Carrie Thrush knocked on the door, and she was barely bending over Marie when the EMTs got there.
As I let them in, the door across the hall and to the back opened, and Becca Whitley looked out. She was dressed to kill, in tailored red slacks and a black sweater.
“The old lady?” she asked me.
I nodded.
“She having a crisis?”
“She died.”
“Should I call someone?”
“Yes. Her son, Chuck. The phone number is right here.” While Carrie and the EMTs consulted over Mrs. Hofstettler and then loaded her onto a gurney, I fetched the pad of telephone numbers the old lady had kept by the living room phone, and handed it to Becca Whitley.
I was relieved beyond words to be spared calling Chuck, not only because I didn’t like him but because I was feeling guilt. As Marie was wheeled out to the ambulance, I thought of the things I should have done; I should have called Carrie, or 911, immediately, called Marie’s best friend—the older Mrs. Winthrop, Arnita—and then talked Marie into wanting to go on. But Marie had been in more and more pain, more and more dependent, the past few months. There’d been many days I’d had to dress her, and times I wasn’t scheduled to come and found later she’d stayed in bed all day because she couldn’t do otherwise. She’d refused her son’s proposal to move her to a nursing home, she’d refused to have a nurse in the apartment, and she’d made up her own mind when to let go.
Suddenly I realized how much I would miss Mrs. Hofstettler, and the impact of witnessing her death hit me broadside. I sat down on the stairs up to the second floor’s four apartments, sat down and felt the wetness on my cheeks.
“I got Chuck’s wife,” Becca said. She was in her stocking feet, I noticed, trying to figure out how she’d crept up on me. “She didn’t exactly sound torn up.”
I didn’t look up at her.
“They wrote her off a few years ago,” I said flatly.
“You’re not in her will, are you?” Becca asked me, her voice calm.
“I hope not.” And then I did look up at her, and she stared back at me with her contact-blue eyes, and after a minute she nodded and went back into her place.
I WAS SCARED to finish my work in Mrs. Hofstettler’s apartment without permission. If anyone came asking me questions about her death, I didn’t want my staying to clean afterward to look suspicious, as though I was clearing away evidence or stealing valuables. So I locked the door behind me, and turned my key over to Becca, who took it without comment.
As her own door closed behind me, I heard another one above me slam shut. I looked up the stairs. Down came the man who’d rented Norvel Whitbread’s apartment, the man who’d come into the Winthrops’ with Howell the day before. He was maybe my age, I now conjectured, about five foot ten, with a prominent straight nose, straight black brows over those hazel eyes. Again, his hair was pulled back in a ponytail. He had narrow, finely chiseled lips and a strong chin. There was a thin scar, slightly puckered, running from the hairline by his right eye down to his jaw. He was wearing an ancient leather jacket, dark green flannel shirt, and jeans.
I was able to take all this in so minutely because he stopped at the bottom of the stairs and looked at me for a long moment.
“You’ve been crying,” he said finally. “You all right?”
“I don’t cry,” I said furiously and absurdly. I met his eyes. It seemed to me I was full of fear; it seemed to me I could feel something inside me cracking.
He raised his straight brows, stared for an instant longer, and then went past me, out the back door to the tenants’ parking area. The door didn’t sigh shut for a long moment. I could see that he sat in his car for a beat or two before he pulled out of his space and drove away.
MRS. HOFSTETTLER’S FUNERAL was Monday, quick work even for Shakespeare. She’d planned the service two years before; I remembered the Episcopal priest, a tiny man almost as old as Marie, coming by to talk to her about it.
I hadn’t entered a church in years, so I had a long struggle with myself. I’d already said good-bye to Marie, but it came to me very strongly that she would have wanted me to be at the funeral.
Stiffly, reluctantly, I called two of my Monday afternoon regulars to reschedule. I brushed and pressed my long-stored expensive black suit (which I’d retained from my former life as being all-purpose). I’d bought a pair of pantyhose, and now I wriggled into the nasty things. Grimacing with distaste, I slid my feet into high-heeled black pumps. Two of my scars were visible, thin and white, because of the square neckline of the suit. I was so pale that the scars weren’t conspicuous, I decided; anyway, there was nothing to be done about it. I wasn’t about to buy another dress. This one still fit, but not exactly the way it used to. Working out so consistently had resculpted my body.
