Monday, October 29, 2018, 9:18 a.m.

T

he package was addressed to Dave. Had he ordered something online? New shirts maybe? She checked the return address, expecting something like L.L. Bean. Instead, she saw the address of the Philadelphia Police Department.

The police? Nora tossed it onto the foyer table as if it were a hot coal, as if her fingers were burning. She ran a hand through her hair. Blinked at the package.

It wasn’t large. Felt dense, as if it contained a book or papers. Documents.

Of course. Dave had given Barbara’s documents to the police, hoping his files would convince them that Paul had murdered her. But with Paul dead, there would be no need to pursue it. The police were probably returning Dave’s property. Closing the case.

Still, Nora didn’t move. She chewed a thumbnail, watching the package, unable to walk away.

In the next room, the television blared. A gunshot fired. Ominous music followed. A narrator asked a question: “Was it suicide? Or murder?”

Dave and Barbara. I’m helping Barbara with some confidential matters. Personal matters. Their plans for Barbara’s escape were all in that envelope. Where had they arranged for her to go? What name had she planned to use? How much money had they squirreled away? Had they included proof of Paul’s abuse? Was there other incriminating information about Paul? He’s not the man he seems to be. He’ll never let me leave, he’s proved that time and again. Barbara and Dave.

The package glowed. It pulsated and danced, teasing her. “Open me. I’ll tell you all about how your husband was helping Barbara.”

And why shouldn’t she open it? Barbara was dead, so there was no need for confidentiality, was there? Poor Barbara. Pretending to be the happiest, most fulfilled woman on the Main Line while loathing her violent, egomaniacal, controlling, politically-ambitious husband. Funny how Nora had always been jealous of Barbara, her flashy looks, her glamour, her status and wealth, her high-flying husband. Barbara’s life had looked magical, but in reality, it had been hell.

And poor Dave was finally recovering from his guilt over Barbara and her hell. The package, when he got it, would rile it all up again. Whatever healing he’d achieved would be scraped raw like a ripped-off scab.

In the family room, a woman screamed. Music slashed. Someone said they’d known him but never suspected a thing. He was a good neighbor who’d always shoveled their walk when it snowed.

She could protect Dave from having to resurrect all his pain. She could hide the package, even destroy it. He’d never know it had come. Even as she reached for it, though, she knew she wasn’t going to throw it out. At least, not until she’d seen what was inside.

Nora carried it gingerly, as if it were stolen merchandise. Well, it was. She brought it into the kitchen and set it next to the newspaper, still open to the obituary page. She sat, her warm coffee mug cradled in her hands, looking at it. Was she really going to do this, open something addressed to Dave and then dispose of it?

What you don’t know can’t hurt you. Don’t look for trouble.

But she wasn’t looking for trouble. She was taking care of her husband. Protecting him from needless pain. She assured herself that she wasn’t snooping as much as performing an act of tenderness, of love. She picked up the package and, in one swift motion, ripped it open.

The stack of files was neatly labeled. One file folder contained car things. Copies of her new driver’s license, tags, title and insurance cards for a navy-blue BMW convertible. The driver’s license and car title were assigned to Kelly Ann Benson.

Kelly Ann? Not a bad name. It suited Barbara. Nora pictured Kelly Ann riding in her new car with the top down and her hair flying in the wind. But along what streets?

Nora leafed through the files, found one containing rental papers for a four-bedroom, two-bath home in Rockport, Maine. Wait, Maine? Hadn’t Dave said they’d been looking in upstate New York? She read through the lease, checked out the amenities. Would they have met Kelly Ann’s standards? Skylights, upgraded kitchen, hardwood floors, laundry. Overlooking the pier. Oh wow.

At first, she didn’t notice the initials on each page of the lease. They almost skipped her attention. When she first saw them, she thought that the set that wasn’t Barbara’s must belong to the leasing agent, that it was just a coincidence that the second set matched Dave’s.

