Goodnight, Irene ik-1

by Jan Burke

  As if reading my mind, he said, “I like working out here. It’s where I spend a lot of my spare time. A little world of my own, I guess.”

  “It’s great,” I said.

  We sat down in a couple of redwood chairs. He had put out a small cooler with some white wine in it. He poured out a couple of glasses and we drank and ate our sandwiches. Again there was that comfortable silence between us, and I felt my anxiety about talking to him about my plans for the evening ebbing.

  “I’m going to the Hollingsworth fund-raiser tonight,” I began.

  He looked up over his wineglass, but didn’t say anything.

  “I’m going with Guy St. Germain.”

  Suddenly he put the glass down and started laughing, holding the side with the cracked ribs and saying, “Oh, God, that hurts.” But still laughing.

  “I don’t suppose you’d mind letting me in on the joke?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I can’t tell you unless you promise not to be mad.”

  “Anything given an introduction like that is bound to infuriate me, so I won’t make a promise I can’t keep.”

  “Not worth any fury. Pete told me you were going out with someone tonight.”

  I could feel my temperature rising, even though I had half-expected Pete would talk. “And?” I said, trying to control my temper.

  “Well, he told me he didn’t think you’d tell me that you were going out, and that if you did, you wouldn’t tell me who you were going out with or where.”

  “And what did you tell Pete?”

  “It’s not important. Thanks for telling me.”

  “What do you mean, it’s not important? What the hell did you tell him? I know there’s more to this than you’ve told me so far.”

  “Well,” he said, hesitating, “we made sort of a bet.”

  “Sort of a bet, or a bet?”

  “A bet, sort of.”

  “And the bet was?”

  “He bet that you wouldn’t tell me. I bet that you would.”

  I could feel my face flushing with anger.

  “You’re a cocky son of a bitch, you know that?”

  “I can’t believe you’re angry over this. I just stated my trust in your openness.”

  “What kind of a simpleminded bimbo do you take me for? I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck, Frank. You weren’t betting on my openness. You were betting on — shall we say, your degree of influence over me?”

  “Excuse me, Irene, but nobody can have a damn dime’s worth of influence over you. Goddamn, you are stubborn. I’ve never met a more hardheaded woman in my entire life.”

  We were silent again, only this time we weren’t at all at ease. An explosive tension hung between us. We stopped looking one another in the eye. I didn’t just want to stomp off, and I didn’t want to stay there avoiding eye contact. It would have been nice to have been able to vanish into thin air. It was a standoff, all right.

  “I’d better be getting back to the paper,” I said, but regretted the words as I spoke them.

  “Fine.”

  The Arctic Circle was warmer in December than that one word in June. I decided to try again.

  “Frank, I’m sorry if I lost my temper. I just wish every cop in Las Piernas wasn’t briefed on our every move. I don’t want this to be some kind of game.”

  “And you think I do?”

  This steamed me. He was not cooperating. I decided I would get up and leave. Any minute, I was really going to do it. I was going to stand up and walk out and — and then what? Go to a political bash with Guy St. Germain? I didn’t want to leave things like this with Frank.

  “I apologize,” I said, speaking two words I find very hard to say in these situations. “I know you don’t think of this as a game either.”

  I could see the mollification process going on, and wasn’t going to step in and screw it up. I waited.

  “Who is this Guy St. Germain, anyway?” he said gruffly, then softened his tone a little when he added, “I mean, do you know him very well?”

  “Not really. He’s a former hockey player who’s now a vice president at the Bank of Las Piernas. I met him the other day when I went into the bank to follow up on something in O’Connor’s computer notes.”

  “How does a hockey player get into banking?”

  “I don’t know. We talked hockey, not banking.”

  “You’re a hockey fan? Isn’t it kind of a violent sport?”

  I counted to ten. In between numbers, I told myself: He is just like the zillion or so other people you run into all the time, Irene. Probably a football or boxing fan who has never watched any part of a hockey game except a ten-second clip of a fight on a television newscast. He doesn’t know hockey. Yes, it did feel like a cheap shot. Keep cool.

