by Sue Grafton
As for the laundry, she’d insisted the hospital gowns were fine, not wanting to make more work for him when he was already strapped for time, but he’d seen how much happier she was in her own cotton nightie and robe. Now and then she even managed to put on her slippers and venture down the hall to visit the pastor’s mother, who was laid up with a broken hip.
Rudy greeted him when he entered the shop. He was finishing up a shave on the fella ahead of him, so Jake waited his turn. He took a seat in the barber chair. Rudy wrapped a paper band around his neck and then secured a cape over his shoulders. The two scarcely exchanged a word. Rudy had been cutting his hair for the past twenty-seven years and didn’t need advice. Jake flapped open the paper, skimming for information about the coming three-day weekend. He wasn’t much interested in the Fourth of July folderol, but Mary Hairl wanted the kids to enjoy themselves. Steve was old enough to entertain himself—which in fact he preferred to do—but Tannie was another matter. Jake thought he might take her to the annual Fourth of July Rodeo Parade in Lompoc, where the Santa Maria Valley Roping and Riding Club would be performing. His choices for the fireworks show were the Elks Field at 8:30 Saturday night or the little park in Silas, which was closer to home. He planned to take a picnic supper. He didn’t know how to cook, but his thought was to buy some hot dog buns and weenies that he could roast on one of the charcoal barbecue grills that dotted the park. He could buy potato salad and baked beans at the market and maybe candy bars for dessert.
As he flipped past the society news, Livia Cramer’s name caught his eye. Mrs. Livia Cramer had been the hostess of a home-demonstration party, at which prizes had been given to Miss Juanita Chalmers, Miss Miriam Berkeley, Mrs. R. H. Hudson, and Mrs. P. T. York. Refreshments of pizza pie and cake were served. Now why that was newsworthy was beyond him, but he knew she’d be full of herself at the attention. Livia was pretentious enough as it was. He was tempted to carry the article up to the hospital to Mary Hairl, but if he tried poking fun at the woman, Mary Hairl would only come to her defense. Livia was panting for the day when she could palm off that hulking child of hers on some poor unsuspecting chump. With all the prattling about the engagement party, bridal showers, the wedding, the reception, talk of the gown, the flowers, and the honeymoon details, Livia would have her name and likeness splashed across the society pages for a year and a half. Assuming anyone would have the girl.
He read the comics—Nancy, Freckles, Gordo, and Alley Oop—which he never thought were funny but couldn’t bear to miss. Then he checked the baseball scores and farm news while Rudy ran the clippers up the back of his neck. He drove home smelling like talcum powder. Despite Rudy’s best efforts, his back and neck were already feeling itchy from the newly trimmed hairs that had slipped down his collar.
Once home, he stripped off his work boots, Sears shirt, and overalls, and ran water in the shower. While he waited for the hot water to come through, he put his clothes in the hamper, and as he passed the bathroom mirror, he glimpsed the scabbed-over claw marks Violet Sullivan had left on his back not four days before. He stepped into the shower, feeling both appalled and aroused. If anyone else saw the marks his goose would be cooked. He was always surprised by the damage she managed to inflict. She was small, no bigger than a girl, all energy and sass, red hair hanging halfway down her back, with a waviness that made a pattern when he lifted it from her neck. He liked to thread his fingers through its thickness, grab a fistful of hair, and pull her head back so hard her mouth would come open with surprise. He’d run a rough palm across her breasts and down the length of her spine while she shuddered with desire. He’d never known a woman like her, so savage and so insatiable. She wore a delicate violet perfume, her trademark she said. She dressed in purple and lavender, sometimes a dark vivid green that set her green eyes afire. The fabrics were soft and clung to the front of her legs, making a crackling sound when he pulled the skirt away from her thighs.
