“In that case, that’s all the news from back home. What’s new with you? Is there a woman in your life? Or women?”
“Forgive me, Inky, but I don’t feel like exchanging warm personal data with you just now. If you don’t mind.”
“Of course.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t even ask about your current family. Uh, you do have one, don’t you?”
“They’re fine.”
“What’s the new one’s name? I mean the wife.”
“Zafra.”
“Hmm. Sounds very nice.”
“She is.”
Another lull occurred before Trent said, “Where are you staying, Inky?”
“Hotel. I’m looking for an apartment in the city.”
“In Manhattan? You’ll be lucky to get on a five-year waiting list for anything reasonable. Unless you’re talking about spending big money.”
“I’m somewhat financially embarrassed at the moment.”
Trent smirked. “Tricky getting used to a hard-physics world again, isn’t it?”
“Very. The credit card I materialized to pay for the hotel disappeared a microsecond after I put it back in my wallet — which vanished not very much later.”
Trent’s look was detached, analytical. “If you’re that far along already, maybe I would be taking a big risk trying to knock you off right here and now.” Then the smile resumed. “Just kidding, brother.”
Incarnadine’s hand came up from beneath the table gripping a large revolver. “Just in case you’re not,” he said. “This won’t last a minute, but a second is all it would take.”
Trent laughed. “One thing I would never, never want to do, Inky, is underestimate you.” Then he suddenly frowned in mock indignation. “Really, Inky, that was uncalled for.”
“Sorry.” The gun disappeared. “You’ve been making what I took to be veiled threats all afternoon. Sorry if I’ve misinterpreted.”
“You have. I should apologize, though. Inky, I don’t want to hurt you, or get in your way … or do anything, really, but continue leading my life. All I ask is that you leave me alone.”
“That is not an unreasonable request,” Incarnadine said. “I might ask the same of you.”
“Then let’s bury the hatchet. Let’s agree to disagree, live and let live, and all the rest of that stuff.”
“Let’s.” Incarnadine rose from the table. Trent did not.
“Inky, I’ve been meaning to comment — your disguise is pretty good. It’s not magic, but it’s a fair makeup job. How did you do it?”
“I went into a costume shop, bought some stage makeup, this wig, and the moustache. A few age lines here and there, a touch of pancake … ” He shrugged. “Yours is magic, I suppose.”
Trent snapped his fingers and the years melted away in an instant. Incarnadine beheld Trent as he had looked the last time they had seen each other, sometime in the late 1950s.
“Pretty neat,” Incarnadine remarked. “You seem to have no trouble with the Arts here.”
Trent shook his head. “Rudimentary stuff.”
“Effective, though. I should ask you to give me lessons. But now, Trent, I have to go.”
“Phan will drive you back to New York.”
“I wouldn’t think of it. Can you call me a cab?”
“We’re out pretty far. Inky. Phan can run you into Great Neck, though, and you can get a train for the city.”
“That suits me.”
“It’s been nice.”
“Goodbye, Trent.”
“And keep in touch,” Trent added, smiling pleasantly.
Seven
Wilmerding, Pennsylvania
Ohmygawd. Saturday night and no date. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Invoking all deities, great and small.
Sheila turned the water in the tub on and yanked up the thingee on the spigot that made the water come out of the shower head.
Oh Jesus H. Christ on the proverbial crutch. Sorry, sorry, don’t mean to offend any supernatural personages. Can’t afford that, not with the way things have been going. Oh hell.
She looked in the mirror. Same face. It doesn’t go away, doesn’t change. Still Sheila. Who did you expect?
Another Sa-tur-day night and I AIN’T got no-BOD-y … da da da da da dee dee dum dum DUM —
She let the ratty old robe drop and looked at herself. Her breasts seemed to sag just a little lower than they did the last time she’d looked at them. Mygawd, could this process be taking place overnight? Did they go — plop — just like that? Or was it her imagination?
She couldn’t quite see her butt, though she knew she was okay in that department, at least. Thank heaven for small favors. She wasn’t going completely to pot. Her weight was fine.
Oh, for Christ’s sake, stop this damn fixation about the body, okay? So you’re getting older. It’s inevitable. Completely natural process. Everything’s fine. Just … fine. So you’ve had two horrible marriages. Great. So you hate your job. Okay, so you hate the goddamn world. So what? That’s life, kid.
The bathroom filled with steam and her image grew misty and faded. Faded away.
She wiped the mirror with two fingers and saw one green eye peeking back at her. Still there, Sheila?
Still there.
She got in and the water was a little hot, so she adjusted it. She let the spray sting her until it cooled down, perversely enjoying the discomfort.
No date. No men in her life. No men anywhere. No guys at work she wanted to work with, let alone go out with. The bar scene was deadly. 99.99999 percent of the men she did meet were: (1) pinheads; (2) multiple-attempt losers (like herself!); or (3) married. Most of them, it seemed, were (3). Why was she always meeting married men she liked? Some weird psychological thing, no doubt.
She poured a cold gob of Herbal Essence into her hand, slapped the stuff on her head, and smooshed it around until it lathered.
Two disastrous marriages. Actually the latest had been the worst. Frank was … still is, from all reports … nuts. He had problems;serious problems. Her lawyer files, he gets the papers at work, and what does he do? He leaves work, goes straight to the house, breaks in (the locks had all been changed), and proceeds to trash the place from top to bottom. All the furniture, slashed, ripped, broken apart. Carpeting slit down the middle with a linoleum cutter. Dishes smashed, the stereo stomped on and wrecked, the bed … the bed, for Christ’s sake, a complete shambles. The crazy bastard didn’t miss a piece of communal property. Property settlement! Hah! What property?
What if she had been home at the time? Ohmygawd. He would have killed her.
Sure, she got a judgment against him for the damages, but who knew when he’d pay up, if ever? The schmuck was broke. Meanwhile, she had a house full of broken junk, this monster mortgage, a shit job at Mellon Bank, and she was stuck in Wilmerding.
Wilmerding.
Wilmer …ding.
She rinsed, then poured out another gob of goop and lathered again. Gonna wash that jerk right outta my … yeah, right.
No date. So we bathe,madame, and we brush on a little Clinique, and spritz on a touch of … oh, what would be good for tonight? — some cheap smelly crap, real whory stuff, and then, mesdames et messieurs, we go down to Chauncey’s and watch the pretty lights and listen to the music and nurse a glass of Chablis until some insurance underwriter sidles up and asks us to dance to a disco (migraine-inducing rhythm track overlaid) redub of an old Beatles number.…
A sudden cold blast of air hit her, and she began to shiver. Her heart thumped against her breastbone.Somebody had come in! Somebody had opened the bathroom door!