“You’re sick, see a doctor.”
“I’m not sick, May. Just not up to snuff.”
She turned on her heels. She changed her dress. She put a face on. Returning to the doorway of the den, she waved a book at him. “I never brought it back. I should have, but I didn’t, and Holly Pride’s dunning me for it.”
“Yes,” he said, “I’ve seen the notices.”
She could have walked, she usually did, but she drove to the library. When she pushed through the doors, Holly Pride, prim and correct in a lacy blouse, gave her a smile reserved for delinquents. The smile faded and an eyebrow arched at the condition of the book.
“No lecture, please. Just take the book and stamp it in.”
“It’s mildewed, and the binding’s loose. What in the world happened, Mrs. Hutchins?”
A spinster who wouldn’t say shit if she had a mouthful belonged in a library. What did she know about the trials and torments of a married woman, of the hammering forces at work in a marriage? At thirty, what did she know about being fifty? “Never should’ve taken it out in the first place. You want, I’ll pay for it.”
After a thoughtful pause, Holly reexamined the cover and the binding. “Possibly we can fix it. Did you enjoy it?”
“It wasn’t for me, you damn fool. It was for that idiot.”
Holly flushed but held on hard to her poise. “This is a book for children, Mrs. Hutchins. Not idiots.”
“Don’t tell me who it’s for. I should’ve listened to Roland.” May’s eyes were filled.
“Oh, Mrs. Hutchins, I didn’t mean to — ”
“Of course you didn’t. You don’t have the brains you were born with.” She pivoted sharply, almost too sharply, and headed toward the doors.
“Mrs. Hutchins.”
She grappled with the doors, one of which nearly struck her face. “What do you want?”
“Have a nice day.”
• • •
Harley Bodine found his daily visits to Paul Gunner’s house an increasing chore and an imposition on his thoughts. The doctor, who was leaving, the front door yanked open, said, “I’ve gone to a lot of trouble for him, all because he won’t let me move him out of that goddamn room.”
“It’s his show,” Bodine said.
“I had to turn it into an ICU.”
“It’s his money.”
“That gun of his,” the doctor said, his gray hair beaten back in an obedient way, “you’d better get rid of it.”
“What’s the danger? He can’t use it.”
The doctor plunged out the door, and Bodine proceeded to Gunner’s room, where Gunner lay like a body on water, dead man’s float. He was wired to a monitor, his heart spikes on a screen. His feeding was intravenous. Two nurses were now on hand, the second one female, neither needed for the moment. Bodine shooed them away. The Gunner boys were in the room, of negligible concern to him. He disliked one as much as the other.
“You go on now,” he said to the elder. “Take your brother with you.”
The younger, his face swollen with fright, left at once. Gustav, displaying giant curiosity and obvious concern over the incapacitated bulk of his father, did so grudgingly, suspiciously.
Bodine approached the bed. The left side of Gunner’s face, paralyzed, was aimless. Bodine had never liked him, only his money, all prudently invested, here in bonds and there in the growth industries of health care, pharmaceuticals, genetic engineering, medical equipment. The returns would last several lifetimes, but Gunner had only the one. Bodine knew why he was still alive. There was too much of him to die all at once.
Gunner’s mouth twitched. It was twisted, crippling the voice. Bodine had to lean close. “I don’t want her near the boys,” Gunner managed. The effort was not pleasant to look at, or to listen to. “She got me, she’ll go for them.”
“We’ll see that she doesn’t.”
One eye was nearly closed, the other fully open. “I want security people here.”
“I’ll arrange it.” Bodine had a crick in his neck and straightened. Gustav was listening outside the door. Bodine went to the door and closed it. When he returned to the bedside, Gunner was trying to raise his right arm, which had movement but little strength.
“Where’s my weapon?”
Bodine opened a drawer and reached in. The weight of the loaded gun frightened his hand, an impossible weight for Gunner’s. “It’s here if you need it,” he said and returned it to its place.
Gunner struggled. “I’m not going to make it.”
“Perhaps not.”
“I want you to be their guardian.”
