She gave me a reproving look. “Who would joke about that? Anyhow, that’s not the end of the story. Poor William was in the hospital for three weeks and then stuck in bed for longer. He’d never been first in class, you know, and after that it was just downhill.” She paused. “Pardon the pun.”
“We stayed in that town just until he was eighteen,” she said, “and then we moved as far away as possible. Here, to Chicago. He got a job fixing elevators, because it wasn’t so complicated he couldn’t understand it. And it turned out to be a good thing, because there’s been lots of elevators since then, and he was never out of work, not once. So you see, everything turns out for the best.”
Holy fuck. I was pretty sure that was the saddest story I’d ever heard in my life, and I’d heard some bad shit. Honestly I’d been feeling pretty good about my encounter, if a little shaken, but now I just wanted to crawl into a hole in the ground. Not that I’d ever been to the country or the mountains, as she’d said, but I guessed I’d always expected it to by idyllic. Backward maybe, slow definitely, but nice. That story had not been nice.
“Linda,” I said. “I don’t know how to tell you this. But that story is depressing.”
“No, it’s not,” she said, all surprised. “Thirty-two years we were married before he passed over. And sure, he’d get confused sometimes. You know, I’d walk into a room, but he was already talking to me. But that’s not the important thing, is it?”
“I’m sorry. You’re right.” I agreed, because it was her life and William’s, and so I could hardly disparage the story without insulting her. Besides, I was afraid she’d keep talking. Jesus.
I took another sip of the cold coffee and pretended my shiver was from that and not foreboding.
Chapter Two
Colin didn’t come back until late.
In those dark, lonely hours I mulled over his actions. He had manipulated me in the worst way, cutting off my livelihood. I had a child, after all. What if I hadn’t called him? What if I’d taken to whoring myself to cover the bills? Would he have come after me at all if I’d never called him, or was this just a game to him?
I still couldn’t be sure that he’d had no part in Tony Yates. I had to believe he hadn’t, though, or I couldn’t even lie here in his bed.
He smelled of alcohol but not smoke as he settled beside me, in the black of night.
“What made you ask those questions?” he suddenly asked.
I thought about pretending to be asleep, but instead I stalled. “What questions?”
“You know damn well what questions. Did you talk to Rick?”
The way he said Rick’s name made it sound like betrayal. It wasn’t, and I wanted to tell him that and that Rick had been the one to approach me, but I realized that would only get Rick in trouble. “He’s my friend,” I said. “So yes, I talked to him.”
“I don’t want you to see him again,” he said tightly.
It was weird to have a conversation in the dark, both of us facing the ceiling. I turned my head on the pillow to see his profile. “You don’t get to tell me that. Or is it because I live in your house and eat your food, you get to tell me who I see?”
“Yes,” he said. “No! He’s a loser, and he wants to fuck you. That’s why you can’t see him.”
Okay, maybe in my most uncharitable moments, Rick was somewhat of a loser. And I thought that maybe he had a point about the other part. I didn’t think girlfriends were really allowed to hang out with guys who wanted to fuck them or offered to take them away to some tropical place. At least not girlfriends of guys like Colin.
“I didn’t even want to see him,” I mumbled. “I just don’t see why you had to do that. It’s really fucked up.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, sounding calmer if not actually sorry.
We were silent for a moment, and then he spoke again, sounding almost cautious. “What about the other thing? That night?”
I know someone paid Tony Yates to hurt me because I was snooping in your brother’s records as a spy for the cops. No, that would not go over well.
“I can’t tell you,” I finally said.
“What does that mean?” He sounded incredulous.
“Just what I said. You don’t tell me everything you do or everywhere you go, hardly anything. I tell you everything, even my secrets, just not this.”
The other reassurances, that this wasn’t a big deal, that it wasn’t anything he needed to worry about, died in my throat. I wanted to get through this without actually lying. Maybe someday when I’d figured this out, I could tell him. And maybe somehow he’d understand, but it would be better if I didn’t lie to him now.
Or maybe not, because he’d sat up, practically vibrating with anger.
“This isn’t just anything,” he said. “This is you accusing me of raping you.”
“You didn’t rape me,” I said, rather calmly, I thought. “I asked if you paid that guy to rape me or hurt me or anything at all. You said you didn’t, and well, I believe you.” So that’s that, my tone said.
He made a disbelieving sound.
We paused with only the sound of his harsh breathing and mine to fill the air.