The Good Wife (29 page)

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Authors: Stewart O'Nan

BOOK: The Good Wife
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She wanted Casey to be a part of the celebration today. She even offered to pay his plane fare, but the project he’s in charge of is way behind schedule and running round the clock and he has to be there if something happens. He’ll be home for Christmas. It’s only three weeks. When she broke the news to Tommy, he said he completely
understood. Patty doesn’t, and thinks it will be a long time before she forgives Casey—or Tommy, for not expecting better.
The tricky interchange with its swooping ramps makes her pay attention. The Thruway’s always crazy. Tommy doesn’t like the chaos of the toll plaza, or the curves, or the way people trade lanes like slot cars. “Is that legal?” he asks about a FedEx double trailer rig. They’re both hungry but the only service area’s on the wrong side. She’s almost glad—those places can be madhouses.
She waits till they’re on the quieter I-88 and she needs gas, combining the two stops. Tommy’s surprised at the high prices. He gets out to pump but is stumped by the screen asking for payment information. Patty shows him how to use the Speedpass on her keychain.
They do the drive-thru at a Wendy’s and get back on the road. It’s only twelve-thirty but she needs to keep an eye on the time. Tommy’s got to check in with the parole office in Elmira, so they’re going there first. Her mother’s expecting them around five-thirty. Patty’s made his favorite lasagna ahead of time. She has fresh strawberries and pineapple chunks waiting for him, and Boston cream pie. She’s bought new towels and flannel sheets and cleaned the whole house, emptying it of alcohol like the parole officer told her. She’s even had Cy and Eileen help her resurrect Tommy’s old recliner from the basement, wiping down the cracked naugahyde with mink oil. She can’t wait to see his face.
The temptation on 88 is to blast it because there’s no traffic. For miles there’s nothing but forest, a dusting of snow highlighting the rocks and deadfall. She sets the cruise control eight miles above the limit and flexes her foot inside her shoe. Her tailbone hurts from sitting in the same position for so long, and she shifts her weight.
“Want me to drive?” he asks. “I’ve got my license.”
“I’m all right,” she says.
“It’s pretty,” he says a few minutes later, meaning the gray woods.
She doesn’t tell him this, but the drive seems to take longer with him in the car. By herself, she’d space out to the radio, her attention on the road dipping in and out with the songs and talk, the miles and sights passing without comment. She’s gotten used to that kind of waking trance, letting the hours slide by, her mind emptying until she can really think. She shouldn’t miss it, not with him right beside her. As if to prove her point to herself, she reaches over and takes his hand.
81 funnels them into Binghamton.
“Wow,” he says as they shoot through Johnson City, “this place has really built up.”
They’re getting closer, and he’s noticing everything that’s still there, everything that’s changed, everything that’s gone. Even the road is different; Route 17’s slowly been switching over to Interstate 86.
“That’s weird,” Tommy says.
“It’s just the signs,” she says. “They’ve still got the stupid stoplights at Horseheads.”
Past Apalachin with the massive Citgo plaza he’s never seen, past the new exit. The Amish farmers’ market’s gone. At least the chicken barbecue is still there, and the soft-serve.
The biggest shock is coming up, as they near the main Owego exit, closed due to construction. The approach to the new Court Street bridge goes right over the road. Above them, a crew in optic yellow sweatshirts is working on the railings, and she wonders if Russ is at the house yet. It bugs her: Casey couldn’t make it because he says he’s busy, but Russ found the time to come all the way from Texas.
“Holy shit,” Tommy says, looking across the river. The new
bridge is almost done, lined with quaint, fake gas lamps. The pilings of the old bridge poke out of the water like stepping stones.
“It took them three years.”
“That’s just nuts.”
He’s quiet, processing it, until they pass the new Best Buy warehouse going up across from the truck stop.
“I’ve heard of them,” he says. “What do they sell?”
Patty’s never been in one, but she knows from their flyers in the Sunday paper that they’re an appliance store. She can’t believe he hasn’t seen their commercials, but doesn’t call him on it. She doesn’t mind being his guide. It actually feels good having the answers to his questions.
