I had become persona non grata without a clue as to why. No one would look at me, each woman kept her eyes from mine. Busboys and waiters wandered right past me, no one asking to help me, no one offering me a refreshment. After my long walk to the clubhouse, I could have used a nice Chardonnay. That was it. It was time I let my presence be known to my so-called friends.

I glided to the table, mouth slightly open, deciding which opening I’d use. Hello girls, waiting for me? You lousy bitches, how dare you speak about me behind my back? Bunny, you look divine today—whose sperm are you carrying? Kim, I think you need a quick trip to Alberto’s. And Tally, darling, do try to sit back, you look like you’ve got a pole stuck up your ass.

But all my words died in my throat when I saw what Shirley had brought as an offering to my group of friends. The newspaper unfurled, bearing a special edition logo, the headline seventy point. GUILTY, it screamed.

***

I stormed through the house, looking. How dare he. How could he do it? What was he thinking?

I wasn’t finding what I was looking for. I needed to stop and think. I was in a black rage, I couldn’t even see straight when I was this worked up. So I sat on the bottom step and took a few breaths. That helped.

My husband was not a foolish man. He wouldn’t have left a trail, or a bunch of clues. I had all night to search. The rest of my life, if it was necessary. I’d start in the obvious place. The basement.

I’d had a very difficult time reading the article Shirley had brought to my friends in gleeful attribution. She was a lawyer, one of the few women in our circle that actually worked for a living. A prosecutor, at that. Assistant District Attorney Shirley Kleebel. She paid her dues, if you know what I mean. She wasn’t married to or aligned with a man of the club. She was the member, one of the few singles to join. That’s part of the reason she’d never make it into the right circles. We had nothing to gain by being around her. Really, even meek and mild Tally had her signature on the checking account of the largest footwear mogul in the country. Shirley had nothing, except her name.

So I’d been a bit skeptical when I’d read the article. If I’m being totally honest, I didn’t believe it. Not that it was outside the realm of possibility. My husband could be vicious when he chose.

It lauded Shirley as a genius, having resurrected a trial that was not only lost before it began, but achieving a guilty plea from the jury. I ran the article over and over in my head as I searched. According to the reporter, this had been done already. Several fruitless times, in fact.

But it’s a big house. There are places no one would think to look simply because they wouldn’t know they were there. Passages between floors with unseen staircases, a tunnel in the basement that accessed the freestanding garage. Escape routes. I thought them charming when we’d bought the house, then put them out of my mind. Now, I needed to comb through them, because I knew I’d find the truth in one of those dark, dank places.

Either way, he won’t be coming home tonight. There won’t be any more arguments, no broken coffee cups, no unmade beds. The bed. He’d slept in the bed last night. And he’d cried. I remember that now. He sobbed winningly, and told me how sorry he was. That he’d never meant for it to go so far. That he loved me, he truly did. He’d cried himself to sleep, then gotten up in the middle of the night and wandered away. I hadn’t understood last night. Now, I think I did. But I’d have to see for myself.

The basement reeked pleasantly of cool and damp. I sensed nothing unusual, no odors, no sights that gave me cause for alarm. I crept around the corner, slipping silently through the gloom. If what the article said were true, if my friends’ gossip was accurate, I’d have ages to find all of the little passageways in this house. I think there’s one that goes all the way up to the clubhouse, but I’ve never found it.

The one I did know about was just ahead. A false wall, easily misleading without the exact knowledge of where it should be. If you looked closely, you could see a crack in the foundation, like the floor was settling. The fracture ran up the wall, and if you pushed just the right brick…

There, the wall swung open to reveal a small passageway. When the house was built, over two hundred years ago, the original owner wanted to be buried in the house. That’s right, in the house. The crypt was the logical place to look.

I couldn’t describe the emotions I felt when I saw it. It had been a sloppy job. He knew no one would ever find their way in here by accident. He thought he was safe.

So pale. I’d always loved my hands, long fingered, smooth skinned. Sticking up out of the dirt, though, they didn’t look quite as nice.

The article said it was Marie-Cecile that testified against him. She’d seen it all. Seen his hands around my throat. I wonder why I didn’t remember that part.

Son of a bitch. I hope he rots in jail.

Maybe I’ll go visit him.

WHERE’D YOU GET THAT RED DRESS?

Flashing in the Gutters 2006

I walk down South Congress, my heels tapping on the pavement. Saturday night in Austin, there’s always something for a girl to do. I stop at the door to the Continental Club, look at the marquee. Matinee, Richard Stooksbury. A Tennessee boy. I’ve missed that by a mile. Headliner, 10:00 P.M., James McMurtry. Oh hell, yes.

I walk through the doors and into the darkened bar. The first thing I notice is the red velvet curtain hanging over the stage, the oval “CONTINENTAL” sign branding the space. McMurtry is up there, making jokes about being a beer salesman and asking people to buy the new CD because he forgot to remind them last night. The mood is jovial, and I swing into it effortlessly.

I take the last stool at the bar and order a dirty martini. The bass guitar whaps in time with my heart, deep and pure. My head nods involuntarily. The song ends; McMurtry launches into another. I listen with my eyes closed, sipping the cool, salty gin.

“Where’d you get that red dress?” He croons the words and I open my eyes, look at my breasts. Well. It’s like he’s speaking directly to me. I am wearing a red dress. The refrain courses again—“Where’d you get that red, dress?” I giggle. Where indeed.

Any woman will tell you there are few purchases that stay with you forever. There is a certain dress, one meant to be worn only once, made of silk or taffeta or satin. White. Pure. Perfect. You wear it for a few hours, then package it up, stuff it in the top of a closet and hope that sometime, someone might want to wear it again.

I had a dress like that. It reached the ground and dragged behind me, pulling on my legs until I thought I’d scream. I wore it, and said the words, teared up at the appropriate moments, smiled when I was kissed. Ate food and drank champagne and danced and loved every moment of it. Then it was time to say goodbye.

He took me to the nicest hotel Austin had to offer, checked us into the Presidential suite. Had chocolate covered strawberries delivered, popped the cork on a bottle of ’87 Dom Perignon. Made love to me on satin sheets, relieving me of my virginity with care.

Now I’m lying. That’s not really what happened. I wish it were.

To be honest, he took me to the Holiday Inn downtown, forced me on the bed, ripped my precious dress and pummeled me until he came. Then he fell asleep and snored. It wasn’t how I envisioned my first time. But I was prepared for it to be like that.