Part 8 (1/2)

That hush, that light stillness were ominous, had the quiet of an expectant pause. One day the tropics would bring her someone else's death. The lull, the sough, the doldrums-sailors had called them that, those equatorial calms that could be dangerous when stronger winds were needed to push their sailing s.h.i.+ps-the trade winds blew like a soft dream of dying. Even the fragrant trees with their long names, their showy red blooms-flamboyant. That was the name of the tree that grew all over the Caribbean, planted on the resorts but native to somewhere else, a distant and vast continent, Australia or India, who could recall, and the locals said it like this, in their Jamaican patois: flom-boy-on . . . red flowers in the trees.

Possibly it was apprehension, fear of Steven and Tommy and their designs on her windfall, but she was in an unsteady place. From moment to moment her mood could change: a bitter taste rose in her throat and she felt herself falling into remorse. Morbidity shadowed her and she shrank from the knife-felt she was Hal, or imprisoned in Hal's body, and had a premonition of stabbing, a phantom pain in her side and wide-awake dreams of catching her stomach as it slipped out the slit. She leaned out, hopelessly reaching; beyond her fingertips were her falling intestines, slick and purple as tongues. She felt the knife cut every day-the antic.i.p.ation of it, the wince. That was the part she'd been left with. Too often she winced at the thought of the knife.

That dinner with those people: she'd been in the dark then, blissful and unaware of her new status. She'd been completely in the dark when it came to that status-her status as a future murderer, a charter member of the Future Murderers of America. And then the next time she saw the dinner guests was at the funeral. The murder had been done.

She didn't remember talking to them then, though she might have, probably had-she'd been polite at least, she hoped. She recalled almost nothing outside the blur and only knew she had caught sight of them from the podium and been indifferent to their presence. But it was impossible to miss them entirely because they had stood out from the crowd, apart in their chairs at the ends of the pews. The support group had made a good showing-Sal, for instance, had barely known Hal and though clearly lacking in most social skills had come to the funeral to, as he put it, ”like be there for Casey.” On his muscled upper arms, often shown off by grubby tank tops, he had many tattoos including weeping roses, shamrocks and daggers; but at the funeral, though still garbed in the camouflage pants and combat boots that were his signature, he had worn long sleeves.

T. arrived at the big house early, with his mother in tow. Well-dressed and coiffed at the hands of a live-in maid who hailed from the former Communist bloc, she could pa.s.s at first for a businesswoman or socialite-the latter of which she almost was, Susan thought, except that she had no friends.

”Susan, dear,” she said, coming into the kitchen with T. behind her and holding out a frail hand. T. must have prompted her on the name.

”I'm so glad you could come, Angela,” said Susan, and put her near-empty winegla.s.s on the counter to clasp the thin hand in both of hers. The last time she'd seen Angela, Hal had been there too. They'd gone to her townhouse apartment to break the news that T. was gone, T. had been lost in the tropics and was unresponsive. She had served them Earl Grey and told them not to worry, vaguely protested that her son could take care of himself, and Susan had felt sorry for her.

But in the end she had been right in her confidence; Susan had been wrong. Come to think of it, if Susan had believed her-if Susan had not manifested a fussy, hen-like worry for her employer when even his mother remained unconcerned-Hal would never have flown down there. Hal would be alive now.

”I'm so very sorry for your loss,” said Angela. Her soft lower lip trembled.

Susan felt a surge of fondness. The woman was a wounded doe-the straggler on the edge of the herd, the slow-moving one a wolf would select to bring down with sharp teeth. Though not a trophy hunter.

But before she had time to act on the pa.s.sing fond impulse, Casey was there.

”Come with me,” she commanded, reaching up to touch Angela's hand. ”I'll show you things,” and Angela smiled briefly at Susan and turned to follow.

The house was far too large for the small party so they had tried to set it up in the first-floor rooms that opened onto the pool-the music room, the dining room with its wolves and foxes, the long hall. At certain junctures, she realized, a tall man would have to bend down to avoid the antlers of moose or elk. The mounts were a hodgepodge in the corridors, hung without regard for the obstacles they might make. She opened the row of French doors between the terrace and the rooms, let their floor-length drapes flutter, and walked around surveying. The old hardwood gleamed, the faded rugs stretched at her feet . . . she checked the nearest ground-floor bathroom, which had been grimy when she moved in, the floor an ancient and torn-up linoleum in avocado green. Now the old flooring was replaced with tile and the walls had been painted.

The room's small window was open to the back of an oleander hedge, pink blossoms that could be lethal, someone had warned her when she was pregnant-vomiting, diarrhea, if a kid even touches an oleander he could sink into a coma, the woman had said. And never come out. You didn't hear that from a man, typically. As an expectant mother, or the mother of a young child, you heard many warnings from females but not so many from males. The females were protective, true, they spread their downy wings over the eggs to keep them safe and warm, but also they relished the gruesome. At least they relished the talk of it-tragedy, poisoning, accident, as long as it didn't happen to them or theirs, they talked it up as though it was delicious.

