Bill had been so excited when we rented the house. To him it represented everything he had ever dreamed of: unimaginable amounts of room, safety, warmth, affection, plenty of privacy in which to indulge himself in his harmless eccentricities; all of the things so notably missing in the twenty-first. To me, accustomed to the vaulted spaces and elegant architecture of Westfaire, it had seemed scarcely better than a hovel, though I had agreed it was far better than the twenty-first.
It was, is, a small frame dwelling, white clapboard with blue shutters and a blue roof, surrounded on its corner lot by a white picket fence. Inside the front door a narrow hall leads back to the kitchen. On the left is a combination living-dining room, on the right, two tiny bedrooms and a bath. Some former owner had built another bedroom and a half bath in the basement, and Bill had chosen those rooms for his own. There he had his closet full of silky dresses and lacy underwear, his high-heeled shoes and fluffy parasols, his full length mirror and his private telephone. Though he never went “out” in his women’s clothes, he wore them while he talked on the phone, endless high-pitched conversations full of flirtatious little interjections and giggles.
Though the basement rooms had been his place, he hadn’t been stingy with his time and effort in the rest of the house. He and I had refinished the kitchen cabinets, taking endless hours to do it, more than the cheap construction was worth. He had sweated over the tiny lawn, fighting the weeds and mowing it twice a week. He had planted the junipers and the Seafoam roses on either side of the door. In summer they were a cloud of white. Now their brown canes poked through the rare light snow, like old bony fingers. I knocked. Janice opened the door as though she’d been standing in the hallway, waiting for someone. She said, “Yes?” in a tone of voice that told me she didn’t know me. Well, why would she?
“I’ve come about Bill,” I faltered. “May I come in?”
She stood back, rather grudgingly, to let me enter, her head tilted to one side, her bird’s eyes fixed on me as though I were a bug. I had an almost uncontrollable urge to tell her who I was, but I fought it down. Telling her would involve too many explanations, and I couldn’t guarantee she’d believe any of them. Besides, I could not depend on her good will. Her relationship with Bill and me had always been a reluctant one. I must have squeezed Grumpkin, for he protested at being held so tightly. I put him down on the floor and he promptly began to sniff his way around the hall.
“That’s Dorothy’s cat,” she said. “Where did you get Dorothy’s cat?” Once we had agreed that I was to be “Dorothy,” Janice had never used any other name for me. Bill had always called me Beauty when we were alone.
“I’m a friend of hers,” I said. “She asked me to come tell you what happened.” I made the comeback sign. Janice would trust a comeback sooner than anyone else, though she didn’t trust anyone much. She looked startled, but she made the sign in return.
“Where is she?” Janice wanted to know. “And where’s Bill?”
“Dorothy’s gone away,” I said, breathing in deeply. There was no kind or easy way to tell her what had happened. “Jaybee broke in here while you were away. He told Dorothy he’d come for her, Bill got between them, and Jaybee killed Bill and attacked Dorothy. He hurt her … raped her. She’s gone away.”
She stared at me, unbelieving. “How did you …? I don’t understand how you.…”
“I was a sort of witness to it,” I said. “I was here when it happened.”
She fell back into the chair just inside the door, her mouth open. “Jaybee? Bill?” Her eyes filled with tears. “I should have known. Oh God, I should never have left Bill alone.”
Her emotion seemed genuine, though to my certain knowledge she had only tolerated Bill and me.
“He was like my son,” she cried, the tears making red tracks down her face. “My son I was bringing to God. Oh, I loved him so.”
I started to say, “You never let him know that,” remembering just in time that I wasn’t Beauty, wasn’t Dorothy, wasn’t who I was. I was older. A lot older. In the hall mirror I caught sight of myself, a woman in her sixties, perhaps. All gray-haired. With crepey skin on my arms. I looked at my hands, seeing the spots on the backs of them. Time. I had used it up, going back and forth. Used it up. I started crying, too, partly for Bill, partly for myself. All I had seemed to do lately was grieve. Grumpkin came over and extended a paw, asking his “prrrt.” How had he aged so little? I picked him up, to hug, for warmth, for something.
“Who are you?” she asked. “Do I know you?”
“My name is Catherine Monfort,” I said through my tears. “I came because Dorothy asked me to, and because she thought you might let me stay here.”
She threw her hands up, shaking her head, no, then realized how inhospitable that looked. Janice couldn’t bear to look bad, though she didn’t care what she did if no one knew. Finally she nodded, pointing at the front bedroom, tears running down her face. “He was here yesterday. He asked for ‘Beauty.’ He even asked for Bill. That bastard. He was laughing at me. Oh, God will punish him. Oh yes, God will punish him.”
“Jaybee?” I asked, knowing already that’s who it was. Yes. Jaybee. Still looking for Beauty. He hadn’t given up.
Janice had her hands folded under her chin, her eyes closed, her lips moving. While she cried and prayed, I went
