“The thing is,” Alison said, “he knows you were hurt. There’s no big deal if he happens to see your bandages.”
“He’ll see them all anyway,” Helen said, “once you throw your dress on the floor.”
“She won’t throw her dress on the floor,” Alison said. “Roland’ll hang it up for her.”
“Comedians up the wazoo. What time is it?”
Helen checked her wristwatch. “Six-twenty.”
“Good. He’s picking me up at ten till seven. I think I’ll have a little—”
“I’d want to get drunk too,” Helen said, “if I was going out in public wearing that.”
“You went out in public wearing this,” Celia said, “the public should get drunk.” She grinned at Alison. “Get you something?”
“Thanks. Whatever you’re having.”
Celia went into the kitchen.
“God, she looks fabulous,” Helen whispered. “I looked ten percent as good as her…” She shook her head and sighed. “Life’s tough, then you die.”
“Let’s send out for a pizza after she’s gone.”
Helen raised her thick eyebrows. “Well, maybe life ain’t so tough.”
A few minutes later, Celia returned carrying a tray with her left hand. Two tumblers were balanced on the tray. “Double vodka gimlets,” she announced as Alison took one of the glasses.
“You’re going to be polluted before he even gets here,” Helen said.
“Just a little something for what ails me. Besides,
Alison took a sip. The drink was very strong. She frowned at Celia. “Are you sure about tonight?” she asked.
Staring into her glass, Celia shrugged one shoulder. “I’m not going to call off my life just because some bastard wracked me up.”
“Maybe you need some time.”
“Sit around and think about it?”
“I think it hit you pretty hard.”
“You’re telling me?”
“Emotionally, I mean.”
“Alison’s right,” Helen said. “You can’t just pretend it didn’t happen. You almost got killed and that guy died. It’s pretty heavy stuff.”
“I’m handling it, okay? What’re you trying to do, ruin my appetite?” She took another drink. “I’ll be fine. And I’ll be a lot finer after a couple of drinks and a lobster dinner with a nice guy who likes me and happens to be a hunk even if he is a freshman. I appreciate your concern, but knock it off, okay? I’m fine.”
“It’s a good drink,” Alison said. “Pretty soon, we’ll both be fine.”
“Yeah, but I’ll be with a charming gorgeous man and you’ll be with Helen. Eat your heart out.”
“Hey,” Alison said, “you’re depressing me.”
A peanut bounced off her forehead and plopped into her drink. It floated on her vodka. She picked it out. Grinning, she flicked it into her mouth. The salt was gone. She fished an ice cube out of her glass and studied it.
“Hey, no,” Helen pleaded. “Come on, you could hurt somebody with that.”
“You’re right. What could I have been thinking?” She tossed it at Helen.
Squealing, Helen hunched her shoulders and twisted in her chair. She flinched when the ice dropped onto her lap. Her hand jerked. A foamy tongue of beer slurped over the edge of her stein and flopped onto her breast. “Yeee-ah!”
“Woops,” Alison said.
“Golly,” Celia said. “Maybe I’ll phone up Jason right now and call it off. I can see that it’ll be a lot more fun around here tonight.”
Helen clamped the peanut can between her knees. Scowling down, she plucked the wet fabric away from her skin. She was wearing the same faded, stained, shapeless dress that she had worn only yesterday when they went to the mall. Or a different one, Alison thought, that looked the same. She had several. They were hard to tell apart. She sniffed a fistful of the wet cloth. “A definite improvement,” she said.
“They’re gone,” Alison called from her recliner.
Helen’s bedroom door eased open and she looked around as if to make sure the coast was clear before venturing out. Satisfied, she approached Alison. “So, how was he?”
“He looks like an after-shave commercial.”
“Huh.” Helen ran the back of a hand across her nose. “He’s probably a jerk. Every guy she goes out with is a jerk, you ever noticed that?”
“I don’t know,” Alison said.
“They are. Someday, she’s going to be sorry.”
“I hope not.”
“You go out with enough jerky guys, sooner or later…”
“What kind of pizza we going to get? Salami, sausage?”
“I got some menus in my desk.”
“Get ’em.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Jake was still trembling when he climbed out of his car. With the flashlight in his left hand and the machete clamped under his arm, he stepped to the trunk. The point of the key missed the lock hole a few times before he managed to fit it in. He turned the key. The trunk opened. He put the machete and flashlight inside, next to the can of gasoline, then slammed the trunk shut.
On the front stoop of his house, he clutched his right hand with his left to hold it steady and got the key into the door lock. Inside, he engaged the dead bolt, then slipped the guard chain into place. Though evening light still came in through the windows, he made a circuit of the living room and turned on every lamp. Along the way, he found himself checking each window and looking behind the furniture.
“Nerves of steel,” he muttered.
In the kitchen, he hit the light switch. He checked the windows and backdoor to make sure they were secure. Bending at the waist because his leather pants were too tight for squatting, he opened a cupboard and took out a bottle of bourbon. A drop of sweat fell from his chin and splashed on the toe of his boot.
Stepping to the sink, he yanked a yard of paper towel off its roll. He mopped his face and wet, stringy hair.
Then he filled a glass with bourbon. He took a few swallows and sighed as the liquor’s heat spread through him.
He carried the glass down the hallway, turning on lights as he went, and entered his bedroom.
He turned on his bedroom light. He looked around. The curtains were shut. The closet door was open, just as he had left it. Taking another drink, he stepped past the closet and looked in. He wandered to the other side of his bed. He had an urge to get down on his hands and knees and peer under the bed.
Don’t be a jerk, he thought. You’re home now. This isn’t the goddamn Oakwood Inn, this is home and there’s nothing under your bed except maybe some dust bunnies.
Besides, it’d be too much effort in this outfit.
After taking another swallow of bourbon, Jake set his glass on the dresser. He unzipped his leather jacket and pulled it off. His blue shirt, dark with sweat, clung to his skin. He tried to open the buttons, but his fingers shook so badly that after getting the top button undone he yanked the shirt up and pulled it over his head.
He unbuckled his gun belt, swung it toward the bed and let go. The holstered revolver bounced when it hit
