tifthere are jobs here, but where to find them.

“I can still get a job without one, right?”

She sinks onto the table, swinging her legs onto the wooden surface and crossing them underneath her, resuming her old position. “Sure, if you don’t mind working construction or cleaning rich ladies’ houses. Know any Buckhead Betties?”

I open my mouth to answer, but she waves me off.

“Never mind. You donotwant to work for one of those bitches, I can promise you that. What I meant was, you’ll need a roster of regular customers, people with big houses who don’t mind paying you cash under the table.”

My stomach sinks. “The only people I know in this city are you and Miss Sally.”

“Miss Sally can maybe help you, but I can’t. I try to stay out of the northern suburbs.” She blows over the surface of her tea, regarding me with a thoughtful expression. “How much money you got in that bag strapped to your waist?”

The hand I press to the bag is automatic, as is the expression on my face, a mixture of distrust and defiance.Don’t even fucking try it.

Martina laughs. “Comeon, chica. I already told you people here don’t try to steal your shit, and that includes me, though it’s probably not a bad idea to keep your cash on your person at all times. What I’m asking is if you would be willing to part with some of it. Because if you are, I might know where you could find an ID.”

I lean back on my chair, eyeing her with suspicion. My hand is still on my money belt, my legs still ready to pounce. I’m bigger than Martina, and thanks to you, I know the most effective places to land a punch. Kneecap, face, solar plexus, throat, temple. I’ll be back upstairs, barricaded behind the door of my room before she stops writhing on the floor.

But an ID would solve a lot of problems.

“How much?” I say warily.

“Last I heard, Jorge charges somewhere in the neighborhood of three hundred dollars. You can probably talk him down some if you find him in a good mood. The hard part is finding him in a good mood.”

“Is he any good?”

“The best. The Rolls-Royce of fake IDs. That’s why he’s so expensive.”

I sip my tea and do the math. Three hundred dollars is a lot of cash, almost two weeks’ worth of rent and 15 percent of my rapidly dwindling stash. But if Jorge is as good as Martina says he is, it might be worth the money. Finding a job will be so much faster and easier if Beth is legit.

“And you?”

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