He’d asked April what time she got off work, and she’d said, Never. Wayne had thought that was pretty funny. He’d enjoyed a good belly laugh, his beard splitting open so you could see his teeth. He had nice white teeth. April liked that about him, and the sound of his laugh, hearty and unrestrained. He had a nice smile, and the most beautiful, velvety-mauve eyes.
He’d asked her if she had a boyfriend.
Yeah, she had a boyfriend.
Wayne asked her how much money she made. Lying a little, okay, lying a lot, she told him she was pulling in two or three grand a week. Wayne asked her if she enjoyed her work. She told him that, when she’d started in the business, turning the guys on had been kind of a thrill. For the first few nights. But ever since then, she admitted, stripping had been just plain hard work. More grind than bump, you might say.
Wayne told her he needed a…
He frowned. He scratched his beard, his stubby fingers disappearing into the shrubbery right up to the first knuckle. He wore a death’s head gold ring with ruby eyes on the little finger of his left hand. April could see that he was thinking.
Housemaid and companion, that’s what she’d be. His housemaid and companion. He’d pay her a thousand a week, in cash, plus he’d put another two-fifty a week into a pension fund.
Pension fund?
For her retirement, Wayne patiently explained, in the unlikely event she ever wanted to move on.
April had to admire his attitude. She totted it up on a napkin, with a Bic pen she borrowed from a waiter.
Five thousand a month. Not exactly chickenfeed, especially since she wouldn’t be paying any taxes. Better yet, her leech boyfriend, Nicky, wouldn’t get a single penny of it.
But, housemaid? What was a housemaid, exactly?
Wayne told her she’d be doing a little bit of this and a little bit of that, and not a whole lot of anything. A pair of Finnish sisters dropped by twice a week to clean and sometimes cook. Mostly he did his eating in restaurants and he was out of town a lot.
He quaffed a pint of beer at one gulp and snapped his fingers, loud as a small-calibre gunshot, for another.
April had another question. What was a companion, exactly?
Somebody to talk to, said Wayne. Somebody to watch TV with, or maybe do a little gardening. He had a big yard, they could do some planting, daffodils or whatever…
It wasn’t, from April’s point of view, a very appetizing proposition. Wayne saw he was losing her. He said that, in daytime, they could sit out in the backyard in the shade of the weeping willow, listen to the birds and watch the horses trot down the street, clouds drifting by way up there in the blue sky. Did she like horses? It was a horsy neighbourhood, rural, in a way, zoned for pastures and barns and what have you… One of his neighbours had a couple of horses. He could buy one, if April thought she might like to ride.
April wasn’t into horses. She hadn’t been into horses when she was a little kid, and she sure as hell wasn’t into horses now. Not even to bet on them. She told Wayne she appreciated his generosity, and that he seemed like a really nice person, but it was a big step, so she’d have to think about it. His eyes darkened. He shoved his big hands deep into his beard and gave himself a vigorous, protracted scratch.
He drank another pint of beer, wiped himself clean with the back of his hand. He gave her a look that said she was making a mistake, but there was nothing he could do about it, too bad.
April said she’d see him around, she hoped he enjoyed the show. Wayne mumbled something, used his teeth to rip open a bag of cashews.
As she was turning away from him, he seemed already to have forgotten her.
April spent the rest of the night flitting from bar to bar, doing that lap-dance thing, hustling, working hard, making money. She took taxis until, finally, Nicky showed up. By then she’d worked half a dozen joints and netted one hundred and ninety dollars in tips, plus appearance money. Nicky wasn’t too impressed, but at least he didn’t slap her around or punch her.
If Wayne hadn’t been so big and so hairy and so full of confidence, she’d probably have forgotten all about him in the time it took to light a cigarette. If he hadn’t looked so deeply into her soul with his lovely, velvety-mauve eyes, she definitely would have forgotten about him by two in the morning, when she finally called it quits.