  What I said was, “Yes, I’m an avid hockey fan.”

  Quiet again. Not as bad as the previous silence. I heard him exhale. Good, he was still breathing.

  “Well, I guess I’m out of sorts,” he said at last. “I’m not trying to pry about Mr. St. Germain. I just want to make sure you’re safe. I don’t trust strangers around you right now.”

  “I’m going to this dinner as a reporter, Frank. Guy St. Germain and I had a friendly conversation about hockey and a brief talk about one of the employees at the bank, and he followed it up with an invitation to sit next to him at this dinner. Neither one of us is really looking forward to the fund-raiser, and we each thought it would be nice to sit next to someone we would enjoy talking to.”

  “You have every right to go out with anyone you care to go out with. I’m not jealous,” he said, “just concerned.”

  Yeah, right, I thought, looking skyward to see if pigs could fly after all. Aloud I said, “I’m glad you’re concerned, Frank. But I don’t think you need to worry.”

  “When is hockey season?”

  I thought it was a weird question, but decided to roll with it. “The pros will start up again in the fall. You can find amateur games around here all year long.”

  He was quiet for a minute.

  “Well, maybe you can take me to a game sometime and try to explain it to me.”

  “Sure, I’d like that,” I said, feeling relieved.

  All the same, he looked a little down. And tired. I decided to let him work through it on his own. Sometimes I actually do know when to shut up.

  “I guess I better let you get some rest,” I said. I gathered up the paper wrappers and other odds and ends from lunch, and stood up. His ribs made it a little hard for him to stand up again, but I didn’t want to fuss over him, so I tried to act like I didn’t see him wince when he rose from the chair.

  As we slowly walked away from the garden, I felt bad, as if we had somehow ruined it that day. It was like having an argument with somebody in a church.

  We made our way to the front door.

  “Thanks for lunch — and thanks for coming by.”

  “No problem. Look, Frank—” I stopped myself from bringing up the subject again.

  His bruised face turned to me in a questioning look. I thought about how he got those bruises, and felt like a complete jerk. He must have seen the guilt on my face. He reached up and brushed some loose strands of hair away from my eyes.

  “Give me a call later? If you get a chance?” he said.

  “Sure. How late will you be up?”

  “Don’t worry about it. If I’m asleep, the machine will get it. I never know when I’m going to be asleep or awake anymore.”

  We said our good-byes.

  “Irene?” He called to me as I went down the walk.

  I turned around. “Yeah”

  “Have a good time tonight. I mean it.”

  “I’ll try. Don’t worry about me, okay?”

  “Can’t promise that.”

  “You better work on it, Frank, or I’ll drive you nuts.”

  “Too late for that warning.”

  That comment had me smiling to myself all the way back to the paper.

  32
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  THAT AFTERNOON , I studied up on current politics. I had kept up with most of it through O’Connor, but having the responsibility of covering it made me look at it in finer detail. At about five-thirty, Lydia stopped by my desk. “Ready to go home?” she said.

  “Yeah, I’ll drop you off and then I’m going to my place — I’m going to the Hollingsworth fund-raiser and someone’s picking me up there.”

  A look of concern came over her face. “I don’t think being at your house is such a terrific idea, Irene.”

  “And I don’t think it’s smart for anyone to know I’m staying over at your place — I’m going with Guy St. Germain, from the bank, and even though I’m sure he’s not involved in any of this, someone else at the bank might be. So I’d rather not reveal the fact that I’m staying at your house — it might put you in danger, and I’d never forgive myself for that.”

  “Yeah? Well, how do you think I’m going to feel if something happens to you over there tonight? I think you’re crazy to go anywhere near your house. Couldn’t you have met Guy somewhere else?”

  “I have to go over there to get clothes for tonight anyway. I need some time to get dressed and ready. I won’t be there very long.”

  “I don’t know, Irene. It just doesn’t seem wise for you to be over there.”

