Finally a muffled voice behind the door, Boone’s voice, said, “Who is it?”
And he felt another wave of embarrassment, like he had outside the church, after the funeral, and he couldn’t bring himself to say anything. He turned to go.
He heard the door open behind him. Then: “Oh. It’s you.”
He turned and she was still in the plaid shirt and jeans, her blonde hair pinned back, pulled away from her face, and it was a good strong face with hard cheekbones but very pretty. Her expression, though, was cold, condescending, and it pissed him off.
His face felt tight as he said, “What did you mean?”
“What?”
“What did you mean by saying Mary Beth didn’t kill herself?”
“Did I say that?”
“You said it. And I want to know what you meant by it!”
“Is that why you were walking away with your butt tucked between your legs, when I opened the door?”
“Why don’t you go fuck yourself.”
“Why don’t you just go? Go home, Crane!”
The door slammed shut.
He stood and looked at it, wondering what he was doing here, standing in front of this door, of this house, in this town, in this state... maybe going home wasn’t such a bad idea.
But how could he, till he found out what Boone knew about Mary Beth’s death?
He was raising his fist to knock again when the door opened. Boone leaned against the door and looked at his upraised fist, smirked, shook her head, sighed and said, “Come on in. You look like a horse’s ass just standing there staring.”
The house seemed very big inside, but that was because there wasn’t much furniture, just a lot of dark wood trim and dark polished wood floors that reminded him of the church this afternoon; the cream-colored plaster walls and the secondhand-store furniture in the living room area she led him to reminded him of the duplex he used to share in Iowa City, where he and Mary Beth had spent their first evening.
She motioned to a sagging red sofa and he sat down. She pulled up a hardback chair, which was one of the few other pieces of furniture in the room. The place did look lived in; in one corner was a portable TV on a stand; against one wall was a small stereo flanked by speakers the size of cereal boxes, with a stack of albums, one of which — “No Nukes” — was propped up against the wall; and in the middle of a floor covered by a worn braided rug was a red toy fire truck which clashed with the faded red of the sofa.
“My husband left me the house and the kid,” Boone said, “and took all the furniture. Any other questions?”
“Jeez,” Crane said, “it’s kind of hard to picture you and some guy having trouble getting along.”
“I had that coming,” she said, smiling with almost no sarcasm at all. “Do you want something to drink?”
“Please. Nothing alcoholic.”
“I got nothing alcoholic. You can have milk or herbal tea or juice.”
“What kind of juice?”
“V-8 or orange.”
“Orange.”
She brought it to him, in a big glass with Bugs Bunny on it, with ice. She had V-8 and the Road Runner and no ice.
He sipped the juice and said, “Thank you.”
She sat back down and said, “It won’t kill me to be civil to you, I guess. For some reason I find myself wanting to take it out on you.”
“Mary Beth dying, you mean.”
“Yeah. That and my divorce and life in general. You just make a handy whipping boy.”
“It’s nice to serve a purpose.”
“How did you find me? I’m not in the phone book.”
“Laurie gave me your address. I just came from there.”
“How are Laurie and her mother doing?”
“The mother seems dazed, in shock. People are standing around eating and smoking and talking about sports. How Laurie’s doing, I don’t know.”
“Laurie has her problems.”
“I know. I saw her son.”
“Little Brucie isn’t unique, you know.”
“What do you mean?”
“Birth defects are nothing to write Ripley about, is what I mean. Especially around here.”
“How so?”
“I know of two other women in Greenwood in the past three years whose kids were born with deformities. Mary Beth knew about them.”
“Boone, I was down this road with Laurie... she seems to think Mary Beth was depressed over Brucie’s birth defect, and by her father’s death... but I just can’t buy it. You knew her. Did she seem at all suicidal to you?”
“No. I told you... I don’t believe she killed herself.”
“What do you believe?”
“I believe she’s dead. Don’t you?”
He stood; the orange juice in his hand splashed.
“Goddamnit,” he said, feeling red in the face, flustered, “tell me! Quit playing with me! If you know something, suspect something, let me in on the goddamn fucking secret!”
A little boy about six in a T-shirt and pajama bottoms wandered in. He had thick dark hair and was rubbing his eyes and saying, “Mommy, what’s going on out here? I’m sleeping.”
Boone smiled at the boy, tousled his hair and said, “Mommy’s got company. Go on back to bed.”
The boy looked at Crane and said, “Who are you?”
Crane didn’t know what to say; he was standing there with a glass of orange juice in his hand, half of which he’d just splashed on himself, knowing he looked like an idiot, both to this six year old and himself.
“Just a friend of Mommy’s,” Boone said.
“If he stays all night I’ll tell Daddy,” the boy said.
“He won’t be staying all night,” she said, getting firm. “Now go to bed!”
The kid shrugged and said, “Okay,” and gave Crane a dirty look and shuffled off.
Crane sat down. “Sorry I got loud,” he said.
“I’m sorry I seem so evasive...”
“You’ve got a nice-looking boy, there.”
“He looks like his father. Same disposition, too, I’m afraid.”
“His father must be a good-looking guy.”
“He is.”
“There isn’t much affection in your voice.”
“There isn’t much affection in me, period, where Patrick is concerned.”
“Patrick? Your husband’s name is Patrick Boone? Pat Boone?”
She smiled. “Yeah. We used to kid him about that, back in the old days.” She laughed softly. “The old days. Did you ever think the Vietnam years would be the ‘old days’?”
“Nobody ever thinks any time is going to be the ‘old days.’ That’s when you met your husband, then? In college?”
“Yeah. He was a little older than me. We worked together on an underground paper. The Third Eye, it was called.”
“Was that around here someplace?”
“No. Back in your neck of the woods — the Midwest. Eastern Illinois University. Very straight school. We were regular outlaws.”
“It must’ve been a good time to be an outlaw.”
“Yeah, I keep forgetting. You weren’t there. You were just a kid. Still are.”
“You’re not that much older than me.”
“I’m older than you’ll ever be. You didn’t even live through the draft, did you? Jesus.”
“Neither did you. They weren’t drafting women, the way I heard it.”
“I lived through it with Patrick. A lot of young women lived through it with their men. Their husbands. Brothers. It wasn’t easy for anybody with that hanging over them.”
“You were active in the anti-war movement?”
“Yes. Patrick was. I was. We both were. Carried signs. We were at Chicago. Patrick got his head smashed by a cop. Pig, as we used to say. Six stitches. Back on campus, he was a draft counselor. He was studying pre-law.”