Cartilage and Skin (16 page)

He didn't clean up the scene right away. Instead, he pulled the chisel out of the chair and then sat down at the counter with the bottle of vodka. He smoked his last cigarette and drank. He actually looked composed, relaxed. Strangely, it was only now that he noticed that while he had been sleeping in the bathroom, the boy had been walking around the apartment. A trail of small, bloody footprints led in and out of the kitchen, up to the bathroom door, and in fact, all over the room. This didn't startle the man. He reclined at ease, smoking his cigarette and drinking his vodka, as if he had anticipated everything beforehand.

The man named Kyle was no longer drunk as he sat at his kitchen table, which at noontime was bathed in sunlight shining through the bay window, forcing—with its blinding glare—the two men who watched Kyle from across the table to sit nearer to one another than they probably would've liked to sit, so even while the sunlight seemed to delineate obvious sides—two men pitted against one—the two appeared a little silly, sitting uncomfortably close and squinting all the same, their faces somewhat grave, somewhat inquisitive, sipping coffee, talking in turns with careful, measured phrases, and evidently preferring to endure the glare than to draw attention to it or anything else that might not have been on their agenda or in accord with their little notepad on the table, as if these men were conducting themselves not exactly in the moment but rather for the moment's future significance, so even before the conversation had begun, it'd already been deemed officially significant, and everything was going on record for later use, except, of course, for pointless gestures, such as when Kyle—somewhat sleepy and somewhat intense, like a man aware that he is in the middle of a serious situation that has nothing at all to do with him—reached over to the bay window and lowered the shade, almost as an afterthought, because he was already rising and already saying, “Let me get you guys some more coffee.”

The smaller, balder man slid his chair over, and when Kyle's back was turned, the man stared intently at him. The man lightly tapped a pen against the side of his head.

“Mr. Douglas,” the man said. “Are you sure your wife had no reserve cash, nothing stashed away, no college fund for the kids or anything?”

“I don't think so.”

“She had about two, maybe three, hundred dollars on her, and she hasn't used any of her credit cards or written any checks. I'm sure you understand what I'm saying. She's been missing for ten days now, and somehow she's been supporting all four of them, for ten days, on just that little bit of money.”

“I understand. Sure,” Kyle said. He came back to the table with the coffeepot and refilled the mugs. “I thought about everything.”

“You know what I was thinking?” the second man asked. He was stirring milk into his coffee and looking down at it. “I was wondering that maybe she knows somebody you don't know.”

“You mean a boyfriend,” Kyle said quickly. “I thought that too. In fact, that's what I think about the most because I told her one time (I was upset when I told her, but I did say it) that she should get herself a lover. Only, I said, don't tell me about him and don't fall in love with him. Just those two things.”

“Did she?” the man asked.

“I don't think so.”

The smaller, balder man now tapped the notepad with his pen.

“Then why do you think about it the most?” he asked, his tone slightly accusatory.

“I don't know,” Kyle said, sitting down again. “Maybe I hope for it. I want him to be a good man, though, as long as I don't have to know what he looks like or what his name is. Does that make sense?” He smiled faintly, and his voice had a dreamy quality.

“Mr. Douglas,” the man said abruptly, as if he were calling him back from afar, maybe out of a mild rhapsody, or just waking him up. “Tell me now,” the man said, and he asked Mr. Douglas why he'd been “upset,” latching onto the word as if it were the key to everything. He was less pleasant than the other man, and his caustic attitude seemed to be as intimately involved in his identity as his stature and his baldness.

“I'm sorry,” Kyle said. “What were you saying?”

Two women stood facing one another in front of a fireplace, in the middle of a party. One was holding a drink in her hand, and the other—a big woman dressed in an oversized black gown that attempted to conceal her bulk—placed her drink on the mantel after each sip.

“My, that's strong,” she said and smiled. She had a pretty smile; in fact, her whole face was pretty. “I'm glad Ralph is going to drive home tonight.” She laughed.

