Part 10 (2/2)

”You suck at this,” I told him.

”Well, pardon me for being able to let go of my hatred and bitterness.”

”I don't hate my ex,” I protested. ”I just want him alone, broke, bald, impotent, toothless, fat, and wailing and twitching in a twisted tiny ball of spastic misery.”

He shuddered. ”Wow, that was visual.”

”You seem fine now,” I conceded. ”Somewhat socially maladjusted, but fine.”

He smiled cheekily. ”I spent so many nights thinking how she did me wrong. But I grew strong. I'll learn how to get along.”

”Fine. Make fun of me. In case you're wondering, this is why people don't like you.”

”I'm not making fun,” he insisted, though he couldn't cover his impulse to snicker. ”But do you see how that d.a.m.n song gets into your head?”

16 * Creative Differences.

Nothing cements friends.h.i.+p like beer and eggs.

I ended up staying at Monroe's until the morning. The storm wasn't letting up. Monroe couldn't sleep either. We sat on his screened-in back porch and listened to it rain while we ate scrambled eggs and some of Mama's banana bread. We talked about our hometowns and our families, how Monroe got published, and why exactly I was willing to risk my neck for a rowboat that predated the Carter administration.

I learned that other than naming him Francis, Monroe came from a nice, normal family. He had two brothers, both of whom were doctors. He had loving parents, also doctors, who proudly purchased a police scanner when Monroe was hired by the Louisville department. And now his father walked around the hospital with a copy of Monroe's latest book under his arm, just waiting for someone to ask him about it.

I found out that Monroe's first crime novel, a story about a neo-hippie whose dark past catches up with him in the form of poisoned patchouli oil, stemmed from a writing exercise he did based on ”the story you like to tell at parties.” He was a newly graduated patrolman called to Mall St. Matthews on a disturbance call involving a man named Raintree Feldman who had chosen to ”meditate against the war” in the middle of a city fountain.

”Well, that's not a capital offense, is it?”

”He preferred to meditate naked. Well, there was some liberally applied body paint. And some sort of yoga diaper thing.”

I grimaced. ”I hope they drained and bleached the fountain.”

”That'll teach you to interrupt.”

While I shuddered, Monroe told me that Mr. Feldman didn't appreciate being cited for trespa.s.sing, public indecency, and disturbing the peace. The whole time Monroe was filling out the citations, Mr. Feldman railed about how Monroe's karma would be ruined from that point on, that anything bad that happened to Monroe would be traced back to his persecution of Mr. Feldman.

”Over and over and over, karma karma karma,” Monroe said, b.u.t.tering a toasted slab of banana bread and handing it to me before making one for him. ”He actually filed a complaint against me with the local branch of the ACLU.”

”That would be a rather sad ending to that story, but I can tell by the twinkle in your eye that there is more,” I said solemnly, spearing fluffy scrambled eggs on my fork. I'd never had beer with breakfast before, but I have to say it was a nice complement to the fried potatoes. At this point, a little alcohol was the only thing that was going to help me sleep when I went home.

”Well, let's just say Mr. Feldman kept right on protesting around our fair hamlet. His next meditation exercise took place in the elephant enclosure at the zoo. He didn't think it was right that the recent addition to the elephant family was born into captivity when baby Raja deserved to be running free with all the other little elephants. Turns out mama elephants get downright cranky when strangers get too close to their babies.”

”Well, they do carry them for two years...”

”Mr. Feldman found himself on the wrong end of pachyderm maternal rage. The business end, you might say.”

I groaned. ”The elephant sat on him?”

He nodded. ”The vegan animal rights activist was smothered by elephant a.s.s cheeks. If that's not ironically bad karma, I don't know what is.”

I was very glad I'd swallowed my banana toast because I would have choked on it when I busted out laughing. Monroe looked very pleased with himself. ”And from all that, you got a book about an annoying eco-warrior who buys the farm in the middle of a corrupt natural foods store?”

”I thought the elephant story was a bit too grim. Didn't exactly paint the elephant in the best light. I killed Feldman's character in many horrible ways before I settled on patchouli poisoning,” he said. ”In my first draft, he choked on bulk-priced mung beans.”

”Ouch.” I scrunched my nose. The flickering of my porch light caught my attention. I watched as the lights of my cabin surged back to life. ”Oh! I have power!”

”And you seem awfully excited about it,” Monroe said drily.

”It takes several small appliances to keep me looking this good,” I told him as I gathered the empty plates from the table. ”I'm not going to lie; there's a belt sander involved.”

”You don't have to do that,” he said. I looked down at the dirty dishware. My cheeks flushed. I'd cleared the table without even thinking about it.

”You're going to do the dishes?” I asked.

Monroe chuckled, taking the plates from me. ”Yeah, you're a guest. Didn't your mother teach you that guests don't do the dishes?”

”Yes, but she also taught me that you don't swim naked, alone, at night, less than thirty minutes after eating. Obviously, I'm a slow learner,” I said as I carried dirty cutlery to the kitchen.

I couldn't remember the last time someone washed a dish for me. In fact, when I left town for an aunt's funeral, I came back after four days to find Mike had left me. a full sink. Somehow, the idea of Monroe up to his elbows in suds was even nicer than the whole wet s.h.i.+rt thing.

Dang it. I really did have crush-y feelings for him. That was a problem.

”Well, thanks for breakfast. Without your kindness, I'd probably still be swimming in the lake, trying to drag my boat to sh.o.r.e. Or possibly just eating cold cereal. The banana bread's all yours, by the way.”

”Any chance of you making more of that, even if it requires you hitting me in the face with another door?”

”I didn't make the banana bread. My mother would have to hit you in the face in order for you to get more.”

”I'm willing to consider it,” he said, chewing his plump bottom lip in consideration. ”This was good. I think my social skills needed some airing out. My agent says she can tell when I've been alone too long, I start responding to her e-mails within five minutes. Did you maybe want to do it again sometime?”

”Mmm, let's not start making plans, or developing routines, just yet,” I said, in an exaggerated aloof tone. ”I'd hate to wake up one morning to find that you'd had to move in the middle of the night.”

Monroe grimaced. ”SO, uh, how long will you be holding that against me?”

”For a while,” I admitted as we walked to the door. ”Thanks for breakfast.”

”Yeah,” he said, shaking his head. As I carefully negotiated Monroe's wet steps, he called out, ”I meant what I said, Lacey. Start writing. It doesn't matter what you write or whether it's any good on your first try. Just start writing.”

And since I was already awake and my laptop had a full charge, I did just that. After throwing my stiff, air-dried clothes into the washer and changing into some PJs, I fired up my computer and stared at the screen expectantly.

Nothing.

The problem was I didn't have any idea what I wanted to write now that I'd finished my divorce book report. I'd had daydreams, but most of them centered on Christian Bale in the Batman suit or revenge fantasies involving putting Mike's precious golf clubs in one of those machines that cubes cars.

Something that Monroe said came back to me. He'd killed Mr. Feldman in many horrible ways before choosing how to kill his character in Karma Collects. I didn't have any ideas for a book, but I did have several ideas for horrible fates I wished on Mike. I could kill him over and over again... in a totally hypothetical, nonbinding, legal manner. Of course, I would destroy said doc.u.ment so it wouldn't be used against me in court should anything happen to Mike. But not before I found the most painful, humiliating way to b.u.mp him off.

”Let's start with death by syphilis...” I said, opening a Word doc.u.ment and typing: Mike stumbled into his tiny, mildew-ridden bathroom, clutching at the elastic of his worn boxers. He gasped at his reflection, carefully prodding the itchy pulsating sores that had sprouted from his lips while he was sleeping...

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