I slipped my hand into the right pocket to check for loose change or tissues. My fingers brushed against a crumpled slip of paper. It was a receipt from Spotless Cleaners in Troy, Michigan. Troy is an affluent suburb of Detroit. It is about an hour and forty minutes north of Toledo.
I looked at the date. It was from two weeks ago, on a Tuesday. Dave had told me he was in Fort Wayne, Indiana, that day. But the real shock was the price. Forty-seven dollars. For dry cleaning. I called the number on the receipt during my lunch break at the clinic. I told them I lost my ticket and wanted to see if my husband’s order was ready.
That was when the clerk told me about the monthly account. “We actually have six of his suits in the back right now,” she said. “But he usually picks up on Tuesdays with his wife.” I didn’t drop the phone. I didn’t scream. I just felt a strange, cold numbness creep down my arms. “Right,” I said, keeping my voice level. “His wife. I forgot which day we scheduled the pickup.”
I took a half-day off from the clinic. I told my boss I had a migraine, which wasn’t entirely a lie. I got into my Buick and drove north on I-75. It was a gray, spitting April afternoon. The windshield wipers on the Buick had a tear in the rubber, leaving a wide streak right in my line of sight. I didn’t turn on the radio. I just listened to the hum of the tires on the wet pavement. When I arrived at Spotless Cleaners, it was tucked into a high-end strip mall next to an organic grocery store. It looked nothing like the dusty shop we used on Secor Road. I walked in and laid the receipt on the counter. That was when the young girl told me about Dave’s other wife. “Is there a phone number on the account?” I asked her, trying to keep my hands from shaking. She clicked her mouse a few times. “Yes, it ends in 4092.” That wasn’t Dave’s cell phone. It wasn’t our home number. “And the billing address?” I asked. She hesitated, looking at her screen. “I really shouldn’t give that out.” I reached into my purse and pulled out my driver’s license. I slid it across the glass. “My name is Sarah Miller,” I said. “I am his wife.” She looked at my license, then at her screen, then back at me. The color seemed to drain from her face. She went very quiet.
