Shakespeare’s Trollop

tableau. Then the fury seemed to drain out of Calla, taking her energy with it. The rush of angry color left her face, and even her eyes went pale and empty. When I was sure the purpose had left her, I released her wrist, and her arm dropped, dangling down by her side as if her bones had gone soft.

I looked over Calla’s shoulder at Beanie and raised my eyebrows. It seemed apparent to me that Calla had just now found out about Joe C’s will, and I wondered once again where she’d been when the fire started.

“I’m so sorry,” Beanie said, mortified almost beyond speech. “Our whole family owes you thanks, Lily.” And that must have choked her, considering the conversation we’d had when she’d terminated my employment. “Calla is just… beside herself, aren’t you, honey?”

Calla’s eyes had never left my face.

“Did you know, too?” she asked me in a low voice.

I couldn’t complete that sentence mentally. I shook my head at her.

“Did you know that he’s left me nothing? Did you know, too? Everyone in town seems to know that but me.”

Normally I tell nothing but the truth, though I don’t throw it around easily. But I could see that it was a good time to lie.

“No,” I said, in a voice just as low as hers. “That makes him an old bastard, doesn’t it?”

For all the violence of her feelings, that word shocked her back into herself.

Then she smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile. It wasn’t a middle-aged, church-going, rural-Arkansas-lady smile. Calla’s smile was delighted and mean and just a wee bit triumphant.

“Old bastards,” she said clearly, “have to cope for themselves, don’t they?”

I smiled back. “I guess they do.”

Calla Prader marched out of that hospital with a straight back and that happy, nasty smile still on her face.

Beanie stared after her, nonplussed. Beanie is in her midforties, an athletic, attractive woman whose most admirable trait is her love for her children.

“Thank you for handling that so well, Lily,” Beanie said uncertainly. She was wearing a beige and white linen dress, and against her tan skin and brunette hair, the dress looked wonderful. Bobo’s mother’s expensive exterior hid a selfish heart and a shallow intelligence, partially concealed by good manners.

I could feel Bobo hovering on my left, but could not bring myself to look up at his face.

“Thanks, Lily,” he echoed.

But his voice reminded his mother of his presence, and she turned on him like a snake about to strike.

“And you, young man,” she began, sounding happy to have found a focus for her excited feelings, “You were the one who let Calla know about the will.”

“I didn’t know she was standing behind me,” Bobo said plaintively, sounding about fourteen. “And anyway, now that we know, isn’t it only honest to tell her?”

That stopped Beanie’s anger like a dash of water; that question of morality, and the fact that she’d recollected that I was still standing there listening to all this family turmoil.

“Thank you for saving Uncle Joe C,” Beanie said more formally. “The police tell me that you saw someone in his yard before the fire started?”

“Yes.”

“But you couldn’t see who it was?”

“Too dark.”

“Probably some juvenile delinquent. These kids today will do anything, anything they see on television.”

I shrugged. Beanie had always reduced me to gestures and monosyllables.

“But it bothers me that it was cigarettes,” Beanie said, and then she sounded as if she were talking to a real person, me, instead of The Help.

I knew this from Bobo, but I had a feeling it wouldn’t be wise to reveal that. “The fire was set with cigarettes?” That was expansive and unrevealing enough.

“Joe C says he didn’t have any. Of course, the fire marshal thought he might have set it himself, smoking in the living room. But Joe C says no. Would you like to go in and talk to him?”

“Just to see how he’s doing.”

“Bobo, take Lily in, please.” It might have been framed as a question, but it was clearly a demand.

“Lily,” Bobo said, holding open the wide door to Joe C’s room. As I went by him, he lay his hand on my shoulder briefly, but I kept right on walking and kept my eyes ahead.

Joe C looked like he was a thousand years old. With the liveliness knocked out of him, he seemed like a pitiful old man. Until he focused on me and snapped, “You could have moved a little faster, girl! I got my slippers scorched!”

I hadn’t spelled it out to myself, but I suddenly realized that now that Joe C didn’t have a house, I didn’t work for him. I felt my lips curl up. I bent down to him. “Maybe I should have just walked on by,” I said very softly, but he heard every word. His face told me.

Then I squirmed inwardly. Just as his trembling jaw had meant me to. No matter how mean he was, Joe C was very old and very frail, and he would not let me forget that, would trade on it as much as he could. But I could walk away, and that was what I chose to do.

I walked away from the old man, and from his great-nephew, and I closed my heart against them both.

Chapter Ten

I was sickened by the world and the people in it, most of all by myself. I did something I hadn’t done in years. I went home and went to bed without bathing or eating. I just stripped, brushed my teeth, pulled on a nightgown, and slid between my clean sheets.

The next thing I knew, I was peering at the bright numbers on the digital clock next to the bed. It was seven minutes after three. I wondered why I was awake.

Then I knew there was someone in the room with me.

My heart began that terrible pounding, but through its rhythm I heard the sounds of clothing being removed, the zipper of a gym bag, and it came to me that I was not attacking the intruder because on some level I had already recognized who was in my bedroom.

“Jack?”

“Lily,” he said, and slid under the covers with me. “I took an earlier flight.”

My heart slowed down a little, to a rhythm that had more to do with another kind of excitement.

The smell of him, his skin and hair and deodorant and cologne and clothes, the combination of scents that said Jack filled my senses. I’d planned on making him wait to come down to Shakespeare, wait until I’d talked to him, told him I’d been unfaithful to him-sort of-so he could decide without seeing me whether or not to leave me for good. But in the private dark of my room, and because Jack was as necessary to me as water, I reached behind his head, my fingers clumsy with sleep, and worked the elastic band off his ponytail. I ran my fingers through his hair, dark and thick, separating it.

“Jack,” I said, my voice sad to my own ears, “I have some things to tell you.”

“Not now, okay?” he murmured in my ear. “Let me just… just let me… okay?”

His hands moved purposefully. I will say this for us; we put each other under a spell in bed together. Our troubled pasts and our uncertain future had no place in that bed.

Later, in the darkness, my fingers traced the muscles and skin and bones I knew so well. Jack is strong and scarred, like me, but his is visible all the time, a single thin puckered line running from the hairline by his right eye down to his jaw. Jack used to be a policeman; he used to be married; and he used to smoke and drink too much, too often.

I started to ask him how his case, the one that had taken him to California, was going; I thought of asking him how his friends Roy Costimiglia and Elizabeth Fry (also Little Rock private detectives) were doing. But all that really mattered was that Jack was here now.

I drifted off to sleep, Jack’s breathing even and deep by my side. At eight, I woke up to the smell of coffee