My Wife the Spy
By Rob Jacklosky

American husband and wife charged spying for Cuba
—New York Times June 19, 2009

Thank heavens for spy movies: they reveal the 800-pound gorilla in the dining, bed, and family room of many American marriages. What is the question that no one dares ask of their supposedly happy union? This: is my spouse working for some intelligence organization, counter-intelligence operation, a rogue group inside an existing national security agency, or is he or she a "mole" performing espionage in the pay of some foreign power and has she cut me out of the action? If the possibility has only just now occurred to you, don't beat yourself up.

My wife is a Cuban spy. Her handle is Moira O'Brien and she speaks with a flawless American accent. But don't let that fool you. Spies often change their names and take on accents. This is called an "alias," Latin for changing your name and putting on accents. When we first met, I asked about her Irish last name and Cuban ethnicity, and got some double talk about ancient Irish ancestors immigrating to Cuba in the 1800s (something about being famished for potatoes). Then, she said, her grandparents came to Miami when some political upheaval involving pigs happened in Cuba. I didn't know what she was talking about - it was obviously the kind of top secret, cloak and dagger information that only a spy could get a hold of.

Other clues followed. In the summer of 2004, her hair was jet-black and her skin, cafe con leche. Check your best-selling spy literature: Cuban she-spies always have cafe-con-leche or mocha complexions. In the winter, however, her hair shade changed, her skin grew paler. Spies often change their appearance to match their changed name. Then, I discovered that she uses powerful chemical agents to tint her hair red. When I questioned her on the shocking change in hair color, she tried to diminish the transformation by saying they were "only highlights" and claiming that "lots of women do it." Lots of spy women, maybe! I wish I had caught these subtle changes before I transferred the car's title to her name. You would think spies wouldn't be acquisitive, with the pricey spy perks that are naturally a part of their work lives, but don't believe it. They're a grasping bunch.

Now, I don't think she spies for Cuba. She may even work for the C.I.A., as a double agent. In fact, all I know for certain is that she's Cuban and a spy. How did I find out? It kind of came to me in a dream. Don't be surprised - it often happens this way to husbands who are married to spies, at least to the smart husbands, like me. This is how it works: you pick up lots of clues unconsciously during the day and process them at night. The noted German (probably a spy himself) Sigmund Freud called this "dream work." Clues might include phone calls in the small hours to strange places like Weehawken where your best friend Todd lives, or to Miami where a person introduced to you as your wife's mother lives.

Or a classic spy scenario like the following might occur: You open your pantry door at a Christmas party to find your Cuban spy wife in a clinch with your best friend Todd (really her "control"), exchanging coordinates or passing capsules of some kind from one mouth to the other with their tongues. Oh, when the closet door opens, there's lots of feigned embarrassment: "Whoa, this is not what you think!" How do they know what I'm thinking? That's how spies work: they try to confuse you.

Moira spies for Canada. Let me explain. We live up near the Canadian border, where she insisted that we move after my best friend (her station chief) Todd got a job in Southern Ontario. I quit my job as assistant to the assistant line producer on Entertainment Tonight, and took a managerial position at a Tim Horton Donut Shop on the Canadian side of the Niagara Falls. The benefits are good, and I can bring home leftover donuts at quitting time. Last Monday, like every morning, Moira-the-Cuban-Spy insisted that she drive me to the donut shop, at eight a.m. She said she would "busy herself" in Toronto until six p.m. when my shift was over. I said "okay" as I always do. But this day, I had a plan.

I followed her in the donut van. Her errands first took her to an erotic paraphernalia shop near the Falls. As the merchandise piled up, I knew I was looking at a woman determined to take full advantage of the favorable exchange rate and her no doubt hefty spy per diem. I peered over the aisle to see her purchase leather devices with buckles and harnesses. I chafed just looking at them! My wife, the spy, is nothing if not meticulous in constructing her cover. Privately, I rejoiced that she wouldn't get the chance to use this hellish gear on me. I've long since imposed an embargo on my body, which I regard as a temple to democracy. It's been two years and she hasn't cracked, but embargoes can take up to 50 years to work.

Then it was on to a motel where I observed the missus furtively slink up the stairs for, I suspect, microfilm or a plutonium canister. I had been taking pictures with a disposable Kodak the whole time. Sadly, I don't have my wife's extravagant spy expense account, so rather than using the one-hour photo store, I sent the roll away to a discount photo-developing house and waited. I had to endure many stakeouts watching my wife enjoy Cuban cigars and Havana Club rum with Spymaster Todd. Both are illegal activities for which I might have turned her in. But I had bigger fish to fry. Invariably, they retired to a motel spy lair to work all night on plans to compromise U.S. Embassies in Saskatchewan or to orchestrate the Canadian take-over of the U.S. entertainment industries.

After three weeks, I began to worry that my Cuban Mata Hari had nabbed the film. But here, she had finally slipped up. Soon, I had the photos in small, grainy matte format (all I could afford on my donut shop salary). Unfortunately, with the distance and dimness of the shots, it was hard to make out the figures in them. The U.S. Attaché's secretary barely looked at them before she ushered me out of the reception area and onto the street. I should have bought the Kodak with a flash (but again, donut manger pay equals a shoestring counter-espionage budget). Maybe I shouldn't have worn my donut shop uniform to the Embassy. Still, I know the spy-smashing racket is a waiting game. And I'm a patient man.

The hardest part of being a spook's spouse is the knowledge that as my wife betrays her country and neglects her home, she is receiving a fat spy salary of which I get no share. Perhaps worried by the example of the generous-to-a-fault Aldrich Ames (code-name, Top Hat), Agent O'Brien (code-name, Tightwad) is determined not to lavish gifts on her spouse. I don't mean to be indifferent to the global or emotional implications of her espionage, but it is my meager income that must pay for the spaghetti dinners night after night, as I pretend to know nothing of her enormous spy compensation package.

Now, if you look across the sofa and say to yourself, "My wife doesn't look like a Cuban spy," all I have to say to you is "Neither did mine, my friend." Oh, and "She doesn't have to be Cuban to be a spy." First steps for those who suspect connubial covert ops? Watch those phone bills, buy a decent camera, and insist on a joint bank account. Second, get ready to listen with a straight face to desperate cover stories like "How many times do I have to tell you, you idiot, I'm having an affair with Todd and I want that divorce." Oh, I'm aware that another construction can be put on this. I'm way ahead of you. In fact, if your spouse turns out only to be a spy, I envy you. Because I'm beginning to suspect that Moira's one of those genetically-enhanced demi-robots that I've been reading about.

——

Rob Jacklosky's work has appeared in McSweeney's Internet Tendency, Sonora Review, and Konundrum Literary Engine Review. His unpublished novel, "Nazi in the Living Room," was a finalist in the Faulkner/Wisdom Fiction Competition. He's on Facebook, but he's not happy about it. He's a professor of English and chair of the department at the College of Mount Saint Vincent in the Bronx.

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