Page 71 of Dear Wife

I don’t really wait for her to invite me in; I wriggle my way past.

“And how come you’re panting? Did you run all the way here?” She shuts the door behind me, flipping the lock with a metallic clunk, and the noise sends a sliver of panic up my chest. My gaze flicks to the windows, two paned sheets of glass plenty big enough for an escape.

And then I see the rest of the room and I freeze.

“What’s wrong?” she says, taking in my expression. “What happened?”

I don’t answer because I can’t. I am rigid with shock, my entire body frozen at the spectacle that is Miss Sally’s room. It looks like something out of a movie set. Dark and blood red, with sculpted molding and carved furniture, Victorian behemoths with stubby clawed feet. There’s velvet everywhere, rich maroon and burgundy lined in fringe and hung with tassels. Even the walls are papered in it, lit up with an occasional filigreed brass lamp.

And on every horizontal surface, on the tables and cabinets and elaborately carved stands, are sculptures of very large, very erect penises. It’s likeMoulin Rougemeets gay porn, an orgy of Belle Epoque with homosexual brothel.

I turn in a slow circle, taking it all in. “What is this place? Where am I?”

“You like it, huh?” Miss Sally sinks onto an overstuffed love seat, patting the cushion beside her. “Now come on. You sit down and tell Miss Sally what happened. What’s got you all in a tizzy?”

I tear my gaze off a ruby dildo lamp, telling her the two-second version: “I kneed the pastor’s son in the balls, and now I have to leave.”

Disappointment flashes across her face. “Wait a minute. You don’t just knee some poor sucker in the balls, not without a reason. There’s got to be more to the story than that. Miss Sally wants to know what it is.”

“As much as I’d love to tell you everything, I don’t have time. I used this address on my job application.”

“So, you’re leaving.” Miss Sally is a lot of things, but stupid is not one of them.

I nod, acknowledging an unexpected pang. I didn’t realize until now how much I’ll miss Morgan House, how much I’ve come to think of it as home, even if only a temporary one. I sink onto the couch next to her, brushing away the sadness. The police will be here any minute. It’s past time to go.

“How much do I owe you?”

“Well, it’s past noon,” she says, crossing her long legs. Under her white eyelet skirt, they’re lotioned into a high shine, reflecting in the room’s dim light like glass. “I’ll have to charge you through tomorrow.”

“That’s fine. How much?”

I expect her to check a list, to pull up some file on her computer or at the very least, reach for a calculator, but she rattles off a number without the slightest hesitation, like Rain Man. “One hundred and twenty dollars.”

I peel off the bills and hand them to her. “Can I borrow a piece of paper and a pen?”

She stands, fetching some from a sideboard on the opposite wall. Perfumed stationery and a fountain pen, of course. I kneel, scribbling my message on a glass-topped side table. When I’m done, I fold it twice, write Martina’s name on the outside and hand it to Miss Sally.

“Do you know where you’re going?” she says, pocketing the note.

“I will when I get there.”

Miss Sally gives me a sad smile. “You take care of yourself, you hear?”

“You bet. And thanks for everything. I’m really going to miss this place.”

She grabs me by a shoulder and yanks me in for a hug. I wasn’t expecting it, and for the first few seconds, stand stiff as a board in her arms, but she smells so good and her breasts are like two giant, soft pillows against my cheek, so I relax and give in to the embrace even though the clock is ticking. She pats me on the back with a giant paw, murmurs into my hair, “Poor, sweet girl. It gets easier, you know.”

“What does?”

She cranes back her head to look down, arching her back, and something unexpected presses into my leg. “Running. Starting over. But you’re smart, and you’re stronger than you know. You’ll find your place.”

It’s all I can do to nod.

She releases me, waving a rose-scented hand through the air. “Now get out of here. I’ve got shit to do.”

A few seconds later, I’m racing down the backstreets to where I parked my car, a couple blocks away, thinking that’s one mystery solved, at least. Miss Sally’s boobs might be bigger than mine, but she definitely wasn’t born female.

Dear Martina,

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