Wife 22. Melanie Gideon

Чтение книги онлайн.

      13

       Julie Staggs

       Marcy—big girl bed!

      32 minutes ago

       Pat Guardia

       Spending the afternoon with my father. Red Sox. Ahhhh.

      46 minutes ago

       William Buckle

       Fell.

      1 hour ago

      Fell? Now I’m officially worried. I’m about to text William when I hear the unmistakable sound of the motorcycle being gunned in the driveway. I log off Facebook quickly. The kids are still at school, William has a client dinner, so I jump to the obvious conclusion.

      “We’re being robbed,” I whisper to Nedra on the phone. “Someone’s stealing the motorcycle!”

      Nedra sighs. “Are you sure?”

      “Yes, I’m sure.”

      “How sure?”

      This is not the first time Nedra has received such a call from me.

      Once, a few years ago when I was doing laundry down in the basement, the wind blew the front door open and it slammed into the wall with a bang. In my defense, it sounded like a gunshot. I was positive I was about to be robbed while I was musing about whether a load of whites really needed fabric softener. Robberies weren’t that unusual in our neighborhood. It’s a reality Oaklanders live with, along with earthquakes and $5-a-pound heirloom tomatoes.

      Panicked, I stupidly shouted, “I’m calling my lawyer!”

      Nobody answered, so I added, “And I have nunchakus!”

      I had bought a pair for Peter, who had recently signed up to take tae kwon do, which unbeknownst to me he would be quitting two weeks hence because he didn’t realize it was a contact sport. What did he think the nunchakus were for? Oh—he meant tai chi, not tae kwon do. It wasn’t his fault so many of the martial arts begin with the same sound.

      Still no reply. “Nunchakus are two sticks connected by a chain that people use to hurt each other. By whirling them around. Very fast!” I shouted.

      Not a sound from upstairs. Not a footfall, not even a creak from the hardwood floor. Had I imagined the bang? I called Nedra on my cell and made her stay on the line with me for the next half hour, until the wind flung the door shut and I realized what an idiot I had been.

      “I swear. It’s not a false alarm this time,” I tell her.

      Nedra is like an ER doc. The scarier the situation, the calmer and more levelheaded she becomes.

      “Are you safe?”

      “I’m in the house. The doors are locked.”

      “Where is the robber?”

      “Out on the driveway.”

      “So why are you talking to me? Call 9-1-1!”

      “This is Oakland. It’ll take the cops forty-five minutes to get here.”

      Nedra pauses. “Not if you tell them somebody’s been shot.”

      “You can’t be serious.”

      “Trust me, they’ll be there in five minutes.”

      “How do you know that?”

      “There’s a reason I get paid 425 bucks an hour.”

      I don’t call 9-1-1—I’m a very bad liar, especially when it comes to lying about somebody I love bleeding out—instead I crawl on my hands and knees to the front window and peer out the crack in the curtains, my cell in my hand. My plan is to snap a photo of the perp and email it to the Oakland police. But the perp turns out to be my husband, who peels out of the driveway before I can get to my feet.

      He doesn’t return until 10:00 that evening, at which point he walks through the front door weaving. Clearly he’s been drinking.

      “I’ve been demoted,” he says, collapsing onto the couch. “I’ve got a new job title. Want to know what it is?”

      I think of his recent Facebook posts, Fall, falling, fell: he sensed this was coming and didn’t tell me.

      “Ideator.” William looks at me expressionlessly.

      “Ideator? What? Is that even a word? Maybe they changed everybody’s titles. Maybe Ideator means creative director.”

      He СКАЧАТЬ