Misty takes him a glass of water, her hand shaking so hard you can hear the ice rattle. Just so you know, her headache is going on its third day. Her headache, it's the feeling of maggots rooting into the big soft pile of her brain. Worms boring. Beetles tunneling.
The guy at table eight says, “You don't get a lot of men in here, do you?”
His aftershave has the smell of cloves. He's the man from the ferry, the guy with the dog who thought Misty was dead. The cop. Detective Clark Stilton. The hate crimes guy.
Misty shrugs and gives him a menu. Misty rolls her eyes at the room around them, the gold paint and wood paneling, and says, “Where's your dog?” Misty says, “Can I get you anything to drink?”
And he says, “I need to see your husband.” He says, “You're Mrs. Wilmot, aren't you?”
The name on her name tag, pinned to her pink plastic uniform—Misty Marie Wilmot.
Her headache, it's the feeling of a hammer tap, tap, tapping a long nail into the back of your head, a conceptual art piece, tapping harder and harder in one spot until you forget everything else in the world.
Detective Stilton sets his pen down on his notebook and offers his hand to shake, and he smiles. He says, “The truth is, I am the county's task force on hate crimes.”
Misty shakes his hand and says, “Would you like some coffee?”
And he says, “Please.”
Her headache is a beach ball, pumped full of too much air. More air is being forced in, but it's not air. It's blood.
Just for the record, Misty's already told the detective that Peter's in the hospital.
You're in a hospital.
On the ferry the other evening, she told Detective Stilton how you were crazy, and you left your family in debt. How you dropped out of every school and stuck jewelry through your body. You sat in the car parked in your garage with the engine running. Your graffiti, all your ranting and sealing up people's laundry rooms and kitchens, it was all just another symptom of your craziness. The vandalism. It's unfortunate, Misty told the detective, but she's been screwed on this as bad as anybody.
This is around three o'clock, the lull between lunch and dinner.
Misty says, “Yeah. Sure, go see my husband.” Misty says, “Did you want coffee?”
The detective, he looks at his pad while he writes and asks, “Did you know if your husband was part of any neo-Nazi organization? Any radical hate groups?”
And Misty says, “Was he?” Misty says, “The roast beef is good here.”
Just for the record, it's kinda cute. Both of them holding pads, their pens ready to write. It's a duel. A shoot-out.
If he's seen Peter's writing, this guy knows what Peter thought of her naked. Her dead fish breasts. Her legs crawling with veins. Her hands smelling like rubber gloves. Misty Wilmot, queen of the maids. What you thought of your wife.
Detective Stilton writes, saying, “So you and your husband weren't very close?”
And Misty says, “Yeah, well, I thought we were.” She says, “But go figure.”
He writes, saying, “Are you aware if Peter's a member of the Ku Klux Klan?”
And Misty says, “The chicken and dumplings is pretty good.”
He writes, saying, “Are you aware if such a hate group exists on Waytansea Island?”
Her headache tap, tap, taps the nail into the back of her head.
Somebody at table five waves, and Misty says, “Could I get you some coffee?”
And Detective Stilton says, “Are you okay? You don't look so hot right now.”
Just this morning over breakfast, Grace Wilmot said she feels terrible about the spoiled chicken salad—so terrible that she made Misty an appointment to see Dr. Touchet tomorrow. A nice gesture, but another fucking bill to pay.
When Misty shuts her eyes, she'd swear her head is glowing hot inside. Her neck is one cast-iron muscle cramp. Sweat sticks together the folds of her neck skin. Her shoulders are bound, pulled up tight around her ears. She can only turn her head a little in any direction, and her ears feel on fire.
Peter used to talk about Paganini, possibly the best violin player of all time. He was tortured by tuberculosis, syphilis, osteomyelitis in his jaw, diarrhea, hemorrhoids, and kidney stones. Paganini, not Peter. The mercury that doctors gave him for the syphilis poisoned him until his teeth fell out. His skin turned gray-white. He lost his hair. Paganini was a walking corpse, but when he played the violin, he was beyond mortal.
He had Ehlers-Danlos syndrome, a congenital disease that left his joints so flexible he could bend his thumb back far enough to touch his wrist. According to Peter, what tortured him made him a genius.
According to you.
Misty brings Detective Stilton an iced tea he didn't order, and he says, “Is there some reason why you're wearing sunglasses indoors?”
And jerking her head at the big windows, she says, “It's the light.” She refills his water and says, “It hurts my eyes today.” Her hand shakes so much she drops her pen. One hand clamped to the edge of the table for support, she stoops to pick it up. She sniffs and says, “Sorry.”
And the detective says, “Do you know an Angel Delaporte?”
And Misty sniffs and says, “Want to order now?”
Stilton's handwriting, Angel Delaporte should see it. His letters are tall, soaring up, ambitious, idealistic. The writing slants hard to the right, aggressive, stubborn. His heavy pressure against the page shows a strong libido. That's what Angel would tell you. The tails of his letters, the lowercase y's and g's, hang straight down. This means determination and strong leadership.
Detective
