Part 4 (2/2)

He cried some more. He finally shook his head. ”I'm not sure.” He stood. ”I guess I just wanted to see if you knew anything.”

”I don't know a thing, Peter.” I stood, too. ”Leave it to the police, Peter. They'll handle this.”

He leaned on the table and let out another heart-wrenching sob. I felt a tremendous amount of pity for him, despite the suspicions I had about him. He was still a father, and he loved his daughter. ”She was a good girl . . .”he said, trailing off.

Peter stood suddenly and grabbed me in a bear hug-he was a few inches shorter than me, but barrel-chested and powerfully built-and squeezed me. The air was pushed out of my lungs as I was pressed against his prodigious belly. After a hug that went on longer than it should have, he finally let go and kissed me on the forehead. He grabbed my face in his fat hands and looked into my eyes. I stared back at him until he broke my gaze and walked out of the kitchen and into my backyard. A few seconds later, I heard the Mercedes start and pull away from the front of my house.

I resisted the urge to vomit and instead went for the always popular dead faint.

Seven.

You would think that if I were going to have a somewhat erotic, somewhat s.e.xy dream, I would be wearing something better than black Dansko clogs and a raincoat. In my dream, in my clogs, black pants, white s.h.i.+rt, and Lands' End raincoat I looked like a cross between a Swedish chef and a Westchester soccer mom. It had been so long since I had had s.e.x, I couldn't even have a s.e.xy dream without wearing sensible shoes.

In my dream, it was a few days after the funeral and the day that I had talked with the detectives. I left school and began the half-mile trek to the train station at around dusk. With their rubber soles, my clogs didn't make noise on the wet street. I realized that I was clad all in black-not a good idea for walking along a dark street on a rainy night. I s.h.i.+fted my leather briefcase from one shoulder to the other, cursing myself for deciding to read all of my students' Shakespeare research papers that night. The bag weighed heavily on my shoulder so I pulled the strap diagonally across my chest, hoping to redistribute the weight.

I heard a car driving slowly behind me, the lights s.h.i.+ning on my back. The car pulled up alongside me, and I stopped in my tracks. The pa.s.senger-side door opened and two muscular arms pulled me into the front seat. I noticed the glint of a badge as the driver planted a deep, slow kiss on my mouth . . .

The train's brakes squealed a loud welcome as we pulled into the station. The conductor brushed past me, knocking my briefcase off my lap and waking me up just in time. He screamed out the name of my stop. I sat up with a jolt and tried to grab the front of my briefcase before it hit the wet floor of the train car; a stray paper floated out and I s.n.a.t.c.hed it from the gray puddle of muck in front of me in which it had landed. I read the name on top: Fiona Martin. Fiona would get a good grade just by virtue of the fact that I wouldn't be able to read half of the drivel she wrote in the paper. The train stopped, and I lurched up from my seat and out the door onto the platform, not sure where I was, what had happened, or why my face was blazing hot.

I sat on a bench to compose myself. I put Fiona's paper back into my briefcase and rearranged everything else: my umbrella, my wallet, my keys, and my cell phone. I watched the train pull slowly out of the station. The river on the other side of the platform was calm and black, with a few large raindrops forming dimples on the wedge of water that was illuminated by the station's bright lights. My hair was damp from the rain, so I pulled the hood of my raincoat up over my head and prepared to leave the station, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other and leaving dream a.n.a.lysis to another time.

The only road out of the station went straight up. The first few days of my walk were horrendous as I adjusted to the length and pitch of the road. Now, after two weeks of walking, I was getting used to the steep slope and wasn't even winded when I reached the top. I guess that was what was called ”getting into shape.” I still felt like I needed a cigarette when I reached the top, just as a reward, but I had given up that nasty habit the year I had graduated from St. Thomas. I reached the top of the hill and looked at my watch: ten to seven. The deli at the end of my street would be open for another ten minutes, and I needed dinner. I started running down Broadway and reached the door three minutes later.

Tony, the owner, and probably my future husband with the way things were going, was unplugging the meat slicer as I walked in, the bell on the door jangling and announcing my presence.

