Wives

The rain ended as they got out at what the driver told them was their destination. They were on the shoulder of an empty road beside an aluminum mailbox. The driver didn’t wait. Althea leaped back, cursing at the muddy water arcing from the wheels.

Neither of them had worn appropriate shoes, and they picked their way along the unpaved lane, between puddles reflecting gray sky. Althea told Christine to give the driver a bad rating, and Christine said he had his living to make like everyone else. Althea was considering how to answer (not wanting to provoke one of Christine’s teary interludes) when the lane became a driveway circling a cherry tree, the wet gravel spackled with browning petals. And the house. Althea took off her glove to ring the bell, which chimed twice. A dog barked from far away as the door swung open.

The man Althea wanted to meet appeared, jovial as Santa Claus, with the same shock of blindingly white hair, though beardless and, while not thin, not fat. He shook their hands and stepped back to reveal Maggie, who kissed their cheeks tightly as if making fun of how a hostess behaves. Althea liked this, and ran her hand along Maggie’s arm, elbow to wrist, touched the tips of her fingers. Maggie turned her palm upward, leaving Althea guessing whether Maggie wanted to take her hand or pull away.