  “I’ll be okay. It won’t even be dark by the time Guy picks me up.”

  Twenty minutes later, she was standing in her driveway, still protesting, while I closed the car door and drove off.

  As I made the turn down my block, I felt growing apprehension. Lydia’s nervousness was apparently contagious. I tried to convince myself that this was my own home, and that sooner or later I was going to have to return to it. Whatever bravado I had worked up came crashing down when I saw the large piece of plywood over the front window.

  When Frank and I had left the house, it was dark out and I was too preoccupied to notice what the boarded-up window did to the look of the place. Now, in daylight, it looked stark and forbidding, a testament to the violence of this past week. It sealed off the house, made it look like abandoned, damaged goods. I wondered if Lydia was right after all. Too bad I didn’t have the bucks just to go out shopping for new clothes.

  But then I smiled to myself thinking of how pissed off the neighbors must be at me for not having replaced the window yet. It did add a sordid touch to the gentrification process. I’d have to make a call to a glass company.

  I walked up the front steps, the nervousness creeping back over me. I opened the door and was met by a smell that made me realize I hadn’t taken the trash out when I left.

  The front room was very dark, owing to the fact that a major source of light was now covered in plywood. I found the switch, and my eyes immediately went to Granddad’s chair. I had known it would be there, but the actual sight of the gaping hole in its back froze me in place. In my mind I could feel Frank tackling me to the floor, hear the glass shattering and the booming of the gun. Images of O’Connor’s house, Frank slumped over the steering wheel, Miss Ralston on the sidewalk, and Elaine Tannehill tied to a chair quickly followed. I pushed the door shut behind me and locked it.

  I was trembling and suddenly overwhelmed with doubt. I tried to shake it off, took some deep breaths. “This is my house, goddamn it!” I shouted at the top of my lungs. “And you bastards are not going to make me afraid of my own home.” My own voice echoed through the empty house. I smiled to myself, thinking the neighbors really would think they had moved in next to a lunatic.

  I picked up the pile of mail that had gathered beneath the front-door slot, and sorted through it quickly. Four bills and thirty-eight pieces of junk mail.

  As I walked through the house, I turned on lights everywhere. I went into the kitchen and got the trash can, going around to the bedroom and bathroom to gather the trash from those rooms as well. I unlocked the back door and walked out into the yard. It was a poor cousin to Frank’s, but it had its charm for me. The jasmine from my neighbor’s yard was in the air again. My own yard’s patch of grass was looking a little dried out, but it was comforting to see. The rosebushes I had planted along the back fence had scattered colorful petals all over the ground and had mostly bare hips and a few buds at this point, although one or two brave blossoms still held on here and there. I opened the back gate and set the trash out in the alley. All clear. No one lurking, waiting to kill me.

  I shut the gate and started to walk back in, when I heard a car coming down the alley. I froze in my tracks, listening. It drove on without stopping. Nothing to be afraid of, I told myself. I went into the house and locked the back door. I went around to all the windows, checking the latches. As much as I had an urge to let air circulate through the house, I also was aware that my courage was wavering, that more and more I wanted just to hurry up and get dressed and get the hell out of the house.

  I went back into my bedroom and pulled out my formal-but-not-too-formal blue dress. I liked the way it made my eyes look. I also found a slip, a pair of heels, and stockings. My clothes for the evening set out, I went into the bathroom and locked the door.

  Somehow, being in the confined space of the bathroom made me feel safer. I started the shower going. I took off my watch and earrings, set them on the sink. Closed the toilet lid, undressed and set the folded clothes on top of the lid. Ah, routine.

  I got in the shower and started to relax a little, although I was still pretty jittery. I felt as if I were on a pendulum, swinging between anxiety and anger. I didn’t have time for a very long shower, but I made the most of it. I tried to lose myself in the steam and rushing water, the fragrances of my soap, shampoo and conditioner. As I rinsed the conditioner out of my hair, I stood listening to the roar of the water over my ears. I turned the water off. Suddenly I was paralyzed by fear.

