Page 50 of Such a Good Wife

“I don’t know.” Her voice is soft. “I didn’t tell him, if that’s what you’re asking. But he has a way of finding things out. Luke never asked about my past boyfriends.”

My heart lurches at the sound of his name on her lips in that intimate way.

“If Joe did find out, he probably would have tried to ruin it for me. Luke never said, but...” She stops as though she’s had an epiphany, and makes eye contact with me. “Do you think that’s why he quit me? ’Cause stupid Joe got involved or said something?”

I want to tell her that’s not the reason. It’s because he loved me, not you! How childish. How absurd and hypocritical. I shake my head in silent protest. How in the world can I even feel that way when I love Collin the way I do—when I feel the depths of remorse the way I do. I don’t understand the duplicity of these emotions, existing simultaneously.

“No, I’m sure...” But then I stop myself, because telling her that I’m sure that’s not why he stopped seeing you implies that the reason was something more personal.

“You think he did somethin’ to Luke.” It’s a statement, not a question. She’s still looking down at her cup.

“I just thought, perhaps, if you were seeing Joe again...” I stop a moment, assuming that she’ll object, swearing that she wasn’t, but she doesn’t interrupt. “I thought maybe, considering...” I look to the baby, and become more careful with my phrasing. “Considering his history, he may react...strongly if he found out.”

“You don’t know how hard it is.” She meets my eyes now. They’re wet and frightened. “You’re so lucky. You have this perfect life and a husband, and—it’s hard. It’s lonely. He says the right things. And like, you know in your head, like you know that it’s just a line he says, but when you need to hear it...”

I place my hand on top of hers. She stops and looks up to the dusty hanging lamp above our booth so tears don’t fall. She takes a deep breath and when she’s blinked them away, she continues.

“When Luke dumped me, I let myself believe what I wanted to believe,” she says matter-of-factly.

She’s so pretty behind the bad eyeliner and trashy booty shorts. I can see what a man would see in her—what someone like Joe would want to claim as his own. At least behind closed doors. She didn’t need to tell me she was seeing him again. It was apparent in the faded purple bruises down her arms and the blue lines around her neck that are either from the erosion of a cheap necklace that stained her skin, or from Joe’s hands, cutting off air.

“Do you...do you know where he was September 20, by any chance?” I ask, and she laughs.

“Why? What’s September...” she stops when she realizes it’s the day Luke died. “Oh. Jesus, I don’t even know what day of the week that was. Who the hell remembers what they did weeks ago?”

“It was a Thursday,” I say, softly.

“I work Thursdays, so...”

“Does Joe ever come to...see you...at work?” I imagine him and his pervert friends pawing at the dancers, throwing singles at their naked bodies and laughing, going out of their way to humiliate the women. She just shrugs.

“It’s important,” I add.

“He’s been there before. I don’t know about that night. Like I said, who can remember? I do the same shit every day, nothing stands out exactly.”

“So maybe, then?” I try to push without making her shut down. She shrugs again. It’s exasperating. Our food comes and she pours copious amounts of ketchup over her fries before spooning cheesy shells into Ronny Lee’s little puckered mouth, avoiding eye contact.

“I don’t know. He could have been there and I didn’t even see him. He pays for lap dances in private rooms with other girls. So do his gross friends. It used to make me crazy and we’d fight about it, but I don’t care anymore.”

I try to imagine sleeping with someone, caring for someone like she does Joe, and watching him take other strippers into private rooms for blow jobs, because that’s exactly what a “private lap dance” means depending on how much he pays, I suppose.

“Could you get, like, receipts from that night from the club or something...to see if he used a credit card, if we can place him there?”

She almost chokes on her soda at this.

“How the hell am I supposed to do that? I’m not the manager. I don’t know how to do that,” she says, through a mouthful of cheeseburger.

I’m growing frustrated.

“Who are the girls he gets private dances from? Can you give me names?” I don’t wait for her to reject this. I add, quickly, “I know it seems like I’m invading your life, I’m not trying to, Lacy. I just need your help on this.”

Her face is bunched up in an annoyed snarl.

“Cinnamon and Luscious are his favorite two. Good luck.”

I don’t know why I thought she’d give me real names or want to work with me to nail him. Just as I consider how to change tactics, the waiter comes over. He’s a thin, frazzled-looking teenager with a smattering of whiskers that do little to cover his pockmarked face, and he’s overwhelmed with the amount of tables he’s trying to serve in the understaffed dining room. I think he’s going to ask us how everything is, but instead, he apologizes as he places something in front of me. I stare at it. I don’t register it right away.

“Sorry, I guess this is yours,” he says hurriedly. I look at the silver chain with the oval locket dangling from it.

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