In the same way, she tries to help in Elmira, when they sit down with his parole officer, a tall guy in his early thirties with the bullet head and rigid posture of a marine. He has an inch-thick file on Tommy he spreads on his desk, the old mug shot stapled to a corner of the folder. He wants to double-check his information, and Tommy turns to her for the address and phone number of Riverview, his hours, the name of his supervisor. Patty has it all.
The officer talks to them like they’ve just been arrested—calmly threatening—going over the rules one by one from the handbook, pausing to make sure they understand. Possession of illegal drugs or drug paraphernalia or any controlled substance without proper medical authorization constitutes a violation. Patty’s got a copy of the book at home, and knows it by heart. Tommy’s not allowed to be out past nine unless he has to for work. He needs a travel pass if he’s going to leave the state (even though, technically, they just crossed the PA state line where 17 makes that little dip south of Waverly). If he fails to report, or to report a change of address or employment, that’s considered absconding. By law the officer will have to issue a warrant.
“And believe me,” he says, “that’s the last thing I want to do. The better you do, the happier I am.”
To Patty, he sounds false as a politician, especially when he sends Tommy into a closet-sized bathroom right behind him to produce a urine sample. Throughout his time inside, Tommy’s been strip-searched and forced to give urine samples hundreds of times, but she’s never had to see it. Now when he comes out of the bathroom with the lidded cup half filled with beer-colored pee, she’s angry and ashamed for him.
“That wasn’t so bad,” Tommy says when they’re in the car again, and she has to agree. It’s a relief to be out of there, done with their one obligation. He has to register with the Owego police, but that can wait till tomorrow.
She crosses the river at Nichols so they don’t have to backtrack, and takes him into town the way they used to come from their old place, along the train tracks, past the cemetery and the speedway. There’s no avoiding the courthouse—completely restored, floodlights showing off its repointed, steam-cleaned brick. She turns up North Street, leaving it behind, dips under the railroad bridge and past the blocks of ratty townhouses and the Open Door Mission with its thrift shop.
“Hasn’t changed much,” he says.
“Not this part.”
A couple miles out of town, they come alongside the new Public Safety Building—the county jail—long and low and lit up like a factory, curls of razor wire glinting in the dark.
“Mighty fancy,” he says.
“It cost enough.”
The turnoff’s not much farther. She’s probably going too fast, but she knows the roads, and she’s tired of driving. She just wants to get home.
“Thanks for coming to pick me up,” he says as they head into the hills, because these are their last minutes alone together before they have to face everyone. It’s silly—what was she going to do, make him take the bus?—but she knows what he’s saying. He doesn’t mean just today.
“You’re welcome,” she says.
And then, a minute later, they’re there, turning into the driveway, her headlights catching the handmade banner hung from the porch roof—WELCOME HOME TOMMY. The front door opens before they can get out, and Eileen and Cy and Russ and her mother swarm the car, hugging Tommy and patting him on the back, taking their bags, whisking them inside where the food is laid out buffet-style on the dining room table. Her mother says their timing’s perfect, she just took the lasagna out of the oven.
Tommy can’t believe Russ is here. He laughs at the recliner with the big bow on it; Eileen takes a picture of him testing it out. While they wait for the lasagna to cool, Russ catches him up on the old crew. Shawn’s still in Elmira, but most of them are gone. Perry’s in Florida and has his own motorcycle shop—which leads to the story about the time Perry spent the whole winter building the ultimate dirtbike and then broke both wrists the first time he jumped it. Patty sits on the couch, sipping a Coke for the caffeine. The house is too bright, too loud. She feels like she’s still moving. She must be crashing from the drive, because all of a sudden she’s mad at Casey for not being here. She wants to call him and put Tommy on, except she knows he’s working late, and with the time difference he won’t be home for hours. She’s tempted to leave a message: I guess we missed you. I just wanted to let you know: your father’s home.
They eat off of their laps, gathered in the living room, passing
the basket of garlic bread. Getting seconds, Tommy compliments her mother, and Eileen cracks up with her mouth full of salad.
