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talk later,” she said to me before I left. Of course, only to me, as this . . . Henrietta? Haley? . . . clearly isn’t as concerned as I am about finances. I can’t help wondering what her circumstances are. Thank God I never quit my job. John had told me I could quit anytime, but I just hadn’t been able to imagine what I would do with myself all day. Come to think of it, John might have had similar worries, probably thought I’d be more likely to pry into matters if I didn’t spend eight-plus hours at the office every day. Besides, I don’t mind my job. I rather enjoy it. Bookkeeping for a software company in Silicon Valley distracts me—and affords me a certain level of respect. The sanity of numbers, the rationality of ratios, percentages. Accounting has always kept me grounded during rough patches in my life; I can only pray it will this time, too.
    Since Deborah was constantly being interrupted by departing guests offering their final condolences, we didn’t discuss the details of our situation. Deborah had said, “Of course there’s no need for anyone else to know,” at which point I felt a certain amount of relief, but even so I’m unclear how it will work out. Will I claim John as dead? Will I take the death certificate to a lawyer to make sure the house is truly, officially, mine? That other wife, she’d nodded calmly, took it all in stride. The indignity of not being the final wife! It confirms that I lack something, that I hadn’t given John what he wanted, what he really needed. Not that Deborah seemed to feel anything of the sort. At least she was left twice. Not that I was actually left. (I have to keep reminding myself of that.) He could have done so. He could have asked me for a divorce when he met this third wife, this who ever . He could have just abandoned me. That he didn’t means something, it’s something to hold on to.
    In the meantime what will I tell people? I suppose I can say that my husband suddenly died of a heart attack. That’s what the newspapers reported anyway. As Deborah said, “no one needs to know.” But this is all for another day when I can bear it. I am still a little tipsy and not exactly thinking clearly. I begin to get ready for bed when my house phone begins to ring.
    I usually ignore numbers I don’t recognize from the caller ID, but this is a local call, which makes me curious, as does the fact that no one who knows me ever calls the landline. Everyone who needs to reach me knows my cell number. But this caller is extremely persistent, really, aggressive is a better word: The phone keeps ringing, and I let the call go to voicemail five times before I finally answer. “This is MJ.”
    The caller turns out to be a reporter from the Chronicle . She got an anonymous tip. No, she doesn’t know from whom—it was anonymous. Duh , she practically says. Then, “Is it true that you were married to Dr. John Taylor? And that he had two other wives?” she asks.
    I am floored. Who could have told her? How many people know? Deborah, or perhaps that other wife, although she hadn’t seemed the type to give much away. That type can surprise. This . . . Helen—that’s right, that’s her name—might have looked as though she had everything under wraps, with her elegant black sheath and those cheekbones and collarbone, but I’ve seen some truly spectacular meltdowns from her kind. My own tightly buttoned-up mother was a master of self-restraint, but when she broke, she broke big.
    This reporter, she hits me with the facts. So smoothly! No hint of judgment or shock in her voice. She fools me, she makes it sound like no big deal.
    “And you had no idea about your husband’s other wives?” she asks, and her voice is so . . . understanding . . . that I lose my head. The booze coupled with the confusion. I spew words, many words, before hanging up the phone and collapsing.

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San Francisco Chronicle
Deceased Stanford Doctor
Had Three Wives
    May 15, 2013
PALO ALTO,