"You'll have to see how it looks with the rest of my stuff sometime," she said.
We left the flea market, holding hands. I told her that my ankles were sore from blading and that I was going to take the subway home. She walked me to the subway station at Twenty-third and Seventh. We chatted for a while longer by the entrance to the station, and then I said, "So we'll have to go out sometime."
"Definitely," she said.
At a nearby news kiosk, the worker lent us a pen and gave us a small piece of paper. She jotted down her number on the paper and gave it to me.
"I'll call you early next week," I said.
"Great," she said.
I could've kissed her good-bye, but I didn't. I went down the stairs to the subway. On the platform, I ripped up the paper into little pieces and dropped the shreds onto the tracks.
Back home, I showered. It was surprisingly easy, standing where Rebecca had died. I barely even thought about it.
Fully dressed in slacks and a button-down shirt, I went into the living room. The answering machine was flashing, indicating a new message. I hadn't noticed the message when I came home before, so the person must ve called while I was in the shower. I pressed play and listened to Angie's voice, asking me to call her back. She sounded normal, so I didn't think the police had talked to her. I deleted the message, figuring I'd call her back later or tomorrow, or just see her on Monday.
Deciding that I was in the mood for Japanese, I went to Haru on Amsterdam. As I settled into a chair at the end of the sushi bar, I noticed, three spots down from me, a woman reading an Anne Rice novel.
She had reddish-brown hair and appeared to be about twenty pounds overweight. Her face was average-looking, but she had light blue eyes and there was something sexy about her. We started talking. She was an aspiring stand-up comic, and going by her dry, biting sense of humor that had me cracking up several times, I told her I thought she was going to make it big someday. As I finished my sashimi, I | continued chatting with her, enjoying her company. I knew I could've gotten her number and gone out with her sometime, if I wanted to. After paying for the sushi by breaking one of the hundreds Aunt Helen had lent me, I told the woman, "I hope we run into each other again sometime," and I left.
At a deli on Amsterdam, I bought a six-pack of Heineken and went to the video store on Columbus and rented Pretty Woman on DVD. Back in my apartment, I was drinking beer and watching the movie when I sensed Barbara's presence on the couch next to me.
I paused the movie and tried to concentrate on Barbara, attempting to somehow communicate with her. After a few minutes, I realized I was being ridiculous. Naturally, I'd felt a connection to Barbara while watching Pretty Woman, because we'd watched the movie so many times together. The fact that I'd downed a couple of beers might've been a factor too.
"I must be losing it," I said out loud.
I watched a few more minutes of the movie, and then the phone rang. I pressed pause again and let the machine answer. When I heard Angie's voice I went to the phone and picked up.
"Hi," I said.
"Oh… David," she said, as though she'd been mentally prepared to leave a message.
"Sorry, I just walked in," I said.
"Oh, okay," she said. "Hey, I just got this really weird phone call from this police detective. He said your girlfriend died yesterday."
Romero must've gotten Angie's number from Information.
"Actually, she committed suicide," I said. "Did the detective say died?"
"Yeah."
"Well, it was definitely a suicide. They think she OD'd."
"God, that's so awful, David. Why didn't you tell me about it last night?"
"I don't know."
"You poor thing. Did you… I mean did you like… discover the …"
"Yeah."
"Oh, my God."
I didn't say anything.
"I'm so sorry," Angie said. "I mean, that's so awful. Jesus… This detective guy said something weird, though."
"Weird?"
"Yeah," Angie said. "He said something about how your girlfriend thought you and I were dating."
"I know," I said. "I have no idea where she got that. She knew we were friendly at work I mean, I mentioned your name to her a few times, so she must've just made up stories to herself. Rebecca was very paranoid. She had a lot of problems… obviously. I guess I should've listened to you."
"Stop it," Angie said. "You had no way of knowing… You can't blame yourself when something like this happens."
"I know," I said.
"That's good," Angie said. "Anyway, I was just calling because this detective guy called me, you know, saying your girlfriend was dead, and then he said she thought you and I were… So I just wanted to call you and see if»
"I'm really sorry about all of this."
"Oh, that's okay," she said. "So how're you doing? I mean handling everything."
"I'm fine," I said, glancing at the paused scene from Pretty Woman and then at the spot on the couch where I'd imagined Barbara was sitting.
"I mean, I'm a little shaken up, of course, but all in all…"
"If you need a place to stay," Angie said. "I mean, to get out of your apartment for a while. I mean, you know you're welcome to come to my place."
"I appreciate that," I said, "and thanks for calling, but I'm fine really. I'll see you at work on Monday, okay?"
"Okay," she said.
I hung up with Angie and watched the rest of the movie. Toward the end, I had an unsettling feeling. I thought it might have to do with Rebecca, and then I remembered about Charlotte and Kenny. At least they hadn't called me, or tried to get in touch, but I wasn't sure if this was necessarily good news.
Sunday morning I decided I couldn't procrastinate any longer I had to call the hospital morgue and start making arrangements for Rebecca's funeral.
"Hello," I said to the woman I'd been transferred to. "My name's David Miller. I believe you're holding the body of my girlfriend, Rebecca Daniels."
"Hold on," the bored-sounding woman said. When she returned she said,
"Rebecca Daniels's boyfriend already made arrangements for those remains."
"That's impossible."
"Are you Raymond Ramirez?"
"Ray called you?"
"A Raymond Ramirez called yesterday and made arrangements for those remains. Is there a problem?"
"No, there's no problem," I said. "Thanks."
I was relieved that I didn't have to plan or pay for Rebecca's funeral.
I doubted Ray would invite me, but I wouldn't have gone anyway. Thanks to Ray, all of Rebecca's friends probably blamed me for her death and not having to go would help me to avoid an uncomfortable situation.
But it was funny that Ray had claimed to be Rebecca Daniels's boyfriend. For all I knew, he wasn't lying. My suspicions could have been right all along Ray wasn't gay, and he and Rebecca had been screwing since I'd known her.
It was a beautiful day warmer and less breezy than yesterday. I went out and bought bagels, tofu cream cheese, and the Sunday Times, then returned to my living room and made a fresh pot of decaf and turned on the stereo to a light jazz station. As I was relaxing, I realized that if Rebecca hadn't killed herself, we'd probably be having one of our violent fights this morning.
As I was skimming an article in the magazine section on the baby's brain, I sensed Barbara next to me.
"How's it going, Barb?" I said to the empty space to my left. I waited, as if giving her time to answer, then said,
"Yeah, I'm pretty good, thanks. Recovering, anyway. These past few days have been out of control." I waited again, then said, "So are you really here or what?" I was hoping she'd give me a sign, but there was nothing. I said, "Okay, if you're really here, prove it to me do something. Move the Arts and Leisure section." I stared at the Arts amp; Leisure on top of the pile of papers on the floor, waiting for it to rustle. I thought it moved a little, but I was probably just imagining it.