Part 29 (2/2)

Cheating on her.

Willie covers his eyes. Holy Mother of G.o.d.

I've met the love of my life, Willie. She's from St. Louis. A true midwestern gal. Wholesome. But kind of naughty too. She likes me to spank her. Can you imagine, Willie? Spank her. She had a falling-out with her family, I guess, and she moved to the East Coast, and she was selling dances to stay afloat. Until she met me.

Willie takes off his fedora, wipes his brow.

The things she says in bed, Willie, you can't imagine. She's from the Soulard neighborhood. That's one of the oldest parts of St. Louis.

Has Marcus lost his mind? Lighting a cigarette, taking the deepest possible drag, Willie stares at the tip. It looks brighter than normal, like a drop of blood.

We met at Roseland, Marcus is saying. I'll never forget our first dance. I'm Good For Nothing But Love.

Again, stunningly irrelevant information. Willie and Marcus keep walking, and Marcus keeps talking. They stop under a streetlight on Seventy-Ninth. Willie feels as if he can't take one more step. He reaches into his breast pocket, fondles the strychnine. This is all very bad news, Marcus.

Relax, Willie, I've got it under control.

Sure you do. Sure. Control. Look, Marcus, I don't care who you love, or who you bed, but Dahlia must be kept happy, do you understand? Dahlia's happiness comes first. Dahlia's happiness is essential to our happiness. My happiness.

Marcus nods.

Keep your taxi dancer well out of sight, Willie says.

Millicent.

What?

Her name's Millicent. I can't wait for you to meet her.

Willie glares, flicks his cigarette into the gutter, walks off.

Days later Willie gets a call. Dahlia. She's hyperventilating. She found a batch of letters written on Marcus's new Underwood.

Letters? To who?

Marcus's wh.o.r.e.

If they're to her, how did you find them?

They're carbons.

Willie puts his palm over his mouth. Carbons.

Willie, you said you never lie about love. But you did. You lied. You and Marcus both need to be in jail.

Jail? Dahlia, honey, what're you saying? You're jumping to conclusions. Let's talk this over. I can explain.

So explain.

Not on the phone. Meet me at the Childs restaurant in the Ansonia. Believe me, things are not what they seem. One hour. Childs. Please?

She hangs up without answering.

He arrives early. Dahlia is already there. She's sitting at a small table in the back, next to the kitchen, wearing a dreadful dress and a felt skullcap that looks like a leather football helmet. Willie kisses her on the cheek, drops his hat on the table. He orders a slice of pie and a cup of coffee for each of them, sits directly across from her.

How you feeling, Dahlia?

Baby's kicking like crazy this morning. Like he's trying to get out.

Know just how he feels, Willie thinks. Now, Dahlia, he says, those letters.

The waitress brings their pie and coffee. He waits for her to go away.

Yes? Dahlia says.

It's so simple, Dahlia. The novel, Dahlia. Marcus's novel.

The novel.

Sure. Those letters are from Marcus's novel. Obviously it's a novel in the form of letters. They call it an epistolary novel.

Oh please.

Sure, sure, those letters are nothing more than pa.s.sages from a work in progress. It's laughable, really. I can understand why you thought- But he signed them, Willie. With his own name.

Well, fine, Marcus has probably taken some true incidents from his romantic past, old affairs and so forth, and twisted them into a mix of fact and fiction. Writers do it all the time.

You're saying there's no taxi dancer named Millicent? From Soulard?

Willie eats a forkful of pie. Of course there's a Millicent, he says. But she doesn't come from Soulard. She comes from the fevered mind of Marcus Ba.s.sett. Your husband. Father of your unborn child.

He goes on at length about Marcus's literary aspirations, about how much words and books mean to Marcus, to both of them. He talks about b.u.mping into Marcus on the steps of the library, about how they both took refuge there in bad times. The more credible he sounds, the more despicable he feels. He was telling the truth the other night when he said that he never lies about love. He feels something in his throat, his gut, something he hasn't felt in a long time. Conscience, remorse, guilt, he doesn't have a word for it.

You swear, Dahlia says. You swear to me that those letters are fiction.

I swear.

Because if you're lying-a second time-after swearing you never would-I'd actually enjoy turning you in.

Turning me-what are you saying, Dahlia?

I know what you and Marcus have been up to.

Honey, please, keep your voice down.

Your-spree!

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