I closed my eyes again, this time because the pain on her face was hurting me too. “Or am I wrong again?” I asked.
“Yes,” she managed, “you’re wrong.”
“Then it is about love?”
“It’s about friendship, support, listening. It’s about helping me when I need it.”
“You’re having an affair with him.”
“I can’t believe you’d ask me such a thing.”
“It wasn’t a question.”
She sighed. “I’m going to take a shower.”
“Toni,” I said, hopeful it hadn’t sounded quite as desperate as it felt, “good, bad or indifferent, I need to know that something in my life is real, that something is what it appears to be, do you understand?”
“Yes, I do. I do understand what you mean. I understand exactly what you mean. And do you know why? Would you like to know why I understand so well, Alan?” She waited a moment then said, “Because I need that too.”
A breeze blew in off the cove, sent the curtains fluttering while sirens blared from the street below. A fire engine rushed by, followed by an ambulance. It wasn’t warm enough yet for the windows to be open so wide at night, so I took my cue and closed it, hoping perhaps to shut out the rest of the world along with the clamor of Main Street after dark. I hesitated at the window, refused to look into the glass for fear of what might be looking back. Everything suddenly seemed so goddamn futile.
“Just tell me it’s not about love,” I said so softly I wasn’t sure she’d even heard me.
“Why do you always assume we need different things?”
“Just tell me.”
“It’s not about love.”
My throat then stomach clenched, and I thought I’d be sick, but the feeling passed more quickly than I’d imagined it might. The circumstances didn’t seem to require conflict, screaming or tears or any of the drama these things normally entailed. Rather, a quiet, nearly calm sense of irrepressible grief, an immediate mourning of sorts, assumed control. Bernard was a butcher. My wife was fucking someone else. The world had ruptured, shattered into millions of pieces. And none of it had made a sound.
“You’re always so infuriatingly alone,” she said. “Even when I’m standing right next to you.”
I resisted the urge to reach out and touch her, to hold her in my arms and to tell her everything would be all right. Instead, I shrugged, unsure of what to do.
Toni saw my indecision as an opportunity for escape, and with a frustrated shake of her head, disappeared behind the bathroom door. A moment later the pipes rattled, the water kicked on and I pictured her nude beneath the spray from the showerhead, wrapped in rising steam, soapy hands gliding along wet skin, cleansing a body I knew every inch of.
I wondered if the woman they’d found had showered the day of her death. Had she tried to wash herself clean, too? Had it been too late? Had she known that day would be her last? Had she moved through her final day on Earth with any knowledge of the horrors awaiting her or had it all come as a big surprise, the grim reaper darting out from behind a papier-mâché rock like some cheesy carnival funhouse prank?
We were all the same, it seemed to me, all of us dented and scratched and damaged, held together with pins and duct tape, the walking wounded making one last stand in the dark before giving in to the inevitable. Sometimes it was easy to see the truth behind the lies, sometimes not. Either way, it didn’t really matter. The truth was what I needed, and the truth—however terrible—was exactly what I planned to get.
In response, visions of Bernard coiled in my brain and nested there, a teenage Bernard sitting near train tracks and gazing out at the old animal burial ground, black clouds boiling and churning overhead, carrying with them an incoming storm no mortal could ever hope to stop. Maybe we got it all backwards, he whispered from our past, his dead breath cold in my ear. Maybe none of us really start living… until we’re dead.
“Maybe so,” I whispered back. “Maybe so.”
CHAPTER 14
For the second time in a week I found myself on Sycamore Way, in the more exclusive section of Potter’s Cove, but this time I’d been sitting in my car for nearly an hour, watching the small law offices across the street. A plaque that read Henderson & MacCovey was mounted to the wall next to the front door, along with some other information of no use to me. I checked my watch then stepped from the car and moved quickly to the corner so I could time my “accidental” encounter with Brian Henderson.
He had always been more a casual friend of Bernard’s than mine, but as youngsters I had hung out with him now and then as well, though always on the fringe and often like a third wheel, of sorts. Brian had gone on to become a successful personal injury attorney and lived in a beautiful waterfront property with a social circle that didn’t include people like me. I couldn’t remember the last time we’d seen each other, much less spoken, so I knew instigating a conversation with him now—particularly one that might yield pertinent information—was a long shot, but it was all I had.
I had called his office a bit earlier in the day, posing as a telemarketer, and learned he had gone to lunch, so I parked near the usual lunch haunt for local yuppies, a small coffee and sandwich shop around the corner. When Brian finally emerged I noticed he was reading a newspaper as he strolled toward Sycamore. My head down, I walked directly into his path, and just before we bumped into each other I pulled up and met his annoyed gaze. “Excuse me. Sorry, I didn’t see you.” He glared at me over the newspaper, but his scowl slowly changed as vague familiarity dawned in his eyes. Only then did I pretend I’d recognized him as well. “Hey,” I said, “Brian, how’s it going?”
He straightened his posture and slowed his stride until he’d come to a full stop, then folded the newspaper and put it under his arm. “Hi there.” His smile was dazzling, but I could tell he still couldn’t quite place me.
“It’s me, Alan.”
“Alan, of course,” he said, but it was obvious he still had no idea who I was. “Hi.”
I didn’t know if he was aware that Bernard had died, or even cared, so I decided that unless he brought it up, I’d avoid the topic entirely. “How are you?”
“Can’t complain, and yourself?” He casually scratched the side of his neck so I’d be sure to see his manicure and the gold watch on his wrist.
I shrugged. “Doing all right.”
He jerked his thumb in the direction of Main Street. “Did you hear about the body over at—”
“Yeah,” I said. “Couldn’t believe it. Crazy, huh?”
“Imagine that kind of thing happening here? Like that won’t drive the property values down faster than shit through a goose.” He chuckled at his own joke and seemed puzzled that I hadn’t done the same.
“I just hope they find whoever did it,” I said.
“Yeah, let’s hope.” Because I was blocking his path, he shuffled about a bit and glanced around, as if to be certain no one could see him talking to me. “So, what are you up to these days?”
“Still working security. Sucks, but it’s a living.” I smiled. “You’re doing well as ever, I see.”
“Well, we could all do with more.”
While he stood there grinning at me I tried to find some semblance of the little boy I’d once known. But the always jovial and unassuming person he’d been was lost somewhere beneath a perpetual tan, his hand-tailored Italian silk suit, and indifference.