Thinking, wrongly, that the night was over…
Lewis moaned, bringing April back. Was he okay? He looked just fine to her. His forehead was damp, the roots of his dark hair lank with perspiration. He was a little pale, maybe slightly feverish. Not dying, though. No, not overdosing. She was sure he wasn’t dying, because she had taken such care to dilute the heroin.
But what if he was dying?
April leaned over Lewis. She rested her splayed hand lightly on his chest, over his heart.
Was his heart beating?
She didn’t think so. If it was, she couldn’t feel it. She pressed the side of her head against him. There it was, ba-boomp, ba-boomp.
Suddenly it stopped. She’d lost it. Where was it? April frantically moved her head around on Lewis’s quiet chest. His heart had stalled, and he seemed to have stopped breathing.
April slapped him. She pried open his mouth and clumsily blew air into his lungs.
Lewis went, murrph!
She kissed him. Spontaneously, without a moment’s thought. He had a shapely mouth. His lips were soft but firm. She liked the lingering taste of his mouthwash, toothpaste, the soft echo of her breath in his lungs, coming back at her.
But no matter how enthusiastically she kissed him, that cold fish wouldn’t kiss her back.
Frustrated, not sure whether she felt slighted or not, April gave up and went into the kitchen. Wayne had told her no drinking allowed, but she desperately needed somebody to talk to, and where was Wayne now? Probably hunkered down with his back to the wall at a corner table in some smoky, pulse-pounding, low-life bar, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his downcast mouth, as he schemed to murder somebody.
April saw him clearly. He was glowering indiscriminately out at the crowd. His meaty hands rested on the table, his thick, wrinkled, chrome-scarred fingers wrapped around a bottle of Bud Lite. The Bud’s label had been picked into a thousand tiny pieces.
Or maybe the picture was all wrong. Maybe Wayne was actually out there murdering somebody, making that long list of his just a tiny bit shorter. One thing for sure, though. Drinking or murdering, he’d have a butt hanging out of his mouth. Ambition was a major source of stress. She couldn’t blame him for falling back into the habit, especially when he was away from the comfort and relative safety of his own home.
April mixed herself a pitcher of martinis. She got a martini glass down from the cupboard, a fresh pack of contraband Marlboros from the bedroom closet. Where was her lighter? Where she’d left it. She went outside, into the gathering dusk. A slice of moon hung low in the sky. The weeping willow, in silhouette, looked like an unbelievably monstrous mushroom. April slumped into a plastic replica Adirondack chair.
Wayne, clumsily attempting to seduce her, had spoken of clouds drifting across the sky, and the soft whinnying of horses.
April liked listening to the frogs. There were ditches all along the roads. Proper ditches, deep and wide, fringed with greenery, speckled with algae that was absolutely the most fantastic shade of green. In the summer, the ditches were jam-packed with frogs. Bullfrogs, and they were the chattiest, most talkative and sociable creatures April had ever known. She loved listening to them, and she worried for them when they suddenly fell silent. There were creatures out there in the dark, predators, who loved eating frogs. Coyotes. Feral cats. Raccoons.
Not that it had anything to do with frogs, or nature in general, but April also loved watching the airplanes. The airport was only a few miles away, on the other side of the river. The planes came in from the east and from the west. During the daylight hours they were fat and ungainly; at night they were bright stars gliding out of the night. Apr
il loved the sound of them, that low, shuddery rumble that must make the frogs sit up straight, and wonder just exactly what was out there.
April smoked cigarettes and drank martinis and listened to the frogs and watched airplanes and slapped at mosquitoes until she was sick and tired of the whole show.
Chapter 8
Parker had hired a couple of guys with narrow minds and broad backs to move her few valuable pieces of furniture to Jack’s house. To the house she must soon start thinking of as her house. Willows’ nineteen-year-old son, Sean, had said he’d be home all day. But when the movers had arrived with her furniture, there was no one there. They’d waited for a while, and then unloaded the furniture and left it on the front porch. Willows and Parker had moved it inside themselves, piece by piece. Willows’ furniture had to be rearranged to accommodate the new things. It was kind of fun, or not, depending on your attitude. Willows had scraped a knuckle, and cursed.
