The Husband's Secret(8)

            “I seriously don’t understand how men came to rule the world,” she’d said to her sister, Bridget, this morning, after she’d told her about how John-Paul had lost his rental car keys in Chicago. It had driven Cecilia bananas seeing that text message from him. There was nothing she could do!

            This type of thing was always happening to John-Paul. Last time he went overseas he’d left his laptop in a cab. The man lost things constantly. Wallets, phones, keys, his wedding ring. His possessions just slid right off him.

            “They’re pretty good at building stuff,” her sister said. “Like bridges and roads. I mean, could you even build a hut? Your basic mud hut?”

            “I could build a hut,” said Cecilia.

            “You probably could,” groaned Bridget, as if this were a failing. “Anyway, men don’t rule the world. We have a female prime minister. And you rule your world. You rule the Fitzpatrick household. You rule St. Angela’s. You rule the world of Tupperware.”

            Cecilia was president of St. Angela’s Primary Parents and Friends Association. She was also the eleventh top-selling Tupperware consultant in Australia. Her sister found both of these roles hugely comical.

            “I don’t rule the Fitzpatrick household,” said Cecilia.

            “Sure you don’t,” guffawed Bridget.

            It was true that if Cecilia died, the Fitzpatrick household would just . . . Well, it was unbearable to think about what would happen. John-Paul would need more than a letter from her. He’d need a whole manual, including a floor plan of the house pointing out the locations of the laundry and the linen cupboard.

            The phone rang, and she snatched it up.

            “Let me guess. Our daughters are watching the chubby people, right?” said John-Paul. She’d always loved his voice on the phone: deep, warm and comforting. Oh, yes, her husband was hopeless, and lost things and ran late, but he took care of his wife and daughters, in that old-fashioned, responsible, I-am-the-man-and-this-is-my-job way. Bridget was right: Cecilia ruled her world, but she’d always known that if there was a crisis—a crazed gunman, a flood, a fire—John-Paul would be the one to save their lives. He’d throw himself in front of the bullet, build the raft, drive them safely through the raging inferno, and once that was done, he’d hand back control to Cecilia, pat his pockets and say, “Has anyone seen my wallet?”

            After she saw the little Spider-Man die, the first thing she did was call John-Paul, her fingers shaking as she pressed the buttons.

            “I found this letter,” said Cecilia. She ran her fingertips over his handwriting on the front of the envelope. As soon as she heard his voice, she knew she was going to ask him about it that very second. They’d been married for fifteen years. There had never been secrets.

            “What letter?”

            “A letter from you,” said Cecilia. She was trying to sound light, jokey, so that this whole situation would stay in the right perspective, so that whatever was in the letter would mean nothing, would change nothing. “To me, to be opened in the event of your death.” It was impossible to use the words “event of your death” to your husband without your voice coming out odd.

            There was silence. For a moment she thought they’d been cut off, except that she could hear a gentle hum of chatter and clatter in the background. It sounded like he was calling from a restaurant.

            Her stomach contracted.

            “John-Paul?”





TWO


            If this is a joke,” said Tess, “it’s not funny.”

            Will put his hand on her arm. Felicity put her hand on her other arm. They were like matching bookends holding her up.