He never really finished the sentence because my hand was around his neck. I wasn’t going to strangle him, but it must have looked that way to Sandra. She was standing in the doorway with a small red tray in her thick arms. His goulash was ready.
“Scott!” she shouted at me, putting the tray down on the bed and grabbing at my arm, even though I was already letting go. Victor’s spit covered my thumb. He was doing his best to look like I was completely psychotic, coughing and turning blue as I stood up again, the camera around my neck.
“It’s all right, Sandra,” he said, cooing at her as if she were some loyal protective pet. “He’s harmless, absolutely harmless. There’s nothing to him.”
I glanced at him one more time before I left the room. In her rush to rearrange his contorted body, Sandra had knocked over his array of pill bottles. They rolled in all directions on the carpet, one thin container coming to a rest underneath the curtain, where I hoped it might always be forgotten. On the way out, unseen and harmless, I cleared my throat and spat in his steaming soup.
I could hear Sandra’s thumping footsteps as she followed me out of the room. She shouted my name as I entered the kitchen, still filled with the cloying smell of the goulash. A pale lump of leftover macaroni sat in a colander next to the sink.
When I turned toward Sandra, her face was contorted and red. She picked away a strand of blond hair from her perspiring forehead. I felt sorry for her, of course, not the sadistic prick in the other room.
“You were killing him,” she spat out, keeping her distance from me.
“I lost my patience,” I said softly. “I was actually trying to help him sit up in bed. You know how difficult he can be.”
She didn’t buy that. I could tell that much right away. I watched her turn toward the portable phone and immediately pictured her picking it up and dialing the police.
“I’d love some goulash,” I said, in a voice so plaintive it even surprised me. “I’m starving.”
Her back was still turned, and I could sense that she was still sizing me up. Was I a generally trustworthy person who’d just lost it? Would I have finished Victor off if she hadn’t heard the commotion?
“Let him rest,” she ordered, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel and then carefully folding it in half and then in quarters. “He’s scared to death. I can see it in his face.”
I offered her an apology, and then even threw in another one as she left me alone in the kitchen.
“I feel awful,” I said loudly, to no one in particular.
—
At 3:00 p.m. that day, Elise was dressed for her job interview. Jacket, skirt, boots, hair pulled back in a tight bun.
“How do I look?” she said.
“Really sharp.”
“Mastic, here I come,” she said.
I opened the front door for her and we walked to the Volvo. I was just about to kiss her goodbye and wish her good luck when she went to pieces. I hugged her as her shoulders jiggled up and down, listening to her make a crying sound I had never heard before. It almost sounded like a long, prayerful moan.
“I don’t want to work in Mastic,” she said, her words muffled against my chest, though I could feel the specific heat behind each one, puffing against my skin.
“Then don’t,” I said. “Let’s just kite checks. Steal his fucking money. Make him pay.”
This immediately cut off the moaning and bobbing. She pushed me away, and now in the draining afternoon light, I could see the inky river of mascara pooling around the corners of her eyes.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“He’s evil, Elise,” I said. “That’s probably why he’s not even dying. If he were a nice guy, he probably would have died two months ago.”
That was the moment she’d either slap me, defending the bastard, or forgive my outburst.
“I know he’s evil,” she finally said. “I just thought it was going to be over. We’d get the house.”
“It could go on for months. You heard what the doctor said.”
Don’t bet against him, the doctor had said to us in private, after a quick house call the previous evening. Even without saying a word, Elise and I turned toward each other and knew our hearts were sinking.
“Well, there’s no way out,” she said, opening the car door and climbing inside. “And maybe there’s worse things than being an assistant speech therapist at a speech rehab center in Mastic.”
“Sure,” I said, trying to look convincing, because at that precise moment I was picturing a room full of moaning adults in an industrial park and Elise cheerily trying to make the best of it with her trusty color-coded flip cards. Pictures of bicycles and mice and flowers. What vowel do you hear?