“
I
made it,” Patty says. “She just turned on the oven.”
“It’s the best thing I’ve had in years.”
“I think there’s going to be a lot of that tonight,” Eileen says.
“I sure hope so,” Patty seconds.
Before they cut the pie, Tommy gets serious, standing and thanking them for believing in him, and for helping Patty and Casey all these years. He says he knows he’s got a lot to make up for, and that he’ll do his best. He raises his glass of soda and toasts them. “I wish this was champagne.”
“So do I,” Cy jokes, and Eileen smacks his leg.
Her mother serves coffee with dessert, and they kick back and tell stories, letting the dishes sit. Looking around the room, Patty thinks her world has gotten so small. She misses Russ. She has friends at work, but she’s had to keep her distance. The tactic has become a habit, and she wonders if that might change now. She’s grown so dependent on those closest to her.
And on Tommy. It’s hard, now, to share him with everyone else, to not follow him to the bathroom. While he’s gone, she steals his recliner just to get his attention, like a little kid. She barely contributes to the conversation, and feels selfish, wanting everyone to leave so they can be alone. Russ has come so far, but Tommy can see him tomorrow.
“Well,” her mother says during a lull, “I’m sure you’ve had enough excitement for one day.”
Eileen picks up on her cue, and gathers Cy. Russ follows them to the front hall, where they all pull their coats on. Her mother whispers something in Tommy’s ear as she hugs him, and then they’re on the front porch, waving them away.
“What did my mom say to you?” she asks as they’re cleaning up.
“Nothing,” he says. “She said to be good to you.”
Patty shakes her head. “I swear, she’ll never get it. You already are.”
“I know what she meant,” he says.
They close up the downstairs—or she does, going from the front of the house to the back while he stands there with his box of stuff. He wants to take a shower, giving her a chance to peek at the contents: her tetters—at least some of them—old pictures of her and Casey, his course certificates, a wad of birthday and Christmas and Father’s Day cards, a cloud chart Casey sent him when he was at Bare Hill, then just shirts and pants and underwear, a few rolled pairs of socks in the bottom, some stray pencils, a single tennis ball. She closes the flaps again, strips and joins him in the shower.
It’s been eight years since they’ve been together, and since she’s had a desk job she’s put on weight. He’s thicker too, and gray in places, but still strong. The three scars on his back have magically disappeared.
They barely towel off before slipping into bed.
“Your hair’s freezing,” he says, but he doesn’t want her to leave. The flannel sheets slowly warm them.
“It’s so quiet,” he says.
They make love, then agree to sleep. It’s been a long day, so many miles behind them, the jump from one world to another. He still sleeps on his side, she still fits him. He drifts off first, and she listens to him breathe. She almost can’t believe it. For so long this is all she wanted. Now that he’s finally here beside her, she swears that no one will ever take him away from her again.
HE HAS TO START FROM SCRATCH. HE’S NEVER HAD A REGULAR DOCTOR , and he has to take a physical to qualify for her insurance. His name’s still listed on their bank account, but he needs an ATM card. He’s never used an ATM before, or a beeper, or a cell phone. He’s got a certificate in computers but he’s never been on the Internet. The first time he e-mails Casey he sends the message three times because he’s not sure it worked.
She’s added him to their car insurance, but she has to push him to drive. He’s still timid of other traffic, going too slow, balking at stop signs. He says he’s not comfortable, that her car’s too small. He’s also not good with keys, forgetting his every morning, as if he doesn’t need them. It’s easier if she just chauffeurs him to work.
At home he won’t answer the phone. The ringing drives her mother crazy. He wakes up every day at six o’clock sharp, no matter how late he stays up, takes an eight-minute shower and has their bed made before Patty can dry her hair. The top of his dresser is empty except for his watch and wallet, returned to the same spots every night, lined up square with the edge. His drawers are just as neat, the piles precise, his rolled socks all in a row. If she didn’t know better, she’d think he just got out of the Marines.
