“You’re the one who wanted to move here,” he insisted, still whispering.
Laura shook her head again. Her mouth was open. Total shutdown. She walked quickly and directly into their apartment without looking at him or the old woman. When he went inside, he found her crying on the couch.
*
Cal took Elmo to the dog run that evening while Laura went to class. She had calmed down after her crying jag and brushed off his feeble efforts to comfort her. He had joked too much, not taken it seriously. He would make it up to her, find a way to explain the dead man. Just twenty-five.
The late afternoon was mild. The park was a short walk down streets lined with trees and Victorians with fancy shingles. Laura liked all that. Sure, what’s not to like? Other than the occasional crack house a few blocks west. The park was nice too, with double rows of sycamores. The yellow-brick castle of the Armory loomed over it all, gilded pink and gold in the late-afternoon sun. Their neighbors all knew each other. A plus in Laura’s opinion. But how could they not know each other? They were packed in like rats. He’d take the suburbs any day, and a nice, wide yard. Tall fences too.
His friends had warned him that he was marrying Laura by moving in with her. But he and Laura had talked about that. She had agreed: they were serious, committed, but not married. Why not move in together? They weren’t rushing into anything, just taking a step. No biggie. It had resolved a common need. Her studio was cramped, and she was fussy about him leaving his things there. His roommates were unreformed frat boys who she could not tolerate. Tell them to grow up, she had said. She and Cal would live like adults. They were getting to that age. He had had plenty of girlfriends, but not like Laura. She was ambitious. She had goals. Get a PhD in art. Travel. Teach. Become an expert.
They had turned the apartment into their home, combined their furniture. His futon had been put out in favor of her couch, but his recliner was there and his big TV and video games. The second bedroom she took as her office, but he could play video games in the living room whenever he wanted as long as he wore headphones. They had settled in. Established routines. The neighborhood was pretty quiet aside from an occasional car window being smashed or the break-in of a first-floor apartment.
They lived on the first floor but were careful with the lights and dead bolts. The last thing they wanted was to put bars on the windows. They felt safe enough. No one had so much as bothered the chickens. One day the birds had escaped. Laura insisted it had been Cal’s negligence. Fortunately, Liz Westerberg had seen them. She was collecting borage flowers to candy when a chicken walked by. She told Cal and Laura that she had strutted and flapped her wings at the birds to gently encourage them to return to their roost. He and Laura had laughed imagining small, mannish Liz dancing the Funky Chicken. Cal had told Laura to drop the blame game since nothing bad had happened.
The dog owners stood by the double-gated entrance. He recognized most of them. He did not know their names, but he knew their dogs.
“What happened?” asked the Chinese woman with the bulldog named Roy.
“That’s where you live, isn’t it?” The lean, heavily stubbled hipster with the chocolate lab, Keno.
Cal shrugged as if he was a seasoned West Ender. “What are you gonna do?” he replied. His father used to say that. A rhetorical device. A way to end a discussion. There was of course no answer.
He asked about crime in the neighborhood. The black guy with the pit bulls Sophie and Chuck said it was minimal, just kids usually. Another man pulled him aside and told him never to walk in the park at night. Someone mentioned the prior summer when a fourteen-year-old had taken potshots with a Glock on Messer Street. “Just be aware, that’s all.”
“But this dead man,” Cal asked, “what is that about?”
People shrugged.
A thin old man with wild white hair wearing a soiled khaki windbreaker waved his hand as if to speak. He called to his wheezing golden retriever, Goliath, and attached the dog’s leash, then said, “The Cambodian drug gangs.” He walked away without another word, holding up his right fist, index finger in the air. Others in the park rolled their eyes.
*
Laura was tense when she got home. She didn’t like walking by the park or down their lane after dark. Cal poured her a glass of wine, but she refused it.
“I feel sick. I don’t want any wine. What are you cooking? It smells awful.” She put a hand on her stomach and looked like she was going to throw up.
“Are you okay?” he asked. “I thought you liked this. Chicken and eggplant.”
She shook her head.
He changed the subject: “I’ve been asking people about the murder, but no one seems to know anything. I think it was a drug thing.”