”Mi amore!” Tony cried, so happy to see me that if he wasn't so kind, I would be scared. ”You just made it! I'm closing in two minutes.”

”Hi, Tony,” I said, and took my hood off. I set my briefcase on the counter, opened it, and reached in for my wallet. ”Can you make me a sandwich?”

”The usual?” he asked, as he got out two slices of rye bread, chicken salad, and began a.s.sembling a sandwich for me.

”Sure,” I said. Man, I have a usual. And a sixty-five-year-old, widowed, Italian boyfriend who knows what the usual is. But the sad fact was that Tony was more considerate of me and clearly more trustworthy than my ex-husband.

I looked around. A big bag of potato chips, probably enough for a party of four, sat on the shelf behind me, just begging to be bought. I put it on the counter. I made my way to the refrigerator and reached in to take out a gla.s.s bottle of lemonade when a large can of Foster's Lager caught my eye. The Foster's cans looked like minikegs. For your maximum drinking pleasure, I guess. I had never had a can of Foster's in my life and the only beer that I had had in the last twenty years was the one I gulped down with Max at Maloney's a few days ago. I figured now was the time to be adventurous. I grabbed not one, but two cans, enjoying the feel of their squat roundness in my hands. They were cold and a little wet. I put one of them to my head and then on the counter, along with the potato chips.

Tony brought my sandwich over and eyed the cans suspiciously. ”Having company?” he asked, looking slightly jealous. He punched a few numbers into the register.

”Uh . . . no . . . well, maybe,” I lied, and took a twenty out of my wallet. Just want to get drunk is more like it. Just me and a bunch of boring papers on Macbeth; can't a girl have something to get her through? He loved me so much that I couldn't bring myself to tell him the truth.

He put all of my items in a bag and looked at me sadly. ”How are you doing, my friend? Really?”

Tony had gotten the full scoop about my divorce from my cleaning lady, Magda. I loved her, but she had a big mouth. The month I bought an ovulation kit, I swore that I saw one of her Hungarian friends in the juice aisle of the supermarket put some kind of spell on my abdominal area. Fortunately, it was the spell that made you barren when you were married to lying, cheating a.s.sholes. ”I'm fine, Tony,” I said, picking up my bag. ”Really.” I leaned over and kissed his cheek.

He pretended to swoon. ”Anytime you are ready for me, I'm yours!” he called, as the door swung shut and the jangling bells sounded again. I decided that if I ever found myself considering his offer with any seriousness, I would sell my house and move to Canada.

I had lived alone for six months. Even after Ray and I had decided to call it quits, I let him stay on until he got his life in order-finding an apartment, buying a car, paying off the Visa-which was about six months as well. He had slept in my home office, which had a futon, a computer, and a closet. I kept the master bedroom, my master bath and Jacuzzi, and the king-size bed. Seemed only fair.

Even though Ray had moved out six months ago and I had been living alone since then, I hadn't been divorced until the week before. In my mind, being legally separated and officially divorced were two different things. As long as I was legally separated, I was still married, and therefore, not alone. Officially divorced meant that I was on my own, and, after nine years with one man, it was a little frightening. In my head, the whole thing made perfect sense.

I turned onto my street and walked the last quarter mile to my house. In the air, there was a smell of steak cooking, and my mouth started to water. The chips in my bag were singing a crunchy siren song as they jostled against my hip. I couldn't wait to break them open along with my first giant can of Foster's.

I switched on the kitchen light when I entered, put the bag with my food down on the counter, pulled out a can of beer, and ripped open the bag of chips, shoving a giant handful in my mouth. My briefcase was still crisscross across my chest. I cracked open the beer and took a large swallow, instantly remembering why I never drink beer-it was bitter, sudsy, and made me burp. But a nice, smooth glow was cast over my body, and I sighed, thinking that I could become a beer drinker in my new life as a single thirtysomething. I imagined myself at singles' parties, hoisting beers, a big grin on my face, telling jokes and meeting lots of other single people. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. As long as I had beer and a few single friends, I could live the life of a Dockers' khaki commercial: good friends, good times, and a few beers. It was not lost on me that all of the people in those commercials were men. What did that mean? I would deal with that fact later, along with my train dream.