“Of course,” Bodine said, pleased.
“Papers.”
“I’ll draw them up.”
“Witnesses.”
“We’ll have plenty.”
The door opened. The female nurse looked in, her hair a hazy bouffant. “How’s he doing?”
“I’m afraid he’s agitated,” Bodine said. “You’d better take over.”
• • •
Dudley, who seldom received a phone call, received one. Mary Williams, listening only for a moment, got up and went to her studio. Standing at a table, she turned the glossy pages of an oversize art book. Truly good paintings let you see what isn’t there. No cry is louder than Munch’s. Van Gogh saw the world as one of God’s rough sketches. Classical sculptors gave gods heroic penises to set them apart from mortal men. She closed the book and said, “What do you want, Soldier?”
He had come up quietly behind her, his jaws scented with English Leather, which was Dudley’s, not his. “Who’s he talking to?”
“That’s his business.”
Soldier stayed close. “He doesn’t like me. He doesn’t like us sleeping together.”
“Has he said anything?”
“No, but — ”
“Then forget it.” She looked toward the large windows. “If you could travel at the speed of light, Soldier, what you’d see is Picasso.”
“What’s that?”
“Everything.”
Dudley, quiet and immaculate in a white dress shirt and slacks, entered the studio. His tousled hair exhaled a fragrance, her shampoo. A private apology was in his eyes. Mary glanced at Soldier.
“Would you leave us alone, please?”
Soldier left. Opening the book she had browsed, Dudley rubbed one ankle against the other and viewed a graphic of a male figure reduced to scaffolding. Another, heartrending, depicted a mother in death and her children in agony. Mary observed him with an unsparing eye.
“You promised.”
“Don’t you understand, Mary?”
“No. If it’s Soldier, say so. I’ll send him packing now.”
“It’s not Soldier.”
Her voice bore in. “Then why are you doing this?”
“It’s what I’m good at, Mary. It’s the only thing.”
• • •
Her face embayed in a bonnet, Beverly Gunner said, “I’m quite comfortable here. It’s like I’m living in an egg.”
“But you can leave anytime.”
“Yes, but where would I go? Harley Bodine has had my clothes sent here, and I’m nicely settled in. Besides, he says if I leave I’ll be charged with grievous assault with intent to commit murder. Is that true?”
“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Chief Morgan said.
“I don’t. Not in the least.”
They were strolling the grounds under a few high-flung clouds and passed a gigantic willow full of murmurs. Birches leaned toward them. Her step was casual, Morgan’s self-conscious, as if someone were clocking him. The administrator, Mrs. Nichols, had not believed he was a policeman and demanded identification, then viewed it with suspicion. She was authority, he was not.
Beverly removed her bonnet.
“You’ve cut your hair,” he said.
“Yes, do you like it? Mrs. Williams did it for me.”
“Who’s Mrs. Williams?”
“I’m not sure you’d
like her, but she’s good to me and my mother-in-law.”
“Your mother-in-law?”
“Oh, yes. We’re both here inside the egg.”
“I’m not sure you sound happy about it.”
“But I am. I’m starting up an exercise class for some women who haven’t exerted a muscle in years. Did you know I was a physical education major?”
“I didn’t,” Morgan said with a smile. “Does that mean you didn’t shave your legs?”
She smiled back. “I feel at home with you, James. And I feel at peace here. Last night I dreamed it was a May morning and all the flowers were awake and smiling at me. My daughter was sitting among them. I woke not sad but happy.”
They reached the limits of the grounds. Vines bound a low, crumbling wall as if it were cargo. Ground ivy scrawled dark earth. Morgan gave a start when thunder cannoned out of the distance. She seemed not to hear it.
“I’ve lost the picture of that man. Dudley. Would you have another?”
“For some reason I carry one around with me.”
She took it from him, tucked in into her skirt pocket. “I watch police shows on TV. I know how to be a detective.”
The sky threatened. “We’d better turn back,” he said, and she swung her bonnet as she pivoted with him.
“You’re not afraid of a little rain, are you?”
