The Wife's Tale by Lori Lansens Page A

watching Ray pull up beside
     her in his shiny Nissan, Mary remembered a time when no one in Baldoon County drove anything but North American. Ray honked
     the horn impatiently, rolled down the window and barked, “Not there! Go in your regular spot!”
    She cranked down her own window, calling back, “But the Laura Secord’s coming in today!”
    Ray shouted through the wind, “They changed the schedule. It came in last night. When you were off.”
    Threatening sky overhead and the wind bearing down on her from the open sunroof, Mary climbed out of the truck. Laughing richly,
     she turned to present her wide, soggy behind. “My seat was wet,” she explained. “From the rain.”
    Ray, scowling, barely glanced her way. “Good. How’s Gooch?”
    She paused. “He’s got the pink eye.”
    “And what have
you
got, Mary?” He pulled open the back door and snapped the toggles on the master switch, igniting the fluorescent tubes above
     their heads.
    “Watch yourself,” he warned as she followed him inside. Blocking the aisle was a large carton of assorted chocolates on which
     the supplier had scribbled in thick black marker,
For Mary Gooch
. Mary shuddered from a pain in her gut. “Will you do something with that before somebody kills themselves?” he demanded.
    Mary bent to pick up the box but they both knew it was only a pretense. Ray sniffed his contempt and lifted it himself, dropping
     the cartons into Mary’s arms without gallantry.
    “Sorry,” Mary said, thinking that if she were Candace, Ray would carry the box the full distance to her car, balanced on his
     squat little erection.
    The back door to the pharmacy banged shut from the gusting wind as Mary toted the chocolates out to the parking lot. She lifted
     it into the passenger seat, wincing from the gas in her gut which she tried to, but could not, release. She turned when she
     heard a car. A sleek gold Cadillac, Gooch’s boss, Theo Fotopolis, at the wheel. She squeezed her buttocks together, afraid
     to foul the air as he parked in the spot beside her.
    Theo Fotopolis removed his swarthy frame from the car and strode toward Mary in her navy scrubs. “I called the house,” he
     said, smiling warmly. “Nobody answered so I drove out.”
    She nodded dumbly.
    “You need to fix that window on the back door. You’re letting out the heat.”
    “Yeah.”
    “Just put a cardboard for now.” The Greek lifted his arms in a gesture of confusion. “So what the hell, Mary?” She caught
     her breath. “What happened with Gooch?” he asked. “Mr. Chung called me an hour ago to say my truck is blocking his produce
     guy.”
    “Mr. Chung?”
    “Gooch left it there, my truck, behind the restaurant.”
    “Left the truck? At Mr. Chung’s?” Mary shook her head, not understanding. “When? Why?”
    “After they closed. Chung said it must have been after midnight. You tell me why.”
    “But Gooch had that delivery in Windsor last night.”
    “He didn’t make it. It was still in the truck. Didn’t he come home last night?”
    Mary paused. “No.”
    “He didn’t call you?”
    Another pause. “No.”
    “It’s none of my business but… does he do this? Does he not come home?”
    “No.”
    “What the hell, then?”
    Mary followed him as he paced a circle. “He just parked the truck and what? Walked somewhere? I don’t understand. Did he eat
     there?”
    “No one saw him.”
    “Had he been drinking?” she asked.
    “How should I know?
Has
he been drinking?”
    She took a moment to consider. “No more than usual.”
    The pair stood puzzling as a maelstrom of leaves found their legs. Mary had not considered anything resembling this scenario.
     The Greek’s coat pocket played a ringtone and he reached inside for his cellphone. Mary held her breath. Gooch?
    The Greek read the name of the caller. He looked at Mary, shaking his head, and returned the phone to his pocket—the call
     was not from Gooch. “He’s been acting, I don’t know,