  There was a noise outside the bathroom.

  I stood there, afraid even to reach for my towel, shivering and dripping wet. There it was again, muffled, but definitely a noise. On the other side of the bathroom wall? In the kitchen? Or was it the hallway?

  I tried to open the shower door as quietly as possible. It made a creaking sound that I was sure could be heard in New Jersey. Cursing under my breath, I grabbed my towel and wrapped it around me. I looked at my watch — six-fifteen. Too early for Guy. I looked around to see what I could use for a weapon. Other than a nail file and a bottle of hair spray, not much. It wasn’t even aerosol hair spray. So this was going to be my reward for being concerned about the ozone.

  Suddenly there was a different noise. I waited. It was someone knocking loudly on the front door. I got on the bathroom floor and looked through the space under the door. No feet in the bedroom. I made myself open the bathroom door a crack. Closet still open, no one in there. I grabbed a robe, rearmed myself with the nail file, and crept to the bedroom door. I slowly opened it a couple of inches and peered nervously up and down the hallway. No one. The knocking came again, more insistent.

  I heard a muffled shout through the door that sounded like my name. I made a run for the front door and stood to one side.

  “Who is it?” I shouted.

  “It’s Pete Baird. Are you okay?”

  I opened the door. He was standing there red-faced, with gun drawn. “Irene, are you all right?”

  I nodded, standing back to let him in.

  “Jesus Christ, lady, you really make my goddamn job tough, you know it? Do you have a fucking death wish or something? What the hell possessed you to come over here?”

  “I might ask the same of you,” I said, trying to slip the nail file inconspicuously into the pocket of my robe.

  “What brings me over here? A good thing you’ve got friends, or you woulda been a stiff about a week ago, you know that? Your friend Lydia called Frank. Told him your great plan for coming over here. He got in touch with me just before I was leaving the office. Now, Miss Reporter, I’ve answered your questions, so you want to tell me what in God’s name you’re doing here?”

  “It�
��s my home,” I said, trying to regain my composure.

  “Oh, for Chrissakes.”

  Five minutes ago I was too scared to step outside my bathroom, or I would have been miffed at Lydia. As it was, I was damn glad Pete was here. “Look,” I said, “it probably was a dumb idea, but my clothes are here, and I didn’t want someone I don’t know very well finding out about Lydia’s house.”

  “Well, that might make a little bit of sense, but you should have had somebody come over here with you.”

  “You’re right, I admit it. I just don’t want to have someone hold my hand all the time. I’m not used to all this protection. I feel like I’m being a damned nuisance to everybody. I want to be able to take care of myself.”

  “I’ll tell you what’s a nuisance. Not getting an answer when I’m pounding on your front door, but seeing your car outside. I was about one minute away from calling for backup.”

  “Sorry, I was in the shower. I didn’t realize it was the door at first, and I guess I was kind of spooked — I wasn’t expecting anyone yet.”

  “You’re aging me rapidly, Irene. If you don’t mind, I’ll wait here until your new boyfriend shows up.”

  “I’ll ignore that last remark. I appreciate your coming by to watch over me. I’ll feel better knowing you’re here.”

  “Well, what do you know? The Queen of the Amazons will let me stay. If Frank wasn’t such a good friend—”

  “If a Mr. St. Germain comes to the door while I’m getting ready, would you be so good as to not try to scare him off? It’s really none of your business if I’m going somewhere with somebody besides your pal Frank.”

  I went back to get dressed. The process was much faster without the fear slowing me down; another kind of fear, the fear of Pete’s giving Guy a lot of bull, made me speed up. I managed to get dressed and put my hair up on top of my head in what I thought of as some kind of semi-prissy fashion.

  Guy knocked on the door just as I was coming down the hallway, a little wobbly in the heels. Pete motioned me to stay back and carefully answered the door himself. Guy stood there in a tux, an absolute hunk. He seemed a little surprised to see Pete, and I saw him looking first at the window, then at the chair, and hesitating.