The Wife's Tale (29 page)

He took the money, glancing beyond her, seeing that the man had abandoned her. “I need a taxi to take me back to Golden Hills.”

“I’ll take you when my cousin gets back with the truck.” He looked around before opening the door. “Come on. Come in.”

The first thing Mary noticed were the shoes arranged neatly on the linoleum square in the front entrance: a row of workboots,
another of sneakers, a pile of sandals, in all shapes and sizes. A hundred pairs, it seemed. The rooms, of which there were
too many for such a small abode, were painted in vibrant shades, pomegranate, saffron, azure, aubergine. When the man called
out something in Spanish that must have meant the coast was clear, adults and children poured out of a small back room, scrutinizing
the strange woman in their midst, speaking over each other in rich, rolling vowels that hung in the air like subtext. They
were talking about the accident, no doubt, wondering what part she had played, given the bloodstains on her clothes, and why
the man, to whom they showed clear deference, had let her inside.

Following him into the tidy kitchen at the back of the house, Mary found old Ernesto sprawled on a chair, shirtless, the extent
of his injuries clearer. A bruised torso where a rib or two were likely fractured. Layers of skin peeled from his bony shoulder.
Cheek shredded by the blades of grass. Tongue still oozing. A wizened woman with a kerchief tied around her head tended to
his abrasions while a tiny girl with a solemn face held a washcloth to his whiskered chin.

Ernesto’s eyes widened at seeing Mary. And sparked when he saw the dollars in the other man’s hands. “
Gracias
,” he said. “
Gracias, María.
”

“How do you say,
you’re welcome?
” Mary asked the other man.

“
De nada
,” he answered, amused. “Means
it’s nothing
.”

And it was nothing, she thought. No need for thanks. She’d done what people do. Gone to the aid of someone in need. It had
not been a decision. There had been no choice. She had merely offered comfort to a frightened man, held his hand. “
De nada
,” she repeated shyly.

She blushed when she glanced up to see the other man studying her. He reached out—not to shake her hand, but to take it and
lift it and hold it in a firm and gentle manner as he introduced himself. “I’m Jesús García.”

“Hay-su?” Mary repeated, pushing the unfamiliar name off her tongue.

“It’s spelled like
Jesus
.”

“Oh.” She giggled, and wondered if she might faint from the heat in the tiny, damp room. “I’m Mary. Mary Gooch.”

He was her age, she guessed. Perhaps a little older or a little younger. His brown face was etched with deep lines. His cheeks
above his trimmed beard were tight and round, almost cherubic. It was his physique that suggested relative youth—strong, straight
back, the pigeon-toed gait of an athlete. Held by his gaze, she felt dizzy.

Reading her thoughts—or perhaps it was obvious in the way Mary swayed—Jesús García pulled out a chair and helped her sit down
beside Ernesto. “You remind me of someone I used to know,” he commented. “Her name was Mary too.”

Mary had never been told such a thing before, and could not envision a world in which a man like Jesús García might have known
a woman like her.

He caught the attention of one of the children. “
Agua por la señora.
” The child shook her head, gesturing that the tap at the sink was not working. Jesús closed his eyes briefly, then reached
into the refrigerator and drew out a bottle of beer. Popping the cap, he passed it to Mary. She translated for herself—
agua
—water.

The sharp amber fluid stung her throat but she drank deeply, embarrassed by the burp when she pulled the bottle from her lips.

“Your dress is ruined,” Jesús García said, gesturing at the bloodstains on her skirt. “Nothing gets out blood.”

She nodded, drinking the beer, stealing a glance at his broad back when he turned to look out the window. The enormous shoulders
and arms—a weightlifter, no doubt—sculpted cheeks over thick, muscled thighs. He turned to find her staring. His face held
no opinion.

The others in the house, having been informed by Jesús of the details of the accident and Mary’s marginally heroic deed, returned
to their respective appointments—the men back at the barbecue, the women hanging wet laundry in the grill smoke—all but the
children, who did not go back to the sprinkler but remained in the kitchen, the oldest wielding sharp knives to cut potatoes
for the evening meal while the others shucked corn from a sack near the waterless sink.

