Part 36 (1/2)
”Too bad about the old . . . about Mrs. Jukas, huh?”
”Yes. It's a terrible thing. Poor woman.”
”Well, don't feel too bad. She hated you almost as much as me and my mother.”
”She didn't hate me,” he said quickly.
”Well, she was a b.i.t.c.h-to me, anyway. Like I'm some piece of . . . c.r.a.p. Like I don't have feelings or something.” She looked up at him, and for a moment he was afraid she might cry.
”I better go get ready.”
”You're still mad at me! I told you, I was scared, that's all. That's what happened that time.” She gestured up toward the second floor.
”Yes. Well. I understand.”
”No, you don't. You think I'm some kinda little s.l.u.t or something. Well, I'm not! I'm a good person. I am!”
”Yes. Of course. I know you are.”
”Then how come we're not friends anymore? Ever since that night you won't even talk to me.”
”We're friends.” He cringed. That night. That night. Even the way she said it was an indictment. ”See? Here, take this. It's for you.” He handed her one of the roses. Even the way she said it was an indictment. ”See? Here, take this. It's for you.” He handed her one of the roses.
”Thanks,” she said, grinning.
Once inside, he hurried upstairs. He was supposed to be at Dennis's at six for dinner, and it was four forty-five. He was unb.u.t.toning his s.h.i.+rt when loud voices rose from the street. He looked out the window and saw two young men, shouting and running toward Jada. The shorter man, burly and bald, grabbed her while the other tried to pull the dog from her. Jada kicked and shrieked for them to let her go. The burly man was behind her with his hairy forearm across her throat. Yelping, the dog ran in circles while the second man tried to grab his leash.
”What are you doing?” Gordon demanded as he ran into the street.
”She took my dog! This is my dog!” The second man had finally gotten the leash.
”Leave her alone!” Gordon ordered. The man still gripped Jada's neck.
”She's a f.u.c.king thief,” the man shouted as if to justify his hold on the skinny girl. ”She came and took him right outta the yard.”
”I don't care what the h.e.l.l she did. Let go of her,” Gordon growled, advancing on him.
He released her, and Jada rubbed her neck with both hands. Up on the porch, Marvella Fossum peered down from the doorway.
”It's not his dog!” Jada cried. She grabbed for the dog, and the man pushed her back.
”What are you, nuts? It's my dog!” he said, lifting his chin from the puppy's lapping tongue.
”Jada.” Gordon moved closer until he was between her and the men. ”He says it's his. Is it?”
”No! It's mine!”
”She says it's hers.”
”Hey, look, I ain't got time for this. It's my dog,” the man said, backing off, the exuberant puppy in his arms. ”And if you got a problem with that, then you do something about it. You hear what I'm saying?”
”It's not your dog, you f.u.c.king a.s.shole!” Jada screamed, and now the burly man charged toward her.
”Watch your mouth, you crazy spook, or whatever the h.e.l.l you are.”
”Jada!” Gordon grabbed her as she lunged forward, trying to get at the man. ”Stop it! Stop that now,” he said. The man laughed as she screamed obscenities at him.
”It's not your dog,” Gordon told her. ”You know it's not, so stop it! Stop it! Why are you doing this?” Even with both arms around her, she struggled and screamed.
”Why?” He turned her to face him. ”Why?”
”I found him.” She sank against him, sobbing. ”I didn't steal him, I swear I didn't. I found him. And I wanted to keep him. That's all, I was just tryna help him, that's all I was doing.”
”Go home, Jada. Go on inside.” He stepped away now that the men were gone. ”Go on. Go ahead now.”
She picked up the rose from the sidewalk. ”You don't believe me, do you.”
He nodded. ”I believe you.” Believed that she'd take whatever she needed to get by. Believed that for her there was no other choice.
CHAPTER 24.