D. W. It didn’t mean anything. Maybe lawyers routinely initialed leases with their clients. Maybe Dave had had power of attorney for Barbara or had cosigned the lease for some legal
reason.

Nora eyed the initials as if the squiggles were dangerous, as if they might leap off the page and poison her. Indeed, as she stared, the letters lost their hard edges and came alive, squirming like centipedes, scurrying like Tommy’s ants.

The automatic ice maker dropped cubes into the freezer tray. The coffeemaker clicked, shutting off. The refrigerator hummed. In the next room, a commercial played, telling her to call the law firm of Meyer and Sheridan if she’d been injured at work, urgently repeating the phone number. Nora was aware of these simultaneous sounds, as well as that of her own heartbeat, of blood rushing through her veins. And she watched the initials scurry in frantic circles, daring her to come close enough for them to sink in their fangs.

Obviously, she was overreacting. Dave had explained, and Barbara had confirmed what he’d said, had even apologized for their secrecy. She’d seemed genuinely sorry.

Nora was probably mistaken about the initials. The handwriting looked like Dave’s, but how could she tell from just two letters? Most likely, the leasing agent shared Dave’s initials. It was just a coincidence. Until, there it was, on the last page.

Nora’s hands were in her hair, over her eyes, clutching her stomach. Her mouth opened. Her throat closed. The kitchen spun and blurred. Dave had signed the lease. Oh God. What a sap she’d been. Everything made sense now: Dave’s secrecy about his work for Barbara. His profound rage and pain at her death. His need to exact revenge on Paul. His weeks of deep mourning. Dave hadn’t just been helping Barbara escape her vile marriage. No. He’d been planning to escape with her.

I told you not to look for trouble.

A TV announcer introduced a program called Lovers Who Kill and kicked off an episode about a black widow who’d met her first husband at a New Year’s Eve party in Stamford,
Connecticut.

Nora’s heartbeat, the rush of her blood almost drowned out the voices. She had to think, figure out what to do and how to go forward. Who was Dave, anyway? She’d forgiven his earlier affair, taking him back not because he’d begged and pleaded, but because he’d sworn he’d never lie to her again. I gave you my word that I’d never lie to you. I promised I’d never cheat again. But now he had done both. He’d looked her in the eye and lied about it. Repeatedly.

The truth was, he’d plotted to leave Nora and their children. He had been planning all along to live with one of her supposed best friends, that lying, hussy bitch Barbara, aka Kelly Ann. That whore deserved what she’d gotten, sinking into the cold dark river, helplessly feeling it snake into her nostrils, over her eyes, and through her mother-fucking highlighted hair. Nora’s hands clenched. Her jaw tightened.

She pictured Dave and Barbara signing the lease, toasting the future, celebrating. Had they laughed about her gullibility? Her hands were in her hair again, grabbing and pulling, unsure where to go or what to do.

What a chump she’d been, helping Dave hide Paul’s body, nursing him through his grief. Being his crutch.

The folders were still stacked on the table, except for the open one containing the condo information. How toxic those papers were, spread out on the table where her children ate, sullying the placemats. She scooped them up, scooped up the whole pile and the envelope, and held them away from her body as if they were garbage, or a stinking dead animal. Or radioactive waste. She headed outdoors to the trash, stomping through fallen leaves in the yard. The chill autumn breeze nipped at her neck as she dumped the whole stack into the metal can. She went back inside, searched the junk drawer for matches, pawing over Scotch tape rolls and tangles of rubber bands, packages of batteries and pencils. She found them under a toothpick box. On the way out, she grabbed lighter fluid off the barbecue grill. The leaves crunched as she passed through them again, and the breeze bit at her nose and fingertips. As she doused the files, she looked down into the can. The pile of papers had come apart, exposing random pages of the lease with two snaky inked signatures at the bottom. One was Kelly Ann Benson. The other she recognized without having to read.

