Across the street, the boxer shorts guy put down his baseball bat but kept watching, probably hoping I’d get cuffed and slammed against the cruiser. I looked back at Amy’s house, the front window a gaping hole, so much like the window I’d busted that time Amy had almost burned down the Carpenter house. Officer Mike turned toward the porch as Clyde emerged from the front door, Amy’s pistol flipped upside down in his grip.
“Still dangerous, but at least not armed,” Clyde said.
“I’m surprised she let you take it.”
“You just need to handle women the right way, Donnie Boy.” He slapped my back like we were old pals. “She’ll be quiet for a while.”
Clyde nodded toward his partner, and they headed back to the cruiser. “Patch up that window,” he said, “and read that pilot script. We’ll be back tomorrow night to pick it up.”
They folded their big frames back into the car, rolled out of the driveway, and drove off. I walked toward the house, that troubling cigarette still where I’d left it. Back inside, Amy seemed to have calmed down. She stood by the window with a broom, sweeping up shards of glass while Jill waited in the corner with a hand vac.
“I’m glad you gave him the gun,” I said. “Maybe something is going on, but a gun always makes it worse.”
“Okay, Mister Hollywood liberal. Did your California girlfriend make you say that?”
“No, my left shoulder did.”
“It wasn’t worth fighting over,” Amy said. “I’ve still got a .22 upstairs under the mattress. And maybe a few more trick or treats …”
“Mom’s not imagining things,” Jill said, her voice unsteady.
“I believe you,” I told her, though I kept mute about the cigarette. “It’s not who you think it is, but even if it was Mr. Ronan, you can’t just shoot him. What if it was the paperboy?”
“There hasn’t been a paperboy on this block for five years,” Amy said. ‘It’s not 1995. Nobody gets ‘the paper’ anymore.”
“Maybe they should.” Suddenly exhausted, I headed for the stairs, eager to check on Kelly. “We’ll talk about this in the morning. I’m going to bed.”
“What about the window?” Amy said. “Shouldn’t we board it up or something?”
“Do I look like a handyman?”
“Put on a pair of overalls and yeah…that would be a good look for you, Duck.” She stepped around a pile of shards, her bare feet tiptoeing away from the glass. “Anybody could come through this window. You’ve got two women and a teenage girl here. Do you know how many sexual predators are out there? Do you really want the lovely Kelly sleeping in an unsafe house?”
“There are five motels within a mile of here. We can always get a room…”
“But you won’t,” Amy said. “You’re not going to leave my daughter alone after everything that happened. You promised: whenever you need me, I’ll be there for you. Remember?”
“Read the contract. ‘There’ doesn’t include basic carpentry.”
Jill stepped between us.
“I’ll do it. Jesus, Mom…he’s an artist, not a contractor. If Tennessee Williams was sleeping over, would you assign him chores?”
“Maybe. Mr. Marcino wants to help us. It’s the reason that he’s here. It gives his sad little life meaning.”
“Jesus, Mom!”
“It’s fine,” I said. “Whatever. I’ll do it.”
Amy smiled, just like all those years back whenever her mother would catch me doing her homework and Amy would feign innocence, as if I’d somehow gotten her drunk until she turned over her notebook and let me finish her social studies. Mrs. Willingham never bought it, and usually kicked me out, but I’d always finish the assignment anyway, handing it over the next morning at the bus stop.
“There should be some two by fours in the basement,” Amy said. “And my Dad’s old toolbox.”
“Fine. But all I can promise is a shoddy job.”
“I expect nothing less,” she said. “And I’m sorry I interrupted your little shower sex.”
I blushed. “We weren’t…”
“No worries. I think it’s beautiful. But please, can you spray things down with Mr. Clean before you go to bed?”
Jill threw up her arms. “Mom!”
“Don’t Mom me. If I fucked some guy in the shower at his house, I’d do a thorough wipe down. I’d even pick the little hairs out of the drain.”
“I am so sorry,” Jill said. “She’s under a lot of stress. If you cast me in your play, she’ll never come to rehearsal, I promise.”
“It’s been a long day…” I said, and pecked Amy’s cheek. “Tomorrow we need to talk.”
“Uh-oh, Amy Willingham, report to the principal’s office.” She dropped her voice as if speaking through an intercom. “Amy Willingham, report to the principal’s office.”
She started gigging, and I wondered if she was still drunk or just riding the wave of her breakdown. Because she looked like the old Amy and mouthed off like the old Amy, it was easy to forget that she’d tried to kill herself. I watched her standing in the corner with her broom laughing into her hands, and though it was hard not to burn at all her digs, no one was looking after her, except me. I had made a promise.
“I’ll get started in a minute.”
Upstairs Kelly sat cross-legged on the bed, dressed in an old nightshirt, her iPad balanced on her lap. I gave her a quick rundown and assured her everything was fine; she nodded but didn’t say a word, and when I finished, she handed me the iPad. On the screen was the website for the Beach House Inn, a bed-and-breakfast right on the ocean, the most expensive place in Holman Beach.
“They have one room available: the Presidential suite,” she said. “I reserved it online. We can check in tomorrow at noon.”
She grabbed the iPad and clicked on a photo of the suite: a four-poster bed, a balcony overlooking the ocean, vases filled with roses on both nightstands, a private bath with a Jacuzzi; tea and scones on the wraparound porch at 4:00 PM…only three-hundred and fifty bucks per night off-season.
“It’s too late to go anywhere now, so I’ll
