to a crest a hundred feet above them, bearing things like the hulls of ships and the splintered timbers of wharfs aloft for an awful final second.
One of her mother’s boyfriends had been like that. His name was Michael. He had watched Charlene endure her mother’s shrieking fits and whimsical punishments, and had tried to befriend her. He had said, “If you’d like to talk about it, I’m here for you.” Charlene had been about ten, so she had taken him seriously. No grown man had ever offered her anything before, so she had assumed he meant he would hear what her problem was and then solve it. But he had only meant what he had said. He would listen to her for a while, then shake his head and say, “That’s too bad.” He had never intended to imply that he would, or could, make her mother stop.
Greg would be like the rest. The way she would learn he had found out about her troubles was if he told her he was here for her. It would mean he was here to shake his head in sympathy while she got crushed and ground up by Catherine Hobbes and the cops.
She gave herself more time to make up her mind about Greg. He was a gentle, affectionate person, and he had not seen the pictures yet. It occurred to her that she should appreciate his plight, because he was living in the perfect, fragile moment, just as she was. But he was going to know eventually. He lived in Portland, went to an office every day, talked to people, shopped, watched television, read the papers. The only reason he didn’t know already was that Judith had been taking up so much of his time. He and his friends all worked sixty hours a week, and every second that wasn’t occupied with work, Judith had claimed. She had made him come to her straight from work, and today she had not let him go to work at all.
Judith had kept him in an artificial vacuum with her, where no information had reached him. But as each hour went by, the barrier that had kept out the news became more brittle. He would have to go to work. He would have to open his newspaper, turn on his television. She couldn’t save him forever. How long, then? If she tried hard, she might be able to preserve him until tomorrow morning. That was all.
She stared out the window of the car, watching the people on the street through the streaks of water. She wondered about them. If her picture had been in Underground, it had probably been in other nearby places. These people had seen her picture, and a lot of them had read all of the things that horrible Catherine Hobbes had written about her. Were they thinking about her right now, or had they just acknowledged that there was a poster—what was it this time, a missing woman or a woman who had taken off with her own child?—and gone on with their lives? She couldn’t know. They were all potentially dangerous, all threatening to Judith. If they saw her face now, their knowledge might kill her.
She watched Greg, saw his eyes moving in their sockets, focusing on cars slowing ahead, cars rushing past him, the mirrors, the road. He was going to see the poster. He was going to recognize the pictures. He was going to be a problem. “You know, Greg, I think I haven’t been as open with you as I should have been.”
“Yeah?” He looked at her in horror. It probably sounded to him like the preamble to a breakup speech.
She was beginning to hate him. “I’m in love with you,” she said.
He glanced at the road, then turned toward her and said, “I’ve been thinking that for a long time. I wanted to tell you.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I was afraid it would seem too pushy, and turn you off.”
Afraid, she thought. It was pathetic. He was so big and muscular. His flat, hard stomach and his thick hands and his success in business didn’t seem to help him. He couldn’t face the risk that if he dropped his protective timidity, he would find himself alone. “I’m not turned off. I think it’s sweet.”
“I should have said it first,” he said. “I wanted to, but I thought I should wait a long time so you wouldn’t think I was rushing you, or that it was too soon for me to love you.”
“It’s okay,” said Judith. “Maybe I said more than I should have because we had such a beautiful day, or because the martinis loosened my tongue. But I’m glad I did.”
“Me too.”
Of course he would say “Me too.” It was absolutely inevitable. Imagining him not saying it was like imagining him drumming only three fingers and keeping the fourth from tapping.
Judith let him drive to his apartment. She had been there only twice before, both times late at night like this, when they had been out all evening and his place was closer than hers.
He lived on the top floor of a commercial building on Northwest Vaughn in a space like an artist’s loft that had high ceilings with steel girders and big south-facing windows. Since he wasn’t an artist, he was freed of the responsibility to be tasteful. He had a basketball backboard and hoop at one end of the room, and at the other a treadmill, weights, and exercise equipment. The pictures on the walls were mostly advertisements that relied on near-naked girls in odd places. Two that were astride motorcycles. One, wearing an open blouse with the sleeves rolled up and short cutoff jeans, held a chain saw. Several others draped themselves like cats on the hoods and roofs of shiny new cars. He had a work area set up on a twelve-foot table, divided between computer equipment and piles of papers, schematics, and mechanical drawings. Behind a partition was a king-sized bed with a bedspread made of the fake fur of a bearlike animal.
Tonight the loft was in the usual state of disarray. Magazines, books, socks, papers, sweatshirts all mingled in a circular pile around the overflowing laundry basket. In the part of the big room that was supposed to be the kitchen, the counter held two-day-old dirty dishes, a few beer cans, and a bowl half full of soggy popcorn.
She watched Greg go to the end of the apartment and disappear into the bathroom. She wandered in the empty space and looked at it in new ways. She had removed all but a tiny residue of uncertainty about Greg, but there was still that last layer, so she stepped close to put her ear to the door of the bathroom to be sure he wasn’t talking on a cell phone. There was no voice, so she returned to her study of the apartment.
Greg came out, tossed his wallet and keys on the long counter near where she’d left her purse, and began to make drinks.
“Don’t make one for me,” said Judith.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. I’m tipsy enough already. Any worse and you won’t be able to wake me up to take advantage of me.” She watched his face as she talked, and she could see that he was happy, amused, but also calm and contented. He assumed that she cared for him sincerely—that maybe she really did love him.
He came to her, held her hand and gave her a very soft, gentle kiss on the cheek, then kissed down to her neck, where it tickled. She liked it, and she knew that she was going to miss him. When she thought about Greg, she felt flattered, but she also felt the same surprised, distant curiosity she felt about dogs. He really seemed to love her in the same way dogs did, wildly out of proportion to the near indifference she felt for him. He always seemed to be quivering all over the way they did, wanting to dance around with joy. It must be wonderful to feel that joy.
Greg walked her toward the screened enclosure of his bedroom, and kissed her again. She glanced at the bed. “My turn to use the bathroom. You see if you can make that mess look romantic, like someplace a girl would willingly go.” He released her and watched her walk off.
She stood in the bathroom, looking at her face in the mirror. There was a ringing in her ears from the alcohol in her system, and her brain felt sluggish. The remnants of the smile she had forced for Greg were still there, making her facial muscles feel tired. She regretted the martinis again. Was she thinking clearly enough for this? There were so many details to consider, and she had to think of all of them right now. She had no choice. Tonight was the only night.
So far tonight she had touched nothing but the doorknob. Had she ever left any prints in this loft? Maybe she had, weeks ago, and Greg certainly would not have cleaned anything. Did Greg have any photographs of her? No. He had once said he would like to have one for his desk, but she had made an excuse and he had forgotten to ask again. Was there anyone who had seen them together? Thousands of people probably had, but they were all strangers, just the undifferentiated mix of people sitting in restaurants or theaters and walking down streets where she and Greg had been. She had resisted meeting any of his friends from work.
Poor Greg. He had not known what he was getting into. If he had been stronger, smarter, maybe she could have taken a chance on him. But now, it was already after midnight. In a few hours he was sure to go to work, to read a newspaper, to turn on a television set, to talk to people. Judith had to stop him. She had to keep Greg in his current state forever—it was like a snapshot. There would be a flash and he would freeze—ignorant, trusting, and happy.
She looked into the mirror and fixed the smile on her face. She opened the door, walked out into the loft,