The black suit seemed dreary unadorned, so I put my grandmother’s diamond earrings in my ears, and added her diamond bar pin to the ensemble. I still had a good black purse; like the suit, it was a relic of my former life.
Shakespeare police always escort local funerals, and one of the cars is always stationed at the church. I hadn’t anticipated this, especially that the police car attending to the church traffic would be manned by Claude. He watched me get out of my Skylark, and stood drop-jawed as I came down the sidewalk to enter the church.
“Lily, you look beautiful,” he said, unflatteringly amazed. “I’ve never seen you dressed up before.”
I shot him a glance and passed in to the warm dimness of tiny Saint Stephen’s. The dark old Episcopal church was absolutely jam-packed with friends and connections from Marie Hofstettler’s long life; her contemporaries, their children, other members of the church, volunteers from her favorite charity. Only two pews had been marked off at the front for the family. Chuck, now in his late fifties, was Mrs. Hofstettler’s only living child.
It was obvious what sitting room there was left should be saved for the older people who formed the majority of the mourners. I stood at the back, bowing my head as the coffin was brought in draped with the heavy church pall, staring at the sparse hair on the back of Chuck Hofstettler’s head as he followed behind the coffin. He was looking at the embroidered pall with a kind of grieved fascination. To me, the container and its contents were uninteresting. The essential Marie was elsewhere. The casket was only there to provide a focus for grief and meditation, the way a flag provided a focus for patriotic upswelling.
Marie’s best friend, Arnita Winthrop, was seated near the front of the church with her husband, Howell Sr., her son, and his wife. Old Mr. Winthrop was holding his wife’s hand. Somehow I found that touching. Beanie, chic as always, had lightened her hair a couple of shades, I noticed. Beanie and Howell Jr. were not holding hands.
The unfamiliar service progressed slowly. Without a prayer book, I was at a loss. There were quite a few of us standing, and more people crowded in even after the service began. It took at least five minutes for me to realize who was a little behind me. As if some inner radar had blipped, I turned my head slightly to see the man who’d come down the apartment building stairs the day Marie died, Howell’s mysterious friend.
He was as duded up as I was. He was wearing a suit with a vest, a navy-blue pinstripe. Instead of Nikes, he was shod in gleaming wing tips. His shirt was white and his tie was a conservative navy, green, and gold stripe. The black ponytail and the puckered scar contrasted oddly with the banker’s costume.
As I located him, he turned his head to look at me. Our eyes met. I looked forward again. What was he doing here? Was he some long-ago army buddy of Howell’s? Was he Howell’s bodyguard? Why would Howell Winthrop need a bodyguard?
When the interminable service was over, I left the church as quickly as I could. I refused to look around me. I climbed back into my car and went home to change and go to work. Even for Marie, I wasn’t going out to the cemetery.
When I went in to Body Time the next morning, Darcy Orchard greeted me with, “Is it true you’re working for a
nigger?”
“What?” I realized I hadn’t heard that word in years. I hadn’t missed it.
“You working for that gal who rented the house on Sycamore?”
“Yes.”
“She’s gotta be half black, Lily.”
“OK.”
“What’s she doing here in Shakespeare, she told you?”
“No.”
“Lily, it’s not my business, but it don’t look right, a white woman cleaning for a black.”
“You’re right. It’s none of your business.”
“I’ll say this for you, Lily,” Darcy said slowly. “You know how to keep your mouth shut.”
I turned to stare at Darcy. I’d been doing lat pull-downs, and I didn’t rise, just swiveled on the narrow seat. I looked at him thoroughly, from magnificent physique to acnemarked cheeks, and I looked beyond him at his shadow, Jim Box, a darker, leaner version of Darcy.
“Yes,” I said finally. “I do.”
I wondered what Darcy’s reaction would be if I told him that the last time I’d cleaned at Mookie Preston’s house, I’d found a rifle under her bed, along with a bundle of targets. Nearly every target was neatly drilled through the middle.
