Page 34 of Dear Wife

I murmur another round of thanks, though the only thing I can focus on is getting out of here and into the restroom across the hall, where I can splash the splotches from my face and reapply the mascara I’m almost certainly crying down my cheeks. He lets me go, and I’m almost to the door when he stops me.

“Oh, and Beth?” His lips curve into a gentle smile, and I can see how it could melt a churchful of people, hanging on his every word. “What I said before, about taking care of my flock... That includes you. Whatever brought you here, whatever burdens you think you’re carrying, you can lay them down. You’re one of us now.”

Forty-five minutes later, I’m back in the church basement, where Martina is busy attaching a battery-powered vacuum to my back.

“Did he ask you to be in the band?” Martina says, holding up the straps for my arms.

The two of us stand in the center of a room that does triple duty as a kitchen, break room and cleaning supply closet. An old television is pushed against a wall in front of mismatched sectionals, and to its right, a workstation with multiple sinks for rinsing buckets and rags. Two walls are lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves that belong in a grocery store cleaning aisle, or maybe an episode ofExtreme Couponing. Sponges and mops, neatly stacked buckets, every cleaning product imaginable.

My uniform came from the giant Tupperware containers on the bottom shelf, khaki pants and a white T-shirt with the church logo and God Works Here embroidered in looping navy letters across the front. The getup looks ridiculous over the pleather Mary Janes I wore with my interview dress, but I didn’t think to bring sneakers.

“He asked me if I could sing or play an instrument, yeah.” I shove one arm through the loop, then another, and she settles the thing on my shoulders. For a piece of machinery, it’s pretty light.

“I knew he would. He askseverybodyto be in the band.” She reaches around me from behind, snaking the harness around my waist, and I stiffen. Her fingers brush over the money belt but don’t linger. She smells like bleach and peppermint gum. “What else did you talk about?”

“I don’t know. Lots of stuff. TV shows and books and truffle fries. It was the weirdest job interview ever.”

She grabs me by an arm, turns me around to face her. “Did he tell you the joke?” I shake my head, and she grins. “Knock knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“Jesus.”

“Jesus who?”

“Jesus Christ, open the door.”

I laugh, not because the joke is funny, but at the idea it originated from a man of God. What happened to not taking the Lord’s name in vain? Father Ian would lose his shit.

Martina hands me the vacuum hose, shows me how to work the on and off button on the side. I flip it on, and the nozzle suctions itself to the carpet.

“Good gear is half the work,” I say before I can stop myself, one of your favorite one-liners. I flip the switch, both on the machine and in my mind, and turn to Martina. “I still don’t understand. He didn’t ask me one single question that was relevant to the actual job. No personal questions, either, other than silly things like whether I put on both socks before my shoes, or do one foot at a time. The whole time I’m just sitting there, waiting for the bomb to drop.”

“The Reverend says the past only defines us if we let it. He says you can let it hold you back, or you can be set free.” Martina takes on that church-like expression I’ve come to know so well, a combination of holier-than-thou satisfaction and wondrous, drank-the-Kool-Aid joy, andthisis what Father Ian could never explain to me about organized religion. You are invited into the flock because you are damaged goods, and then you are expected to transform into a righteous follower, to throw out your doubts with your sins and justbelieve. In the end, after all that happened while going to that church, I couldn’t do it.

I lean in and lower my voice, even though we’re the only two in the room. “He also said they needed my IDs so they wouldn’t get fined by the USCIS. That’s the Citizenship and Immigration Services, Martina.”

Her eyes narrow. “What wouldyouknow about the USCIS?”

The accusation in her words revives my doubt of her Grady-baby story, and what about that Spanish-tinged accent she tries to bury under a Southern drawl? If Martina were born here, in a hospital in the state of Georgia, like she said she was, what wouldsheknow about the USCIS?

“I know what the letters stand for,” I say, “but I’m also assuming they have these things called computers, which will light up like a Vegas slot machine at my fake ID and social security numbers.”

She chews her lip. “They won’t,” she mumbles, but I catch a flash of panic in her eyes. “Jorge recycles the numbers. He only uses ones that are real. Ours won’t get flagged.”

Whatever uncertainty I had is wiped away, just like that. Martina is a Jorge customer, too. A fugitive posing under a name she wasn’t born with. Maybe I’m right to guard the cash strapped to my waist.

Suddenly, this room feels too crowded, too hot. I need to get away from here, away fromher. I gesture to the machine strapped to my back. “So where do you want me to start with this thing?”

“Upstairs,” she says, stepping to the shelves for a vacuum of her own. “We start at the top and work our way down. Like a team.”

But I’m not blind, and I’m no fool. I caught her glance at my waistline. Whatever Martina is after here, I’m pretty sure it’s not teamwork.

JEFFREY

When I wake up on Saturday morning, I shoot off a text to my boss explaining why I’ve been MIA for the past two days, then pull the pillow over my head. It smells like Sabine, like that sweet-spicy stuff in the overpriced bottles on our shower shelf, and I shove it to the floor.

I stare at the ceiling and tell myself to get up, but my limbs feel hulking and heavy, like those sandbags they pile everywhere when the National Weather Service issues a flood warning. I barely slept, thanks to the constant hum of the search boats in the waters behind my house. They’re out there now, and I waver between worry and fury.

---