Because he’s so regimented, she expects him to do well at Riverview, where there’s a set daily schedule. She doesn’t have to be in till nine, but goes in an hour early to make sure he’s on time. They
split in the parking lot and don’t see each other the rest of the day, trying to defuse any gossip. Like every new hire, he’s on ninety-day probation, but his supervisor’s Holly, a friend of hers. Patty’s told her that he’s a good worker, and motivated. He shouldn’t have any problems.
He won’t get his first check until the end of the month, and has to ask her for pocket money, something neither of them is used to. Her mother warned Patty that he might have a problem with her making so much more than him. He hasn’t said anything, but every morning she’s aware of how they must look to someone driving beside them—her in a business suit, him in a workshirt and jeans. She tries to tell herself it doesn’t matter, just as she doesn’t dwell on the fact that he’s doing a job she was done with twenty years ago.
What surprises her most these first weeks is how quiet he is, not like the Tommy who used to sing along with the radio or holler from the other room for the fun of it. It’s unfair comparing the two, but it worries her. She finds herself observing him, looking for clues. When she sees him watching the Bills without even commenting on a long touchdown run, she wonders if the changes are permanent. She sits down beside him and folds laundry on the coffee table, talking back to the TV, and while he finally joins in, he’s not as excited as he should be, as if the game doesn’t matter.
He’s still not good with crowds. Their Christmas shopping at the mall lasts about five minutes. In the car he says he’s sorry, but doesn’t offer to try again. Patty understands; he needs to build up to it.
He likes to be outside. He’ll go and smoke on the back porch for the view even though it’s freezing. They take walks in the woods, following the Indian trails past Casey’s old lean-to, fallen now, a sopping magazine trapped under the leaves and debris. It’s easier talking to him here, away from the world. He says he feels weird.
He thinks everybody can tell that he’s been in prison just from looking at him. He wonders if it would be better if they moved.
He looks unsure when Patty laughs, as if he’s said something stupid.
“No,” she says. “It’s just that 1 used to think the same thing.”
“But you never did.”
“I wouldn’t have had the help I needed somewhere else.”
He still thinks they should have their own place, but he’s willing to wait. Maybe in the spring, when things are more settled. Right now he needs to get his bearings.
The best way to do that, Patty thinks, is to get out more, go to the grocery store, go ice skating. He’s not going to catch up to the twenty-first century by setting up their old stereo and playing records all weekend like a teenager. At the same time, she can’t be angry with him. She needs to be patient. She thinks it’s lucky she has practice.
The one place they’re making up for lost time is in the bedroom. He expects sex every night, and even when she’s not in the mood she can’t deny him. It’s not the romance she dreamed of when he was inside, not the long-awaited celebrations of their FRPs, but how could it be?
He’s with her now almost constantly. They’re only separated at work, and even then they’re in the same building. At first she couldn’t let him out of her sight; now she’s glad to have a few hours’ privacy. She’s grown so used to being alone, to following her own schedule and having her own space, that at times she feels cramped. It’s just the power of habit; she really wants him here.
He’s doing okay, according to his parole officer. He reports once a week, a convenient opportunity to practice some highway driving. On the way home is the only time she sees him seriously angry, calling the guy a prick. “I’m fifty-seven and I’m cleaning up
old people’s diarrhea, and he’s lecturing
me
about reality? Let’s see him walk into Auburn for five minutes and see how long he lasts.”
“I didn’t know you hated your job so much,” she says.
“I’m just saying the guy doesn’t have to be an asshole. It’s bad enough I have to listen to his regular shit.”
“You know, I did that job for six years.”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I don’t hate the job. The whole thing just gets to me.”
He means parole, but obviously he doesn’t love the job either. Maybe it was a mistake thinking they could work at the same place. Maybe her mother’s right. Patty consoles herself with the idea that it was only supposed to be temporary. She doesn’t want him emptying bedpans and mopping hallways any more than he does, but he has to start somewhere.
He’s just frustrated, he says. Everything’s harder than he thought it would be.