THE NEXT DAY I stayed at Body Time longer than I usually do. I keep Wednesday mornings open for cleaning emergencies, and the only thing I had scheduled was my semiannual turnout of Beanie Winthrop’s walk-in closet.
Bobo was working that morning, and once again he seemed depressed. Jim and Darcy were attacking triceps work with determination. They both gave me curt hellos before diving back into their schedule. I nodded back as I stretched.
Jerri Sizemore fluttered her fingers at me. I decided it must be the effect of my new outfit. I’d unbent enough to buy a pair of calf-length blue spandex workout pants and matching sports bra, but I’d mitigated the bare effect by pulling on an old cutoff T-shirt.
I finished my regular routine and decided to try some chin-ups, just to see if I could. I’d turned to face the wall instead of the room, because the T-shirt came up when I raised my arms, exposing a stretch of scarred ribs. I’d pulled over a stool to help me grip the high bar initially, but after that I’d shoved it away with a dangling foot so I wouldn’t be tempted to cheat.
The first chin-up went fairly well, and the second and third. I watched myself in the mirror on the wall, noticing with irritation that the T-shirt certainly did expose a lot of skin. I should never have listened to Bobo’s flattery.
By the fourth rep, I wouldn’t have cared if the shirt fell off, I was in so much pain. But I’d promised myself I’d do at least seven. I shut my eyes to concentrate. I whined out loud when I’d achieved the fifth, and dangled from the bar, despairing of finishing my set. I was taken by surprise when big hands gripped me at the hipbones and pushed up, providing just enough boost to enable me to finish the sixth chin-up. I lowered myself, growled, “One more,” and began to pull up again. The hands gave a trifle more boost, enabling me to accomplish the seventh.
“Done,” I said wearily. “Thanks, Bobo.” The big hands began lowering me to the stool he’d shoved back into position.
“You’re welcome,” said a voice that wasn’t Bobo’s. After a moment, his hands fell away, leaving an impression of heat on my stomach and hips.
I pivoted on the stool. My spotter had been the black-haired man. He was wearing a chopped-off gray sweatshirt and red sweatpants. He hadn’t shaved that morning.
He walked away, and began doing lunges on the other side of the room. Picking an exercise almost at random, I hooked my feet under the bar on the lat pull-down machine and did stomach crunches, my arms crossed over my chest. I kept an eye on the stranger as he did leg presses. After he’d warmed up, he pulled off his sweatshirt to reveal a red tank top and a lot of shoulder. I turned my back.
As I was leaving, I almost asked Bobo if he knew the man’s name. Then I thought, I’ll be damned if I ask anybody anything, least of all Bobo. I gathered my gym bag and my jacket and started to the door.
Marshall entered as I reached it. He threw his arm around my shoulders. I leaned away from him, startled, but he pulled me close and hugged me.
“Sorry about Marie Hofstettler,” Marshall said gently. “I know you cared about her.”
I was embarrassed at mistaking his intention, and his concern and tenderness reminded me of the reasons I’d hooked up with him initially. But I wanted him to let go. “Thanks,” I said stiffly. The black-haired man was looking at us, as he stood with Jim and Darcy, who were chattering away. It seemed to me now that something about him was familiar, an echo of long ago, from the darkest time in my life. I couldn’t quite track the trace of the memory back to its origins.
“How’s your hip been?” Marshall asked professionally.
“A little stiff,” I confessed. The kick that I’d taken in The Fight had proved to be a more troublesome injury than I’d guessed at the time. Standing on my left foot, I swung my right leg back and forth to show Marshall my range of motion. He crouched before me, watching my leg move. He told me to raise my leg sideways, like a male dog about to pee, the position the karate class assumed for side kicks. It was very uncomfortable. Marshall talked about my hip for maybe five more minutes, with other people contributing opinions and remedies like I’d asked for them.
None from the black-haired man, though he drew close to listen to the discussion, which ranged from my hip to The Fight to Lanette Glass’s civil suit to some upcoming meeting at one of the black churches.
While I showered and dressed, I thought how strange it was that this black-haired man was cropping up everywhere.
