Free The Wife's Tale by Lori Lansens Page A

might break a chair altogether and
     fall with some tragic consequence. But he thought it. That evening the four red chairs appeared, one of them with a noticeable
     tear at the seam, and the old ones sent to the garage. Mary did not ask her young husband if he’d torn the seam on purpose.
    Gooch sat in one of the stiff red chairs, lifting Mary’s dress so she could straddle his lap. “Did you ask the doctor?” he
     whispered into her engorged décolletage.
    “He says we shouldn’t,” Mary lied. Halting and ashamed, she’d asked Dr. Ruttle if she and her husband could continue having
     intercourse during the remaining six months of her pregnancy, and had been quietly shocked by his candid response. “Of course
     you can. Right up until delivery, if it’s still comfortable for you both.”
    Surely that couldn’t be right. Or at least not in her situation, given that she’d lost her first baby (James or Liza), and
     what with Gooch being Gooch. She decided, leaving Ruttle’s office, that the good doctor had forgotten her first miscarriage,
     and her husband’s unusual size. Mary wished she could call Wendy or Patti to solicit their opinions, but she didn’t discuss
     her marital intimacy with anyone. Like eating, it was an intensely private matter.
    On a cool October night on the eve of her wedding, the four girlfriends, recent graduates of Leaford Collegiate—Wendy enrolled
     in the nursing program, Kim off to teachers’ college in London, Patti working reception at her mother’s realty office and
     Mary—had gathered for salads and sparkling wine at the Satellite Restaurant in Chatham. Mary’s acceptance into their sorority
     was still fresh; like a foreign exchange student, she found she could observe their customs but, without understanding the
     nuances of their language, not effectively participate.
    She’d opened their wedding shower gifts under the table, sweating beneath her smock, wilting when one girl or another cried,
     “Hold it up!” A red teddy with matching underwear. A sheer black gown with ruffles at the neck. “You wear it with nothing
     else,” Kim instructed. “So sexy.” A blue corset with snaps at the back and cone-shaped breasts. Each of the sets in the size
     Mary had been briefly, and never would be again.
    The girls—all except Mary, who had a low tolerance for alcohol—drank too much wine and talked about sex. Patti put thumb and
     forefinger together, peering through the tiny space between, and slurred, “Dave’s a grow-er. Not a show-er.” Kim chimed in
     about her older sister’s
horniness
in the third trimester of her first pregnancy, and how, after the baby was born, she’d let her husband suck her milk. Mary
     found the image disturbing, and hated the word
horny
, which sounded bestial. Wendy confessed that she didn’t really enjoy
screwing
but that she could get Pete to do
anything
(that Supertramp concert?) if she just gave him a quick
youknowhat
. When Kim squealed, “Eeewww,” she instructed, “Give him a tissue!” “Or,” Wendy screamed, “swallow!”
    The topic shifted to Mary’s pregnancy. “Aren’t you afraid of getting fat again?” Wendy asked bluntly. “I’m
terrified
. And I never
was
fat.”
    “You’re supposed to get fat when you’re pregnant. Don’t listen to her, Mary. My sister’s baby weight just melted off after,”
     Kim assured her. “Especially if you’re breast-feeding.”
    “I’m just saying,” Wendy slurred, “I’d rather be dead than fat.”
    Kim passed the menu. “Should we get one big fries with gravy to share?”
    Wendy continued, sucking her wine, “Come
on
, you guys. It’s not like Mary didn’t know she was fat, right? Right?”
    Mary felt Wendy’s eyes boring into her. “Yeah.”
    “Jimmy Gooch didn’t
look
at Mary before she lost all that weight and, come on, I’m just saying.” Wendy faltered. “I’d just hate the thought of your
     cheekbones gone and your cute shoes won’t