The Big Slip

Earl Fowler

It was a Tuesday morning. The kind of day you don’t remember, the kind of day you just don’t care about. Nobody would. The city was already sweat-slick, like a woman trying to hide her age behind a veil of Dime Malibu Night eau de toilette. The air tasted like disappointment, the kind you only get when you mix cheap whiskey with bad decisions.

I’d been on the trail of my wife for three days, three hours, and at least five packs of Camel Turkish Gold. She’d disappeared without so much as a “goodbye, sucker” or a “don’t wait up, chump.” And I’d been to all the usual spots: the bar where she said she was meeting her sister, the florist shop where she’d ordered flowers for her mother (she didn’t even have a mother), and the Value Village where she bought half the shop’s inventory when she was stressed.

But today, the trail led me to something even worse than my wife going AWOL. It led me to the ladies’ underwear section of Lululemon, an athletic apparel retailer so posh it made Wunder Puff 600 down-fill cropped vests look like Shake It Out High-rise running shorts. And no, I had no idea what any of that meant. All I knew was that Kitty had a thing for fancy undergarments. Lace, satin, silk — if it came with a tag that cost more than a week’s rent, she had to have it.

I stood at the entrance of the lingerie aisle, the kind of place where a man learns things he wasn’t ready to learn and was never intended to know about fabric and elastic. What was that saying about not wanting to see how sausage is made?

The walls were a riot of colour — reds and blacks, creams and whites. The air was thick with perfume, but not the kind you’d want to smell. No, this was the scent of desperation and brand-name designer cash grabs. I lit a coffin nail and took a drag, trying to keep my cool.

The saleswoman spotted me before I noticed her sidling up. She was a tall one, blonde, a few years past her prime but still in denial. She had a look on her face like she’d seen a man in a dark brown birds-eye wool suit before, but never one who didn’t belong.

“You looking for something special, sir?” she purred, her lips curling into a smile that was more “I know what you want” than “how may I help you.”

“Yeah, a woman,” I said. “About yay tall, ginger, walks like she’s got a secret.”

“Lots of women walk that way,” she said, glancing over her shoulder as if to check for any secret customers.

“I’m sure you’ve seen plenty of secrets in here, doll,” I said, taking another drag and blowing a sloppy smoke ring with a practised flick of my tongue. "I need to find my wife. She’s probably buried in this orgy of excess somewhere.”

The saleswoman raised an eyebrow, taking the gasper from my lips and extinguishing it hard with a heel that went all the way to China. A stiletto that could turn a man’s face into a pale chalk stencil like a maple leaf on a rainy autumn sidewalk. “Your wife? In lingerie? And by the way, you can’t smoke here.”

I was about to explain how complicated marital dynamics can be, but she wasn’t interested. She had work to do. The kind of work that didn’t involve solving problems but rather keeping her customers from considering the cost while they indulged in fantasies of silk and satin and Like a Cloud Longline Bras with light support and D/DD cups for $74.

I walked deeper into the aisle, dodging racks of Lapus Lazuli garter belts and Evil Eye Peach Moonstone bras like they were landmines. The only sound was the distant shuffle of Jimmy Choos and the quiet murmur of shoppers who were pretending they weren’t spending half their paycheques on Hotty Hot fleecy scuba lined shorts that would be forgotten by next week. $68 up in smoke. Before taxes.

And suddenly, pulling off extravagant showgirl gloves like Rita Hayworth in Gilda, there she was. Here Kitty, Kitty. She was in the middle of a rack of black lace, her back to me, trying on some kind of nefarious garment that looked like it belonged in a French film where nobody had any morals. She was bending over, pulling something netted over her Mar-a-Lago hips like Jacques Cousteau with the catch of the day, and I had the sudden urge to scream her name. In French. But I didn’t. I wasn’t a fool. Not in a place like this.

Besides, like Christy Clark, I suddenly remembered that I didn’t speak French. I’d only misspeak and make a fool of myself.

I took a few steps forward, and that’s when the voice came.

“You know, I’m pretty sure we carry that in your size.”

It was her. Kitty. She’d turned to face me, a mischievous grin curling on her lips. But she wasn’t wearing the black lace anymore. No, she was in a pair of horrific apricot-coloured Lunar New Year InvisiWear Midrise Bikini panties that looked like something you’d wear if you had to get married to a Trump cabinet pick and didn’t care who knew or how bad it looked.

She crossed her arms, her eyes narrowing. “Well, if it isn’t Mr. Detective himself, gracing the aisles of Lulufrigginglemon. What’s the matter, Marlowe? Can’t find your way out of a department store?”

“Can’t find my way out of a marriage, either, apparently,” I shot back. "What the hell are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing, but I think it’s clear,” she said, twirling a hanger in her hand like it was a weapon. “Doing your job, right? Or maybe you just needed an excuse to be in a place where no one asks you for a refund.”

I wasn’t in the mood for this. But I knew the drill. When a wife goes missing, you don’t ask too many questions. You just keep following the scent of trouble until it leads you somewhere dark, and then you hope you’re not the one who ends up with the call from MasterCard.

“I’m not here for lingerie, Kitty. I’m here for you,” I said, and I meant it. There were days when the last thing I wanted was to see her in something expensive and impractical, but today wasn’t one of them. “You’ve been gone for three days. Where the hell have you been?”

She sighed, as though I were the last thing she needed in her life. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“I would,” I said. “Try me.”

She put the hanger down and leaned closer. “I’ve been buying you a gift, you idiot. A real one this time. Not like that sorry excuse for a birthday present you got last year. And no, I don’t expect a thank you.”

I stared at her. She had a glint in her eye like she was playing some long con, but I had to admit — she’d caught me. If there was one thing she knew, it was how to keep me guessing.

“Well, next time you disappear,” I said, “try leaving a note. Or better yet, don’t disappear. I can’t handle two mysteries in one day.”

She smiled, her eyes softening just a bit. “You’re lucky I like you, Marlowe.”

“And you’re lucky I’m still looking at you, kid.”

Kitty gave me a playful shove, which only proved that underneath all the silk and lace, she was still the same woman I married. Maybe not perfect, but a whole hell of a lot better than the alternative. Damn but I wish Pete Hegseth would quit sending those flowers. He at least has a mother.

I picked up my squashed butt from the floor and walked out of the lingerie aisle, arm around her shoulders. The world outside was waiting, and I was ready to face it with a little less mystery, at least for today. But I knew one thing: the next time she pulled a disappearing act, I  knew just what I’d do.

And I did, too, the very next Tuesday morning when the wife disappeared. Thought I’d get her a little present.

“You again,” leered the saleswoman, tall and platinum as ever. She pulled the Camel from my mouth, took a drag and returned it to my lips with a hint of Maybelline India tinted balm. Frosted or metallic, I couldn’t decide. $80.

“Listen, doll. You’re about the size of my wife. Try this on for me,” I said, handing her a little black number that had caught my eye the last time, an Align Cami Strap job scarcely bigger than a hankie for $148.

She hesitated, giggled a little, and whispered those 10 little countdown words I’d been waiting all my life to hear. “You know, sweetie, you’re about the size of your wife.”

She didn’t have to tell me twice. And as I closed the fitting room door behind me, I gave one last fleeting thought to Kitty.

“Let that dame come looking for me for a change.”

Some dizzy broad had dropped half a stick of lipstick on the stall floor. Gucci Velvet Matte 509. I just put my lips together and blew.