It could be a coincidence. Or maybe I was just being paranoid. He could have his eye on someone else other than me; maybe Becca Whitley? Or maybe (I brightened) the finances of the Shakespeare Combined Church had attracted the interest of some government agency? The church pastor, Brother Joel McCorkindale, had always alerted that sense in me that detected craziness, twistedness, in other people. Maybe Mr. Black Ponytail was after the good brother.
Then why the secret tryst with Howell? The black bags? I hadn’t opened the window seat when I’d been cleaning the day before, because I hadn’t any business in Howell’s study.
Of course, I could be attributing all sorts of things to a regular working guy, who also liked to keep fit, and go to funerals of old women he didn’t know, and have secret meetings with his employer.
What with Mookie Preston, Becca Whitley, and this scarred man with his long black hair, in no time at all I was going to lose my standing as the most exotic imported resident of Shakespeare.
It was a chilly day, almost visible-breath temperature. Though I don’t like to work in long sleeves, I pulled on an old turtleneck I wore when it was too cold to do without. I’d bought it before I started muscle-building, and it was tight in the neck, the shoulders, the chest, the upper arms…I shook my head at my reflection in the mirror. I looked as obvious as Becca Whitley. I’d throw it out after I wore it today, but it certainly would do to clean Beanie’s closet. I pulled on my baggy jeans and some old Converse high-tops, and after checking my mirror one more time to verify that my hair was curling and fluffy and my makeup was smooth and unobtrusive—evaluating Becca’s cosmetics had made me more aware of the dangers of overdoing it—I went out to my car.
It wouldn’t start.
“Son of a bitch,” I said, and a few more things. I raised the hood. One of the legacies of my gentle upbringing is that I don’t know shit about cars. And since I became ungentle, I have been too busy making a living to learn. I stalked back into my house and called the only mechanic I trusted in Shakespeare.
The phone was picked up to a mind-numbing blast of rap music.
“Cedric?”
“Who you want?”
“Cedric?”
“I’ll get him.”
“Hello? Who wants Big Cedric?”
“Cedric, this is Lily Bard.”
“Lily, what can I do for you this fine c
old day?”
“You can come find out what’s wrong with my car. It was running smooth this morning. Now it won’t start.”
“I won’t insult you by asking if you got gas in it.”
“I’m glad you’re not going to insult me.”
“Okay, I tell you what. I got this car up on the rack I got to finish with, then I come by. You gonna be there?”
“No, I got a job. I can walk to it. I’ll leave the keys in the car.”
“Okay, we’ll get this problem taken care of.”
“Thank you, Cedric.”
The phone went down without further ado. I sighed at the thought of the expense of fixing the car—again—on a tight budget like mine, detached the car keys from my ring and put them in the ignition, and started walking to the Winthrops’.
Nothing in Shakespeare is really far away from anything else. But it was a considerable hike to the Winthrops’ neighborhood in the northern part of town, especially in the cold.
At least it wasn’t raining.
I reminded myself of that frequently. I promised myself something extra good for lunch, maybe a whole peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich with my homemade soup. I deserved another treat, too. Maybe a new pair of boots? Nope, couldn’t do that if I had to pay for the car repairs…
Finally, about nine-thirty, I got to the Winthrops’, the jewel of the most opulent new neighborhood in Shakespeare. This neighborhood, not coincidentally, was farthest away from the southwestern black area and my own slightly-less-southern patch to the east.
The Winthrop lot was a corner lot. Today I used the kitchen door at the back of the garage, which was a wing on the side of the house opening onto Blanche Street, since I didn’t have my oil-spotting car. The front door of the house faced Amanda Street. To compensate for the small trees in front (this was a new subdivision) the landscaper had made the backyard a veritable jungle enclosed by a wooden privacy fence. There were several gates in the privacy fence, always kept carefully locked by the Winthrops so neighborhood children wouldn’t trespass for a dip in the pool or a game of hide-and-seek. The Winthrop house backed up to an equally large home that had employed the same landscape planner, so in the greener seasons their block resembled the tropical bird enclosure at a good zoo. There was a narrow alley in between the back gates of the two houses. It ran the length of the block and allowed passage for the Shakespeare garbage trucks and the lawn service that maintained almost every lawn in the neighborhood.
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