A cellphone rang. Jesús García reached into his pocket, checking the number, waving his hand over the crowd, which instantly
fell silent. He answered the call, speaking rapidly in Spanish as he made his way out to a private spot in the backyard.

The sound of a rasping rake made Mary homesick for Leaford, where the sun did not shine every day but where she was familiar
with the customs and understood the language. Tiny, rural Leaford, where there were only a handful of recent immigrants, most
of whom spoke English well enough. She thought of the color of Baldoon County. Mostly white. Some black. There was Rusholme
nearby, populated by the descendants of slaves escaped from the southern United States—the Joneses and the Bishops and the
Shadds, who’d cleared half of Baldoon County alongside the Brodys and Zimmers and Flooks—but their immigration was more than
a century old, and their struggles knit into the county’s fabric with the first original stitches. More recently there was
Mr. Chung, who owned the restaurant. The four Korean families who ruled the kingdom of Quick Stop. And one Indian family who
managed both of Leaford’s Tim Hortons coffee shops.

Orin and Irma had not held opinions about the recent immigrants so much as
emotions
. Toward the business owners they felt contempt and envy. “I guess if I had a store and could charge four dollars for stale
bread I’d be rich too,” Irma’d remarked of the Koreans. “I saw the Chinese fella’s putting in a pool,” Orin’d said. “He must
think he’s died and gone to—wherever it is they go.” And one day, after a visit to one of the Tim Hortons franchises for coffee,
Orin complained, “That Vikram fella drives a
Lincoln
.”

For less fortunate immigrants—like the single mother down the street who came from the West Indies, whose teenaged son had
gone astray, who shopped with food vouchers and collected unemployment when her modest business venture failed—for her they
had scorn. “Sucking on the government tit,” Orin would say. To which Irma would respond, “That’s a disgusting image, really,
Orin.”

Behind Mary, a child ferried out a basket of corn that had been oiled and seasoned for the barbecue, just as a platter of
slick grilled meat was paraded into the kitchen. The children grinned as the platter was presented like a birthday cake, the
smaller ones straining on tiptoe to catch a glimpse. Mary counted the children in the kitchen, the old woman, Ernesto, the
men through the window out back, the women criss-crossing the rooms down the hall. The van’s driver had been correct—about
twenty of them. The quantity of meat on the plate, although substantial, could not satisfy so many people. Nor the flat rounds
of bread, nor the dozen ears of corn, not even with the small diced potatoes roasting in the tired old oven.

With some panic, Mary feared she would be asked to dinner. She could no more conceive of chewing and swallowing food with
this collection of strangers than she could dream of depleting their meager rations. She prayed that Jesús would stop talking
on his cellphone, and that the cousin with the truck would arrive quickly. She focused her attention on a display of photographs
held by magnets to the door of the old Frigidaire. Most of them were photographs of a family—Jesús García’s family. A plump,
pretty wife with almond eyes and dark wavy hair. Two young sons with identical thatches of spiky black hair, the same molten
brown eyes as their father. Mary had secretly been happy to be an only child. Her sister, she was sure, would have been the
skinny one.

The front door opened and an elderly man limped into the kitchen dangling a set of keys. He was older than Ernesto, desiccated
by the sun. He locked eyes with Mary, his expression shouting the obvious:
She should not be here.
His frown deepened when he turned to find injured Ernesto flinching at a lash of antiseptic from the cloth in the old woman’s
hand. He put the keys on a hook near the door, croaking to the men turning corn on the barbecue. Even though he spoke in Spanish,
Mary could translate:
What happened to Ernesto? Who’s the big white woman?

As the dinner was set on the table, one of the women offered Mary a plate, encouraging her with a smile. “
Buen provecho
,” she said. “
Metele mano.
”

“
Bwen provayko
,” Mary repeated.

One of the boys standing nearby translated for her. “Eat the food. She’s telling you to eat the food. Enjoy.”

