Then it hit me: it was Becky, my next-door neighbor.
She noticed me staring at her. Her eyes narrowed a bit, and she smiled, raising her middle and pointer fingers in a subdued wave. I looked away, tried to forget she was in the audience, but I couldn’t. My heart rate quickened, my mouth went dry—why would Becky come to one of my lectures? Strange theories soon distracted me: she knew I had murdered my pregnant wife, now planned to blackmail me into killing her husband lest she go to the police about my crime; she knew what I was capable of, now wanted me to euthanize her, alleviate her from the burden of her abusive husband; she wished to murder him herself and wanted to ask me, a practiced killer, how it felt to take someone’s life, on and on and on, consuming my thoughts until I feared I might suffer from a panic attack.
“I’m sorry,” I announced. “We’ll pick up here next week.”
Not wanting to walk past her, I left through an emergency exit near the front of the auditorium that led to a staircase. The auditorium was located on the third floor so I headed down toward the first. I tried to hurry, but my panic caused my air passageways to tighten, my blood vessels to constrict, so that my oxygen supply didn’t traverse as quickly as it should. Consequently, my muscles shut down quicker, and I couldn’t catch my breath. It felt like I was hyperventilating. I pushed through the door into the foyer, stumbled out into the open, and ran directly into Becky, causing both of us to fall to the ground. She grabbed her head with both her hands and began to laugh.
“You’re running from me,” she said. “Why?”
Students and faculty members stared as they walked by, seemingly confused as to whether they should intervene and help, at least ask if we were okay, or instead mind their own business.
“I wasn’t,” I said. “I’m sorry. I’m just not feeling well.”
She sat upright and ran her hands down the front of her blouse, pulled her wool jacket so that it lay straight on her shoulders. “You hurt?”
I shook my head. “I’m fine. You?”
“You’re shaking. Here.” She grabbed my arm, helped me to my feet, and led me to a bench. She sat next to me and caressed a scar on the inside of her wrist. It was shaped like a peace sign with two prongs extending from a three-inch long base. Rubbing it appeared to be a nervous habit of hers, one she relied on to comfort her in awkward situations. “I’m sorry for surprising you like this,” she said.
“It’s okay,” I said.
“I should’ve called first. Emailed or something.”
“It’s fine. Really.”
“It would’ve been the right thing to do.”
I didn’t answer.
“Would you like to get a cup of coffee with me? Maybe some lunch?”
“I’d love to, but—”
“Please,” she said. “I’ve been meaning to stop by ever since—well, ever since Sara disappeared, but I really don’t care for your mother.”
“She has that effect on people.”
“So what do you say?”
“Sure,” I said. “One cup.”
She took me to a little coffee shop a mile or so away, Galileo’s. It was a small place, housing only a dozen or so tables. I’d walked past it several times the previous three years, but I’d never stopped in. It was nice, quiet and relaxing. A couple of college kids read books over in the corner, and the room smelled of hazelnut and caramel. Classical music played softly over the speaker system. We ordered, a cup of honey and lemon tea for me, a mocha latte for Becky, and we took a seat near the window, overlooking the Charles. The water had frozen over for the winter, thick and blue. Wisps of snow snaked across the ice in the breeze. The rest of the winter would be much the same, everything dead and cold and grey. I’d always dreaded this time of year in Boston. I’d sleep in later and go to bed sooner. I’d have to reread passages several times over. I’d get lost in conversations, often daydreaming about being someplace else, even someone else.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Becky asked. “The river.” Up close, her bruise looked even worse. It was the color of pea soup, with a bit of soggy eggplant floating just below the surface. The shape was rectangular, though not perfectly—it appeared as though the top portion, right below her left cheekbone, consisted of several successive arches, knuckle imprints.
“Yes,” I said.
“You’re not from Boston, are you?” Becky asked. “Don’t tell me. Arkansas.”
“No.”
“Texas?”
“No.”
“Not Alabama.”
“Oklahoma.”