After drinks in the great room, Lisa had eased her guests into the dining room. It was a casual affair, the women in slacks, the men in open-necked s.h.i.+rts, place mats instead of linen. Up and down the table, small votive candles floated in bowls of water above iridescent gla.s.s chips, reflecting ripples of light off everyone's faces. Lisa looked especially pretty tonight, radiant, Gordon thought as she sat beside her mother. His initial panic at seeing so many people here had subsided into a careful busyness with his utensils and his food. He was pleased to see his roses in the middle of the table, however spindly they were compared to the profuse arrangement they had replaced, pink and orange dahlias spiked with pink and white astilbe. The brighter bouquet sat on the sideboard, but it was the fragrance of roses that graced the room. He was grateful for the anonymity he felt as conversations cross-fired around him. They were all vigorous talkers, each as anxious to be heard as he was to be ignored. Twice now from his end of the table, Mr. Harrington had tried to include him. Gordon's responses were brief. His pallor ashen, Dennis sat at the other end. Above the untouched food on his plate, his fixed smile made him look bored and distracted. Across from Gordon was Father Hensile. Next to the priest sat Luke, the new youth minister. A delicate young man with thinning hair, he seemed only a shade less nervous than Gordon, and his fair cheeks smarted with any attention. Farther down the table were Marty and Becca Brock, Mitzi and Tom Harrington's very best friends. Tom and Marty had been roommates at Dartmouth. In fact, it had been Marty's sister who had introduced Lisa's parents. Well into her seventies, Becca Brock was a pet.i.te, startling-looking woman with heavily made-up eyes and long, inky-black hair. Busily opinionated, she was able to tune in to three or four conversations at once. She had just asked Jennifer, the teenage girl hired to help with dinner, to get her another fork, her tines were bent. Dennis stared at her.
”And that was the last we ever saw of him.” Tom had been telling Father Hensile about a man he and Marty Brock fondly recalled as Mossie. Lisa looked up quickly and asked her father if he'd like more wine. It was obviously a story she'd heard too many times before. The way both men told it, Mossie, heir to a steel company, got up one day in his parents' Pittsburgh manor, had a robust breakfast with his father, ”steak, home fries, eggs, put on his snowshoes, then went three miles into the woods out back-”
”Oh, five or six, anyway,” Marty interjected. ”They owned half the county.”
”He dug a little hollow in the snow, sat down against a tree, and put the gun in his mouth-”
”Tom!” Mitzi said with a pained smile. ”Lisa wants you to try the new Merlot. Here, dear, let me.” Mother and daughter exchanged looks as Lisa pa.s.sed the bottle.
The teenage girl had returned with a new fork. The men continued to wonder why Mossie would choose to end such a charmed life. ”Looks, brains, bucks, dames, the kid had it all!” Marty sighed as he cut his veal.
”Amazing,” Tom agreed, as if suicide had been just another of Mossie's accomplishments.
Gordon thought of Jerry c.o.x. He had killed only what was already dead. His suicide had been the ultimate pretense, an empty contrition, the coward's last opportunity to inflict more pain on good people.
”Would you pa.s.s the sauce, please,” said John Stanley from Gordon's right. John Stanley was a reedy, droopy-faced man whose crisp British accent Gordon found unnerving. Its authority announced itself like the running tap tap tap tap tap tap of a guard's baton along the bars, demanding attention, respect, obedience. Gordon couldn't see any sauce. of a guard's baton along the bars, demanding attention, respect, obedience. Gordon couldn't see any sauce.
”Gravy. Right there.” With John Stanley's sharp nod, Gordon seized the boat too quickly by its handle, splas.h.i.+ng gravy into a candled bowl. ”May I have its dish, please?” Stanley held the gravy boat over his own plate to catch the dribbles. ”It's right there.”
”Oh, yes, here. I'm sorry.” Gordon handed him the dish.
Like a slow-turning beacon, Dennis's dull gaze caught him.
”You are just the most fabulous cook!” Becca Brock called across to Lisa, who had gotten up to fill her father's winegla.s.s, though he had already said he didn't want any. She leaned close and squeezed his shoulder.