He’d never cared for violets himself. Weeds, to his way of thinking, taking over the lawn. Mary Hairl loved them, the white ones in particular, and she fussed at Jake every time he threatened to spray. He couldn’t see the point in letting something wild and uncontrollable encroach on the grass. That spring, which he knew now would be Mary Hairl’s last, he’d lain facedown among the violets, letting the light, sweet scent saturate his skin. He’d run his hand across the dark green leaves, snatching up the blossoms in the much same way he’d torn into Violet the last time they met. The motel carpeting had a strange metallic smell that he associated with their sex.
At the hospital the night before, he found himself ruminating on the differences between the two women. Of late, Mary Hairl’s eyes had begun to look sunken, hollow, smudged dark, and Jake felt as guilty as if he’d struck her. He’d been patient and tender, dogged in his attentions, but his brain had disconnected, returning to Violet in spite of his best intentions. While he’d dabbed Mary Hairl’s face with a damp cloth, he’d be thinking about Violet, the last time they’d been to bed, the ferocity with which she bit and sucked at him, clinging like a woman drowning among the bedsheets. She could tease, withhold, letting her red hair sweep over his thighs while he struggled for control, thrusting himself toward her. Violet would pull away, smiling, her eyes glittering. She’d lick the length of him, and he knew he’d never learn to stifle his groan when she finally took him in her mouth.
He looked down. Mary Hairl had asked for ice water, which Jake went to fetch for her, replenishing her glass. She was thirsty, as trusting as a child, sucking at the clear bent glass straw that he held to her lips. She murmured a thank you and lay back against the pillows. He knew he couldn’t go on with Violet. Every other day he’d decide he had to break it off, but each time the opportunity presented itself, he’d think Once more…just once more, and then he’d hope to find the strength necessary to sever the relationship.
There was a weight in his chest, a heaviness reminding him of all he’d betrayed. Sometimes the anxiety was so intense he felt sick. He was grateful to Violet. He’d always be grateful for what he’d learned. She’d brought him to life after years of ministering to Mary Hairl’s pain. If Mary Hairl would go—if she’d only get on with it—he knew the suffocating sense of desperation would pass. At the same time, though he could barely admit it to himself, he harbored the fantasy that with his wife gone, Violet might become a permanent part of his life, filling the void that Mary Hairl had left.
He turned off the shower knobs with a screech, stepped out, and then dried himself off. He dressed, pulling on the jeans he’d hung on a peg behind his closet door. He picked up the bundle of Mary Hairl’s soiled nightclothes and moved into the mud room, where he’d hooked up the washer and dryer. He opened the washer lid and found himself staring down at the tight coil of wet clothes he’d neglected to remove. He couldn’t remember running a load, but when he pulled out the first article, he realized it was Mary Hairl’s laundry from the week before. The clothes were still damp and now smelled of mildew because the garments had sat so long. How could he have done such a thing? Bringing Mary Hairl clean clothes was something he’d taken on to demonstrate his care and concern. She’d never mentioned the fact that he’d failed to return her nighties and her step-ins. What had she worn all week?
Face burning, he started the load again, adding this week’s clothing to the one before, hoping that a strong dose of soap powder would eliminate the rank odor of wet cotton gone sour. He went into the bedroom and opened Mary Hairl’s dresser drawer, relieved to see she had plenty of other nighties. Everything was neatly folded, a plain virginal white. He pulled out four nightgowns and piled six pairs of step-ins on top. He hesitated and then laid the pile on top of the dresser.
He went through the remaining drawers, searching her belongings, something he’d never dreamed of doing before this moment. He wasn’t sure what compelled him to forage among her things. Perhaps some morbid curiosity about the personal effects it would soon be his job to pack up and give away. What
did he hope to find? A dildo, evidence of some hidden vice—drink, kleptomania, pornography? He knew, without having to look, that the dresses hanging in her closet were washed colorless, starched and fastidiously ironed. Why did this generate such anger in him? Why was his life filled with degradation while hers was so barren and apologetic?