“My next guess.” She smiled. Her bottom teeth were a bit discolored, stained from drinking too much coffee. “I have some family down south. An aunt and a couple cousins. Haven’t seen them since I was a kid.”
I nodded.
“You don’t speak much, do you?”
“I suppose not.”
“Sara said as much,” she said before covering her mouth. “I’m sorry. You probably don’t want to talk about her.”
“No,” I said. “I like talking about her.”
“I don’t know if she told you or not, but we got close there for a little bit. Near the end.”
“She didn’t tell me. No.”
“We were both home alone a lot, and she’d help me with the kids. She was a lifesaver, really. Helped me keep my sanity.”
“I understand.”
“Have they figured anything out?” she asked. “The police I mean. Any leads or whatever.”
I shook my head, Detective Landsmen’s words coming back to me: she knew her attacker. “They don’t know anything,” I said.
“So he’s still out there then? Whoever did this to her? Whoever killed her?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Somewhere.”
Becky took a sip from her drink, whipped cream clinging to the top of her lip. I pointed to it, and she blushed. “It’s not what you think,” she said. “I fell in the bathtub. I’m so clumsy sometimes.”
“No,” I said. “You have some cream…” I pointed at my own lip.
“Oh,” she said. She looked away and wiped her mouth. She stared out the window for a long time, a minute or so. I followed her gaze. Despite the weather, the city still bustled. Cars zipped past on Memorial Drive. Students walked to and fro, backpacks clinging to their shoulders. Policemen checked parking meters, and nicely-dressed women walked their dogs. It was so unlike Oklahoma—just a sprinkle of snow there and the whole city shut down.
“He doesn’t hit me,” she said, her tone becoming deeper, monotone. “He doesn’t.”
I nodded. “I know,” I said.
She touched her face with her fingertips and glared at the tabletop. Her coffee was getting cold, the steam that had once risen above the rim now gone. She looked so sad sitting there, knowing fully well that I knew she was lying. Perhaps that was why she’d felt compelled to track me down—when Sara had died, she’d lost her only friend.
“That night. The night Sara disappeared,” she said, “I heard you two fight.”
I didn’t say anything. My throat swelled. My mouth salivated.
“The walls,” she continued. “They’re so thin there. I didn’t mean to listen, but I heard. I heard you guys. I’m sorry for that.”
“What exactly did you hear?” I asked.
“Did you hurt her?”
“No.”
“I heard a crash. It was loud. It was deafening.”
“She threw a lamp. It got heated.”
“You didn’t hit her? You didn’t do something worse?”
“No,” I said. “I promise.”
She looked at the table, out the window, at a barista brewing a cappuccino, anywhere but at me.
“You have to believe me. We fought. I said some things I regret. I’m ashamed of what I did, but I didn’t hurt her.”
She exhaled like she’d been holding her breath, took a sip of her coffee.
“Okay,” she said. “I believe you.”
“Thank you,” I said. “It’s ju
st been so…I don’t know.”
“Lonely?”
“Yes.”
“I’m always home,” she said as she folded her napkin into a neat, equilateral triangle. “If you ever—you know. If you ever wanted to talk about it. I know what it’s like to be lonely.”
Our waiter returned and offered us refills. We both refused. She wouldn’t look at me. I was too afraid to look away.
“Would you like to get out of here?” I asked.
She popped out of her trance and turned toward me. “I’m sorry?”
“Would you like to get out of here?” I asked again.
“And go where?”
I didn’t really have any idea where. Where, it seemed, didn’t really matter. “Let’s go home.”
When we arrived at our apartment building, she led me toward my door. “My husband will be home soon,” she explained. The apartment was quiet, which was usual now that Sara was gone, and a mess. Dust lined the fan so thickly it looked like it was growing hair. Condensation rings stained the coffee table, vestiges of water glasses and Diet Dr. Pepper cans. An aroma of stale pizza and burnt toast clung to everything. Becky didn’t seem to mind, though. She strolled in and slipped off her jacket, laying it across the couch armrest. This was the first time I’d seen her without a coat or sweater or some other draping garment on her. She had a nice physique. Her shoulders slumped a bit, but she had an endearing quality to her, an attractiveness, borne from perseverance and fortitude.
