Crazy For You (25 page)

But that was dumb. This was Bill, after all.

“You scared me,” she said, wanting to walk forward so he’d step back and let her out of the closet but afraid to, afraid he might not step back.

“I just wanted to talk,” he said, smiling at her.

She hated that smile. “Bill, we have nothing to talk about and I’m late.” She did walk forward then, and he didn’t move, so she stopped. “You’re in my way.”

“I can’t be in your way,” he said. “We belong together. Your way is my way.”

“No,”
she said, and he said, “If you’d just listen, we’d be okay again.”

“There isn’t any ‘we.’ ” Quinn heard her voice shake a little. “There never was, Bill. We never connected at all.”

“Of course, we did,” he said. “We’re getting married as soon as—”

“No!”
she said, and his face changed, twisted for a minute before it smoothed and he said, “It’s okay, we can live in the Apple Street house.”

She put out her hand to one of the shelves to steady herself, dizzy with how angry she was, that he wouldn’t listen, that he wouldn’t see how much she’d changed, and scared, too, although that was ridiculous, this was Bill. “We are not getting married,” she said as calmly as possible. “I don’t love you. I never did. It was a mistake and it’s over and you’re never moving into the house on Apple Street. Now let me out.”

His jaw clenched, and he said, “You’re not listening.” She moved forward then, determined not to let him stop her, saying, “Let me out!” but he slammed the door shut in her face and trapped her inside.

“Bill?” Quinn said and pounded on the door. “Let me out! This is ridiculous. I’ve told you—”

“Just
listen,”
he said from outside. “I’ve made plans. I know you think there’s not enough room, but we can put an addition on.”

He went on to her growing horror, explaining how they’d build on the house, where they’d put the doors and windows, where their kids would sleep, and Quinn felt paralyzed, trapped not only in a cold storeroom but in the cold world of Bill’s denial while he talked on and on in his calm teacher’s voice, sounding as sane as anybody.

He broke off in the middle of explaining the deck they’d build out in back, and Quinn pressed closer to the door to find out why.

“Have you seen McKenzie?” she heard Jason ask. “We need her down on the stage, and Mrs. Buchman said to try here.”

“Jason,” Quinn called before Bill could say anything, “I’m in here.” She rattled the storeroom doorknob, but it wouldn’t budge. Bill must be holding it. “Let me out, Bill,” she said. “I have to go work on the play.”

“We’re talking,” she heard Bill say to Jason. “She’ll be down later.”

“No!”
Quinn heard the panic in her voice and forced herself to be calm. Catching Jason in the middle of this wasn’t a good idea. “Jason, go get Mrs. Buchman, please. And Mrs. Ziegler.” She was pretty sure Bill wasn’t violent, just detached from reality and that only in reference to her, so if Edie and Darla came in, he’d see the absurdity of the whole thing and open the door.

She hoped.

“Coach, we really need her now,” Jason said. “I think you’d better let her out.”

“She’ll be down as soon as we’re finished talking,” Bill said kindly. “You go on now.”

“Well, I can’t,” Jason said. “We’re out of red paint and the extra’s in the storeroom.”

It wasn’t a bad lie since Bill didn’t know the play stuff was kept in the stage storeroom, but he wasn’t buying it. “She’ll bring it down when she comes.”

“I need to go now, Bill,” Quinn said. “You’re holding up our practice. Let me out.”

“We really need her, Coach.” Jason’s voice was close now, as close as Bill’s, and Quinn imagined them standing there side by side at the door, Jason almost as big as Bill, Jason at eighteen practically a man, strong from weightlifting, ready to face Bill down.

No,
she thought, and opened her mouth to tell Jason it was all right, but then the doorknob turned, and Jason opened the door, gently shoving Bill out of the way with his elbow as he did so.

“You’re late,” he said to her, his voice deliberately cheery. “You’re in trouble now.”

She slipped out past him, ignoring Bill standing desolate behind him, trying not to shake as she headed for the door, Jason close behind her, shielding her.

