“Ned, it’s not that it wasn’t wonderful…”
His green eyes harden. “Oh, is that it? Was it wonderful for you? Because it was wonderful for me too.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I got to you this weekend, Mary. I know I did. So don’t pull away from me, not now.”
“I’m not, but we’re only a part of what happened this weekend. I keep thinking about Brent.”
“Okay,” he says quickly. “Okay. I’m sorry.”
“I just want to be alone for a while.”
“But call me, will you? Call me if you need anything, no matter how late it is. Call me.”
“Okay.”
“Lock the door.”
“Okay.”
“Eat your vegetables. And wear your muffler.”
“Thanks.” I give him a quick kiss and let myself into the front door of my building. I wave to him through the leaded glass in the outer door, and I think he waves back, but I can’t see him clearly. The bumpy glass transforms his silhouette into a wavy shadow.
I gather the mail and check each letter as I stack it up. I never thought I would be relieved to see a pile of junk mail addressed to Dee Nunzone, but I am. I climb up to my floor, regretting that I didn’t ask Ned to check the apartment. I reach the door, which still says LASSITER-DINUNZIO, and peek vainly through the peephole. I take a deep breath and unlock the door slowly. I open it a bit, then wider. The apartment is dark. I snap on the light with a finger and stick my head in the door. It looks just the way I left it. And it’s silent. No ringing telephone. No other sound. I walk slowly inside, then shut and lock the door behind me.
“Alice?” The window blinds rustle slightly. She’s on the windowsill. I walk nervously into the kitchen, refill Alice’s bowl, and take Mike’s samurai knife from the rack. I head into the bedroom, brandishing the knife. I figure I must look scary; I’m scaring myself. The bedroom looks absolutely normal. I take a deep breath and look under the bed. Dustballs as big as sagebrush, mounds of pink Kleenex, and a tortoiseshell barrette I’d been looking for. I grab the barrette and put it on my bed.
I leave the bedroom and walk into the bathroom. The makeup shelf, which I leave in a secret configuration now-moisturizer, foundation, eye pencil, lipstick-is still in its secret configuration. And the smell of the ripe cat box confirms that at least one other thing remains undisturbed.
I relax slightly and return to the living room.
“Alice?”
The window blinds move in reply, but Alice doesn’t leave her post.
“He’s not coming back, Alice,” I say. I’m not sure whether I mean Mike or Brent, but Alice doesn’t ask for a clarification.
I fall into a chair with my killer knife and close my eyes.
20
The next sound I hear is the ear-splitting buzz of my downstairs doorbell. I glance at my watch. It’s ten o’clock. I must have fallen asleep. Groggy, I get up and press the intercom button, still holding the chef’s knife. “Who is it?”
“Little pig, little pig, let me come in,” shouts a strong voice. Judy’s.
“Hold on.” I buzz her in and she arrives in seconds, having taken the stairs two by two, like she always does. She bangs into the apartment wearing a reinforced backpack and toting a rolled-up sleeping bag. She gasps when she sees the knife. “What the hell is that for?” she asks.
“Bad guys. Are you terrified?”
“Of you?”
“Yes, of me. Of me and my big no-joke knife.” I wave it around and she backs away.
“Watch it with that thing.”
“You ought to see what this knife can do to a piece of celery. It’s not a pretty sight.”
“Is this what we’ve come to? You running around with a machete?” She kicks the door closed with the back of her running shoe and tosses the sleeping bag onto the floor, where it rolls into the couch. Alice arches her back.
“Who are you, Nanook of the North?”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah.”
Her eyes narrow. “Yeah?”
“Okay as I can be.”
“I thought so,” Judy says, frowning like a doctor confirming a child’s case of tonsillitis. “I brought something to make us feel better.” She swings the backpack off her shoulder and tugs its zipper open, walking into the kitchen. I follow her in and watch her unpack a bag of sugar, two sticks of butter, and a cellophane pack of chocolate chips.
“You left Kurt to come here and bake stuff?” I stick the knife back onto the rack.
“Not exactly. Your new boyfriend called and said you needed protection. You did use protection, didn’t you?”
I feel terrible all of a sudden. It reminds me of Brent. I flash on him that day in my office, cleaning up the coffee stain. He was so worried about me.
“What’s the matter?” Judy asks, alarmed.
“Brent, Judy. Brent.” I feel myself sag and Judy gathers me up in her strong arms. I burrow into her fuzzy Patagonia pullover, with its fresh soapy smell, and start to cry.
“I know, Mare,” she says, her voice sounding unusually small. “He was a good man. He loved you.” She hugs me closer, and I try not to feel funny about the fact that we’re two women hugging breast to breast. In fact, Judy’s squeezing me so tightly that I stumble backward, to the sound of a loudreeaow!
We both jump. I’ve crunched Alice’s tail underfoot. She hisses at me fiercely.
Judy laughs, wiping her eyes. “Fuck the cookies. Let’s bake Alice.”
I laugh too, for a long time, and it feels good, a release. We take turns drying our eyes with a roll of paper towels that has tiny daisies marching along its border. Afterward, feeling shaky and sober, we look at each other. Judy’s lips are a wavy line. “This must be how you felt after Mike, huh?” she says, leaning against the kitchen counter.
Mike. His voice is gone now, and it was the last of him. I nod.
“You came back to work so soon. I never knew how you did it.”
“I had to. When something like that happens, you have to do the next thing.”
“The next thing?”
“Right. Whatever’s next. You go and do it. Then you do what comes next after that. File a brief. Bake cookies.”
Judy smiles weakly.
I point to the base cabinet. “The cookbook’s inside. You want coffee?”
“Thanks.” Judy yanks her pullover off over her head, revealing one of Kurt’s V-neck undershirts, and settles down on the pine floor of the kitchen. She tugs myJoy of Cooking from the shelf and opens the thick book, idly twisting the red ribbons glued to its spine. “What is this, the wartime edition? You should throw this thing out.”
“I can’t.” I scoop some dry coffee into the coffeemaker. “It reminds me of a missal.”
“A what?”
“Forget it.” Judy was raised without a religion, which is why she has so much faith.
“So, are you in love?”
I watch the coffee dribble into the glass pot. It takes forever.
“Mary? You in love?” She looks up at me expectantly. With her shaggy haircut, there on the floor, she reminds
