I was unable to move, staring at the paper, then realized I had stopped breathing. There, on the front page of the Portland Press Herald, was a picture of Malley. The photograph must have been taken for Malley’s college yearbook. I remembered him telling me that he’d just graduated the year before. He was wearing a tie and some kind of tweedy jacket. Poor Malley. People didn’t generally look that full of promise or excited about being alive. Pictures were false chronicles in that way, but Malley was genuinely excited by life. I thought of all those unclimbed rocks.
But then I began to worry. How many people had seen us together? Did I want to be involved in this? Would the bartender remember me? Of course he would. The police were looking for more information. I threw down the newspaper and took a big mouthful of beer. I was going to have to make a statement. But what would I say? The whole thing was a monumental, frightening, pain in the ass.
I had one beer left and no one to talk to. I missed Boris, which appalled me. I was dangerously low. Mosquitos sang a measured coloratura around my head. I waved them off and they reassembled. I picked up the rest of the chicken and made my way back to the house.
I must have been drunk to call Ann, although not drunk enough to call Boris. I did have an excuse—I couldn’t find the proof of insurance and Ann knew where all that stuff was—but I was really just looking for another voice to put on the end of the receiver. I could hear the phone purring in another dimension, New York. I felt as if everything in New York were happening in the previous week.
“Yes,” said Ann, picking up.
“I haven’t asked you anything yet.”
“Who is this?”
“It’s me.”
“Katherine?”
“Is it too late to call?”
“No. It’s eleven, but I’m up late. Where are you?”
I explained to Ann about the house.
“And Boris went for that?”
“You’ll convince him it was the right thing to do.”
“I might even visit,” said Ann. “What was the question?”
“Question?”
“You had something to ask me?”
“The proof of insurance. I can’t find it.”
“It’s in the glove compartment in a FedEx envelope. There’s an itemized receipt in there from a garage in Connecticut. I had some work done on the car in June. And the registration.” She paused. “Did Boris leave the car with you?”
I hadn’t even thought that Ann might want the car. “Are you mad?”
“Mad as in angry, or mad as in crazy?”
I wasn’t sure. I could hear the television loud in the background and the sound made me sorry for Ann, who shouldn’t have been alone.
“Is that all?” she said.
“I met this guy at a bar. Nothing happened.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“I don’t know. I suppose because he’s dead.”
“Dead?”
“It’s in the paper. In the picture, he looks so happy and now he’s dead. He bled to death. Someone bit him, they think. There’s this crazy guy who escaped from a lunatic asylum.” I paused. Why was I telling Ann this? I put down my beer.
“What does this have to do with me?” said Ann. “What does it have to do with you?”
“Lunatic asylums are just like cages, aren’t they? They’re not an asylum for the crazies, they’re an asylum for everyone else.”
“I suppose that’s valid.”
“Can you imagine being locked up, day after day?”
“I saw One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.”
“Doesn’t it scare you, Ann, to be locked up like an animal in a zoo, looked at, fed, maintained but not loved at all, not understood? To always be separated from humanity by bars?”
“We’re all alone anyway.”
“And that doesn’t scare you?”
“Katherine, are you on drugs?”
“No,” I said. “Just drinking.”
“Good,” said Ann. “Go to bed.”
The next morning I woke to the maddening caws of some perverse crows. I’d been having some dream about the Tower of London and it took a minute for me to figure out where I was. I found some coffee, sugar, tea, and flour—colonial supplies—in the cabinet. The coffee was bitter and I’d forgotten to buy cream. I dressed to go for a walk to check out the property, but then felt dragged down by guilt—a vague wariness, so after a time spent searching for keys, which I’d left on the back of the toilet, I drove to Portland. Ostensibly, this was to make a statement to the police, but I was rapidly talking myself out of it. It was a beautiful day. I had the top down and my sunglasses on. If I cut my hair into a bob and put in some highlights, I’d be harder to recognize and bartenders saw so many people that they might not make the connection. I’d been thinking of changing my look anyway. Cutting my hair would no doubt annoy Boris and this made it more attractive. The police could wait. If they found me, I’d make up some excuse. How did I know they needed me to make a statement? But I didn’t have to decide just then. There were other things to do in town. I had to apply for a job, even if none too enthusiastically. I had noticed some bookstores in the Old Port that looked fully staffed, one which seemed to be run by lesbians and where they probably wouldn’t hire me. I decided to apply there first.
I parked my car by the pub, which was the only place in town I knew. I bought the paper. Bad Billy was still at large. A photograph of the murderer was on the front page. William Selwyn looked like a classic killer. He had pronounced yet fine features and black hair that he wore slicked back. He had a broad forehead, which gave him the appearance of being intelligent, and fine, arched eyebrows. I tucked the paper under my arm. It was unseasonably warm, in the seventies, and the sky was a brilliant, garish blue. The buildings left sharp shadows on the ground, pockets of cold in an otherwise sunlit day. Shop doors opened onto the street and greeted me with the scent of coffee, then pizza, then steak, then garlic and soy, then coffee once again.
I had grown selfish in the last few hours, not so nagged with thoughts of Malley’s unfinished days and distraught parents, more concerned with my own life. I went into the bookstore to fill out an application, but for some reason couldn’t bring myself to admit this to myself or anyone else. I spent close to forty-five anxious minutes assembling a stack of hardcover books. My search for a job had—I added in my head—already cost me ninety-seven dollars. The woman working the counter frightened me. She had fierce iron-gray hair that stood straight up and short fingers, muscled hands. She could have worked in a coal mine, but was instead punching numbers brutally into a cash register.
“What have you got there?” she said. She regarded the books in turn. “Ah, Richard Noll, Vampires, Werewolves, and Demons. And The Lais of Marie de France. You’re into werewolves.”
“I also have The Little Prince,” I said. “Does that mean I’m into little boys?”
She tried to stare me down, but soon gave up, and handed me my change. “Is that all?” she said.
“I was wondering if I could fill out an application.”
“We’re not hiring.”
“Did I ask if you were hiring?”
She reached under the counter for a pad of generic application forms. “Do you want a pen?”
“No thanks. I’ll fill this out at home.” I smiled and picked up the bag with my books.
Outside the window, under the arcing, backward letters of “bookstore,” was the violin player, who had apparently been watching me for some time. He had stopped in front of the bookstore to check his hair in the window’s reflection. His hands were cupped around his face to cut the reflection, which made him look like a winged putti. We looked at each other through the glass until finally I broke into a wide smile.