She slammed the door, waved at me, and gunned the accelerator, causing the crows that always sat in the pine tree above the driveway to reluctantly flap away, their surprisingly long wings barely beating at first.
—
As soon as Elise had been gone five minutes, I opened the door to Victor’s study, which was directly above his bedroom downstairs. Elise and I, out of curiosity, had already tried to open the safe in the closet, and failed. Short of hiring a professional safecracker, we were left only with Victor’s old business correspondence regarding the Hensu Knife. Considering it was a product that no one remembered, it was odd that he had kept photocopies of all the old print ads, and even a satchel full of VHS videotapes containing the knife’s thirty-second spots.
I was pawing through the drawer of Victor’s desk, searching for anything of value I could give to Carmelita, when I heard the muffled sound of singing downstairs. It was Sandra, cooing Victor his late-afternoon lullaby. I pictured his thin lips peacefully pressed together, his chalky hand squeezing Sandra’s fleshy thigh again.
Meanwhile, I was left staring at the magnetic orifice of an old paperclip box. I shook it a couple of times and plucked out one paperclip, unbending it until it was the length of my index finger. Flicking it on the worn carpet, I began to close the drawer when I felt something underneath. In an instant, I was on my knees, tearing off the small manila envelope that he had taped there.
It contained a single brass key that had no marking except for the words SOUTHINGTON, CONN. on the edge. As I listened to Sandra continue her lilting song downstairs, I tore through Victor’s closet again, but there was no hidden file cabinet or secret compartment. Just that safe, hidden behind the dry-cleaned jackets he’d probably never wear again.
Eventually, I told myself, I’d find the door or cabinet or shed that key unlocked, but for now I just stuffed it in my pocket and walked downstairs. I was so preoccupied by the key that I didn’t even notice Sandra until I got to the bottom step.
She had her coat on and the portable phone was in her hand.
“What’s wrong?” I said to her, ashamed that I was secretly hoping that Victor had taken a turn for the worse.
“Crumb cake!” she suddenly shouted at me with a forced smile, her eyes widening. It was like she was speaking to me in code.
“I don’t understand,” I said, but the words were barely out of my mouth before I heard Victor bark another order from the room.
“Entenmann’s!” he shouted.
“My husband is going to pick me up and drive me to the store,” Sandra said, keeping her distance from me. “You don’t have to worry about a thing.”
“Sandra,” I said, suddenly hating her for indulging every one of his whims. “You don’t have to do this. It’s probably the medication talking.”
She snorted at that though, actually turned away derisively and waited outside the door for her husband to arrive, glancing through the glass and nervously watching me on the other side. I thought I should open the door and apologize for my loss of control with Victor, but I had the feeling it was a lost cause. Her husband pulled into the driveway a few moments later. He was one of those old-school guys who smoke a pack a day. Forehead as big as a concrete pillbox, and a military crew cut to match.
The Buick was filled with trapped smoke and I could hear the strangled sound of some classic-rock song within, though he obediently turned down the radio as soon as Sandra climbed into the passenger seat. I could see Sandra shaking her head as they drove away. She was surely talking about my heartless comment about an ailing man’s afternoon wish. I watched the car speed off and then I entered Victor’s bedroom.
“I can make them do anything,” he said, as soon as I entered the room. “I could get Sandra to kill her husband. It would just take a little patience. You have to put a little thought into it.”
“She’s getting you crumb cake, Victor,” I said. “Don’t get too excited.”
But he was excited. His slender fingers clenched the top of the sheet that Sandra had lovingly pulled up to his chest, and then he yanked it down. The top of his blue pajamas was soaked with sweat, patches of the cotton turned bluer by the perspiration.
“I could teach you some things,” he said softly. “That I’ve wanted to share for years. But you’re just like them. You want to be controlled.”
