Page 15 of The Wife Upstairs
Tripp scoffs at that, walking farther into the room. The tip of his shoe catches an overstuffed trash bag by the door, tearing a tiny hole in it, and I watch as a bit of pink cloth oozes out.
“Copied, stole…” he says, waving the cup at me. “They grew up together, you know. Went to school at the same place, Ivy Ridge. I think they were even roommates.”
Turning back to the stack of books on the bed, I start placing them in the box at my feet. “I heard they were close,” I reply, wondering just how much more info I can get out of Tripp Ingraham.He’s the only one so far who hasn’t talked about Bea like the sun shone directly from her ass, so I wouldn’t mind hearing more of what he has to say. But gossip is tricky, slippery. Pretend to be too interested, and suddenly you look suspicious. Act bored and nonchalant, sometimes the person will clam up totally, but then sometimes they’re like Emily Clark, eager to keep sharing, hoping to find the right worm to bait the hook.
I don’t know what kind Tripp is, but he sits on the corner of the bed, the mattress dipping with his weight.
“Bea Rochester,” he mutters. “Her name was Bertha.”
I look up at that, tucking my hair behind my ear, and he’s watching me, his eyes bleary, but definitely focused on my face.
“Seriously?” I ask, and he nods. His leg is moving up and down restlessly, his hands twisting the now empty cup around and around.
“She changed it when she went to college, apparently. That’s what Blanche said. Came back to Birmingham one day all, ‘Call me Bea.’” He sighs again, that leg still jiggling. “And Blanche did. Never even mentioned her real name to people far as I know.”
Bertha. The same sits heavily on the tongue, and I think back to those pictures I looked at last night, those red lips, that shiny dark hair. She definitely didn’t look like a Bertha, and I couldn’t blame her for wanting to change it.
Plus, it was another thing we had in common, another secret tucked against my chest. I hadn’t been born “Jane,” after all. That other, older name was so far behind me now that whenever I heard it on TV or in a store or on the radio, part of a snatch conversation as I walked by people, I didn’t even flinch or turn my head. I had buried that person somewhere in Arizona, so that name meant nothing to me now.
I was lucky, though. There was no one here who had ever known the other me. Bea Rochester hadn’t had that luxury. What was it like, living right down the street from someone who knew how much you needed to change?
Tripp is still talking, but none of the information is useful now. It’s just a bourbon-fueled stream of grievances, veering back to Blanche, about how he isn’t sure what he’s going to do with all her things.
I hear this at least once every time I’m over here, this idea thathe’s suddenly going to toss all of Blanche’s stuff, start fresh, maybe move somewhere smaller, “somewhere near the golf course.”
He won’t do it, though. He’s going to stay right here in this house, which he’ll keep as a kind of shrine to her.
The Rochester house isn’t a shrine.
I think about this as I leave Tripp’s, shutting the door on all that sadness and bitterness. Eddie has just one picture of Bea still, that shot from Hawaii. Does it mean that he’s moving on—or wants to move on, at least?
I think he does.
And then, like I’d conjured him into being, suddenly he’s there, jogging down the sidewalk. He sees me and stops, his dark hair sweaty against his brow.
“Jane.”
“Hi.”
We stand there, me clutching my old purse tightly against my body, Eddie in his expensive running gear, and he puts his hands on his hips, breathing hard.
His chest is broad in his T-shirt that’s wet with sweat, and suddenly I don’t care anymore about last night, or his dead wife, or how many people might be watching us right now.
“Are you working for Tripp?” he asks, a trio of wrinkles appearing in his brow, and I shrug.
“Kind of? I walked his dog for a while, but now I’m mostly helping pack up his wife’s stuff.”
The frown deepens, his fingers digging into his hip bones, and then he says, “I was an asshole last night.”
I shake my head, already denying it, but he holds up one hand. “No, seriously. I used to work with Chris, and him bringing up Bea… it fucking rattled me, and I started thinking it was too soon, or that people might be dicks to you about it, and I just…”
He sighs, and hangs his head briefly. When he looks up at me, his hair is falling over his forehead like a little boy’s, and it’s so charming, so perfect, that my fingers want to smooth it back for him.
“Can I have a take two?” he asks.
Even if he weren’t smiling, even if his eyes weren’t so blue, even ifI didn’t want to touch him so badly my jaw ached with it, I would’ve said yes.
I would’ve remembered the smell and closeness of Tripp’s house.