It’s exactly what the parole officer told her that first home visit, but she can’t say that. She needs to be positive, and tells him what she tells herself. Be patient. Things will get better.
And then, with two weeks till Christmas, he gets sick. There’s been a flu going around, and he spends half the night in the bathroom. Because he’s on probation, he doesn’t have any sick days yet, and wants to go in so he won’t get docked. He can’t—not until his fever’s gone. Patty almost takes the day off to take care of him. She explains the situation to Holly, who says it’s no problem.
“How’s he getting along?” Patty asks.
“All right,” Holly says. “Did he tell you about Lainie?”
“No.”
“I guess they got into it over something she asked him to do. You know how she can be when she’s in a hurry. Otherwise he’s been fine.”
When Patty asks Tommy his side of it, he says he doesn’t have to take Lainie’s shit. She’s not his boss.
“She’s part of the nursing staff,” Patty says.
“She’s a fucking bitch.”
“Maybe she is, but you’re going to have to learn how to work with her.”
“I have,” he says. “I stay the hell away from her.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Patty asks.
“I didn’t want you to get mad.”
“You didn’t think I’d find out?”
“I didn’t think it was such a big deal, but obviously it is—like it’s my fault she’s a bitch. It’s all right for her to talk to me like I’m a piece of shit, but when I walk away from it, I’m the bad guy. How does that work, huh? I didn’t even say anything. I used my conflict resolution, and I’m the one who gets in trouble.”
She doesn’t want to argue with him—he already feels like no one’s on his side. And he’s sick, he’s miserable. Instead of going downstairs she stays with him, sitting by his bedside and watching a rerun of
The Simpsons.
He’s out for three days. She notices that she doesn’t worry about him as much, knowing he’s at home.
The next week, she gets it, and he has to drive in by himself. It reminds her of when Casey first got his license. She just has to trust that he’ll be all right. He should be coming home around five-thirty. One night he’s late, pulling in a few minutes after six. She’s ready to smell his breath and ask him where he’s been when she sees the bag he’s trying to hide—from Conti Jewelers, her Christmas present.
She thinks things are back to normal when she returns to work. He helps put up the big tree in the lobby. It’s the busy week before
Christmas, parties and lots of visitors. Patty’s asked Holly to keep an eye on him and let her know if he has any problems. She doesn’t expect any, since Lainie’s working swing shift through New Year’s—a scheduling move Patty has nothing to do with.
Thursday morning before coffee break, Holly calls and asks if she’s seen Tommy. He was supposed to be helping Janice turn over a vacancy on three when he took off. They have people looking in the locker room downstairs and the men’s toilets on each floor. Holly thought he might be headed for Patty’s office.
“What happened?”
“I don’t know,” Holly says. “Janice said he just left.”
“Shit,” Patty says when she gets off the phone. She paces to the window, trying to think, and looks down at the picnic tables by the river, the bare trees on the far bank, the dark hints of trails. He’ll be outside, she realizes, and grabs her jacket.
Her first guess is correct. He’s at the car—locked—standing there because he doesn’t have his keys. She has to cross a long open stretch to reach him, walking hard in her pumps.
“What are you doing?” she asks him, aware of the whole nursing home at her back.
“I quit,” he says.
“What?”
“I can’t work here. I’m sorry, Pats, I can’t. It’s too depressing.”
She’s been at Riverview so long that she hadn’t thought of that at all. He says the patients remind him of lifers, the way their rooms are set up like cells. He hates emptying their dressers and boxing their things. He hates the way the nurses leave them in their wheelchairs in the hallways.
“I don’t see how you do it,” he says.
“You can’t quit,” she says. “You’re not allowed to.”
“I can get fired.”
He’s serious, and she wonders if this is what was behind the Lainie thing, if she told him to do something he couldn’t stomach.
She wants to reason with him, here in front of everyone. Why is he throwing this chance away? Doesn’t he know how hard it is to find a job in this economy? Doesn’t he care how much trouble she went to, arranging this for him?
Unlike her twenty years ago, he thinks he has a choice.
“Fine,” she says, “you’re fired,” and hands him her keys.

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