only addition was Marshall’s note and the pill envelope, still containing two capsules.
After I stowed the remaining pills away with great respect, I made some coffee and wondered what to do with the day. Sunday is my day off, not because it is a church day, but because it is the least desirable day of the week to clean, from my clients’ standpoint. And I feel I deserve one whole day off every week. Usually, I clean my own house or mow my lawn in the morning. When Body Time opens at one, I walk in the doors. I often stay for two hours, then come home to cook for the week. I rent movies from Rainbow Video (“Cinema across the Spectrum”), and every once in a while I call my parents.
Since I’d risen so early, and since all week had been unusual, somehow none of this sounded appealing at all.
After I had skimmed through my big Sunday Little Rock paper, treading my difficult reading path around stories of battered wives, neglected children, and starving, abandoned elders to arrive at those I could actually read (which pretty much boiled down to escaped dangerous pets-this week a boa constrictor-politics, and sports), I dressed in a gingerly way, hoping the bending wouldn’t wake up my side. To my pleasure, the terrible ache did not return; there was a certain amount of tenderness, and leaning in some direction was painful, but nothing nearly as bad as it had been the day before.
All right, then. I’d just quell those rebellious feelings I had, this discontent.
My house needed cleaning.
I put on my rubber gloves with what was very nearly pleasure. It crossed my mind to call Marshall, or to drift through the dawn to his house and share his bed again. But I put those thoughts aside; I was in danger of counting on him, of thinking of my life as substantially changed. I found myself wistfully staring at my gloves and thinking of the pleasures of sex with Marshall, of the wonders of his body, of the excitement of being desirable.
But I began serious cleaning.
It is a small house, which never gets very dirty anyway, and I know it very well. In an hour and a half, by the time the rest of the world was waking up, my house shone and I was looking forward to a shower.
The quiet tap on the back door came as I was about to step in. With a curse, I wrapped my white terry robe back around myself and padded quietly to the door. I looked through the peephole. Marshall looked back. I sighed, not knowing if I was glad to see him or sorry that he kept raising my expectations. I unlocked the door.
“If you don’t stop this,” I said flatly, “I’ll think you really like me.”
“Hi to you, too,” he said, his eyebrows arching in surprise. “Are you conscious this time?”
“Why don’t you get in the shower with me,” I said over my shoulder as I went back to my hot running water, “and find out?”
As it turned out, I was fully conscious.
As he kissed me while the water ran over us, I had a terrifying feeling that I wanted to save this moment, that it was precious. I knew the fallacy inherent in planning on anything lasting, I knew the degradation I’d undergone had altered me permanently, and I was afraid.
Afterward, I loaned him my terry robe and I put on my bright, thin one, and we watched an old movie on cable together. I put a bowl of grapes between us on the love seat, we put up the footrest, and we had a pleasant time appreciating the actors and laughing at the plot. When the movie ended close to noon, I got up to return the grapes to the refrigerator. Through the open blinds of the living room window, I observed a vaguely familiar red car driving by very slowly.
“Who’s that, Marshall?” I asked sharply, the outside world coming back with a rush.
He was on his feet quickly and stared out the window.
“That’s Thea,” he said. His voice was tight with controlled fury.
“She’s driven by other times.” It was the car that had passed the day Marshall was kissing me in the carport. I’d seen it several times over the past few days.
“Shit, Lily,” he said, “I’m sorry. I wish the divorce had already gone through. No judge would believe, with her sitting there looking so southern belle, what she’s capable of.”
I was still staring out of the window, lost in thought, when the Yorks walked by. Alvah and T. L. were holding hands, moving rather slowly, and wearing everyday clothes. They were missing church, an unheard-of occurrence.
But I was not as amazed as I might have been days ago. This past week had been full of atypical behavior on the part of almost everyone I knew, including myself.
Pardon had somehow talked himself into getting killed.
The upright, churchgoing Yorks had been derailed by the rape of their granddaughter.
Norvel Whitbread had shown his true colors after two years of being smarmy.
Tom O’Hagen had cheated on Jenny O’Hagen.
Deedra Deane had seen a dead body.
Claude Friedrich had been careless with a report.
Carlton Cockroft had exercised and revealed a wholly unexpected interest in his neighbor.
Marcus Jefferson had gotten to entertain his son in his own apartment.
Marie Hofstettler had had an interview with the police.
The Reverend Joel McCorkindale had visited me in my home.
Marshall Sedaka had taken a personal interest in one of his students.
One of his students had taken a personal interest right back.
Someone had rolled a body into the arboretum.
Someone else had deposited handcuffs where I would find them; killed a rat; left a painted Ken doll on my car hood.
“Overall,” I said, turning to Marshall, “it would be hard to top last week.”
“We can give it a shot,” he suggested, and was surprised when I laughed.
“Let me tell you what happened last Monday night,” I said, and for the first time I told Marshall what I’d seen when I was out walking.
“You saw the murderer?”
“I saw the person dumping the body.”
Marshall thought my story over. “I can understand why you didn’t want to tell the police,” he said finally. “With your cart being used. And since they didn’t arrest anyone yet, you might be putting yourself in danger.”
“How so?”
“The killer might think you had seen more than you actually saw,” Marshall said. “At least, killers always do in the movies. They’re always coming after the person they think knows something, whether or not it’s true.”
“Yeah, but that’s the movies. This is Shakespeare.”
I suddenly realized what I’d said and I laughed. Marshall looked at me warily; I had to explain.
“Lily, I think the sooner the police arrest someone for this, the better it’ll be for you.”
“No argument there.”
“Then we can concentrate on finding out who’s playing these tricks on you and Thea.”
There was something in his voice that alerted me. “Has something else happened to her?” I asked.
“She called me about six this morning. Someone came to the back door and spray-painted ‘Bitch’ across it.”
“Is that so.” Marshall looked a little surprised at my lack of horror.
“So, Marshall, did you come over here to enjoy my company or see if I was gonna walk back up in my yard with a spray can in my hand?”
Marshall closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Lily, I think if you were mad at Thea, you would challenge her to fight, or ignore her for the rest of your life. I can’t imagine you sneaking around in the dark spray-painting a woman’s back door.”
But I wasn’t so sure he believed that down to his bones. Hadn’t there been a moment, a flicker, of something else-of relief-when I challenged him?
I sank down in the armchair and looked at him intently. “I don’t know if I’m at fault, if I’m being overly prickly, or if Thea has undermined your confidence in your own judgment so much that you can’t trust your own instincts.”
Marshall was not quick to respond, and I was glad. I wanted him to think about this.
“Maybe both,” he said finally. “Come on, it’s almost time to work out.”