At the risk of appearing rude, Mary could only shake her head, explaining futilely, “I’m still too shaken up from the accident.”
The crowd descended eagerly upon the kitchen, but without disorder. The children helped themselves first, taking smaller pieces
of beef that had been cast to one side of the platter, halved ears of corn, three olives from a bowl. The adults following,
filling their plates according to rank and appetite. So much chatter. Standing or leaning to eat. Plates held under chins.
Moist, hungry mouths opening and closing around forks. Teeth uprooting niblets of yellow corn, mashing cubes of potato. Mary
could not smell the food, but felt its pain. She felt with mounting certainty that any more exposure to the meal was going
to make her
huck
.

“Come on,” Jesús said, taking the keys from the hook. “I’ll take you home.”

E
nsconced in the grimy truck amidst the other vehicles streaming toward the expressway, Mary imagined Wendy e-mailing the rest,
Mary Gooch got into the car with some creepy Mexican in California and got her throat slashed. Idiot, I know, eh?

She stole a glance at the stranger’s profile. She’d seen the way the rest of the people in the house regarded him; he was
not tall but he towered above them with his imperious jaw and impervious gaze. His pathos and gravitas. She had not seen the
plump woman from the photographs on the fridge among the others in the room. His wife. She had no idea which of the children
belonged to him.

Night had fallen swiftly, the rising mountains snatching the sun. Stars pricked holes in the velvet night, reminding her of
the childish rhyme Irma had taught her—
Star light, star bright, First star I see tonight, I wish I may, I wish I might, Have the wish I wish tonight.

Jesús García cleared his throat. “Thank you.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Ernesto asked you to come. You came. He is grateful.”

“He thought I was an angel.”

Jesús was silent, focused on the road. He didn’t curse, as Gooch would have, when a blue BMW cut him off. And didn’t speed
up to glare at the driver, as Orin had on many occasions. She followed his gaze to the stars.

She could feel his heat the way she had felt Gooch beside her, in the truck, on the sofa, beside her in bed—radiant and unwavering.
Suddenly, a fire in the night sky, an explosive cosmic tail streaking across the black horizon. Brilliant. A shooting star.
Brief, like lightning. Like a person’s life. Divine sleight of hand—
How’d she do that?

“Did you see that?” Mary asked, pointing, hoping it was a sign.

Jesús nodded, unimpressed.

“I’ve never seen a shooting star before,” she breathed.

“Never?”

“Don’t I make a wish? Don’t you make a wish when you see a shooting star?”

Jesús García glanced at her sideways, squinting one eye as if he was pained to inform her, “They’re not really stars.”

“They’re not?”

“They’re fragments of meteor burning up from the pressure of the earth’s atmosphere. Nothing very magical.”

“Seems magical, though.”

“Some of the stars we’re looking at now died a long time ago.”

“That’s magical. I think I knew that. I’m still going to make a wish.” She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing for Gooch’s swift
return. Opening her eyes again, she wondered at the heavens. “The stars don’t look like this back home. Even on the clearest
nights.”

“Where’s back home?”

Although she was reluctant to share the details of her situation with the stranger, she did not want to appear mistrustful.
Hoping for some bond of distinction in their displacement, she said, “I’m Canadian.”

“Canada,” he repeated, nodding approvingly.

“Just different borders.”

He glanced at her, confused.

“Mexico. Canada,” she explained.

“I’m American,” he bristled.

“Oh.” She felt she should apologize but was unsure of the slight.

“Born and raised in Detroit.”

“Detroit! That’s just an hour from Leaford. Just across the border. That’s where I’m from!”

“My family had a restaurant in Mexican Village,” he said hopefully. “Casa García?”

Mary shook her head. “I never went to Detroit.” He looked surprised. Or disappointed. “My husband used to go to the auto show,”
she added.

My husband.
My
husband.
My husband.
How often had Mary Gooch said those words in the last twenty-five years? “My husband is doing great.” “My husband likes his
beef rare.” “My husband and I have a checking account.” She also began a great many sentences with “Gooch says” or “Gooch
thinks.” To whom would she refer if Gooch, her husband, was no more?

Jesús García signaled to change lanes. “Is your husband waiting at the hotel?”

“I’m actually not currently here with my husband right at the moment,” Mary said, realizing that she sounded insane. She sighed.
“Wishing on a meteor fragment doesn’t sound the same, does it? Is the sky always this clear at night?”