“Wait,” Bill said, and she turned, reaching out to hold on to Jason’s arm as she did. “You forgot your paint,” Bill said, and she shook her head.

“I’ll send somebody else for it,” she said and escaped into the hall, still holding on to Jason.

“You okay?” he said when they’d turned the corner into the main hall, when she felt safe enough to let go of him.

“Yeah,” she said.

“That was weird.”

“Very,” she said and swallowed.

Jason put his arm around her. “Don’t walk around here alone anymore. You keep Corey or me with you. That was really bad.”

Hearing him say it made it worse, having a student know, but Quinn shut her eyes and nodded, knowing he was right.

Jason squeezed her shoulder. “It’ll be okay,” he told her, and then he looked past her and dropped his arm.

She turned and saw Bobby glaring at them. What the hell was he still doing here this late? Stalking her?

That wasn’t funny, she realized. Not funny at all.

“Ms. McKenzie, I’d like to see you in my office,” he said, his voice icy.

“Not now, Robert,” she said, her fear morphing into anger as she looked at his silly, stupid face. “But you might want to go check on your baseball coach. He just trapped me in my storeroom.” Bobby stiffened a little, suddenly wary, and she added, “There’s something really wrong with him, Robert. Really, really wrong. You’re going to have to talk to him. Keep him away from me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Bobby said, but he took off down the hall.

“Bill?” Bobby said from the doorway. “Are you all right? What happened?”

“She won’t let me take care of her,” Bill said. “She’s just all caught up in this play and she’s so busy—”

“Look.” Bobby came in and sat down next to him. “I think you should stay away from her—”

“If she’d just stay still enough to listen,” Bill said.

“Yeah, well, I could break her leg,” Bobby said sarcastically. “But even then she’d just get crutches and walk off. She’s done with you.”

“You don’t understand,” Bill said. “We belong together.”

“Right,” Bobby said. “After baseball season. You’ll have the whole summer to get her back.”

Bill frowned at him. “That’s too long. I can’t wait that long.”

“Look, Bill, don’t make me get nasty,” Bobby said. “I could screw things up for you, I’m the principal, you know, but I won’t because I don’t want you worried about anything but the team.”

Bill stood up, sick of the team. “There are more important things than baseball, Robert,” he said, and walked out of the room, fairly sure that 3obby couldn’t think of one.

That was really sad.

“I’ll talk to him,” Joe said, and Quinn looked at her father in surprise. “I’ll tell him to leave you alone.”

“It won’t do any good,” Quinn said. “
I
told him that, and he didn’t believe me.” She smiled at her dad. “But thanks, anyway. I told Bobby to take care of him. Maybe—”

“It’s not enough,” Joe said and Darla said, “He’s right, Quinn. If Bill’s trapping you in storerooms, he’s gone over the edge. We’ve got to do something.”

“What?” Quinn said. “Call the police and say Bill Hilliard, the Hero of Tibbett, locked me in my storeroom and wouldn’t let me out? It sounds like a kid’s prank. I mean, who would you believe, Bill or the woman who stole her dog from the pound?”

“Let me say something to Frank Atchity,” Joe said. “We play poker. Let me just give him a heads-up on this. And from now on, you don’t go anywhere alone.”

“For the rest of my life?”

“He’s right,” Darla said. “No place alone. And you tell the BP that if he doesn’t call Bill off, you’re going to the police. That should do something.”

As it happened, the first person Quinn saw when she got to school the next morning was the BP, vibrating by her classroom door.

“Jason
quit,”
Bobby told her as she unlocked it. “He quit the team cold this morning, just like he didn’t owe Bill anything.”

Oh, hell, Jason,
Quinn thought, and then she flipped on the light and went into the room. “Look, I’m sorry but I’m not surprised. He watched Bill wig out last night. I’m not kidding, Robert, there’s something really wrong there. You either keep Bill away from me or I’m going to the police for a restraining order. And you can just imagine what kind of rumors that will start. Good-bye levy.”