In the second drawer from the bottom, hidden under her cotton slips, he saw the corner of a bright yellow box. He moved the slips aside. The drawer was lined with unopened gift sets of Jean Naté After Bath Splash and Cologne. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d thought of giving her anything else. Why would he? Birthdays, she always asked for Jean Naté. He thought she loved it. Opening his gift, which he inevitably prevailed on the clerk to wrap, she’d seemed pleased and surprised, her appreciation sounding so heartfelt that he hadn’t thought to question her sincerity. Christmas meant nothing to him. They gave gifts to the children, but the exchanging of gifts between the two of them felt awkward so now they skipped the practice on mutual agreement. Or so he’d assumed.
Seeing the Jean Naté, he was deeply ashamed. He’d been complacent about her, so oblivious that it hadn’t occurred to him to give her anything more personal, lavish, or spontaneous. He was embarrassed that she hadn’t felt comfortable telling him the truth, that she’d thought so little of herself she hadn’t been able to ask for what she wanted. She probably didn’t even know what that was. By her birthday, which would fall on September 12, she’d be gone, and in a flash it occurred to him that if he’d betrayed the marriage, so had she. The difference was that she’d die being thought of as saintly and good, and he’d be forced to live on without her, burdened by rage, corruption, and guilt. He might be a man without character, but she was a woman without courage. Of the two, which was worse?
Once the laundry was done, he left the house and drove to Serena Station. It was only 10:35 in the morning, but BW opened the Blue Moon at 9:00. There was no explanation for the absurdity of the hour. The place sat empty most of the day, half dark, door open, as cool and welcoming as a church. He parked and went in. At a table to one side, Winston Smith sat by himself, his back to the bar, his expression withdrawn. He had a Miller beer in front of him, though Jake knew for a fact he wasn’t legally of age. Given his dark mood, maybe BW had taken pity on the boy, figuring he’d take his chances with the ABC agent, who’d been in the week before.
Jake took a seat at the bar and BW set a Blatz in front of him. Jake knew Violet stopped by two and three times a week after Foley left for work. He hadn’t seen her since Sunday, but he needed to talk to her before he lost his resolve. Sure enough, she walked in twenty minutes later. Winston, in the process of ordering another beer, turned and stared at her sullenly. “I need to talk to you.”
Violet paused by his table. “So talk.”
“Please join me,” he said. He was speaking with care, but Jake noticed that his consonants had turned soft around the edges. Violet sat down. Whatever Winston had to say to her, he kept his voice low, and Violet’s expression never registered more than bemusement. Finally, she leaned forward. Her reply was inaudible, but whatever she’d said, Winston seemed taken aback. She got up and moved to the far end of the bar.
Winston said, “Bitch,” to himself.
Jake looked from the boy to BW. “What’s his deal?”
BW glanced at Winston. “Kid lost his job.”
BW moved to Violet’s end of the bar. She ordered and Jake watched while BW poured her a glass of red wine. Jake picked up his beer, walked the length of the bar, and took the stool next to hers. He waited until BW put the wineglass in front of her.
“I’ll take care of it,” Jake said. BW went to the cash register and punched in the charge, adding it to his tab, then disappeared into the back room to leave the two of them alone. Jake had thought he’d feel anxious about what he had to do, but he found himself regarding her with fondness. “I thought I’d see you yesterday afternoon.”
“Something came up. I had business to take care of.”
“I wasn’t complaining.”
“It sure sounded like that to me. If you’re here to whine, don’t bother. I already had a big dose of self-pity from Winston.”
“Why’s he so mad?”
“Because he’s a jerk. Know what he said? He wanted me to lend him the money for his college tuition. Can you picture it? The nerve! I said, ‘Why would I do that? What do I look like, a damn bank manager? I wouldn’t lend you a dime if my life depended on it, you little creep.’”
“You’re always talking about your money. Maybe he thought you’d be willing to help.”
“Yeah, well, any money I have is mine and I’m not giving it away. So what are you doing here?”
“We need to talk.”
“That’s what he said. About what?”
Jake lowered his voice. “I know you’ve been pulling away. It’s been going on for weeks and it’s okay. I don’t want you to feel bad. That’s all I want to say. It’s probably for the best and so be it.”