“I don’t like electrical storms. A childhood fear, I guess.” He tried to hurry her along, but her step was programmed. She continued to swing the bonnet, which made her seem like a figure from another period.
“I could be wrong about Paul. You see, I hate him so much I blame him for everything. Actually, I hope you’ll sort it all out. I trust you to do that.”
He wished he held the same trust and was aware of a few past failures likely to haunt him the rest of his life. Their footsteps flattened the grass.
“Sometime, James, could we go out to dinner? Two friends. You see, deep down I don’t know if I can go on.”
He looked at her sharply. “But you will.”
“Yes, James, I will.”
They saw a flash of lightning, a white rope across the sky. “Give me your hand,” he said, and she did. Together they began to run.
• • •
She entered the reception area of Smith, Judkins, Hill & Hall, the decor so much more sedate and elegant than that of the law offices where her husband had a desk but with less and less to do. There, the atmosphere was of malcontents, fault finders, winners, and a few crooks. Here, an air of propriety hung heavy, which did not prevent, however, a distinguished balding gentleman from letting his attention stray to her lengthy figure. She spoke to the receptionist, a smartly dressed woman with impeccable diction, who said, “I’m sorry, but he doesn’t see anyone except by appointment.”
“Tell him,” she said, “it’s Phoebe Yarbrough.”
Moments later she entered Ira Smith’s office, his surprise evident, his graciousness more so. They sat well away from his desk in dark embroidered chairs, a low table between them. Within minutes coffee arrived. Ira poured.
“I suppose you’ve heard,” she said.
He did not feign ignorance. She’d known he wouldn’t, he wasn’t the sort. He said, “I don’t listen to stories.”
“I was Frances then. I changed it to Phoebe.”
A small assortment of pastry had come with the coffee. She shook her head when he proffered the dish, only a hint of strain in the gesture. She crossed her legs daringly.
“I had something. Why give it away? Especially when I needed tuition. I entered college late.”
He blushed. She’d known he would. No recklessness, only respectability in those horn-rimmed eyes. He was a man of the world only in the narrow sense: Harvard, the Heights, his fief-dom here, which she was sure he ruled benignly, no decapitations.
“You mustn’t think badly of me. Whores are wishing wells in which men throw pennies.”
“Why do you need to tell me any of this?” he said.
The coffee was rich and fragrant. Cream or sugar would have tainted it. “I want to divorce Myles.”
He was startled. “That’s a big step, Phoebe.”
“Please don’t question it.” She rattled the cup in the saucer, beautiful bone china. “I’d like you to be my lawyer.”
“I don’t handle divorces.”
“Make an exception. For me. Will you?”
“Myles is a brother lawyer and a neighbor. It’s really not fair of you to ask.”
“But I am.” Cup and saucer were put aside and her legs recrossed, her unshrouded past placed on the table. “Haven’t you ever wanted to throw a penny in a well, Ira?”
He was slow to answer, but the answer was firm. “I have a happy home, Phoebe. I’ve really nothing more to wish for.” His eyes went to her, those of a true gentleman. “I’m sorry.”
Uncoiling from the chair, she rose with a smile. “It’s all right. I understand.”
He walked her to the door. She’d known he would. His gaze pressed upon her. “Think twice about a divorce,” he said. “I suspect Myles needs you.”
She picked a phantom piece of lint from his finely woven lapel. “But you don’t.”
• • •
May Hutchins was glad he was outdoors. In his old coat sweater and shapeless trousers, he was puttering about in the yard. She shuddered when he started weeding a flower bed, for he was sure to pull up something he shouldn’t. He stayed at the task until lightning and thunder came out of nowhere and brought him back inside. When rain beat against the windows, she frowned at him as if it were his doing. Nerves stretched, she said, “Please go to work.”
“May, I’ve been thinking it over. I’d like to retire.”
“Good God,” she said under her breath.