“Don't forget to ask him about next weekend,” the other woman said.

“Oh, we'll go. He loved your stuffed grape leaves last time. That's all he could talk about for days.” She sipped her drink. “Oh,” she said, smiling. “And Ed's wine.” She leaned closer to the other woman, as if to impart a secret. “That's the key to have a good time every time: a husband who's a connoisseur of wine. Ralph was impressed. He thinks high of Ed; he told me so. He said, ‘Ed knows his wine better than any man I know.'”

“So you're coming,” the other woman said. “Now that makes me glad. Seven o'clock sharp. Just bring yourselves.”

“I might bring a bell.” The fat woman laughed. “Oh,” she said. “I think I need to put some more ice in this.” She held up her glass, though it was nearly empty. She began to step away. “Besides, I ought to check Ralph before he begins to miss me.”

“I'll catch up with you later. Don't leave without saying goodbye.”

“Of course,” the fat woman said, then leaned nearer, and spoke covertly behind her hand. “I forgot my bell tonight. I believe at least one person should wear bells at every party.”

The other woman smiled weakly, which was the only response she offered.

The fat woman nodded and started away. She walked through the living room with her head up and her eyes beaming, ready to make contact with whoever glanced at her. Inviting and amiable, she smiled at everyone. Most of the men wore sport coats, although a few were in sweaters; and almost all of the women, like the men, were dressed in dark clothes, so if not for the smiles, laughter, and abundant food and beverages, the occasion would've appeared as somber as a funeral. Compared to the fat woman, everyone seemed to be imbued with a rigidity that was passing itself off as etiquette. They noticed the woman and let their eyes linger long enough to remember, to keep a tally. It was an impersonal look. They probably didn't have anything in particular against the woman; they simply might have needed to have something against someone, to be allied and bound in even the most trivial and fleeting pact. The woman had begun her tour of the party with easy gestures and a ready smile. At the bar, she skipped the ice and refilled her drink. By the time she entered the foyer, passing under an arched doorway and into a long room with ice-blue ceramic tiling and murals of waterfalls on either side, the woman seemed heavier, lumbering, and tired. A small group of men were gathered at the archway to the great room. They stood erect and composed, with an air of confidence; yet something artificial tinged their postures, as if they had groomed themselves for a long time for the sole purpose of standing among one another, properly. The tallest man in the group had his back to the woman as she approached. She delicately placed a hand on his shoulder. He turned and smiled and brought his face near to hers.

“What is it?” he whispered.

“This place is cold,” she said.

“It's business.”

She looked at him doubtfully.

“This is my boss's house, remember.” He kissed her cheek. “Be patient, okay. Why don't you get yourself another drink?”

“That's a good idea. Would you like one?”

He shook his head, and as he looked at her, his hazel eyes had a quality that was soft and tender, glazed with something like compassion or possibly love, which began to fade the moment she turned and moved away from him. He watched after her. She visibly drew a deep breath, as if gathering strength, and exited the foyer without glancing back. The man turned his attention to the group of men again, who had continued their conversation as if the man had never left it or had never been a participant in the first place. He appeared to possess a singular charm, even though he wasn't handsome. His face was all bone, his skin as thin as paper, revealing his veins at his temple. The other men laughed when he spoke. They undoubtedly had no idea that not long ago their colleague had taken the toes off of a young boy's foot. When the conversation drifted toward money, the man watched the others with an amused grin.

“Ralph's awfully quiet,” one of them said.

“He guards his portfolio like it's the keys to heaven.”

“I just don't say anything,” he said.

“We know.”

“Give me your money then,” Ralph said. “I'll invest it for you.”

The men chuckled.

“Sure, then you can give up your moonlighting and start investing in a new car or a boat for yourself.”

“I'll skip the boat,” Ralph said. “I'm not a fan of the water.”

“Hey,” one of the men said softly, leaning into the center of the circle. “What's this about moonlighting?”

