I found the eighty-seven dollars while preparing to refinance our kitchen. It sat between the gas bill and Miles's train pass, labeled only ELM GROVE, the same amount on the same day for nearly twelve years. At first I assumed it was a storage locker. Then I added the payments and stared at a total large enough to replace every cracked cabinet door we had been postponing. Miles had never mentioned renting anything in Elm Grove.
He was washing rice when I carried the statement into the kitchen. The moment he saw the line, he turned off the tap. He said it was an old obligation and asked me to leave it alone until Friday. I asked what happened Friday. He dried his hands with painful care and said some promises became dangerous when explained to the wrong person. I had been his wife for sixteen years, and I heard exactly where he had placed me.
The transaction number led to a brick apartment building beside the elevated tracks. I went there the next afternoon with the statement folded in my pocket. The superintendent, Mrs. Alvarez, recognized Miles's name but not mine. She led me past laundry machines and a boiler room to a brass door scratched pale around its low keyhole. Three fresh padlocks hung from a steel bar, although the knob itself looked older than the building's mailboxes.
I asked whether my husband rented the room. Mrs. Alvarez said nobody rented it, yet half the neighborhood seemed to have a reason to knock. Before she could explain, chairs scraped on the other side. Someone laughed, a drill whined briefly, and a young woman began reciting electrical formulas. Mrs. Alvarez checked the stairwell behind us, then knocked twice and once. The door opened six inches. Miles looked out, holding a ring of keys I had never seen.