Maybe he’d returned from the shop for something he forgot. She was here because she was absentminded, so why not Leon?
“Leon?”
She waited for an answer in the heavy silence of the still apartment. There was none. She called louder: “Leon!”
Okay, he must not be home. The sound from the bedroom had simply been something falling over-a picture frame, maybe-or had been from the apartment upstairs. Or perhaps the faint noise had been only in her imagination. Lots of possibilities. She didn’t have time to worry about them now.
Lisa continued on her way to the kitchen. As she walked through the door, she immediately saw her glasses lying next to a folded dish towel on the sink counter.
Great! Nothing to do now but snatch up the glasses and be on my way again.
As her fingers closed on the thin steel frames, she glanced at the digital clock on the stove. Still plenty of time.
She was leaving the kitchen when she noticed the bouquet of yellow roses in the center of the table.
She stopped cold, then went over to look at them. There were half a dozen of the freshly bloomed, cut yellow roses in a plain glass vase with water in it, no card. Quite beautiful. She couldn’t resist leaning over the table and sniffing the nearest blossom, enjoying its fragrance.
Leon again? Another of his mystery gifts? Like the strange earrings I discovered in my jewelry box, the ones he’s pretending I had for years and forgot about?
If so, she wasn’t supposed to find the roses yet; they were a surprise for this evening. Did he think it was their anniversary or her birthday? Either was possible. He’d gotten the dates of important occasions wrong before. Lisa remembered when the shop had been forty-eight hours early for Valentine’s Day, which the sale sign Leon had placed in the window proclaimed as TOMORROW. Lisa had to smile.
She thought about calling her husband’s name again, or double-checking to make sure he wasn’t in the bedroom.
But if he was in the bedroom, it was because she’d surprised him by coming back to the apartment unexpectedly, and he didn’t want her to know he was home. He was hiding, hoping she wouldn’t discover him or the roses.
Lisa stood wondering what to do, then decided she should do nothing.
Let Leon have his fun. Maybe he knows what he’s doing. He might be leading up to something. Like a European vacation or a Caribbean cruise.
Lisa left the apartment, making sure the door was dead-bolted behind her. This evening she’d pretend the roses were a big surprise. Whatever was going on was weird, but there was nothing to do but roll with it.
Only when she was back on the crowded sidewalk, waiting for the traffic signal to change so she could cross a busy intersection, did she let the thought occur to her fully: What if somebody else put the roses in the kitchen and went into the bedroom when I returned home unexpectedly?
Somebody not Leon!
“Move it or lose it, lady!”
The light had changed to a walk signal. A florid-faced little man was trying to get around her, bumping her hip with his attache case. Threads of sparse black hair were plastered across his otherwise bald scalp, and he was wearing a natty gray suit and what looked like a blue ascot.
“Move it or-”
“I never heard that one before,” Lisa said. “Is it copyrighted?”
The fussy little guy did what she should have done-ignored the remark.
She let him pass and stride out ahead of her as they crossed the street.
Beyond him Lisa could see Petit Poisson’s sign.
And was that woman in the blue dress Abby? The pudgy one hurrying into the restaurant?
If so, she’s put on weight. Lots of weight.
Lisa forgot all about the yellow roses as she quickened her pace. She didn’t want to be the last to arrive at the restaurant.
A person could get talked about.
39
Hiram, Missouri, 1989.
Luther watched them sleep. Milford had drunk more than his share of scotch after dinner and seemed almost unconscious, too deep in his slumber even to snore. His breathing was as persistent and rhythmic as the sea. Cara slept more lightly beside him.
Luther, moving closer, could see the delicate flesh of her closed eyelids responding as her pupils shifted beneath them.
She’s dreaming. Maybe about me.
He might wake her and they could go downstairs, or up to his attic nest. Or-and this they had never dared- they could have sex right there in bed beside Milford, to the regular beat of Milford’s own breathing and ignorance. Luther considered it; Milford hadn’t budged since he’d entered the bedroom, and probably since long before that. His hair wasn’t even mussed. Luther could wake Cara with a kiss, place a palm over her mouth to quiet her if necessary, and then…
Don’t be an idiot!
Realizing he was breathing hard enough to hear, Luther backed away from the bed. As if sensing his presence, Cara raised a hand lightly to her forehead, then lowered it. Her eyes remained closed.
Let the Sands sleep for now. Luther would prowl his secret domain.
He left the bedroom and closed, but didn’t latch, its door behind him. After only a few steps he felt safe. Sound wouldn’t carry through the thick walls. Not bothering to be quiet, he descended the creaking stairs to the first floor.
This was his time, his own dim world where he could indulge himself with whatever he needed at the moment-food, drink, shelter, woman…
At the moment he was hungry. Maybe because of the benzene he’d been inhaling in the attic; it did that sometimes, made him want sex or food later. It could also affect his judgment, something he realized only in retrospect.
Luther made his way into the kitchen, which was illuminated by the night-light on the stove and moonlight filtering through the curtained window. He remembered the scent of dinner a few hours before when he was lying on his cot reading in the attic, almost the taste itself, rising all the way through the vents and cracks and air spaces of the old house to its highest regions. The Sands were having turkey, one of Milford’s favorites that Cara prepared regularly. Thanksgiving at least once a week. There were always leftovers, and she would make sure there was plenty of white meat for Luther.
He smelled something else when he entered the kitchen. Roses. There was a clear glass vase in the center of the table containing half a dozen yellow roses Cara had brought in from the garden. She loved roses, especially the yellow ones. The scent of roses reminded Luther of Cara, and he knew it always would.
He opened the refrigerator and there was a large remaining portion of the bird on a platter and covered with aluminum foil. He removed the platter and placed it on the Formica table.
When he pulled back the foil, he was pleased to find more than half of a good-size turkey, baked to a perfect golden brown. Even one of the drumsticks remained, but Luther knew he couldn’t chance eating it. Milford liked drumsticks and would wonder. Luther would satisfy himself with a few thick slices of white meat for a sandwich, washed down with milk from the carton. Afterward, he’d rinse off the knife he’d used to carve the meat and replace it in its drawer. Then he’d return the turkey, milk, and condiments to the refrigerator, making sure there were no telltale crumbs, and creep back to his cot in his secret space above.
He found half a loaf of bread in the metal box with the yellow rose decal on it, and laid it next to the turkey and milk on the table. Back to the refrigerator for the milk carton, a jar of mustard, and another of pickles. On
