“Hi,” David says.
For fuck’s sake. I exhale, quickly cancel the call. Tuck the phone back into my pocket.
“Sorry,” he adds. “I rang the bell about half an hour ago, but I think you were asleep.”
“I must have been in the shower,” I say.
He doesn’t react. Probably embarrassed for me; my hair isn’t even wet. “So I came up through the basement. Hope that’s okay.”
“Of course it’s okay,” I tell him. “You’re welcome to anytime.” I walk to the sink, fill a glass with water. My nerves are shot. “What did you need me for?”
“I’m looking for an X-Acto.”
“An X-Acto?”
“X-Acto knife.”
“Like a box cutter.”
“Exactly.”
“X-Acto-ly,” I say. What is wrong with me?
“I checked under the sink,” he continues, mercifully, “and in that drawer by the phone. Your phone’s not plugged in, by the way. I think it’s dead.”
I can’t even remember the last time I used the landline. “I’m sure it is.”
“Might want to fix that.”
No need, I think.
I move back toward the stairs. “I’ve got a box cutter in the utility closet up here,” I say, but he’s already trailing me.
At the landing I turn and open the closet door. Black as a spent match inside. I yank the string beside the bare bulb. It’s a deep, narrow attic of a room, folded beach chairs slumped at the far end, tins of paint like flowerpots on the floor—and, improbably, toile wallpaper, shepherdesses and noblemen, the odd urchin. Ed’s toolbox sits on a shelf, pristine. “So I’m not handy,” he’d say. “With a body like mine, I don’t need to be.”
I unlatch the box, rummage.
“There.” David points—a silver plastic sheath, the blade peeking out at one end. I grasp it. “Careful.”
“I won’t cut you.” I hand it to him gently, the blade aimed toward myself.
“It’s you I don’t want cut,” he says.
A little flicker of pleasure within me, like the bud of a flame. “What are you doing with this, anyway?” I tug the string again, and once more it’s night in here. David doesn’t move.
It occurs to me as we stand there in the dark, me in my robe and David with a knife, that this is the closest I’ve ever been to him. He could kiss me. He could kill me.
“The guy next door asked me to do some work. Open some boxes and put some stuff away.”
“Which guy next door?”
“The one across the park. Russell.” He walks out, heads for the stairs.
“How did he find you?” I ask, following him.
“I put up some flyers. He saw one in the coffee shop or someplace.” He turns and looks at me. “You know him?”
“No,” I say. “He came by yesterday, that’s all.”
We’re back in the kitchen. “He’s got some boxes need unpacking and some furniture to assemble in the basement. I should be back sometime in the afternoon.”
“I don’t think they’re there.”
He squints at me. “How do you know?”
Because I watch their house. “It doesn’t look like anybody’s home.” I point to number 207 through the kitchen window, and as I do, their living room flushes with light. Alistair stands there, a phone cradled between cheek and shoulder, his hair just out of bed.
“That’s the guy,” says David, heading toward the hall door. “I’ll be back later. Thanks for the knife.”
23
I mean to get back to Ed—“Guess who,” I’ll say; my turn this time—but there’s a knock on the hall door a moment after David walks through it. I go to see what he needs.
A woman stands on the other side, wide-eyed and lissome: Bina. I glance at my phone—noon exactly. X-Acto-ly. God.
“David let me in,” she explains. “He gets better-looking every time I see him. Where does it end?”
“Maybe you should do something about that,” I tell her.
“Maybe you should shut your mouth and get ready to exercise. Go change into real clothes.”
I do, and after I’ve unfurled my mat, we begin, right there on the living room floor. It’s been almost ten months since Bina and I first met—almost ten months since I left the hospital, my spine bruised, my throat damaged—and in that time we’ve become fond of each other. Maybe even friends, as Dr. Fielding said.
“Warm out today.” She lays a weight in the hollow of my back; my elbows wobble. “You should open a window.”
“Not happening,” I grunt.
“You’re missing out.”
“I’m missing out on a lot.”
An hour later, with my T-shirt sucking at my skin, she hauls me to my feet. “Do you want to try that umbrella trick?” she asks.
I shake my head. My hair clings to my neck. “Not today. And it’s not a trick.”
“It’s a good day for it. Nice and mild outside.”
“No—I’m . . . no.”
“You’re hungover.”
“That, too.”
A small sigh. “Did you try it with Dr. Fielding this week?”
“Yes,” I lie.
“And how was it?”
“Fine.”
“How far did you make it?”
“Thirteen steps.”
Bina studies me. “All right. Not bad for a lady your age.”
“Getting older, too.”
“Why, when’s your birthday?”
“Next week. The eleventh. Eleven eleven.”
“Gonna have to give you a seniors’ discount.” She bends down, packs her weights into their case. “Let’s eat.”
I never used to cook much—Ed was the chef—and these days FreshDirect delivers my groceries to the door: frozen dinners, microwave meals, ice cream, wine. (Wine in bulk.) Also a few portions of lean protein and fruit, for Bina’s benefit. And my own, she’d argue.
Our lunches are off the clock—it seems Bina enjoys the pleasure of my company. “Shouldn’t I be paying you for this?” I asked her once.
“You’re already cooking for me,” she replied.
I scraped a black chunk of chicken onto her plate. “Is that what this is?”
Today it’s melon with honey and a few strips of dry bacon. “Definitely uncured?” Bina asks.
“Definitely.”
“Thanks, lady.” She spoons fruit into her mouth, brushes honey from her lip. “I was reading an article about how bees can travel six miles from their hive in search of pollen.”
“Where’d you read that?”
“The Economist.”
“Ooh, The Economist.”
“Isn’t that amazing?”
“It’s depressing. I can’t even leave my house.”
“The article wasn’t about you.”
“Doesn’t sound like it.”
“And they dance, too. It’s called a—”
“Waggle dance.”
She snaps a bacon strip in two. “How did you know that?”
“There was an exhibit on honeybees at the Pitt Rivers in Oxford when I was there. That’s their natural history museum.”
“Ooh, Oxford.”
“I remember the waggle dance in particular because we tried to imitate it. A lot of bumbling and thrashing. Much like the way I exercise.”
“Were you drunk?”
“We were not sober.”
“I’ve been dreaming about bees ever since I read the article,” she says. “What do you think that means?”
“I’m not a Freudian. I don’t interpret dreams.”
“But if you did.”
“If I did, I’d say that the bees represent your urgent need to stop asking me what your dreams mean.”
She chews. “I’m going to make you suffer next time.”
We eat in silence.
“Did you take your pills today?”
“Yes.” I haven’t. I’ll do it after she leaves.
A moment later, water lunges through the pipes. Bina looks toward the stairs. “Was that a toilet?”
“It was.”
“Is someone else here?”
I shake my head, swallow. “David’s got a friend over, sounds like.”
“What a slut.”
“He’s no angel.”
“Do you know who it is?”
“I never do. Are you jealous?”
“Definitely not.”
“You wouldn’t like to waggle dance with David?”
She flicks a crumb of bacon at me. “I’ve got a conflict next Wednesday. Same as last week.”
“Your sister.”
“Yes. Back for more. Would Thursday work for you?”
“The odds are excellent.”
“Hooray.” She chews, swirls her water glass. “You look tired, Anna. Are you resting?”
I nod my head, then shake it. “No. I’ve—I mean, yes, but I’ve had a lot on my mind lately. This is hard for me, you know. All . . . this.” My arm sweeps the room.
“I know it must be. I know it is.”
“And exercise is hard for me.”