“Ralph's into sales,” another man whispered, as if Ralph weren't present and they were gossiping about him.

“Really?” A man nodded knowingly.

“Religious propaganda.”

“What religion?”

“Christian.”

The men continued to throw glances at Ralph, as if he were on the other side of the room.

“As long as he doesn't try to peddle that voodoo crap around the office.”

“No problem,” Ralph said at last, still grinning, still composed. “But I'll remember that the next time you try to peddle your daughter's Girl Scout cookies at work.”

The group chuckled again.

“It's a little book route I do once or twice a month,” Ralph explained. “I had it for years. I just never let it go because it's a peaceful drive. It's nice. It keeps me sane. Other men golf on the weekend.”

“And other men fish.”

“Other men fish,” Ralph agreed.

“But you're afraid of the water, right?”

“I wouldn't say ‘afraid,'” Ralph said. Then he slowly passed his eyes over each man in turn. “And some men take Prozac.”

He could have been bluffing, yet he seemed to know something about one or all of the men. Even so, nobody stepped forward, to contradict him or to confess. Someone laughed, and the group disbanded with smiles.

Above the general bustle and the murmur of voices, the sound of music from a piano flowed out of the great room. With his hands in his pockets, Ralph walked casually and let his gaze roam with a bit of detached interest, going beyond familiarity and ease—disclosing an attitude, not of a guest, but more like the owner of the large house, someone who had emerged out of a secluded, quiet room, just to make a brief appearance and then depart again, wordless, unobtrusive, and seemingly indifferent, as if the house merely belonged to him by accident and the whole thing could vanish as easily as the final, dying note of a song. In addition to the squat, black piano and the thin, tuxedo-clad man who played it, the great room was decorated in leather, mahogany, and brass. There was a pair of rich, maroon rugs, and at every few paces along the walls hung a painting illuminated from above by a brass lamp. People drifted back and forth, from listening to the music to inspecting the paintings, possessed of the same milling gait and mute reverence found in an art gallery. The paintings seemed to take on value, or reach a higher level of art because of their elegant surroundings. They were mostly still-lifes of trivial objects: a basket of knitting supplies, a place setting, a postcard leaning against a coffee mug, all painted in a childlike imitation of Matisse. There was, however, a single portrait of a middle-aged woman attempting to be refined in her dazzling jewelry and by her lofty expression, but who was nonetheless vandalized by the artist's hand, possibly the clumsy, twisted paw of a crippled child. Even so, Ralph's gaze seemed to give as much attention to any one of the paintings as to the wall from which it hung.

“I think this one is the best,” a woman said.

“Yes,” he answered, looking at her face, bright and smooth and young, before he even bothered to look at the painting. “It's interesting how,” he began to say—his eyes now focusing beyond her, but only lighting for an instant upon the painting before returning to her again, as if a cursory glance sufficed—and so he continued without pause, saying, “such a delicate subject can have such harsh and brutal contours.”

The woman turned toward the artwork and appeared to be reassessing it according to Ralph's comment. Composed only in three stark colors—navy blue, dirty yellow, and brown—a part of a doorway, or maybe an open window, revealed the edge of a chair in the background.

“A delicate subject?” the woman asked. “I guess it can make you feel small and lonely, or just common.”

“That might explain the crude style,” he said, still looking at the woman. She was dressed in a black gown, scooped low in the front, her naked throat more delicate and enticing for its lack of jewelry.

“You can overanalyze anything,” she said; then with a trace of amusement on her face, she leaned closer, as if to confide in him. “I was just thinking that it's the only piece that doesn't make me want to leave the room.”

“It's all repulsive.” He sounded definitive, as though this were the best way to appraise the artwork.

“His father-in-law painted them all, so he's probably forced to hang this stuff under the threat of death or at least divorce.”

“Probably,” Ralph said. “So, you know his wife?”

“I heard of her, that she's shrewd. She runs the business behind the scene.”