Violet’s tone was flat. “I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”
“Feels to me like you’ve gone and found someone else.”
“What if I have? I can’t count on you, that’s for damn sure. You’ve got Mary Hairl and I’m out here in the cold trying to look after myself. I need to get the hell out of Dodge and what do you have to offer? Nothing. A big fat zero.”
“I’m not blaming you, I swear. I know I don’t have anything to offer and I’m sorry about that because I’d help if I could. I guess the best we can say is we never made each other any promises.”
She turned and squinted at him. “Wait a minute, what is this? Are you breaking it off?”
He motioned a palm flat against the air, trying to get her to lower her voice. “I’d just like to be a good husband to Mary Hairl in whatever time she has left. You think I want to do this? You’re all I’ve thought about for months. For a while, I didn’t see how I could live without you. Even now, I’m not sure how I’ll make it. As much as you’ve meant…”
“As much as I’ve meant? I couldn’t have meant much if you’re chucking me aside like a piece of garbage. What’s the problem, wasn’t I good enough? You sure took advantage while it suited you, you dumb fuck, and now that you’re tired of me—”
“Don’t say things like that. You know how it was. Both of us were hurting so we helped each other out. I’m grateful for that, but you need something better and it seems like you found it. I just want you to know that I’m happy for you and wishing you the best.”
“Well, that’s damn generous. You’re wishing me the best. Wonder what you’ll wish for when Foley finds out.”
He could feel his heart skip and all the warm feelings drained away. “Let’s hope that never happens for your sake as well as mine.”
“Oh, it’ll happen all right. You know how I know?” She glanced at her watch. “Because about six o’clock tonight, minute he gets home, I’ll have an attack of conscience and ’fess right up. I’ll tell him how shocked and appalled I was when you forced your unwanted sexual attentions on me and how poor Mary Hairl has no idea you’re strutting around with a big old hard-on, rubbing up against every woman who walks by.”
“Oh, don’t do that.” His tone sounded plaintive, even to his own ears.
“Why not? I gotta protect myself.”
“He’s not going to believe you. Why would he take your word for anything? God only knows how many guys you’ve screwed—”
Violet picked up her wine and flung it in his face, then tossed the glass aside. It hit the floor, bounced once, and smashed. She took up her purse and walked out without looking back. Winston turned his head, watching her departure, and then his gaze traveled back to the bar, where Jake sat as though shot, his heart pounding at the shock. The jolt of lukewarm red wine had drenched his face and soaked into the front of his shirt. BW appeared from the back room. He took one look at Jake, reached for a towel, and passed it across the bar.
Jake pressed the towel against his face, wishing he could disappear. Thank god only BW and Winston were there to bear witness.
Outside he could hear the engine turn over in Foley’s rattletrap truck. Violet took off with a squeal, throwing up gravel against the underside with a rapid rata-tat-tat. He could feel the panic mount his frame. Surely she wouldn’t do anything so dangerous as to tell Foley about him. He knew she was furious, but she’d taken it the wrong way. He wasn’t rejecting her, he was setting her free.
He looked up as Tom Padgett appeared in the door. Tom was staring back over his shoulder, the light glinting off his glasses. He brought his gaze around to the scene in front of him: Jake’s shirt soaked, Winston drunk, BW behind the bar, looking rooted in place. “What the hell is going on?”
Jake tried calling Violet twice on Thursday afternoon, but the phone rang and rang, apparently to an empty house. The third time he called, Foley Sullivan picked up and Jake returned the handset to the cradle without saying a word. He spent Thursday evening at the hospital with Mary Hairl, which he hadn’t meant to do, but she seemed so pleased and grateful to see him, he nearly convinced himself that he’d done it for her. In truth, he was too anxious to stay home. A whisper of fear had settled in his gut. Violet was reckless, and he wouldn’t put it past her to bring the roof down around her head if she thought she was getting even with him. He felt safe in Mary Hairl’s company, as though in looking after her, he could look after himself. Or maybe it was more accurate to say that by staying at her side, he hoped to ward off the disaster that was heading his way.