Bobby turned purple. “This is all your fault. All he wants is you, although God knows why. You’re the most ungrateful—”

“Bobby, will you
forget it?”
Quinn turned on him. “What do I have to do to—”

“Just until June,” Bobby said. “That’s all I ask. Just go back to him until we get the trophy and I’ll help you move out afterward myself.”

“You’re as crazy as he is,” Quinn said. “No. And you keep him
away
from me. Or else.”

“This is your fault,” Bobby said and walked off, and Quinn thought,
That’s what everyone else is going to think, too.
Bill had been perfectly normal until she’d left. Well, as normal as any coach in America.

Her homeroom kids started to file in, still half asleep and sullen as always, and Quinn shoved all thoughts of Bill away so she could get attendance taken. There was at least one part of her life that was under control: she could still count kids. But all the way through the roll call, Bill lurked in the back of her mind, refusing to go away.

She really was going to have to do something. She just didn’t know what.

“Jason,”
Bill had said, but Jason had just shaken his hand and left the weight room.

Bill looked at Corey Mossert and said, “Talk him out of it.”

Corey shook his head, too. “Something happened yesterday after school. He didn’t tell me what, but he’s real sure this is what he wants. He’s gone, Coach. Let it drop.”

Bill felt cold. That thing in Quinn’s room. When he was trying to talk to her, Jason had butted in and ruined it. What had Quinn said? What had she told Jason that had made him want to quit?

He had to do something. He had to do
something.
His headaches were getting worse. Nothing was going right. Nothing was going right.

So he went back inside Quinn’s house on his planning period—he had to, he’d forgotten to measure the upstairs the previous time so he had to—and inside, he felt better. It was almost like being inside Quinn. No, no, he didn’t mean that, he meant with Quinn.

He couldn’t wait to move in.

The dog went under a chair as soon as it saw him, snarling at him but staying away. On his way up the stairs, he noticed how flimsy the railing was. Just bolted to the wall. It could come loose any time. If he lived here, he’d make sure there was a better railing. She really needed him there.

He slowed as he neared the top of the stairs. Maybe that was it. Maybe if she realized how much she needed him—

He went back downstairs to the back porch and found Quinn’s toolbox. With the screwdriver he loosened the bolts on the stair rail, and then went through the house, loosening other screws, to doorknobs and outlet plates, loosening the wires behind the plates, too. He thought of other things he could do. He could loosen the gas lines so there’d be just a little leak, nothing big. The steps to the front porch were awful. He could weaken one so it would go later, so everything wouldn’t be bad at once. He could loosen a porch rail. He could do lots of things. She’d need him again.

When he went upstairs an hour later, he was brisk, sure he’d be moving in soon. The second door up there was another bedroom, set under the eaves, with a twin bed, probably Quinn’s or Zoe’s from when they were kids, and he smiled, cheered because it’d be such a great room for their boys. The two rooms at the back of the house were an office with the other bed and a bathroom. The bathroom was just too small, they’d be extending that out, and maybe putting another one behind it, enlarging the office to a master bedroom with the master bath right off it, behind the old bath, that was the way it would go. Just right.

Bill made notes of the measurements and then pocketed his measuring tape and organizer. He had everything he needed, everything would be easy now, once Quinn realized how much she needed him. Once she called him back.

And she’d be so surprised when he showed her the plans after he moved in. “Silly,” he’d say. “You knew we’d need more room. You should have known I’d plan it.”

On the way down the hall, he opened the fifth door out of curiosity.

Quinn’s closet.

He could see the sleeves of her dresses. The green print one she’d worn the first time they went out, the blue checked one she’d worn with a jacket for fall open house, the red plaid flannel one she’d worn to the last basketball game they’d gone to—he clutched a little there, they’d been so happy—the black one she wore to teach in when the kids weren’t doing something messy, and the brown patchwork print one and the denim one and—

He closed his eyes because his chest hurt. He couldn’t be having a heart attack, he was too young and healthy. Indigestion maybe. He should lie down.

