“Do you want a cup of coffee, or tea, or something?”
Camille darted a quick look at her. She could see precinct cancer microbes crawling up and down the woman’s face. Big ones. She turned away, covering Puppy’s muzzle with the edge of her blouse, then pulled her hair over her face to hide from the enemy.
The door opened. Camille didn’t move.
“Good morning.”
Camille didn’t move. That was the first lie. It wasn’t a good morning.
“How are you doing this morning?” She heard the scrape of a chair. “I’m Dr. Frank. We talked last night. Do you remember?”
“How’s Puppy this morning?”
Camille parted the curtain of her hair and peeked out. Dr. Frank was playing with the buttons of the recorder on the table. “No,” she said sharply.
He looked up. “It’s just a tape recorder. It won’t hurt you.”
“No,” she said. “No is no.”
“It’s just so we can remember what we talked about.”
“I am accused of a crime,” Camille said, the shrewdness returning to her face. “You didn’t read me my rights.”
“I’m not a policeman,” the doctor said gently. “I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m here to help find out what the truth is.”
“No one can know the truth. It’s too late.” She pushed her hair back and studied his face. “Did you know you have a mole on your face, right in the middle of your eyelid? A big black one. You can get cancer from that.”
The doctor touched his face. “Can you see it?” he asked.
“No. But I know it’s there.”
“Well, thank you for warning me. Now, can you tell me your name and where you live?”
“I’m not stupid. I did that yesterday.”
“I know you’re not stupid. If you don’t want to say your name, why don’t you write it down for me and then sign it?” He drew a three-by-five file card out of his pocket and slid it across the table. Then he found a pen in another pocket, put it down on the table.
Camille picked it up. It was a nice pen, brown and black. She took the top off and tested it on the paper. Black ink, medium point. She wrote her name and address, then added her phone number. Her handwriting was big and loopy. When she was finished, she began to decorate the edges of the card with vines and flowers. She signed it and handed it back.
“You can keep it,” she told him.
“Thank you.” He sat back in his chair. He had a black-and-white notebook. It sat on his knee. He put the card in the notebook.
“Do you know where we are?” he asked after a minute.
“The police station.”
“Do you know why we’re here?”
Camille petted Puppy very gently. She didn’t answer for a long time. Her breathing hurt. She mustn’t breathe in. “Somebody got killed,” she said finally.
“Two people.”
Camille chewed on her lips.
“The police have some ideas about who could have done it.”
“Me?” Camille said in a tiny voice.
The doctor looked right at her. He didn’t try to hide his face. “Several people could have done it. They don’t want to get the wrong person. They want to know which person really did it.”
“I don’t know.” Camille covered her face with her hair again. “I don’t want to get precinct cancer,” she added.
“I don’t either,” the doctor said. “So let’s get going.”
Camille tried to inhale. Her breath made a funny noise. She didn’t want to think about this, had spent her whole life not telling. Didn’t want to tell now. “What do you want to know?”
“Camille, does anybody ever take Puppy out for walks?”
She laughed suddenly, feeling a lot better. “Like who?”
“Oh, anybody. How about Bouck? Does he?”
Camille laughed some more, pushing her hair back a little so she could look down at Puppy. Puppy was asleep. “No. He says she’s a faggot dog.”
“What does that mean?”
“A dog for a fag. He won’t be seen with her.”
“Bouck doesn’t like fags?”
“No.”
“Camille, does anybody ever wear your clothes?”
She started nibbling her lips again. “Like who?”
“Like anybody. You have a lot of clothes. Are they all yours, or does somebody else wear them sometimes?”
She turned toward the door, her body twitching. There was a mirror on one side of the room. She didn’t want to see herself. The window in the door was wired so it wouldn’t break. Her body vibrated dangerously. She wanted to break the window and get out.
“Is that a yes?”
“Sometimes I’ve thought somebody did …” She didn’t finish.
“Who wears your clothes?”
“I think they disappear sometimes.” She hesitated. “But I’m confused—I don’t always know.”
“Is it Bouck who wears your clothes?”
Camille stroked Puppy faster, holding her tight. “Can’t you see he’s too big? He wouldn’t fit into them.”
“Have you ever seen him try on anything of yours?”
“No.”
“Okay.” The doctor looked down at his notebook. “I want to get back to what you were saying yesterday about your sister. You said your sister’s dog and your dog were alike, just like you and your sister were alike.”
“Two peas in a pod,” Camille murmured.
“You’re like two peas in a pod?”
Camille nodded. “Same hair, same eyes. Same curls. Same everything. People get us confused.”
“Do you really look that much alike?” he said doubtfully, as if he knew they didn’t.
“We used to, before—you know—puberty.” She closed her eyes against the long dress and the Tampax.
“In what way did people confuse you, Camille? Did you have the same personality, act the same?”
Camille shook her head, sucking her lips into her mouth, making herself toothless. In her lap, Puppy woke up. “I can’t explain,” she murmured.
“Were you together all the time? Were you good friends?”
“We had the same birthday,” she said quickly, pulling a safer thought from the air.
“You were both born on the same day?” he asked.
Camille laughed at his look of surprise. “No, but we only had one birthday anyway. It was easier that way. One cake, the same party dress. The same present.”
“Hmmm. How did that work out?”
“I thought it was twice as good. I had company to share the celebration.” Camille squeezed her face into a frown. She could feel her heart beating too fast for itself. She shook her head and her hair stung her eyes and skin as it whipped across her face. Milicia broke her own present. Then she took Camille’s, and said Camille broke them both.
Puppy stood on her lap and pawed at her swinging hair, wanting to play. Camille ignored her.
