by Joan Hess
“So you are a widow,” Zeno said, turning back to me. “It is a crime against nature for a woman to sleep alone, you know. This is what my grandfather told me when I became a man.” He shoved back his hair and gave me a disconcertingly wicked grin. “Or maybe it’s a line from a movie. Who cares?”
“Why do you say I’m a widow?”
“I love women, from rosy little babies to the oldest crones with hunched backs and gnarled hands. I study them very closely. Women are more complex than men, more analytical, more likely to allow an occasional glimpse of their souls. Also, Miss Parchester told me the tragic story of how your husband was killed in a collision with a chicken truck. I wept as I envisioned the bloodstained feathers fluttering down the desolate mountain road.”
Before I could respond, Miss Parchester returned empty-handed. “I can’t think where else to look, Zeno,” she said. “I’m sure I have one somewhere, but it’s been years since I last saw it.”
He put his hands on her shoulders and kissed the tip of her nose. “Don’t worry, my darling. After all, art should be spontaneous, and it has been dictated by fate that I shall have only one stereo speaker today. Tomorrow I may have two, three, or even a hundred!”
He bounded out the door.
“Goodness,” I said as I sank down on the sofa and took a sip of cold tea. “He’s energetic, isn’t he?”
Caron snorted. “If you ask me, he’s psychotic. He just admitted he doesn’t know the difference between real life and the movies.” She flung herself beside me and continued making vulgar noises to express her low opinion of Zeno, or, more probably, adults in general.
“I’m glad I don’t live near him,” Inez contributed, her eyes as wide as I’d ever seen them. “Does he always just barge in like that, Miss Parchester?”
“He said that doorbells limit the spontaneity of the encounter, since both parties are warned in advance. Zeno is enamored of spontaneity, among other things. It’s refreshing, but also tiresome. There have been times after his visits when I’ve taken to my bed to recuperate, or been obliged to pour myself a glass of elderberry wine.”
I didn’t point out that she found other occasions to seek solace in the bottle, one of which had required some dedicated sleuthing on my part. “I guess we’d better see what Zeno is doing,” I said as I stood up.
We were thanking Miss Parchester again when the doorbell rang. It’s possible that at least one of us flinched, but the door stayed shut as Miss Parchester went across the room. She opened it, then gasped and stumbled backward, knocking over a pile of old yearbooks and a spindly floor lamp.
A young woman stood on the porch. Her streaky blond hair was cropped at odd angles, reminding me of the roof of a thatched cottage—after a windstorm. Her eyes were large and dark, her lashes thick with mascara, her mouth caked with scarlet lipstick. Her ample body was flawless except for a few freckles scattered on her shoulders and a puckery white scar that might have come from an appendectomy.
I could arrive at this judgment at the approximate speed of light because she was wearing only the bottom half of a string bikini and silky pink tassels on her breasts.