“I’ve never been married,” Jennifer says, as we leave the dance floor hand in hand to return to our drinks.
I look down at her, amazed by this disclosure, feeling in some vague way she has again topped me.
“Imagine,” I say, bumping her slightly, “two middleaged adults without a single child-support check to show for it.” We sit down and drink.
“How come?” I ask, drunk enough to stick my nose where it doesn’t belong. We’re not exactly at the point where we exchange life stories.
“Doubtless, you’ve had plenty of chances.”
She smiles a little more brightly than necessary.
“It’s not that I don’t enjoy men, but I guess I’ve never liked the odds.”
Enjoy. I smile, too, pleased at my good fortune. I want to go to bed with this woman, but I’m not in the mood to listen to any bitter stories. Around nine, after we’ve danced again, I ask, “Would you like to come to my place?”
Obviously considering, she waits until we are back at our table to speak. She reaches down and finishes off the last of her beer. I should have ordered a six-pack and a bucket of ice.
“Thank you, but you seem a little too sad, Gideon. I appreciate the offer though.” After picking up her purse, she reaches up and lightly kisses me on the cheek and then slips away, leaving me to find our waiter to pay the bill.
Me, sad? I thought I had been witty and charming. I drive home in an alcoholic daze, on the lookout for cops. All I need to cap this perfect day is a ticket.
Damn.
At home the only thing on the machine is an incomprehensible message from Pearl Norman. Skunked worse than I am, she is saying something about “trying ever since Leigh was ten …” to do something. Most of it is her crying into the phone. I run the tape twice, and then erase it to get away from the sound of her voice.
Her self-pitying whine reminds me of my father’s voice when he was on the sauce. Jesus Christ. An alcoholic and a schizophrenic. No wonder my mother shipped him off to the state hospital. I felt terrible I never went to see him, but I was glad he was gone. Embarrassed the shit out of us sometimes. The asshole!
“Drunk and crazy, drunk and crazy,” Marty would hiss under her breath at him at the dinner table. I’d sit there scared to death he’d understand, while mother tried to act as if nothing was wrong. Glad those times are past. In the den on the sofa I sit as still as I can to make the room stop spinning. Woogie hops up beside me to wait for Sarah. Good boy. No wonder Leigh and Shane try to hide Pearl. I would, too.
8
I awake to my doorbell ringing at four in the morning.
Though my head is pounding and my stomach quivering with last night’s liquor, I am relieved. Knowing it is Sarah, I get up and stumble to the door in my under wear. Brave watchdog that he is, Woogie follows me, barking deliriously. Thank God I didn’t bring what’sher-face home with me. For the life of me, I can’t re member her name. I haven’t drunk that much in years.
So what if Sarah has come home out of guilt? What’s wrong with that? How can we be moral without feeling bad when we screw up? I can feel myself smiling, understanding how the father of the prodigal son felt. I won’t say a word just tell her I’m glad she’s home. If she wants to rant and rave a little, I’ll endure it. For a while.
I flip the porch-light switch by the door and open it to find Leigh Wallace. What the hell is going on? I jump behind the door. In these thin boxer shorts I might as well be standing in the nude. I yell, “Come on in.
I’m going to get some clothes on.” Why in the world didn’t she at least call? Don’t people think I own a telephone?
“I’m sorry about this,” she calls after me, “but I couldn’t stay at my parents’ home any longer.”
It is chilly in the house. I flip on some lights and hit the thermostat. I’ll make coffee when I get some clothes on. When I reappear, dressed in jeans and a sweater, I find her in my kitchen by the pantry, presumably looking for coffee.
“I hope I haven’t awakened your daughter,” she says, staring at me as if I were a ghost. Well, she doesn’t look so great either. Swallowed by shapeless gray sweats and tennis shoes, she seems smaller than I remembered. Her face, devoid of makeup and lipstick, is a little unnerving in its austerity. I have never seen her when she didn’t look perfect.
“She spent the night out,” I say, unable to summon the energy to explain. My mind isn’t quite functioning yet. I find a jar of Taster’s Choice and fill a pan with water.
“Why don’t you have a seat?”
She goes to the kitchen table and sits, apparently convinced I can boil water without her assistance. How odd this is, I think. I wonder if her father knows she is gone.
Our daughters are both in trouble, though Sarah obviously doesn’t think of it like that. Woogie goes to Leigh and jumps up against her legs. A substitute sister. Acceptance is his long suit. Smiling, she reaches down and pets him as if he were some magnificent breed of animal.
“I haven’t been telling you the truth.”
Better late than never, I think. With only five days until the trial starts, it’s nice to think I might know what the hell is going on. Aware that I stink worse than the bottom of a trash can filled with whiskey bottles and cigarette butts, I putter around the sink. If I get too close, she may pass out from the fumes. Woogie smells better than I do.
“So what is the truth?” I ask, prompting her when she doesn’t speak. This is a strange place and time for a murder confession, but maybe not so un usual in this case. Confessing to her father may be just too difficult. I can’t imagine Sarah confessing to me.
Tears begin to slide down her face.
“I wasn’t up at the church in the middle of the morning like I said,” she says, sniffling, and dabs at her eyes with a wadded-up tissue she is holding in her right fist. Woogie nestles against her feet as if he can sense her distress.
Tell me something I don’t know, I think. Still, she has got to start somewhere. My hand is trembling from too much alcohol as I measure out a teaspoon.
“Want some Coffee-mate and/or sugar?” I ask, trying to appear relaxed Finally getting to the bottom of this case has speeded up my heart. After last night, I need all the jump-starts I can get.
She shakes her head and again bends down to pet Woogie. What would we do without animals to comfort us? I pour boiling water from the pan and deliver her coffee to her and then cross back to the sink to pour my own. A little of me goes a long way this morning.
When she doesn’t speak, I prompt her, “As you may realize this isn’t much of a surprise.”
She sips at her coffee and makes a face. Probably too strong. Well, too bad. I would have met her at an I-Hop if she wanted.
“Do you remember asking me if I had been doing something I was embarrassed about?”
I nod, tasting my coffee. God, this stuff could power a tractor-trailer rig.
“Yeah,” I say, as offhandedly as I can. This will be hard enough for her to admit without me starting to pant in front of her.
“The morning of his death. Art had persuaded me to make a video,” she says bitterly, “without any clothes on.” She studies her mug. It is one of those mugs they send you for pledging money to Public Radio. Embarrassed for her, I look away and sip my coffee. She fills the growing silence.
“He said he wanted me to dance for him.” With these words she begins to cry, but it is controlled, as if she has promised herself to get it over with as quickly as possible.