On a tall cabinet beneath the window there were candles and a bowl of pinecones and other domestic markings.

She was nervous.

In the dining room she moved bottles onto the counter of the bar-Jim would make drinks, since he was good at that-and set music to play from her cheap stereo.

He came in and touched the back of her neck.

She could get used to him, she thought; but then, no. He was married and he was not a replacement. Through the French doors the sun had sunk and the lower half of the sky was a pale orange.

”We shouldn't do that while the cousins are here,” she said.

”Oh, you ashamed of me?”

”You know why.”

Her friends would see she needed comfort, and if they didn't it would only be between her and them anyway. But the judgment of the cousins, so soon after Hal's death-the cousins would not spare her.

She heard brakes squeaking as a car pulled up and then Casey's voice as she went out the front door-it was not the cousins yet, only her daughter's friends. She realized she was far too nervous to hide it. She wouldn't be able to stand it if they took this place from her. She could hardly bear the tension of not knowing.

She said so. Jim poured her a fresh drink.

By the time her own guests got there-Dewanne and Lacy from the old street in Venice and a couple, Reg and Tony, from the last school she'd taught at-she was half-drunk and giddy. Time flowed faster, s.p.a.ce was easier to move in . . . of course, she hoped she didn't sabotage herself with Steven. But he and the son still weren't there by nine-thirty and the other guests were scattered through the near-empty house, already drinking too much, already leaving empty cups on tables, smears of cheese and chip fragments on the floor. Around her she heard expressions of awe at the decor, at the plentiful zoology, awe sometimes tinged with horror.

She felt gratified anyway. She went to offer fresh drinks to Casey's friends, sitting in the cat room. Sal had two of them backed into a corner-not an easy feat in a wheelchair, but his chair was parked at an angle and blocked them effectively. It was Nancy and Addison, her nasal-voiced, stooping boyfriend. Susan had never understood what it was that Casey and Nancy had in common, beyond the chairs, she was thinking as she crossed over to them-Nancy had prominent hobbies, the obsessive reading of fantasy novels whose covers featured women with long swirling hair and elaborate chain mail and/or bladed weapons and the copious creation, via knitting, of bright-colored afghans, scarves and baby booties. Neither of which would ever be a pastime of Casey's.

Sal was thrusting his Walkman at her.

”It's Bridewarrior, man. Listen. This one song is so awesome. Wait, I gotta rewind it. The alb.u.m's called The Maiden Queens of Atlantis.”

Susan remembered now: after Hal fell asleep on the bed in Casey's guestroom, at the last supper, Sal had orated to her for half an hour on the subject of rap music, rap magazines and the East-West hip-hop rivalry. There were New York rappers and there were rappers from L.A., like two big gangs that wanted to do rapid musical drive-by shootings. They chiefly battled it out by boasting of their prowess, however, and wearing big-bore gold-plated necklaces and rings, only rarely resorting to actual weapons. While Sal was into rap, Casey had said, the women he met were typically b.i.t.c.hes and hos. This month he was into Celtic folk metal. Women were earth-mother G.o.ddesses and busty virgins wearing fur bikinis. Though in actuality as white as the driven snow, Sal had taken the name Salvador and liked to pretend he was Hispanic and/or black.

Curiously, some people appeared to believe it.

”Bridewarrior?” asked Addison. ”What's that supposed to mean?”

”It's like this pagan deal. Ritual nudity?”

”OK, maybe later,” said Nancy.

”We're just trying to talk here, Salvador,” said Addison, patronizing.

”Can I get you something to drink?” Susan asked Nancy, who looked up gratefully.

”Sure, do you have cranberry juice?”

”Take a spritzer,” said Addison.

Sal fumbled with the Walkman, pressing b.u.t.tons.

”So this track's called 'Motherblood,' ” he said. No one was paying attention. ”Wait, wait. This other one rocks even harder. 'Black Carbuncle.' ”

When she came back with the drinks they'd requested he was still declaiming.

”It's on Cruel Scars of the Bone Beast. Then there's 'Uterus of the Earthworm.' ”

Susan leaned down with the drinks tray, feeling like a waitress.

”Earthworms don't have uteruses,” said Addison.

T. had just come in and was standing beside Casey, smiling faintly at the conversation. He lifted his gla.s.s to drink.

”Not the point,” said Sal. ”It's a dark h.e.l.lish vision.”

”Well, but-” started Nancy.

”What she might mean,” interrupted Addison, ”is it's this, you know, kinda bad poetry.”

”It's not f.u.c.king gay-a.s.s poetry, man,” said Sal. ”It's music.”

”But-”