The next day, Friday, the high temperatures of summer returned. Eight in the morning, Fred Fossey’s wife, Ethel, left to baby-sit for their daughter, who lived in a newly built bungalow on County Road. Mid-morning, Fossey sneaked home from the town hall and fifteen minutes later let May in through the back door, which shamed her but didn’t stop her. In the spare bedroom that had belonged to the daughter, they tumbled about in the heat, striving for more than was there. When they finished, she spun away and fought a forlorn feeling. Fossey, on his knees, said, “What’s the matter, May?”
“I like it when it’s happening, but not afterward.” An arm was flung over her eyes, a bracelet resting on her nose. “Do you have any idea what I’m talking about?”
“No, May.”
“I didn’t think so.”
The next day she went to the library, simply to get away from the house. She flipped through Cosmopolitan and Elk. When he showed up and sat across from her, she promptly moved to another table, despite Holly Pride’s lifted eyebrow and presumptuous smile, as if Holly had keyhole knowledge of her. When she was leaving, Fossey pressed a note on her, easier to take it than not. The penciled words were passionate and conciliatory. At home, she read it again and, setting the paper aflame, watched it writhe in her fingers.
Sunday, without Roland, she listened to Reverend Stottle’s sermon but didn’t believe a word of it, life being too short for so much avoidance of sin. What’s sin now might not be later. The language of Jesus, the reverend said in an aside, was Aramaic, which sounded to her like a shampoo. With other congregants she dropped to her knees to address her maker, whom she suspected had little or no interest in her.
“You want to do something for me, make me eighteen again.”
While she was picking up the Sunday papers at Tuck’s, Roland was pruning a hedge, though his crocodile arms lacked reach. Wearying of the work and of the sun on his neck, he entered the cellar through the bulkhead and returned the clippers to the proper place. Climbing stairs, he thought about things that had vanished, the soda fountain at Pearl’s Pharmacy, Jiggs and Maggie in the funny papers, the spring from his step. He was tired. In the front room he sat on the sofa and removed his shoes while awash in a tide o
f memories. Stretching out, he closed his eyes, and all in a moment his world was gone.
He lay stone still while his watch told time. Death molded his face into another self, which had little to do with what had been the live one. After eight minutes at room temperature, his brain sensed it was no longer needed and began decomposing.
May glimpsed him on the sofa, thought he was asleep, and didn’t disturb him. She lay the Sunday papers on the kitchen table and used the bathroom. Fixing the back of her hair, she was clumsy with the hand mirror and dropped it, breaking the glass, her image with it. Seven years’ bad luck. She returned to the table and read parts of the Sunday Globe.
A half hour later, she went into the front room. When she couldn’t wake him, she didn’t scream. She phoned Dr. Skinner and stood immobile near the window all the time it took him to arrive, which could not have been as long as it seemed. He was presentable. His fly was zipped.
“Nothing we can do, May.”
She didn’t quite believe him. She had thought he would administer a shot to the arm, a pound to the chest. “Are you sure?”
“He’s gone, May. He’s with God.”
Those were the lies in life one had to prepare for. She folded her arms tightly high over her chest. Dr. Skinner’s fatalistic stare was an affront to her intelligence.
“I’ll call for an ambulance,” he said and went to the telephone. When he got off it, she was tottering. “May, I’d better give you something.”
“I’m all right.” Her voice, though unnaturally high, was steady. “Does death come as a shock to the body or is it a blessing?”
“A bit of both,” Dr. Skinner replied. “The body has its own way of dealing with things.”
“Fine for him,” she said. “What about me?”
• • •
Sunday evening, tuned to the Bravo Channel, Chief Morgan watched an old French detective movie, film noir, in which a police inspector, habitually wearing a fuming cigarette on his lower lip, traced a killer of women to the depths of a public latrine, a dungeon of no return, the humid walls running with graffiti. The killer, unable to urinate in the presence of others, busied himself at a sink until he thought he had the place to himself. The inspector stood mute in a supposedly vacant stall. When he revealed himself, pistol in hand, a knife came at him like a flash of underground water. His body drank it. His cigarette clung to his lip as he fired off a single reverberating shot and collapsed outside the stall. In dubbed English, he thought of his soul as an erose leaf tearing loose from the twig. Dying on his feet, the killer pissed on him.
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