Free The Secret Lives of Married Women by Elissa Wald Page A

for no reason. Michiko, Stas’ most valuable employee, was afraid of him. For that matter, no one ever wanted to be alone with him.
    After two months of this, Stas went to Bryce with the idea of outsourcing Kaiser Tech’s computer assembly. He had compiled a list of vendors offering this service and Bryce had no trouble deciding on a fly-by-night operation favoring gray market parts and illegal immigrant labor at very competitive rates.
    Three days after Stas fired him, Fred returned to the office. I was in the room when he appeared in his dirty trench coat. Stas was on the phone and he swiveled to face his former worker but did not hang up. Everyone stared as Fred lumbered over to Stas and unsheathed a blade from his pocketknife.
    “Very good, Linda,” Stas said into the receiver. “I will be in touch with you next week. In the meantime, do not hesitate to let me know if I can help in any other way.”
    Only after several more pleasantries did he replace the phone in its cradle. Then he stood with no apparent hurry or alarm.
    “Hello, Stas,” Fred said. He held the pocketknife in a loose grip and jiggled it as he spoke.
    “Hello, Fred.” Stas’ voice was matter-of-fact, his gaze direct and perhaps a little pitying.
    “How’s it going, Stas?”
    “Everything is all right, Fred. How are things going for you?”
    Everyone else in the room was unmoving, eyes darting back and forth between the two men.
    “How about your boxes, Stas? How are the factory boxes coming along?”
    “They are fine, Fred. Why do you ask?”
    And so it went, back and forth. Stas kept an even tone and continued to respond as if Fred were making friendly conversation. After a few more exchanges of this kind, Fred abruptly wheeled around and walked out.
    Bryce was the first to speak. “Jesus Christ,” he said. “We should call the police.”
    It occurred to me then that he hadn’t moved to intervene or protect Stas in any way.
    “Do not bother,” Stas said. “He will not be back.”
    Remembering this now, I wondered again why Stas had not been afraid. Was it his own knife, the one he carried in his left boot? Was it just his ability to read people? And how had he honed that instinct? All he ever said in explanation was: “I knew that Fred would do nothing in the end.”
    * * *
    When I came home, no one ambushed me on the driveway or tried to trail me into the house. There was no one inside the house either. Two of the walls in the nursery-in-progress were pale yellow and two remained a grayish-white. No traces of Jack were left in the room.
    The silence and stillness felt like a benediction. I raised the blinds and the afternoon sunlight slanted in.
    Stas did not answer his phone for the rest of the day and he did not return home until late that evening. When he came in, Clara was already asleep and I was waiting for him at the kitchen table.
    “Stas,” I said, as soon as his jacket was off. “Where have you been?”
    He took the seat across from me. “Listen,” he said. “This morning you said there was something you had not told me. Well, as it happens, there is something I have not told you in return.”
    I looked at him, waiting.
    “The man who accompanied me earlier,” he said. “His name is Vladimir.”
    “He’s the one who trimmed our marble countertop.”
    “Yes. That is correct. And Vladimir is running his own business here in Vancouver. He is a contractor and he supplies building materials. Many of his clients are Russian.”
    “All right, and...?”
    “He has offered me occasional work as he needs me. With deliveries, shipments, things of that nature. I am of use to him not only because I have done work of this kind before, but because I can speak English and Russian with equal proficiency. It is not hard to find Russian workers, but it is not so easy to find Russian workers with wonderful English.” He smiled. “It will be no more than once or twice a month.”
    “But you already have a full-time