Sue flipped through the pages of a year-old Marie Claire. As long as you’re rich and anorexic, you can get away with wearing anything, she thought. Why do the eighties insist on coming back every five years? Fluorescent pink is simply not flattering. Ooh. I’ve been looking for a new red heel and in such a lovely suede.
The glossy ad reminded her of a pair the Burnam & Green CFO had worn to the agency holiday party. She ripped out the page and tucked it in her purse for future reference. She pulled out a small bottle of antibacterial gel and rubbed a dab on her hands to shield herself from the germs of the sick and maimed who may have handled the magazine. She considered offering the bottle to George, but he was covered in soot. It would just make him more of a mess.
Sue had only meant to burn a few of his favorite things. She started with the ADDY Award he kept on his bedside table and his smartphone, but she only succeeded in charring them, creating a small cloud of toxic gas in the process. Instead she tossed them out the window, where each met the sidewalk with a satisfying crunch. His clothing burned with ease. Flaming French-cuff dress shirts, vintage T-shirts, and raw denim jeans all floated down to the street, each filling her heart with the warm glow of revenge. The fool tried to save them.
George shifted in his seat, and she glared at him, another insult on the tip of her tongue. Then she noticed that his eyes were no longer downcast with the self-loathing and regret she so enjoyed. He was alert and staring across the room. Suddenly, he cursed under his breath.
“What now?” she asked loudly, annoyed.
“Sue. Be quiet. We need to get out of here,” he whispered back.
“What? No. You’re burned and in pain, and as much as that fills me with joy, you need medical attention.” She flipped her hair over her shoulder and shrugged. “We aren’t going anywhere.”
“Shush. Look over there,” George said urgently.
Sue glanced over at three people across the waiting room. “Oh! Is that the mayor? You should go say hi,” she said.
He looked at his wife, aghast.
“Look again,” he hissed.
She looked again. Mayor Salder appeared as perfect and photo-op-ready as ever, and the other two young women: one in a tight green cocktail dress (Very inappropriate attire for a hospital) and the second in a wheelchair. Despite the scrubs, the girl looked familiar. She turned back to George. “You idiot. It’s your little tramp. Why did you tell me to take you to this hospital?”
“We need to get out of here,” he repeated.
She looked at the girl. She looked at the mayor. Their eyes were the same, and there was a certain similarity in the angle at which they held their heads as they both turned to look at George and Sue.
“I think they’re related,” she said, very quietly.
“She must be the mayor’s daughter, Lisa,” said George. “I would have paid a lot more than a grand if I’d known that.”
“What do you mean, ‘paid’?”
“She’s a prostitute.”
“No,” said Sue.
“Yeah. But she got sick. When it comes right down to it, I really just paid her to vomit in the guest bathroom for an hour.”
“George, that is disgusting.”
“I know,” he agreed, then understood her meaning. “It wasn’t like that. No one is into that. Are they?”
Suddenly, the girl in the tight cocktail dress rushed at them in an angry flash of sparkles. “Mr. and Mrs. Green, I found something of yours.” She brandished a bent license plate that read SUE ME, and pointed to a tiny piece of gold fabric hanging on the corner. “It was lying right next to my best friend. Who you left alone on a park bench. In the middle of the night. With a head injury. After you hit her with your car! What is wrong with you?”
Sue’s heart raced. Oh my god, she thought. Why did I tempt fate with that stupid vanity plate? Now I’m going to jail, and it’s my nitwit husband’s fault.
Mayor Salder approached them, her heels tapping across the floor. She stopped and stared at Sue. The mayor’s eyes seemed to drill right into Sue’s soul. “Jamie,” she said to the girl, “why don’t you let me handle this?”
Sue tried to stand but suddenly felt too weak. So much for the fifty thousand squats she’d done over the last year. She blurted out, “Your daughter is a prostitute. George paid her for sex.”
“No, she’s not,” said Jamie. “And what difference does it make anyway? She’s a human being. You don’t leave injured people alone, you morons.”
“And I didn’t run her over. Technically, she hit her head running away from me,” said Sue, panicking. “So really, it was her own fault. Plus, George said that she looked fine. If we’d known she was in such bad shape, we wouldn’t have left her there. Right, George?” She elbowed her husband.
George added quickly, “I did call an ambulance, but they told me she was gone by the time they arrived.”
“What upstanding citizens you both are,” said Mayor Salder in a biting voice.
Sue’s anger flared. How dare this woman judge her. “Well, I caught your little spawn turning tricks in my own house,” exclaimed Sue, pointing at Lisa. “If that got out, it would ruin you.” Sue’s voice gained strength. “You’d be impeached. Like Nixon. Ellen Salder—the once-great ex-mayor of Portland with a prostitute for a daughter.”
“Mayors aren’t impeached. They resign. And my career has survived worse.”
“I doubt that,” said Sue.
“Let’s call the cops,” said Jamie eagerly.
“Can you all stop yelling, please?” said Lisa. She stood up from her wheelchair and slowly walked toward them, grabbing the backs of chairs for support.
The little tramp wasn’t looking so great now, thought Sue. Her hair was limp against her head, and the sickly blue color of the scrubs wasn’t doing her any favors.
Lisa pulled a few items from a plastic bag she carried, then dropped it on a nearby chair. She held out a crumpled wad of cash to George and offered Sue a red shoe. Suddenly the room was silent except for the hum of a vending machine in the corner.
Sue took the shoe in her hand. The upper was deep red, crafted from a supple suede leather, with a tiny silver Prada insignia pressed into the sole. It was small, pointy, and aggressive, with a four-inch stiletto heel, and it was a size six. Sue wore a size nine. “This isn’t my shoe,” Sue said.
“It’s not mine, either,” said Lisa. “I picked it up by accident with my dress.”
They both looked at George, whose face had assumed a look of barely feigned innocence.
“Honey,” he said to Sue. “It’s not what it looks like.”
Sue stood, gripped the shoe tightly in her hand, and walked toward the exit just as George’s name was finally called. She turned back and said to the nurse, “Can you please tell the doctor that my husband is allergic to painkillers?”
“Of course,” answered the nurse. “Which ones?”
“All of them.” And with that, the doors whooshed open, and Sue walked out.