I could have nodded, or laughed, or come up with an insult of my own. But I had no interest in bonding with Victor. Seeing that, he stopped grinning and reached underneath the blanket. Somehow, he had prepared another envelope, though this one was thinner. He held it in his hand, waiting for me to take it.
“Two hundred and three dollars,” he said, shaking the envelope in the air as if it were a lure. “It’s all I have until Elise drives me to the bank. I want you to give it to Carmelita.”
“Only amateurs pay people off in odd numbers, Victor,” I said, remembering the tip Elise had playfully given me.
“Who told you that?” he said, a little unnerved. “Carmelita? Tell her I’m getting better. There might be a spring fling, after all.”
“I doubt that,” I said, taking a seat in the canary-yellow chair that faced him. I noticed it was still warm and wondered if Sandra had sat here while singing, wising up to his searching fingers.
“You know nothing. You heard what the doctor said.”
“Cancer is cancer, Victor. It’s lighting you up right now, like a pinball machine. You just can’t hear all the pinging noises it’s making.”
He didn’t like that. He ran his index finger along the envelope and stared at me, his face darkened as the sun vanished for a moment outside. The light was dimming fast and I was running out of time to visit Carmelita before Elise got back from Mastic.
“Did you find anything in my study?” he said. “I heard your footsteps.”
I shook my head slowly, watched him lean forward and adjust a pillow behind his back.
“There’s a key there,” he said. “Taped under my desk. I’m sure you found it.”
“Maybe.”
“I locked her up once. I got so worried I’d lose it that I taped it there.”
“That’s bullshit,” I said.
“Is it?” he said, waving the envelope at me tauntingly again. “Why don’t you ask her?”
I stood up and faced the window. The scrub pine between the two houses was already turning a washed-out black. In Swain’s upstairs bedroom, the lights, still on a timer, popped on. I squinted, but I couldn’t make out any figure in Swain’s upstairs bedroom.
“You better be on your way,” Victor said. “Before Elise gets here. You wouldn’t want me to tell her anything behind your back.”
I snatched the envelope from his hand, but I didn’t leave right away. I got down on one knee, so he could see my face clearly.
“You’re a piece of shit,” I said softly.
“That’s all?” he said, gratified as my face flushed red with impotent anger. I stood up, though every one of my nerve endings wanted to make one decent connection and slap the smirk off his face.
“I’ll cover for you, Scott,” he said hoarsely, then broke into one of his coughing fits. “I’ve got your back.”
—
“Two hundred and three dollars,” Carmelita said, laying the crumpled bills on the coffee table.
“And he’s got a message for you,” I said, snorting out some disgusted air. “He wants you to stick around until the spring. He says he’s feeling better.”
Carmelita didn’t respond to that. She picked up the money and stuffed it in the pocket of her jeans. It was getting dark in the living room, so I reached for the lamp next to the liquor cabinet.
“Don’t do that,” she said, walking toward the sliding glass door. I could hear one of the fake leaves from the fake ficus tree crustle under her unlaced boot.
“I won’t be able to see you in another ten minutes. We’re losing light.”
“There’s a system with the timer. First the upstairs light turns on, then the one on in the kitchen, then the living room. It’s a really comforting routine.”
I couldn’t entirely make out her expression. Was she joking?
“I have a key,” I said, taking it out of my pocket. “I found it under his desk.”
“So?”
We weren’t making progress as strangers. The simple math was that she didn’t trust me.
“He says he locked you up in a closet. Is that true?”
“Maybe,” she said.
Since I was standing next to the dusty bottles of liquor, I unscrewed the cap of the bottle of crème de menthe. I took a long swig, realizing suddenly that I’d chosen the Amaretto. The fluid had turned chalky and vile, and I spat it on the floor. Outside the sliding glass door, the sun had finally set, leaving a line of dim red over the hills near the inlet.
She walked toward the kitchen, but I could only make out her silhouette now.
“This is when I usually eat,” she said.
“Eat what?”