“I’m sorry for the mess,” I said.
“No, please,” she said. “It’s fine.”
She turned and straightened her posture, clasping her hands in front of her lap.
“It’s a little strange having company over,” I said in an attempt to break the silence, move the conversation along.
“No family came?” she asked. She took one step toward me, then stopped.
“My mother. Sara’s folks stayed for a while. My father, too.”
“That’s good,” she said. Another step. “I can imagine it’s been very tough on you. On all of you.”
I scooted toward the bar, propped my elbow up. “It hasn’t been easy.”
Another step. “I’m sure you’ve been lonely,” she said. “I listen for you sometimes, when my husband’s fallen asleep. I’ll put my head up near the wall, trying to hear something, a television or feet sliding along the floor.”
“I don’t like to make a lot of noise.”
“It sounds like you don’t even move.” Another step closer. She was now within arm’s reach. “Are you alone now?” she asked.
“You’re here.”
She smiled, reached out for me. “No,” she said. “I mean, are you expecting anyone?”
“My mother,” I said. “She should be back sometime later.”
“But not soon?”
I shook my head as she grabbed my fingertips, leaned in so close I could smell her—rubber and a harsh cleaner, like bleach. She tiptoed toward me, raised up for a kiss, but I leaned away.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. “Isn’t this what you wanted?”
“No,” I said. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
I was confused. Why would Becky all of a sudden show an interest in me? We didn’t know each other. Besides the one time she had locked herself out of her apartment, we’d spoken maybe twice, curt hellos as I returned home for lunch, as she left the apartment to go grocery shopping or perhaps to a job interview, hoping to save enough money to get out of the Dot, to get away from her abusive husband. Or maybe that was it—disillusioned in her marriage, she hoped to find some sort of connection with another lonely soul, a widow. I was, if honest with myself, interested. Since Sara’s passing, I had been lonely. I missed her touch. I missed her lying next to me in bed. To feel that connection again, to be embraced by another woman, to feel wanted and needed—I yearned for that. But, then again, it didn’t feel right. I was, unbeknownst to Becky, more like her husband than she ever would’ve realized.
“There’s something you need to know,” I said. She looked up at me. Her eyes were wide and moist. “I wasn’t completely honest with you earlier.”
“Oh?”
“I did hurt Sara. It was an accident. I didn’t mean to hurt her. It all just happened so quickly.”
“But you said—”
“I know what I said. I lied. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
She jerked her hands from mine and backed away. “I’ve got to go.”
“Wait. Let me explain. Please—”
But she didn’t. She didn’t even look over her shoulder. She just ran, slamming the door behind her.
Sara stewed over in the corner, acting like she was perusing the Brinkman’s family pictures when really, Coulter knew, she was finding an excuse to leave. She touched everything. She wiped her fingers across picture frames, the spines of physics volumes and scientific journals, over knick-knacks, a leather globe, a bust of Isaac Newton, and Coulter could not have been more embarrassed. The Brinkmans had gone out of their way to make her feel welcome here and yet Sara couldn’t even summon the decency to formulate a sincere thank you. When they’d arrived an hour earlier, Sara didn’t even shake their hands, opting instead to keep her arms wrapped around her pregnant belly, as if shielding herself. “Thanks for throwing a shower,” she’d said. “This means a lot.” Mrs. Brinkman smiled awkwardly at her, discomfited, afraid she may have overstepped her bounds. Coulter didn’t know what to say, ashamed at his wife’s audacity, at her complete disregard for even the slightest hint of social convention—she could, if she really wanted to, at least fake her appreciation. That would not be too much to ask.