The signatures burned in her mind as she doused the files, and the dangerous chemical smell of lighter fluid seared her senses. She lit a match, tossed it into the can, and in a whoosh, felt the heat as flames flared and smoke rose. The fire soared and crackled, but Nora didn’t move. She didn’t step back from its hunger or its hiss. She stood still and watched, waiting until every flame, every ember, every trace of fuel burned out and the metal trashcan held only dust and ashes.

If she’d have asked him about the signature, he would have had an explanation. A glib, smooth, completely sensible one. Just like his answer about Barbara. I’ve been consulting her. She needed a co-signer. There never was an affair. Confronting Dave would achieve nothing. He would deny deny deny. Lie lie lie.

She stared at the ashes, wondering what she was supposed to do. Leave? Divorce him? And then what? She’d be alone with the children, fighting over custody and support for years. They’d become a scandal, the topic of neighborhood gossip. “Did you hear about Nora Warren? Dave moved out. He was cheating on her.” Her friends would stay away, as if being cheated on and getting divorced were contagious. She’d be ostracized from her cozy club of comfortably married women.

The air smelled of burnt paper. Nora’s breath shortened, her skin felt clammy. No, she didn’t want a divorce. It would be so public, so shaming. But what else could she do? She couldn’t stay, but how could she leave? She tried to make sense of the impossible, to sort the facts she’d just discovered. Had Dave planned simply to leave with Barbara and let Nora wonder where he’d gone? Had he planned to say goodbye before he went? How had he lain beside her night after night, proclaiming his love, while he’d been carrying on with Barbara? How could he have done this to her, breaking his word, treating her like she was nothing, not once, but twice? No. It was over. Dave was an imposter. She could never forgive him, never trust him again.

Nora’s mind scrambled, struggling to deny what she knew, unlearn what she had learned. Maybe she was overreacting. Maybe staying married wouldn’t be so bad. After all, Barbara the bitch-slut-whore was dead and out of their lives. Dave had moped for a while, but he was starting to get over her. Maybe they could pretend it never happened. Nora imagined how it might be: waiting for Dave to come home late from work, kissing him, sniffing him for traces of perfume, checking his phone and email, listening for his lies.

She couldn’t do it. Not again. The marriage was over.

Oh God. Standing by the trash, staring at ashes, Nora hugged herself and counted until she cleared her mind. She felt oddly calm, grounded by the truth.

Nora closed the trash can and went inside to take a bath. She poured hyacinth-scented oil in the water, stepped into the tub and lay back, assessing her options. Dave didn’t know about the package. He had no idea that it had arrived or that she’d opened and read the truth. So, unless she told him, he’d never know that she knew. The meaning of that sunk in slowly, warm like the bath.

What Dave didn’t know made all the difference. If he didn’t know, he wouldn’t be defensive or angry. They would endure no bitter confrontation, no accusations, no visible damage to their marriage, no talons clawing each other’s hearts. No divorce. For all the world to see, they would go on being Mr. and Mrs. David Warren, a devoted couple with two lovely children.

Nora ran a soapy luffa along her leg. Luffas reminded her of childhood, of that girl Annie who’d taught her how to shave her legs. Annie made her think of Tommy, his sad pathetic existence. His sad pathetic death. She thought about how well that death had worked out for her, the attention it had brought. The cool girls clamoring around her, vying for her friendship. Bobby Baxter asking her to go steady. No question, the tragedy had elevated her status.

Bubbles floated and popped beside her. Slowly, she dunked under the water and looked up through the bubbles to the wavy light, listened to the silence of water until her lungs ached and she burst back into the air. Shampooing her hair, she thought more about Tommy. As she concentrated, picturing his dead, dangling legs, the future began to take shape, opening before her like a map—no, like a golden, glowing pathway.

When she stepped out of the tub and patted dry, her mind continued along that pathway. What if she volunteered to drive the girls to Dave’s mother’s house on Saturday? What if, while they had cookies and milk, Nora visited the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet? Surely, Nana Edith wouldn’t miss a handful of heart pills. She took so many medications, she couldn’t keep track of all of them. Edith was over eighty. Her memory wasn’t what it used to be.