The Bleeding Season (20 page)

She nodded and let her free hand rest on my shoulder.  I studied it, so slender and delicate, the hand of a partner, a nursemaid, a lover, a friend, a vulnerable girl and a strong woman, victim and protector, predator and prey all residing beneath that soft skin, so many sides to the same being bound by a single soul.  I turned away, packed the papers back into the box and slid the entire thing into the rear of the closet where I’d found it.  By the time I’d closed the closet door and turned back in Toni’s direction she’d tossed her purse onto the bed and begun to undress.

“Look,” I said in the gravest tone I could muster, “we have to keep this tape business and any suspicions we have about Bernard quiet and strictly between us, all right?”

“You already said that.”  She draped her suit jacket over the foot of the bed and unbuttoned her blouse.  “I heard you the first time.”    

“I just need to be sure—”

“I
heard
 you the first time, Alan.”  She glared at me with a level of belligerence I’d never seen her express.  Then, like a slowly receding tide, her small body began to relax, her shoulders drooped a bit and she turned away, slipped out of her blouse and let it fall to the floor.  “Am I supposed to swear on a stack of Bibles or something?”

“I just want you to understand how import—”

“Wait, I know! A lie detector test.”  She turned and glared at me again.  “You could hook me up to a lie detector, how’s that sound?”

I felt impervious to her jokes, if that’s what they were, and wondered if she felt the same.  Once she realized I had no intention of answering her she aimed her death stare elsewhere, kicked off her pumps and busied herself with the zipper on the back of her skirt.  She peeled the skirt down beyond her hips, wiggled it off the rest of the way until it slid down into a heap at her ankles, then she stepped away and hitched her thumbs into the back of her pantyhose.

The smells from the pizzeria downstairs were suddenly unbearable, or perhaps they had been all along and I’d only just then noticed them.  Regardless, I went to the window and opened it wider in the hopes that fresh sea air might overpower the reek of pizza dough, canned tomato sauce and fried meats.  Outside, the darkness continued to gain power, to deepen and develop and take shape.

Toni’s nude form reflected in the window drew my attention.  An odd feeling washed over me and although I did my best to shake free, it hung tight.  It was as if everyone I had ever known that had died was watching us.  Flashes of them—each and every one—appeared in my mind then faded as I stood there, pretending to watch the night but really watching Toni reflected in the upper pane as she carried her dirty clothes to a small hamper in the corner and silently dropped them in.

Behind her, blurred figures, faceless and vague, appeared in the glass as if they were passing, pushing through the wall gradually, reaching for her.  I closed my eyes and held them shut until I was certain the feeling and visions had retreated to wherever they’d come from, then turned and saw Toni slipping into a lightweight robe.  Oblivious, she grabbed two towels from her bureau, headed for the bathroom and mumbled, “I’m going to take a shower.”

“It’s not about love, is it?”  It wasn’t a question, and she knew it, because she stopped and looked back at me.  The anger had escaped, replaced by sorrow.  “This
thing
 that’s going on with you and Gene.  It’s not about love.”

Her expression was one that might follow a round of violent tears or uncontrollable wailing, only none of that had happened.  At least not in front of me it hadn’t.  She simply looked at me with sadness so overwhelming no amount of tears could ever sufficiently convey its depth.  And there in the lamplight, with night in full swing, Toni looked like she had aged for the first time since I’d known her.  The tiny lines around her eyes and along the sides of her mouth seemed more evident, as if she’d somehow brought them to life just then.  She was tired just like I was, exhausted and drained and doing what we all did: Getting out of bed every morning and doing the best she could, trying her best not to scream or cry or explode in violence and rage or cut her wrists or throw herself in front of a bus or just drop out and allow the streets and shadows to swallow her whole.  She was doing what was necessary for survival and sanity, but survival was a tough business, and not at all what life was solely meant to be about.

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.

“How are Liza and the kids?” I asked.

“Oh, fine, just fine.”

“Still haven’t had any of our own yet,” I said.

He offered the typical silent look of superiority those who have children often level at those who do not; as if being alive for a certain amount of time without eventually reproducing was a sacrilege simply too depraved to verbalize.

After an awkward silence I asked, “Hey, how’s Julie doing?”

Brian’s eyes widened almost comically.  “Well, Jules is—Jules is Jules.”

I smiled innocently.  “I haven’t seen her in years, she still living in Massachusetts?”

“Cambridge—in one of the worst neighborhoods, of course—for a few years now.”

I felt my pulse quicken.  “Well give her my best next time you see her.”

He looked beyond me, toward his office.  “Actually,” he said quietly, “I don’t see her that often.  Sometimes on holidays, but that’s about it.  Julie still has a lot of problems.”  He pointed to his ear with his index finger and made a quick circular motion.

He said this as if it were, and had been, common knowledge in town for years—and maybe it was—but I had never involved myself in local gossip.  Brian apparently assumed otherwise, so I played along.  “What a shame.  She’s still having those same difficulties?”

“Well, you know, she’s just
out
there
.”  If I hadn’t known, I’d have never guessed it was his only sister he was referring to with such disdain.  “After a while you pull back and throw up your hands in disgust.  We all have our own lives—and I have my standing in town to think of—you know what I mean.”

When we’d all been younger, before Julie had developed the
problems
he was so quick to point out, she’d been the main attraction in their family, while Brian, an inconspicuous kid with a buzz cut and bad skin, was relegated to supporting role status.  Over time the tables had turned, and he seemed nothing short of ecstatic about it.  “The last I heard she was working as a waitress.  Imagine Julie still holding down a menial job at her age?
There’s
 a shocker.”  His sarcasm approached glee.

“Hey, it’s an honest living.”

Brian looked like I’d amused him.  Perhaps I had.  “Yes—well—at any rate, listen, it’s great seeing you, Alan.”  He used my name cautiously, as if to be certain he had it right.  Apparently he’d become far too important to remember someone like me.  When I said nothing, he offered up a burst of insincere laughter.  “At any rate, we’ll have to get together one of these—”