Occasionally, another guest approached her. They told her she looked radiant from the soon-to-be-mother’s glow and asked to touch her belly. “It’s just a miracle,” they said, and Sara grimaced at the touch of their fingers, how they seemed to think it was all right to grope her just because she was pregnant. Coulter didn’t blame her for that feeling, but he didn’t understand why she didn’t just decline when they asked. It was almost as if she enjoyed getting angrier after each encounter, her blouse getting stained by potato chip grease, like she was a martyr, worthy of everyone’s sympathy.
After cocktails, three scotches for Coulter and a Shirley Temple for Sara, Mrs. Brinkman announced that they were to play a little game and directed everyone into the den. The guests sat around the perimeter of the room, alternating men and women, in sofas and folding chairs and end tables, while Sara and Coulter took center stage in two brassbuckled, high-winged thrones. Mrs. Brinkman glided around the room handing out paper and pencils, explaining the rules of the game, “It’s a bit like twenty questions,” she said. “Each one of us will take turns asking the couple questions about the baby’s name, if it was named after a family member, how many consonants does it contain, what is the country of origin, et cetera, and then once everyone has asked a question, write down your guess on your piece of paper.” Sara shifted in her seat, the leather squeaking underneath her weight like the low rumble of a combustion engine, straining to catch fire. They hadn’t told anyone the name yet, Isaac, not necessarily for any type of surprise factor, but instead because Sara still hoped, Coulter knew, to change his mind. Not able to come to consensus when they’d picked, they’d drawn the name out of a hat stuffed with their favorite choices. He’d only put the one in there whereas Sara had chosen five: Oscar, James, Finnigan, Milton, and Reese. “That’s impossible,” she’d said after he’d drawn Isaac. “You must have cheated.”
Once everyone was settled with supplies, the game begun. The first questioner was Darrin, a fellow PhD candidate. He was an arrogant type, prone to long-winded monologues concerning dark matter and the cosmological constant—his dissertation set about to prove the existence of dark matter through observation of its effects on celestial bodies, much like how evidence began to accumulate regarding black holes. It was not a novel dissertation by any means, with groups across the globe already mired in simi
lar research, but the way he talked about it, everyone would be led to believe that he alone had thought of the strategy and that he would, in just a matter of a few short years, win the Nobel. Coulter hated him and couldn’t understand why he’d even bothered to show—he had never once, that Coulter could remember, said anything nice to him.
“What does the name rhyme with?” he asked.
Coulter had to think about this. Isaac. Lizek. Berserk. Fizac. He could not think of any words off the top of his head. It was an odd name in that consideration; it didn’t sound like any other word Coulter could think of. This fact made him proud, as if his unborn son was unique in some way, extraordinary amidst legions of the ordinary.
“Gilligan,” Sara said. “It rhymes with Gilligan.”
Confused, Coulter peered at Sara. She seemed inordinately pleased with herself, like she had just extorted valuables from a sworn enemy, and then it dawned on Coulter: she was playing the game as if the name was actually Finnigan, not Isaac.
The next questioner readied her question. Coulter didn’t know this guest, probably a date of one of the other attendees. She was middle-aged, her hair dyed an unnatural black, perhaps a faculty member’s wife.
“I don’t know,” she said. “There’re just so many questions to ask.”
“Anything,” Mrs. Brinkman said. “Ask anything at all.”
“Okay,” the woman said, she tapped her paper with the pencil eraser. “Is the baby named after anyone in particular?”
“Yes,” Coulter answered quickly. “After a scientist who taught at Cambridge.”
The attendees each wrote down the answer, and Sara seemed unfazed, sitting upright and stately, as if accepting the challenge.
The next questioner was Dr. Brinkman. He seemed confused by the two answers thus far, puckering his lips in deep thought, attempting to catalogue all the famous professors he knew who had taught at Cambridge. “What field did this scientist specialize in?” he asked.
“Zoology,” Sara answered. “He studied the masturbatory habits of primates.”
“I see,” Dr. Brinkman said, not writing down the answer.
Next was Dr. Cardoza, she holding back her desire to laugh at Sara’s answer. “An interesting field,” she said.
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