“I will.”
“And that cop.”
“I’ll see you,” Carmen said. Hesitated a moment and said, “Wayne? I’ll be here.” She pushed the button to disconnect, dialed her mother’s number,
waited and was surprised to hear:
“Hello?” The tone almost pleasant.
“Mom? Did you know it was me?”
“I prayed it was. I’ve been worried sick.”
“I’m home. How are you?”
“Well, I’m walking now. The pain is still something awful, but at least I’m on my feet. When’re you coming over?”
“You sound much better.”
“Well, I’m not.”
“I could stop by later, for a while anyway. Wayne’ll be home this evening and I want to have his dinner ready.”
“I haven’t seen you in so long . . .”
“Do you need anything at the store?”
“I’ll have to think, I’m so used to looking out for myself,” her mom said. “Well, I could use a bottle of Clairol Loving Care. The light ash blonde, number seventy-one.”
“Anything else?”
“Oh—I got the report from Annoyance Call. There was a whole bunch of calls from where you were, three-one-four. There was one from Algonac, your house, and three from public phones. One Marine City and two Port Huron that must’ve been the hang-ups. That’s what they do, call from a pay phone so they don’t get traced, they’re slick articles.”
“I didn’t know you were having trouble.”
“I told you the day you had your phone put in, and you called? I was gonna see if a trap would catch him.”
“You must’ve had it done before we left.”
“It was right after, I know, because I was worried sick I hadn’t heard from you.”
Carmen said, “And one of the calls was from this house?”
“It’s your number on the list.”
“But we weren’t here, Mom.”
Her mother said, “Well, somebody was.” She said, “How’s your weather down there?”
Thirty miles away. Carmen wanted to hang up and walk out of the house—the weather was all right, it was weather, about 50 out, overcast, quite windy—walk all the way around the outside of the house and look at it good—her mom saying it was 52 degrees in Port Huron—look in the windows and find out for sure, was this her house? It looked like it, everything was in the right place, but it didn’t feel like her house, someone had been here and touched things. Everything wasn’t in the right place, the phone book and note pad she kept in a drawer were on the counter. Someone had been here and left a smell, the kitchen smelled, someone had been cooking, used the oven she never left open like that, plugged in the refrigerator humming away, what else? Looking around now—her mom asking what time she was coming—Carmen telling her she didn’t know offhand, she had to shop (think of something), she had to get a tire fixed, and heard a sound from somewhere in the house, hard, clear, a metal-hitting-metal sound. Carmen told herself it was a radiator clanging, hot air banging in a pipe, and told her mom she’d be there around noon, bye, I missed you too, Mom, yeah, okay, see you in a little while, bye. And hung up. She moved to the range, stooped to push the oven door open and looked inside. Three wedges of cold pizza and a few crusts lay on a cookie sheet. She could smell them. Carmen straightened, closing the oven, turned to the refrigerator and jumped, sucking in her breath.
Richie said, “How’s Mom doing?”
He stood in the doorway to the dining room wearing an ironworker’s jacket, Wayne’s old one, and sunglasses, holding a shotgun across his arm.
Now the other one appeared, coming into the kitchen past Richie Nix, also with a shotgun but holding it at his side, pointed down. Armand Degas, wearing the same dark suit he’d worn that day at the real estate office. He said to Carmen, “It looks like we gonna be together for a while, ’ey? Till six or six-thirty?”
Richie Nix said, “Bird? Here, hold this,” and handed him his shotgun.
He came toward her and Carmen tried to look him in the eye, tried hard, but lowered and turned her head as his hand came up and she thought he was going to slap her across the face. “You got nice hair,” Richie said, touching it, stroking it. She was looking down at his cowboy boots toe to toe with her white sneakers. “Has body, you don’t have to use a lot of sticky spray on it.” He moved against her, his hands going to her shoulders. “Mmmmm, smells nice, too. I can see you believe in personal hygiene, you keep yourself clean. I like your sweater-and-shirt outfit. You look like a little schoolgirl.” His hands came down to take hold of her hips. “Scoot over, I want to get something here.”
Carmen looked up. She saw the diamond in his earlobe and saw Armand Degas watching them. Richie had the oven door open. He brought out a wedge of cold pizza and took a bite as he moved to the window over the sink.
“How come you had to drive the pickup?”
“It was there,” Carmen said. Her voice sounded dry.
“Whatever that means,” Richie said, looking at her now. “It don’t matter. Where’s the keys?” When she hesitated Richie stepped over to her purse lying on the counter. “In here?”
Armand said, “Put the truck in the garage and close the door. Let’s get that done.”
Carmen watched Richie look up and stare at Armand before he said, “That’s what I’m gonna do, Bird. Why do you think I want the keys?” He brought them out of the purse and walked around the counter that separated the kitchen work area from the door.
“I thought you might want to keep talking,” Armand said, “till somebody drives by, sees the truck.”
Richie stopped and took a bite of pizza. He said, “Hey, Bird?” in a mild tone of voice. “Fuck you.”
It didn’t seem to bother Armand. Carmen watched him. All he did was shrug, reach over and lay Richie’s shotgun on the counter against the wall.
She moved to the window over the sink, not wanting to be alone with Armand looking at her. She had to make up her mind how to think about this, how to accept it—her mouth dry, trying to breathe, telling herself to take a deep breath and let it out slowly—how to act, passive, or let herself go, think of Wayne walking in and let the tears come, plead with them, please...Or think of a way . . . First get the keys back from Richie, with the key to Wayne’s closet, the Remington inside. She thought of it without knowing if it was possible or if she’d have the nerve, it was hard to picture, if she did somehow get to the gun—would it be loaded?—and held it on them...then what? Through the window she saw Richie inside the pickup, starting it, both hands free, what was left of the pizza slice sticking out of his mouth. He might leave the keys in the ignition. She watched the pickup creep ahead and turn toward the garage, out of view.
Behind her, Armand said, “You want to fix us some breakfast? We brought food, it’s in the icebox.”
Carmen turned and they were as close as the day he tried to come up the porch steps, his face raised with the hunting cap hiding his eyes, the day she could have shot him and wished to God, now, she had.
She said, “What do you want?”
“There some waffles if you have any syrup.”
“I don’t mean to eat. What do you want?”
“We’re waiting for your husband.”
Making it sound like a visit.
“And when he gets here...?”
She watched him shrug and then look up. A hammering sound was coming from the garage, Richie—it would have to be Richie—pounding on metal. The sound stopped.
“I know why you’re here,” Carmen said. “Why can’t you say it?”
“Well, if you know that . . .” He gestured with his hands, let them fall and said, “Don’t talk so