I took out the sandwich and opened the paper in which it was wrapped. I still had my raincoat on, but it didn't matter. I was single and alone, eating over my Formica counter, standing up. I could do whatever I wanted. Ray wasn't here to tell me how many calories, triglycerides, nitrates, or general s.h.i.+t was in my food.

I took a huge bite of the sandwich, chicken salad dripping out of the corners of my mouth (note to self: don't buy chicken salad right before Tony closes) when there was a knock at the back door. I had been so engaged in my sandwich that I hadn't noticed a car, headlights blazing, parked right in front of my detached garage. I nearly choked. I looked through the panes of gla.s.s in the back door to find Detective Crawford standing there. The dream from the train came rus.h.i.+ng back, and my face went hot with embarra.s.sment. I hastily put a napkin to my lips and tried to push in the too-big bite of sandwich that filled my normally capable-of-huge-bites mouth.

I opened the back door a crack. ”Hi?” I asked. I tried to swallow everything at once, unsuccessfully. I chewed quickly and swallowed a few more times, finally emptying my mouth.

He poked his head in, dripping water from the perimeter of the hood of his raincoat. ”I'm sorry to bother you, but . . .”

I opened the back door all of the way. ”Come in, come in.” I stepped back and motioned for him to enter. I stared at him, a little nervous. Maybe he was finally there to arrest me. When he came in and took off his hood and I saw that he was smiling slightly, I felt a little bit better. Since I wasn't in heels this time, he seemed taller than I remembered, towering over me by a good six inches. In spite of being dripping wet (or maybe because of it), he was also quite good-looking. When I was wetting my pants on Broadway after the wing fest, none of this had registered, but judging from my wet dream on the train, my subconscious had been working overtime.

He took his hood off. ”I'm sorry to bother you, but I actually have a few more questions. I was just on my way home and thought I would stop by.”

I looked around him to see where his partner was. ”Nope,” he said, ”just me.” He looked around, taking in the sandwich, the can of Foster's, and the potato chips, which were half-out of the plastic bag. ”Sorry to interrupt your dinner.”

”It's OK,” I said. With my raincoat and hood on, foraging for food on my counter, I must have looked like a giant racc.o.o.n dining on garbage. ”I really hadn't started.”

”Are you feeling all right?” he asked.

”Tonight?”

He glanced around. ”No . . . you know, the first time we met . . . I always meant to ask you . . .”

”Oh, you mean that. Yes, I'm fine. I actually hit my head pretty badly, but the concussion symptoms only lasted a few days.” I felt a rush of blood go to my face as I remembered his shoes. ”Sorry about your shoes.” I put the sandwich down, my appet.i.te gone.

”I shouldn't have shown you those pictures.” He thrust his hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders apologetically. ”Let's say we're even.”

The silence was awkward and filled the little s.p.a.ce that was left in the kitchen. ”Hey, you want a Foster's Lager?” I asked with a little too much cheer, thinking that my Dockers' commercial days could start immediately. Big detective, big can of beer . . . wasn't exactly what I had in mind for my new single life, but it was a start. ”I have two cans.” I held them up to examine them more closely. ”Or two minikegs. That would be a more accurate description.”

He laughed slightly. ”I didn't think anybody actually drank that stuff.”

”Well, actually they don't. It just looked good sitting in the deli refrigerator, and I thought I should give it a try.”

”No, thanks.” He continued to stand in silence.

”You wanted to ask me some questions?” I reminded him.

He s.h.i.+fted from one foot to the other. ”Were you committed to eating that sandwich and drinking that beer?”

I was puzzled; was that one of the questions? ”Not in any serious kind of way.” I figured if the conversation kept going in this direction, we would be at ”I know you are but what am I?” in no time.

”Do you want to have dinner?” he asked. ”I could ask you my questions while we're eating.”

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