'I know. I'll be careful.'
'Why don't I drop you off and park down the road? You can --'
'No,' she said firmly. She took the keys from his hand. 'Don't worry. I
can take care of myself. I'm just going to check on her and be right back. You won't even notice I'm gone.'
'Why don't you have the police check on her? She's an old frail woman, tell them you think she might have slipped and fallen in the bathtub. They'll do it.' 'No,' Tritia said. She gave him a quick kiss. 'I'll be back in twenty minutes.'
'The car's almost out of gas, but there's enough for you to get there and back. Don't buy any. I'll get it later.'
'Okay,' she said.
Troubled, he watched her get in the car, back up the drive, and head through the trees toward town.
Something was wrong. Tritia felt it the instant she stepped out of the car. The atmosphere was changed, strangely and indefinably altered. The air was still, even the birds and insects quiet, as though some vast invisible soundproof barrier had been placed over the property. The house itself seemed empty, abandoned, though nothing physical appeared to have changed. She shivered. Death hung over Irene's house. She knew it as surely as she knew today was Tuesday. She pushed the thought from her mind. She was just being foolish.
Superstitious. She forced herself to walk across the dirt to the front door.
Peering through the lace curtain, she saw no sign of movement.
She knocked on the door. 'Irene!'
Her voice died flatly, without even the faintest hint of an echo.
Still no movement inside. Something was definitely wrong. She knocked harder, rang the bell. 'Irene!'
What if the old woman really had fallen down and had broken something and couldn't move? What if she had had a heart attack or a stroke?
What if the mailman had gotten her?
'Irene!' Tritia rattled the doorknob, but it was locked as usual. Worried now, she moved around the side of the house to the back door, weeds scratching her bare ankles. The back door was unlocked and she pushed it open carefully. A
bad sign. Irene always locked both doors.
Maybe he was in the house.
'Irene!'
The house was silent.
Tritia 'sheart was pumping crazily, pounding with an amplified fear rhythm she could feel in her stomach and throat and could hear in her head. She should get out of here now, fast, and drive straight to the police station and bring someone back. The last thing she should do was explore on her own. But her feet carried her forward into the kitchen. The floor was littered with pots and pans and broken china, and she stepped gingerly over the smashed pieces of shattered glass. On the counter, she could see a loaf of homemade bread covered with splotches of green mold. In the window, Irene's plants had grown wildly before succumbing to the brown dryness of a waterless death. The room was filled with the mingled odors of spices, herbs, and decay.
'Irene!' she called.
No answer.
She continued through the doorway into the living room, took in at a glance the ripped upholstery of the antique furniture, the overturned television, the debris on the Oriental carpet, and realized that Irene was not here.
She recalled the parcels in the den, and she thought she knew in which room she would find her friend. She felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. 'Irene!' she called.
No answer.
Now was the time for her to leave, or at least to pick up the phone and call the police, but she continued to move deeper into the house. She would check the other rooms first. If Irene was not in any of them, if it was clear that she was in the den, then she would call the police.
Tritia walked down the hallway. She glanced into the bedroom. The pillows had been ripped open, feathers were everywhere, but there was no sign of her friend. She saw her own reflection in the cracked mirrored door of the busted armoire. She had not realized how truly frightened she was until she saw the anxious expression on her pale face.
She moved down the hall to the bathroom.
Where the tiled floor was covered with ripped brown packaging paper, untied string, opened boxes.
Where Irene was lying in the tub, wrists slit.
Tritia stared at her friend. She had obviously been here for some time.
The skin on her body was white and waterlogged, her sightlessly staring eyes glazed over with dried cataracts. The blood had settled, separating from the lighter water, and the bottom portion of her body was hidden beneath a heavy red liquid blanket. Around her floated the individual pieces of her husband's body.
Arms. Legs. Hands. Head. The pieces were white and bloodless, pruned with water, and they bobbed in the bath, crowding for space.
Floating between Irene's outstretched legs was a small severed, castrated penis.
Tritia wanted to look away but could not. Her gaze was fixed on the bloody bathtub.
She did not realize she was screaming until her throat began to hurt.
42
Doug made lunch, hot dogs, and as he spread mustard over the buns, he glanced worriedly out the window at Tritia . She was working in her garden, trying once again to get it into some semblance of order. He was concerned about her. After her initial shock at finding Irene's body, she had quickly returned to normal. Two days later, she was her usual self. She was not disturbed, not frightened, not withdrawn, not anything. That wasn't right, he knew. That wasn't natural. He himself was still coming to grips withHobie's death, and he had not even seen his friend's body. Tritia had discovered Irene in the tub, wrists slashed, surrounded by body parts, and she was acting as though nothing unusual had happened, as though nothing was wrong. He had not talked about it with her, had not brought up the subject of Irene at all for fear of disturbing her unnecessarily. He had assumed that when she was ready to discuss it, she would do so. But so far she had not been inclined to bring it up, which was definitely out of character for her.
He watched her through the window, pulling weeds, wondering if this was some sort of elaborate denial, if one day, unexpectedly, she was just going to snap and all of her pent-up emotions would explode.
Maybe he would broach the subject with her, bring it up gently.
As usual, the mailman had gotten off scot-free. The police had questioned him, but he had pulled the old the-Postal-Service-is-not-responsible-for-the content-of-the-mail-it-delivers crap, and as usual, there was not a damn thing anyone could do about it. There was nothing linking him specifically to the mail sent to Irene, nothing anyone could prove.
The mailman promised that he would institute a thorough Postal Service inquiry to discover the source of the body-part packages.
A thorough Postal Service inquiry . . .
Shit.
The hot dogs were boiling, and Doug told Billy to run outside and get his mother, it was time for lunch.
'Wait,' Billy said. 'It's almost time for a commercial.'
'You've seen that show a thousand times. Go get her now.'
'Wait a sec.'
Doug sighed, shaking his head. He opened the window, letting in a breath of warm summer air. 'Time to eat,' he called.
She looked up at him, squinting, and waved. 'Be right there.'
He watched her put down the trowel, brush off her hands and knees, and jog toward the porch. They should
