Carrie Weaver - The Secret Wife

Familiar sights and sounds brought a lump to her throat as she made her way through the pits. People jostled her, the stands seemed to close in. She jumped as an air tool hammered in the area to her left. The din was strange, no longer music to her ears. She didn’t belong anymore.

But like his father, David could sleep through it all, the noise a familiar lullaby from the womb. She’d been at the track so much when she was pregnant, it probably seemed reassuring to the baby.

Maggie eyed the green-and-white car. Was number eight Eric’s? She cautiously approached, afraid someone would haul her out by the arm. But nobody noticed. They were too busy with their respective jobs, readying the car for the race.

A familiar crouched figure seemed oblivious to the whine of the air gun as he tightened lug nuts. He turned and the light fell on his face. Randy, Eric’s buddy and leader of the pit crew. If he were here, then so was Eric.

But there was only one way to be absolutely sure it was Eric’s car. Her heart hammered as she scooted behind Randy. She used the surge of the crowd as a shield so he wouldn’t see her.

Leaning through the window of the car, she surveyed the dash. Amid all the dials and stuff was a small photo taped to the dash. A wedding photo, circa the late sixties. Eric’s mom and dad, or so he’d said. He never started a race without touching the photo for good luck.

Number eight was Eric’s car all right.

The battered motor home parked fifty feet away had to be his, too. He insisted on sleeping at the track to be near his car. It looked like a few months hadn’t improved Eric’s financial position any more than it had hers.

When she’d met him, he’d had only the best—a shiny new motor home and only the finest gear. But he’d dipped into the sponsor’s pocket one time too many for bogus supplies and the gravy train had run out. Even an old family friend had a limit to how much he would allow himself to be cheated.

Though the conditions weren’t lavish like before, Maggie knew how Eric prepared for every race. He’d be reading his Bible. Maybe on his knees praying.

Funny, he might be a self-centered SOB most of time, but right before a race he always found God.

Maggie sauntered over to the motor home, acting as if she belonged. As if entering Eric’s motor home were the most natural thing in the world.

Regret flared, then died. There had been a time when she’d revolved in Eric’s orbit. Absorbed his reflected excitement and glory.

Her hand froze on the knob.

Maggie couldn’t do it. Just couldn’t.

She had vowed never to ask him for anything, but for her son’s sake, she’d always accepted the small money orders he’d sent from time to time. Now she was about to beg for regular child support. And have him explain the twisted mess of their “marriage.”

Maggie swallowed hard. All she wanted to do was turn around, get into her car and head back to Phoenix. But she deserved answers and a whole lot more.

A chubby little hand patted her cheek.

David certainly deserved more. “Hey, little guy, are you my moral support?” She hoisted him under the armpits so they were eye-to-eye. His wide smile told her she was the most important person in the universe. David planted a wide open baby kiss on her nose.

Pulling him close, she hugged him tightly. Her throat prickled with the enormity of her love for this child. For David, she would do anything: beg, plead, demand.

She grasped the doorknob before she could lose her nerve. The door opened easily, without even a squeak. Tiptoeing inside, she hesitated, allowing her eyes to adjust to the gloom. The tiny light above the stove gave off a weak glow.

The motor home was strangely silent.

Maggie observed the usual mess Eric left behind. Racing magazines, gloves, a sweating bottle of blue sports drink.

But no Eric.

Strange.

He was a creature of habit. And supremely superstitious. He had an unchanging ritual before a race. First, a Bible reading, then prayer. But his Bible wasn’t lying open on the table.

She rummaged through what had always been the junk drawer in the other motor home. Her fingers folded around a slim volume of the New Testament, the corners accordion pleated from jamming the drawer so many times.

Weird.

Had he changed that much in the six months since she’d seen him? Two since she’d heard from him?

The bathroom door was closed. Maybe a last-minute bout of nerves?

She tiptoed to the door and tapped.

“Eric?”

No answer.

Opening the door, she leaned in to peer around. Light trickled in through the bathroom window, casting everything in varying shades of gray. The shadows were barely discernible from the objects that created them.

David snuggled close, resting his cheek against her chest. His breathing slowed. Poor baby. They were both exhausted.

The white of the sink glowed pale against the gloomy backdrop. The faucet dripped.

Terrible waste of water. Maggie turned it off.

Black splotches decorated the otherwise pale sink rim, kind of like a Rorschach test, dribbling down the side, to leave tiny specks on the floor.

It was something dark, something liquid.

Oil maybe? It had splattered too much to be grease.

Maggie ran her fingers through it. Thick, crusty and drying around the edges. Definitely not oil. It almost looked like…no, her brain rebelled at the very thought. Not blood.

She searched the gloom for a roll of toilet paper, but came up empty. Typical. Eric could never remember to put out a new roll.

Sighing, she adjusted the sleepy baby a bit higher on her hip and wiped her hand across the leg of her shorts. They’d need washing later in the hotel sink.

The silence surrounded her, intensified by the muffled clanking, banging and hammering outside.

Maggie backed out of the bathroom.

She would come back after the race. If she waited any longer than that she might lose her nerve.

David squirmed in his sleep and made one of his puppylike snuffling noises. He deserved a good night’s sleep. In a real bed. And so did she.

Maggie stifled a yawn and headed for the door.

As she grasped the knob, she turned to take one more look at her past. What had once appeared dangerous and exciting, now simply looked sad.

She shook her head. Something white on the lower bunk caught her eye.

There was a lumpy sleeping bag, as usual, tossed over Eric’s belongings, as if no one would be smart enough to look there for his valuable stuff. His guitar, his pistol…

The light-colored thing took on eerie dimensions as she stepped closer to check it out. Almost like a—

Hand.

She jostled what she figured had to be his arm under the sleeping bag.

“Eric,” she whispered. She didn’t want to wake the baby.

She shoved a little harder.

No response.

“Come on, Eric, this isn’t funny.”

David whimpered in his sleep.

Losing patience with Eric’s games, she grabbed the sleeping bag and flung it back.

Time froze, Maggie froze.

She scrambled for the hand she’d seen, grasped the wrist. It was warm.

The wild thumping of her heart eased.

Until she looked at his face.

And knew, without a doubt, her searching fingers wouldn’t find a pulse. She’d been around enough corpses in her embalming class to recognize death.

Her eyes widened at David’s shrill screech of baby rage. It rang in her ears, bounced off the fake wood-grain walls, slashed through her to the very core. Only when she slapped a hand to her open mouth did she realize the screams came from her. Then, and only then, did the baby join in.

MAGGIE SHIFTED in the cold, metal chair, David’s cries echoing in her head and in her heart.