I twisted the cap on the bottle of Amaretto and touched the other bottles, looking for something with a more familiar shape. I found what looked like a bottle of Tanqueray, and in the dim light, what I thought was greenish glass.
“The things people leave behind,” she said. “Cans of stuff. Tins of tunafish. There are other houses.” We were standing next to the bare kitchen table. I moved closer to her so I could see her face in the light that was still filtering through the room.
“You break into other places?”
“Only for food. And then there’s even a place…I don’t know if I should tell you this.”
The gin, at least, was gin. I took a healthy swallow and felt reassured as it burned all the way down to my lungs. I told her to go ahead, suddenly aware, out of the corner of my eye, that something had skittered across the floor. A mouse? A rat?
“There’s one small house on the top of the hill,” she said. “An old couple lives there year-round. They sleep like logs when they take their hearing aids out. So once I thought Why not. I undressed in their bathroom. I took a hot shower.”
I pictured an older couple, wheezing in bed, the unheard sound and unseen steam of Carmelita’s shower.
“You can take one at my house,” I said. “And you can eat whatever you want.”
She laughed at that, finishing with an amused moan.
“Does that turn you on? Allowing me the basic necessities?”
“Of course not,” I said. “I’m just trying to be a good guy.”
“What would I owe you for a hot shower and some leftovers?”
“Nothing,” I said, angry at myself for even having made the offer. Once, when I was photographing a young bride under that tree I’d staked out in Prospect Park, I had told her husband that he was making her self-conscious and had to move farther away. At first the bride had looked concerned as her husband skulked off in his blue tuxedo, eventually sitting on a park bench to anxiously smoke a cigarette. It was a small act of control that made my heart beat faster, as if I’d run two miles. It was the expression on her face that excited me, as she stood there in that cheap gauzy white dress, waiting for me to tell her exactly what to do.
“Hey, good guy,” Carmelita said, waving her hand in front of my face. She smiled to let
me know she’d let me off the hook for now. “It would never work anyway. Victor told me he’d shoot me point-blank if I ever showed up on his doorstep,” she said. “That’s the one house I leave alone.”
“Why are you scared of him?” I said, taking one more sip of the gin and wiping a warm trickle off my mouth.
“Why are you?”
There was resentment in her voice. It was a bad situation, but she wasn’t going to suffer self-righteous questions from a hypocrite. Besides that, it had long since been time to go. I had heard the sound of Elise driving up to Victor’s house. The car door slam. Even from within this mausoleum, I was aware of all of that.
“Good night,” I said. “I’ve got to go.”
There was this odd formality when I left. Carmelita always stood up and pulled open the sliding glass door, which was so stippled with rust along its track that it made an alarming racket.
Before I stepped out onto the weedy flagstones, I felt her lips against my cheek. A quick kiss followed by a teasing remark:
“It was a pleasure having you. Do you need a flashlight or can you find your way back?”
“I’m good,” I said, reflexively touching the wetness on my cheek, instantly magnified by the colder air outside.
“Can I have the key?” she said. “The one for the closet.”
“Why would you want it?”
“One less thing to worry about.”
I fished inside my pocket until I found the key.
“Unless you want to lock me up next time?”
She snatched the key from my hand and turned back toward the house before I could tell her that wasn’t my thing. I watched her pull the sliding door shut. I could barely see her beyond the darkening blue that reflected off the glass.
Twice, on my way down the gully, I looked back at Swain’s home. I thought I could see the top of Carmelita’s head, and then her whole body, turned away from me. I supposed she was fixing herself something to eat in the kitchen, or adding Victor’s stingy new bribe to some kitchen drawer. All I know is that I fell hard on my knees and elbows, snagged by a tripwire of thorns. When I finally struggled up to my feet, my wrists and face were burning. Climbing over the fence that marked the border of Victor’s property, I rolled my sleeve down to cover the fresh scrapes.
The Winter Girl Page 10