The furniture that had been replaced by Parker’s belongings was temporarily stored in the garage. Getting everything out the door and down the steps and around the side of the house and across the lawn and through the awkwardly narrow gate and into the garage was another sweaty learning experience Willows would gladly have done without. By the time they’d finished he was bruised and bleeding, and had a minimum three-Aspirin headache. Parker, on the other hand, somehow managed to look fresh as an uncut daisy.
In the cool dimness of the garage, Willows sagged onto his suddenly retired sofa and leaned back against the lumpy cushions.
He closed his eyes, and didn’t open them until he heard the sharp hiss of a beer being opened. Parker was standing in front of him, offering him a can of Kokanee. He thanked her, rolled the cold metal across his forehead and then sipped with disciplined gentility.
‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome. I’m going to the store. Want anything?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘Don’t fall asleep, okay?’
‘Promise,’ said Willows. Parker leaned over him and kissed him on the mouth and went away.
Willows sat there, enjoying the moment. There was something very appealing about hanging around in garages. He had no idea why. Maybe it was just one of those guy things. He drank some more beer. In the middle distance, an electric lawnmower whined unsteadily.
A small brown bird flew into the garage and made an abrupt U-turn without losing speed, and went out again.
Willows realized that he had somehow become complacent about his surroundings. The house didn’t look anything like shabby, but the white trim could do with a coat of paint. Moving Parker’s furniture had allowed him to see everything with a sharpened eye. He was shocked to realize how beaten up and worn down his own furniture had imperceptibly become. Well, teenagers were hard on furniture. So were cats. So, for that matter, was he. Standing in the garage, he fingered a dubious stain in his sofa’s middle cushion. He and Claire were planning a garage sale, but was any of this stuff really worth anything? He’d talk it over with her. Maybe they should phone the Salvation Army or some other charitable organization, and just get rid of the stuff. He sipped at his beer until the can was empty, then shut and padlocked the garage door and strolled across the yard towards the house.
Annie was in the kitchen, making a milkshake. She’d filled a glass with chocolate ice cream and milk, and now she was mashing the ice cream with a spoon.
She smiled at her father as he entered the house. ‘Hi, Daddy, how’s it going?’
Annie had blossomed into a lovely young girl - or woman, Willows wasn’t sure how to categorize her. Annie was considerate of others and had a strong sense of herself. She continued to do well in school, had plenty of friends, and was blessed with a naturally sunny personality. But what Willows most admired about her was her social conscience. Annie knew right from wrong. She had powerful convictions, and wasn’t afraid to speak up and defend them.
Despite all that, she was still a teenager, inescapably crammed full of conflicting emotions, and an equally overwhelming need for the twin demons of security and independence.
Willows returned her smile. ‘Hi, honey. Home from school already?’
Annie licked her spoon clean and pointed at the wall clock above the refrigerator. ‘It’s way past five, Daddy.’
Time flew, when you were humping worn-out furniture. Willows resisted the temptation to ask Annie why she was so late getting home from school. Probably she was cramming for a quiz or an exam. No, now he remembered why she’d come home late.
He said, ‘How’d your sax lesson go?’
Annie shrugged. ‘Okay, I guess.’ She grinned impishly. ‘It’s harder than it sounds.’
‘You ought to start taping episodes of The Simpsons. You might pick up some hints from Lisa.’
‘Thanks a lot, Dad.’
‘You’re welcome. I don’t suppose Claire’s back yet?’
‘Where’d she go?’ The cop’s daughter, already an expert at casual interrogation.
‘Out,’ said Willows. ‘I take it she’s still there?’
‘Don’t ask me. I just got here.’ Annie drank some milkshake, licked her lips. ‘Sean phoned. He said he’s sorry he wasn’t there when the moving guys showed up; he had an appointment with Dr. Foster that he’d forgotten about.’
