Page 54 of Such a Good Wife

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IN THE MORNING, AS I make the thirty-minute drive to Pawn City, I wonder what sort of customer at a pawnshop is going to buy my used Birkin bag. When I called the shop, I didn’t think in a million years that they’d buy this sort of item, but then I thought, if they look for watches and jewelry, maybe. The shop owner seemed very excited to have a look at the bag.

The text I got back, when I had tossed and turned to my limit most of the night, and then checked the phone when I got up to pee at 3 a.m., said, $50,000.

It’s a number that’s heart-stopping, but at least it’s not a million. That may be an amount I can come up with, but if I can get only part of it, I’ll explain that it’s the best I can do. Maybe they’ll accept it. At least it’s something. If Collin discovers missing money, everything would come out, so I have to find a way without touching the joint account.

I’d texted back that I could come up with ten thousand to start. My Birkin bag was twelve thousand new. It’s a despicable amount to pay for a handbag, but it’s my only expensive one, and Collin gave it to me as a gift on our tenth wedding anniversary. I had mentioned how cute Gillian’s similar bag was at a Christmas party months before, and he had asked her about the details of the bag so he could surprise me with one. I would have liked to have seen his face when he eventually looked up the stats on the bag and saw the price tag.

I would have much rather had a trip together—France or Italy—I never really wanted the bag and I rarely use it. I just mentioned it was lovely to Gillian’s face. Of course, he was so proud of himself when he gave it to me, I couldn’t tell him that I couldn’t care less about a brand-name bag and, call me naive or unsophisticated, but it looks just like the one I got for thirty bucks at H&M, which I actually prefer. Still, it breaks my heart to pawn it, because it was a gift from him, but I have no choice. If ten thousand can keep this person at bay while I figure out the rest, it’s necessary.

Inside the pawnshop, a pile of old bikes fills out the center of the room. It smells more like a garage, oily and dusty. Racks of used kitchen gadgets sit beneath a wall of tools, every kind imaginable, hanging messily from hooks on the corkboard wall. Glass cases protect guns and boxes of ammo. Rows of pawned jewelry someone desperately parted with to pay for bills, or more likely meth, are brightly lit and displayed inside the counter that wraps around the checkout area.

I place my bag in front of the man behind the register, who greets me with a smile, not taking his eyes off of it. I run my fingers across the rolled-leather top handles and goatskin exterior, remembering the dinner at Riccio’s when Collin pulled a box from the trunk of the car on our way in and made me wait until dessert to open it. It doesn’t matter that it isn’t something I care for, it is the kindness and incredible thoughtfulness from which it came that makes it so hard to part with.

“You must be Mrs. Hale.” The elderly man holds his hand out to shake. I thought about using a false name, but he’d mentioned before during the phone conversation that ID would be required, so I have to take the risk.

“What a lovely piece,” he says, examining the bag. “May I?”

I let him take it. He looks at it from all angles, examines the inside and frowns at a minute lipstick stain that I can’t believe he notices. Then he clicks away on his computer a moment, no doubt looking up what others in the same condition sold for.

“I can offer you seven thousand eight hundred.” The papery skin of his hands shows the blue veins beneath, and as I watch them touch my sweet gift from Collin, I think about backing out.

“I need to get ten,” I say, meekly, feeling as though I have no control over the situation.

“I’m sorry, but...”

“It was twelve, new. That gives you room to make money,” I interrupt.

“Yes, ma’am, but it’s not new, it’s used, and it has a stain inside. I won’t get more than ten myself.” I see the small collection of expensive handbags in a case behind him, locked up. I can’t imagine he comes across that many, and I still have no idea who would buy one at a pawnshop. Maybe I’m better off selling direct, online, but there’s no time. The person demanding money wants to meet today.

“Nine, then,” I say in desperation.

“I’ve given you my best price.” He keeps the fake, customer service smile on his face, and I close my eyes a moment and sigh.

“I won’t go less than eight thousand,” I say. It’s only two hundred dollars more, barely worth haggling over, but I want to feel at least a modicum of control over my situation. He nods silently, and pushes some paperwork across the glass case for me to sign.

It’s two more hours until I meet this mystery person at the Starlite Motel to hand over the money—two thousand less than I promised. I have imagined every scenario, and I know how profoundly stupid it is to do this alone. They could take the money and shoot me if they know I may not be able to get more. The Starlite is off a desolate frontage road a few miles from the highway. It wouldn’t be hard to slit someone’s throat and leave them to bleed out until housekeeping discovered the body in the motel bathtub the next morning. I have no true link to this person, no paper trail—just an untraceable phone under the sink that will probably never be found. I also have little choice.

I didn’t dare bring the phone with me. It has to stay in one place so I don’t get sloppy. The kids are always in my purse for something, or I could drop it, forget it in the car, anything, if I got distracted, so I am not chancing it. This person said 2 p.m. at the Starlite, room 108. So, that’s where I’ll go. If they’re not there... I don’t know what, but that’s how I need to handle this. I’ll wait as long as I have to.

I drive around for a little while. It’s a dreary day, dark and wet, and it feels like night outside. I buy a stale coffee from the Shell station and pour packs of powdered cream into it, deciding I’ll go and sit outside the motel and wait. I might lose my nerve if I spend too much time thinking about it. I have the upper hand, I think, if I’m there first. If I’ve scoped out the scene.

Outside the motel, I park under a pecan tree that drops damp leaves on my windshield. I stir my coffee with a tiny red straw and watch the door of 108, that rests underneath the dilapidated Starlite Motel sign. The neon on the sign is alight on this overcast day, and the S has come off a screw that’s holding it up: it hangs upside down and sways a little. There is no light on inside 108. I don’t know why here of all places. Is this person staying here? It would explain why they need to exploit me for money. It’s an utter shithole.

My nerve endings feel electric with stress. I recheck my purse to see that the cash in its Pawn City envelope and the gun are still right there where I put them. Just in case, I unlocked the safety box we keep in the bedroom in case of an intruder, and stuffed it down underneath my wallet, pack of tissue and makeup bag. It’s been years since I learned how to use it at a shooting range, for my own protection, and I hate touching it. I barely recall how to handle it, truth be told, but coming without any sort of protection seemed beyond foolish. Everything is there. I take a few deep breaths.

After another tension-filled hour of torturing myself with all the worst-case scenarios, a vehicle pulls into the lot. I turn my wipers on to remove the debris from the front window and my ears turn instantly hot when I see it. Luke’s truck is pulling into a vacant spot in front of 108. Reflexively, I duck down in my seat a bit, peering over the steering wheel to see who gets out.

I’m relieved to see only one person, so I can rest easier that I won’t be ambushed or ganged up on, violently. He’s wearing a rain poncho with a hood, and the truck is blocking the rest of his body, so I can’t get a handle on who it is. He holds his head down against the drizzle as he opens the motel room door. I see the door shut and a warm light flip on inside. He draws the curtains, so I don’t see anything else.

I think about driving away, running away. I should have said I was taking private lessons from the start. I wish I had thought of it. It could explain my presence there, but now I’m stuck covering this up. I have to go in. There’s no other option.

Standing outside the motel door, I keep my right hand inside my purse, resting on the gun I barely know how to use, just in case I at least need to threaten someone with it. I don’t know what to expect when the door opens—could it possibly be someone I know on the other side? I tap a knuckle on the door and step back. When it opens, I’m stunned. I’m more confused than ever.

“Well, get in, for fuck’s sake.”

I look around one last time and step inside as I’m told. It’s a woman. She turns her back to me and pours a splash of bourbon into two motel lowballs and pushes one toward me.

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