On this particular Saturday night, for example, she’s meeting a seventy-five-year-old man who really could be happy with the services of a good reflexologist, assuming he could find one who agreed to work naked. All he wants is for someone to squeeze his toes in a very particular pattern, almost as if they were bagpipes or a cow’s teats. Easy money, and his feet are beautifully kept, especially for a man his age-the toenails freshly cut and only faintly yellow-but tonight he takes longer than usual to complete, and when he pays Heloise, he shakes his head sadly.
“What happened to Veronica?” he asks. “The dark-haired one?” (And, yes, Heloise has a blond named Betty in her employ as well, and they often tag-team a man who insists on being called Archie. Unless he’s calling himself Gilligan, and then they’re Ginger and Mary Ann.)
“I try to give the girls weekends off in the summer.”
“The thing is-you look great, Heloise. Truly. For your age. But for me, it takes a younger girl…”
“I understand,” she says, patting his hand. He’s not the first one to say this to Heloise in the past two years or so. The fact is, another cliché applies: this hurts him more than it hurts her. He only thinks it’s youth he wants. It’s novelty he craves, and she’s been taking care of him for more than five years. Some men like that, actually, love the groove, the pattern, discover a way to be monogamous twice over, with their spouses and their whores. But, obviously, some are going to get bored, even a man such as Leo, who doesn’t even open his eyes while he’s being serviced and does most of the heavy lifting himself. At forty, Heloise plans to continue taking calls for at least five more years, tops, and she doesn’t think she’ll lose that many customers along the way. But when she stops, she will have to hire two girls to take her place, and the way she sees it, every employee elevates her exposure to risk. Plus, it’s a bitch, managing other people.
Still, she feels a little pang, leaving Leo that evening. For whatever reason, age or novelty, Heloise has been rejected, and she is unused to rejection, given that she eschews recreational sex, with all its irrationality and head games and confusion.
Her cell phone throbs in its dashboard-mounted holster. “Meghan.” Speaking of people who are a bitch to manage.
“You’re on Bluetooth,” she warns.
“Is there someone else in the car?”
“No, but-”
Meghan’s voice rushes ahead, heedless. “He’s been in touch.”
“Who?” Heloise is confused, and her mind rolls to Brian. Is Meghan having some sort of paranormal episode?
“Pillow man.”
“Humph,” she says. Then: “I’m on the way back. Why don’t I swing by?”
“Heloise…” Meghan’s voice is urgent, needy, whiny.
“I’m twenty minutes away.” More like thirty-five, but Meghan will keep talking if she tells her that. “No phones, Meghan.”
MEGHAN LOOKS AT THE PLAIN PIECE of paper, mailed in the area and postmarked two days ago. She almost didn’t open it-the fussy handwriting looked machine generated, junk mail attempting to masquerade-but she saw at the last moment, before pitching it into the recycling container, that it was, in fact, real handwriting, just enormously fussy.
Inside, a plain piece of paper, unsigned of course: “Remember the golden rule: Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. I did my part. Now it’s your turn.”
She tells herself that it’s not related, that it’s some sort of freak chain letter. There are some crazy Christians around here, although most of them home-school. It’s a coincidence, like that urban legend about the girls who prank-call various numbers-“I saw what you did!”-only to reach someone who’s just tidying up after a murder.
Murder: don’t go there.
Do unto others-what, exactly, has her correspondent done for her? Finished a job? Saved a man from suffering? Murder? Again, she tries to wall off that thought, but it’s awfully hard to avoid. She pours another glass of wine. She drinks less since Brian died, more proof that he was bad for her. But wine goes to her head faster as a result, and she worries that she’ll be a little tipsy by the time Heloise arrives. A car in the driveway-it’s her! A part of her mind detaches as it always does when Meghan sees Heloise, wonders at the sheer perfection of her sister’s appearance. Hair, perfect; nails, perfect; clothes, perfect. Heloise takes care of herself because it’s part of her livelihood. But might it not become Meghan’s livelihood, too, now that she plans to start hunting for a new husband? Can she afford to keep herself as Heloise maintains herself? Meghan has tried to work out the math, but it’s too discouraging. Sleeping with the same man, even a mere twice a week, over a couple of decades simply cannot produce as much income as Heloise’s thriving business does. Unless she lands a billionaire, and those aren’t found in Turner’s Grove. Equity millionaires, men with a lot of house under them, but no real money.
Heloise comes to the front door and knocks, then waits to be admitted. Very unlike Meghan’s female friends, who push open the door with a cheery “hello,” sure of their welcome. Since Brian’s death, Meghan has paid special attention to how people enter her home. Was the door unlocked that day? Did she leave the garage door up when she left, shaking with adrenaline? Heloise, of course, is the one person who could not have sneaked back to kill Brian. Or wait-why not? Meghan went back to band practice. Who knows what happened in those intervening hours?
But the fact is, she cannot imagine Heloise doing that for her, which makes her kind of sad. A real big sister would have done it, and Heloise is the older by six months. But then-a real big sister would have owned up to it, too.
“Look,” she says, thrusting the note at her sister. “It was in the mail today. I thought-”
Heloise takes her wrist, gently but authoritatively. “Let’s go out, to that wine bar on the highway. Talk there. You can leave the kids, can’t you? Melinda can look after them, right?”
“Yes, but-isn’t it safer to talk here?”
“It’s safer not to talk anywhere. But if we have to talk, let’s do it in public, where we’ll have to make an effort to be circumspect. Drive with me and we’ll agree on some code words.”
Meghan is torn. She doesn’t want to be careful. She wants to let the pent-up words and emotion spill out. There’s no risk from the kids. Kids never register their parents’ secrets, not unless those secrets affect them directly. At the same time, she likes the idea of a drink, on a Saturday night, in a popular place. The food is good, the wine list varied. There might be men there. And a drink with her sister in public-the normalcy of it has an appealing novelty. Perhaps Heloise even has some tips for how to meet men.
“Just give me five minutes to change.”
THE WINE BAR IS, IN FACT, called the Wine Barn, and it’s in a converted barn. Infelicitous, he thinks. Is he using the word correctly? It was on his word-a-day calendar last week and he liked the sound of it, but he’s not sure the usage is precise. “Regrettable” may be better. “Cheesy.” But it gets away with the hideous name because the interior décor is simple and chic, by the area’s standards, and because it is an unrelievedly adult place in a suburb where everything else is kid-centric. The Wine Barn allows children in the dining room, but they have to play by its rules, eat from its menu. No chicken fingers or other kiddie menu concessions. He never gets to eat here because his wife thinks that’s a kind of bigotry.
Saturday is date night for the older folks here, cruising night for those in their twenties, the teachers and firefighters and other essential types who live in the townhouses and apartments at the outer ring of the burg. He used to have quite an eye for those teachers. But now, all he sees is Meghan. I’m your knight, he wants to sing out. Your knight in shining armor. I saved your life. You owe me everything. But it will be so much sweeter for her to realize this on her own, then do what he needs her to do, just as he has done what she required. Unbidden. Selfless. That’s true love.