Once in Quinn’s bed, the quilt pulled over him, he felt better. For a moment he was almost angry with her, she was being so stubborn, she deserved what he’d done to her house, if she’d just listen to him, she could be here with him, under this quilt, she wouldn’t
listen,
if he could just
make her listen
—

He thought about making her listen, about what he’d have to do to make her listen, what she deserved for not listening, so angry, he was so angry because she wouldn’t
listen
—

He breathed harder, the room went away, and he thought about Quinn, about making her listen, about making her take him back, she’d have to take him back now, this had gone on long enough, it was enough, enough, enough—

When he was calm again, he told himself the old story, that things would be fine, that she’d listen now—
it’s been two months
—just a little more time, and things would be fine, and she’d listen—

No, she won’t.

He felt himself clench again, like a giant fist, and rolled out of the bed. He was fine, she’d listen, things would be okay.

He went around the room, opening the closet door—this one was her shirts and skirts, jeans folded on the shelf above—opening the pie safe—sheets and pillowcases, T-shirts—opening the washstand drawers—

Quinn’s underwear.
My secret life,
she’d called it. Absurd colors, screaming pinks and metallic golds and acid greens and—

He plunged his hands into the drawer, into the lace and the satin and the silk—“I have to dress like a dockworker to teach art,” she’d said once, “but I can be all dressed up underneath”—all the stuff he didn’t really like, not really, all those weird, bright colors, that wasn’t how he wanted Quinn, bright and hot; his Quinn was clean, white, plain, good—-he clenched his fists around the vile stuff—
his,
she should know she was his.

He threw the underwear back in the drawer as if it were unclean, contaminated, it contaminated her, he wanted to rip it up, shred it, burn it so it never touched her again, and he gathered it up in handfuls to do that, and that’s when he saw the white at the bottom of the drawer.

They weren’t plain white cotton, they were lacy and brief, bikini pants—not the kind that really covered her up, but they were white, like a bride’s, and he picked them up, holding his breath. Some guys called them panties but that always seemed dirty to Bill, so he just called them underpants, a nice clean name, these were mostly lace with just a strip of white satin down the crotch—
crotch,
not a word he wanted to use with Quinn, harsh—satin down the crotch, the part that went between her legs, the part—

He shuddered a little, and shoved the drawer shut, still clutching the panties.

Underpants.

They were white lace. She could wear them when they got married.

She had to listen. He had to make her listen. He’d been patient long enough. You waited for a while to give women time, but then you had to be firm.

He’d be firm and she’d understand. She’d be grateful, she’d want this over, too. She’d come back to him, wearing these panties, open her arms to him, open herself to him in the dark—

It would be fine.

He held the panties and tried to slow his breathing, and he was looking at them, just looking at them, when Bobby said, “So this is where you go on your planning period.”

Bill jerked his head up, and Bobby leaned in the doorway, smiling.

“This is really pathetic, Hilliard,” he said.

“How did you—”

“I followed you.” Bobby shrugged. “You’re losing it, Hilliard. More important, you’re losing games. Can’t have that.” His voice was insolent and his face was smug.

Bill swallowed. “Get out of here.”

Bobby shook his head. “It’s too late for that. Go ahead, put those things in your pocket if that’s what you need, but we have to get out of here. I really wouldn’t want to explain this to anybody.”

“You don’t understand,” Bill said. “This isn’t—”

“I understand plenty,” Bobby said. “Now shut up and get out of here before you get caught. Jesus, you’re a fool.”

“You can’t talk to me like that,” Bill blustered, but he felt cold. His world had been wrong before, but not this wrong.

“I can talk to you any way I want.” Bobby’s smile was ugly. “After this?” He nodded toward the panties, still clutched in Bill’s hand. “I’m the Big Guy now, and you do what I say.” He jerked his head toward the stairs and then walked toward the door, acting like he was sure Bill would follow him.

And dizzy with confusion, his headache back again in full force, Bill did.