“Let’s not joke about this, OK. I came to your house when I was wounded, brought you under more suspicion, maybe. Put you in danger. I made love to you on impulse. I can’t regret that. I’d stay in bed with you for a year if I could. But I was impulsive starting that affair with Karen, and she died.” He turned a little to meet my eyes. “I can’t let my thoughtlessness put you in danger, like it did her.”
“I don’t guess you’ll be able to stop it. And I’m not Karen Kingsland.” There was a certain edge in my voice.
“Lily, listen to me! I know you’re strong, I know you think of yourself as a tough woman, but this is not just one opponent who fights fair. This is a pack, and they would kill you… and maybe not straightaway.”
I stared at him. Somehow I had lost pleasure in the view.
“You’re saying-stop me if I get this wrong, Jack-you’re saying that I only think of myself as tough, I’m really not… that I can only win if my opponents fight fair… that Darcy and Jim and Tom David would rape me if they had the chance. Gosh, why would that occur to me?”
“I know you’re getting mad,” he said, turning around and looking down at me. “And I probably deserve it, but I just can’t let anything happen to you. You just can’t be involved in this in any way, any longer.”
“You’ll just stop by when you have a minute to fuck? Insult my other guests?”
His sculpted lips tightened. He was beginning to get mad, too.
“No. I shouldn’t have said anything about Bobo being here. I had no right. And I told you I was sorry. Hey, I never said anything about the cop sending you flowers, and they were still sitting on your kitchen table with the card stuck in them.”
“Which, of course, you had a perfect right to read.”
“Lily, I’m a
I gripped my head with my hands. I shook it to clear it.
“Go,” I said. “I can’t deal with you right now.”
“We’re doing this again,” he said helplessly.
“No,
“Put that way, I admit, it doesn’t sound like I’m doing the right thing by you.”
“Gosh, no kidding.”
“Why do we get so-so-crossways? I’m trying to do the right thing! I don’t want you to get hurt!”
“I know,” I said. I sighed. “You need to go on now. Come back and talk to me-somewhere public-when you decide what your current policy is.”
He stood. His face was full of conflict. He held out his hand.
“Kiss me,” he said. “I can’t leave like this. This is something real we have.”
Almost unwillingly, I held out my hand, and he pulled me up to kneel on the bed. He bent over and kissed me hard on the mouth. I felt the heat begin to slide through me again. I pulled back.
“Yeah. It’s real,” he said, and dressed. He dropped a kiss on my head before he went out the door.
Chapter Eight
Carrie wasn’t at the clinic that morning. It was the first time in a long time she hadn’t been there on a Saturday. I hadn’t realized how much I’d counted on seeing her until I pulled into the lot behind the clinic and found it empty.
She’d left me a note taped to the patients’ bathroom door, since she knew I cleaned that first.
Lily-I’m following your suggestion. Today the entire off-duty police department is moving Claude downstairs to the O’Hagens’ old apartment. Becca Whitley’s putting in a ramp at the back door! Knew you would want to know.
I was a little disconcerted by Carrie’s taking charge of Claude. I’d been to see him in the hospital a couple more times, and I realized now that both times he’d talked about Carrie. Maybe the reason I hadn’t worried about the problems of Claude’s homecoming was that I’d absorbed the clues that someone else was doing it for me? Well, well, well. Carrie and Claude. It sounded nice.
I got the clinic cleaned, though I felt lonely without Carrie. As I started work at my next client’s, I brooded about what Jack had told me. It gnawed at me that Howell didn’t trust me. I am very reliable, I keep my mouth shut, and I’m honest. My reputation as a cleaning woman depends on those qualities.
I struggled to recall all the contacts I’d had with Howell recently, trying to pick out one that would explain his sudden lack of faith in me.
By the time I was through for the day, I’d decided to make a call.
After checking the phone book and the map, I drove again into the black area of Shakespeare which surrounded Golgotha Church. I felt a wave of nausea when I passed the damaged structure, now bathed in bright winter sunshine. The cold wind rippled a large sheet of plastic over the hole in the roof, and temporary front doors had been hung. A junked pile of splintered pews lay outside in the grass. A whiff of burning still lingered in the air. Men were at work inside and out. A white man was among them, and after a careful look I recognized the Catholic priest from Montrose. Then I saw another white face: Brian Gruber, the mattress factory executive. And redheaded Al from Winthrops’ Sporting Goods. I felt a little better after that.
My business lay a block or two away, in one of the few brick homes in the area. Tidy and tiny, it sat within a four-foot chain-link fence, with a “Beware of the Dog” notice. The shutters and eaves were painted golden yellow to contrast with the brown bricks. I scanned the yard, didn’t see the dog to beware of. I lifted the gate latch, and a big tan short-eared dog of unfortunate parentage tore around the house. He woofed and he growled, and he ran from side to side right within the fence.
A small black woman came to the front door. She was trim and tidy like the house, and she had picked rose red to wear today, her day off. At her appearance, the dog instantly silenced, waiting to see what the woman’s attitude would be.
“What you want?” she called. She was neither welcoming nor repelling.
“If you’re Callie Gandy, I need to talk to you. I’m Lily Bard.”
“I know who you are. What do we have to talk about?”
“This.” I held up the shabby brown velvet ring box.
“What you doing with Mrs. Winthrop’s ring?”
Bingo. Just as I had suspected, this had never been Marie Hofstettler’s ring.
“Miss Gandy, I really want to talk.”
“Miss Bard, I’m not aiming to be rude, but you are only trouble and I don’t need any more of that than I have.”
I had already learned what I needed to know.
“All right. Good-bye.”
She didn’t answer. She and the tan dog watched me with poker-faced stillness while I returned to my car and buckled up. She closed her door then, and I drove home with even more to think about.
That afternoon I went to the grocery, cleaned my own house, and made some banana nut bread for Claude. He liked it for breakfast. It seemed very sweet, very personal to know that about a friend. That was what I’d missed most, without ever knowing it, in my wandering years and my first years in Shakespeare: the little details, the intimacy, of friendship.
I retrieved one of my homemade individual entrees from the freezer. Claude liked lasagna, I remembered. Feeling like a small-town paradigm of neighborliness, I walked over to the apartments.
The move was complete, apparently, and some of Claude’s cops were still there drinking a beer by way of thank-you. Claude was on his old couch, his bad leg propped up on an ottoman. The door was open, so I just stepped in, self-conscious at having an audience.
