The Wife's Tale by Lori Lansens Page B

he’s different since your father died.”
    How had Mary not noticed that?
    “He’s been talking about his family. His old man.”
    “He hated his father.”
    The Greek shrugged. “Should we call the police?”
    “The police?” she asked, alarmed.
    “What if Gooch has been mugged or something?”
    “Mugged? Gooch? Who in their right mind would mug Gooch? And for what? Twenty-seven dollars and some Scratch ’n’ Wins?”
    “You can’t… Mary, I don’t want to pry into your private business, but is there any place… any place… you can think he might
     have gone? Does he have a friend?”
    What did he mean? Did he know something? Had he known all along?
    “Did he take anything, Mary? Is anything missing from the house?”
    “No,” she answered uncertainly.
    “Clothes? Suitcase?” His cellphone rang again, and she braced herself. He looked at the number, telling Mary, “My mother’s
     sick back in Athens. I have to take this.” He turned away for a short, anxious dialogue in Greek before closing the phone.
     “Have you checked the bank account?”
    “The bank account? Well, no, of course not. Why would I check the bank account?”
    “Never mind. I don’t know.”
    “To see if he’s taken money?”
    “Maybe.”
    “Gooch wouldn’t do that.”
    “I just don’t understand.” The Greek shrugged again, his work, such as it was, done. His cellphone rang again. He took the
     call, speaking rapidly in his mother tongue. “You tell him to call me, Mary,” he instructed Mary when he’d finished his call.
     “Tell him to phone me when he gets back. And whatever it is, we’ll work it out.”
    Mary knew she would steal his line when finally she heard from Gooch.
Whatever it is, we’ll work it out.
Watching the gold Cadillac disappear, she released, with distinct relief, a symphony of wind.
    Ray, standing at the door behind her, hollered, “Nice one, Mary. Class-ee.”
    The decent thing would have been to pretend he hadn’t heard. How long had he been standing there? He held the door open, widening
     his eyes. “Let’s go. Come on! Inventory time!” He clapped out the syllables. “In-ven-tor-y.”
    Mary found herself paralyzed, keys tingling in her hands, considering the word.
Inventory.
Yes, that’s what she needed to do. She needed to take stock. Was she getting this right? Gooch had parked the delivery truck
     behind Chung’s Chinese Restaurant sometime in the night and no one knew where he was? Was this how Irma had felt when life
     finally stopped making any sense?
    “What are you waiting for, Mary? Let’s
go!
”
    She looked up at the clouds racing past, the sun exposed in fragile, shifting rays.
    “I’m not kidding,” Ray sneered. “You haven’t been pulling your weight around here, Mary. And I’m not the only one who’s noticed.”
    Acceptance, denial—those could wait. Anger.
    “Get to work, Mary.”
    “Go to
hell
, Ray.”
    In Ray’s expression Mary saw that she had indeed said the words out loud. Climbing into her truck, stabbing the key in the
     ignition, thrusting the gear into reverse, she peeled out of the parking lot without checking her rearview mirror, seized
     by a burning feeling in her chest as she played back the conversation with The Greek. Gooch gone. Parked the delivery truck.
     Disappeared. On their silver anniversary.
    In all her many years of sleepless nights, Mary had felt the steadfastness of tomorrow implied in the constancy of each broken
     dawn. Tomorrow, like greeting-card love, was patient and kind. Tomorrow was encouraging, endlessly forgiving. She had not
     counted on the sudden betrayal of tomorrow, with whom she thought she shared some silent, tacit agreement.

Lightning
    H ad Gooch been there that morning, he would have plunked down across from Mary as he always did, air rushing out of the cracked
     red vinyl chair, with his nose in the American newspapers that served the area, stopping to read aloud from the
Free Press
or
News
while she