Willows nodded his thanks. Almost a year ago to the day, Sean had been shot during an armed robbery at the convenience store where he was working the graveyard shift. The wound had caused serious bone and tissue loss and extensive nerve damage. Sean’s outpatient therapy had recently been reduced to one session a week. His doctor, a sports-medicine specialist, had worked up a series of muscle-strengthening physical exercises, and saw him regularly. Willows said, ‘I’m going to take a quick shower. If Claire gets home, tell her we’re going out for supper.’
‘Where?’
‘I don’t know, I hadn’t really thought about it.’ Willows made a production of thinking about it now. He folded his arms across his chest, rested his chin in his hand, and frowned heavily. Annie rolled her eyes. He said, ‘You in the mood for Chinese food?’
‘Sure!’ Annie’s face lit up. She was a big fan of stir-fried rice, Szechwan ginger beef, lemon chicken, hot pots… All the usual suspects.
*
In the shower, as the steaming water beat down on his aching back, Willows decided, not for the first time, that he wasn’t getting enough exercise. He’d carried his half of a sofa the length of the backyard and his back hurt like hell. Claire, on the other hand, had gone off to the store whistling cheerfully, not a hair out of place. There was an eight-year difference in their ages. From where he was standing right that moment, it looked as if the gap was widening. Not that he was flabby, or even overweight. It was just that he lacked tone. At least he wasn’t losing his hair, thank God. He wasn’t really growing old. All he needed was a little more fresh air, and regular exercise.
Downstairs, the front door banged shut.
Sean.
He adjusted the temperature of the water so it was a few degrees hotter, and turned so he was standing directly beneath the spray. Where was Claire?
*
Parker was on her way back from the local greengrocer’s, where she’d bought two bouquets of flowers: five virginal white and five passionate red tulips. She’d paid for the flowers, tucked them under her arm and walked out of the store and suddenly found herself trembling uncontrollably. She recognized immediately that she was suffering from an acute nervous reaction brought on by the simple act of buying the flowers. The tulips were symbolic of her love, and her deep commitment to Jack.
Fine, but what was she committing herself to, exactly?
Jack’s children, Sean and Annie, seemed to have weathered the divorce. But they still had a lot of growing up to do. Sean was still recovering from the trauma of being shot and nearly killed, and he had a long way to go, years and years perhaps, until he was fully recovered from his physical and emotional wounds. Annie was a sweet chi
ld, but she was going to be a handful in the next few years. Much worse, Jack couldn’t see it coming. Parker wondered how much divorce-related ‘acting out’ Annie was going to do, and how much of her anger would be aimed at Parker.
But all of that was relatively small potatoes. Parker loved Annie, and Sean, as if they were her own children. There was no doubt in her mind that she’d be able to handle any problems that came up. The children she was truly concerned about were the ones she wanted to have with Jack. Unbelievably, she had committed herself to buying a half-share of his house, and living with him, without settling the incredibly crucial issue of children. It wasn’t that Jack didn’t want more children. On the contrary, sort of. Theoretically, he was all for it. The problem was, when. Parker was in her mid-thirties. Her biological clock was steadily ticking away. She’d read about women who’d given birth in their early fifties, but she didn’t want to be in her mid-sixties when her surly teenage child turned on her. The sooner the better, that was the way she felt about it. The clock was ticking, and who could say with any degree of certainty when the alarm might go off? She wanted children. Two, at least, and preferably four or five. No, that was too many. Three, then.
She wanted to make love to Jack and not have to worry about the time of month, dependability of contraceptives, the risk of pregnancy.
She wanted to be pregnant. She wanted to experience all the joys and sorrows of motherhood. Well, Jack certainly knew how she felt, all her matronly ambitions. She’d made it clear to him. But, so what? She had to tell him again, be gently forceful with him, help him reach the decision they’d both, in the long run, be happiest with.
In the car, Parker took a small mirror from her purse and checked her lipstick. Six months ago, she’d carelessly dropped her holstered Glock into her purse. The heavy pistol had cracked the mirror’s fake tortoiseshell frame and chipped the glass. Every time she used it, she swore she’d buy a new one the first chance she got. There was a Shoppers Drug Mart only a few blocks away. Why not now?
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