The Pocket Wife by Susan Crawford Read Free Book Online Page A

time enough to reconstruct that dreary afternoon when Celia died. “‘There will be time, there will be time . . .’” Her voice is soft in the room, a sprinkle of glitter on the kitchen counter. “‘There will be time to murder and create . . .’”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œNothing,” she says. “T.S. Eliot. I was just . . .” She clears the dishes from the table and sticks them in the dishwasher, turning the large, bright dial to START . In the bathroom she tugs on a pair of shorts she finds hanging on the doorknob, runs her toothbrush across her teeth, and fills in her lips with red liner.
    â€œI’ll get it now,” she says, back in the kitchen. She steps into her sandals and grabs her keys off the counter, opens the door. “I’ve got a few things to pick up anyway. For tonight.”
    â€œGet what now?” Peter stands behind her, gangly and awkward, like a Ken doll with cloth arms.
    â€œThe sugar,” she says.
    â€œDana,” Peter says, and she turns around. “I mean it. You really need to go see Dr. Sing.”
    She nods. She knows she’s racing against time, that she’s fast approaching an abyss, a brick wall, and that when she reaches it, she’ll no longer know or care if she needs help.
    As she rolls down the driveway, she sees Ronald inching past his house with his head stuck out the car window, scrutinizing the decline of his once-perfect yard. He and Celia often had the coveted YARD OF THE MONTH sign stuck into the verdure of their grass, but now even the yellow crime tape has begun to come loose in the wind.
    She watches him slink past Lon Nguyen, outside washing his Miata, leaning over the soapy hood in a white sleeveless T-shirt and shorts, his flip-flops sinking in mud. Dana backs her car out of the driveway and zigzags onto the street as Ronald slows to a near stop behind her. He ducks his head aroundthe inside of his car as if he’s trying to see hers from a range of angles. In her rearview mirror, Dana watches him reach toward his glove compartment and extract a pack of Camels—at least she assumes they’re Camels. “Ronald used to smoke,” she remembers Celia saying. “Camels, no less, but now he wouldn’t touch the things.” Dana watches as he lights a match, and then she waves her hand absently toward the back window of the Toyota and speeds down Ashby Lane. Once or twice she thinks she sees him in the traffic behind her car, and she slows down, letting her foot tap on the brake until he catches up. Maybe he’ll have Celia’s phone with him and she can get another look at that picture of Peter.
    She turns in the Root Seller parking lot, filled with sporty minivans and trendy little hybrids, and pulls quickly into a space, jumping out onto the hot asphalt. She strides to the entrance and straight through to the produce aisle, where shoppers linger over broccoli as if it’s a new novel. Shopping in the Root Seller, Dana has often thought, is a little like going to a spa, with its large, abundant skylights, the soft sprays of water falling like a gentle rain at the veggie aisle, the strains of Ravi Shankar pumping through the PA system.
    She makes her way past the veggies and looks up just as Ronald walks briskly through the large glass doors and strides among the lolling customers, his nose pointed forward like a bloodhound’s. He disappears down a middle aisle, and Dana loiters, avoiding him. She’d once encountered him here with Celia, staring at the Rainforest Radish display as if it were a lap dance. She’d wondered then what it would be like to have a husband like Ronald, one you could take to T.J.Maxx and the Root Seller without having him pout and head for the nearest door, cigarette cravings burning in his eyes. She’d decided it might be fun but that she’d probably need a lover, too, that sleeping with Ronald might be more like a pajama party