Owen set Leo up with a bottle of bourbon and headed upstairs to take a shower. He kept seeing Irene’s blood-drained lips, the gray hue of her cheeks. He cried in the shower and stopped when he shut off the water. Owen dried off and changed into a pair of clean pajamas and a robe.
He heard a television on downstairs. Leo was drifting off in front of an old movie, snoring quietly. Leo had imbibed more that afternoon than he had in years. Owen poured another drink as he debated the various ways he might get the old man out of his house.
When the doorbell rang, Owen felt like a hammer was beating on his heart.
Leo opened his eyes and lifted his head and shouted, “I’ll be right there,” as if he was in his own home.
Owen looked through the peephole. “Shit,” he muttered, loud enough for the person on the other side of the door to hear.
“Owen, it’s Maya and Greg.”
Owen was too tired to play the I’m-not-home game. He swung open the door to find Maya Wilton standing on his porch with a large casserole covered in aluminum foil in her hands. Greg, her husband, stood a few steps back to her left, like the second-in-command.
“Owen, I’m so sorry,” Maya said, her face weirdly contorted into a cartoon of sympathy.
Owen was still trying to figure out if there was a way to keep Maya outside when she shoved the dish into his hands, not just invading but attacking his personal space. This caused Owen to take a step back, leaving room for her entrance. Owen looked at Greg, who shrugged. Owen had no idea what the shrug was intended to convey. Greg rarely said anything. But unlike most people who use words sparingly, he hadn’t developed superior forms of nonverbal communication.
Maya squinted in the dim light. “You think maybe we should open the drapes, get some light in here?” she said as she circled the living room, opening drapes and flicking on every switch until the house was as bright as an operating room.
* * *
—
Luna’s phone buzzed against her dresser. Three texts in succession from Owen.
Where are you?
Please come back here.
Maya & Greg here. Make them leave.
When Luna checked the clock, she realized she’d been out cold for at least an hour. She rinsed with mouthwash, applied deodorant, and jogged down the stairs. Sam was stretched out on the couch, cycling through channels on the TV. She couldn’t remember the last time she saw him killing time like that.
“I’m going to go back over to Owen’s. Okay?” Luna said. “I left him with Leo, and now the neighbor—you know, Maya—is there, offering her condolences. I need to get rid of her.”
Sam almost smiled. “You’re good at that,” he said.
It wasn’t a dig. It was a genuine compliment.
* * *
—
When Luna arrived, she found Owen cornered on the couch by Maya, who was gripping his hand and offering her mixed bag of condolences.
She’s in a better place now.
If there’s anything I can do, I’m here for you, Owen.
They’ll get the sick bastard and string him up by the balls. I promise you that.
Luna nodded at Greg, who returned the look with an embarrassed smile. Greg always seemed confused by his wife’s behavior, as if she were an alien with entirely different customs from his.
Luna stood by the open door and said, “Maya, it was so nice of you to drop by.”
“Of course,” said Maya. “You must make sure you stay nourished, Owen.”
Owen nodded, afraid that any words could encourage a longer stay.
This fear of Maya, of her company, had begun when Owen and Irene first moved into their house on Vine Street. Maya dropped by with a plate of brownies to welcome her new neighbors and offer them the lay of the land. Irene was out shopping while Owen unpacked. Maya began to provide an accounting of every retail establishment in the neighborhood along with their relative pros and cons, including the personality quirks of the proprietors. Owen tried his usual tricks for encouraging a guest’s departure. He had a certain way of saying thank you that was remarkably finite, and he found okay, then, to work quite well with sensitive types. But none of his usual tricks had any effect on Maya. She stayed for two hours and twenty minutes.
Owen knew he could rely on Luna. Her gift for swiftly dispatching visitors had only improved with age. When her first strong suggestion of a departure fell on deaf ears, Luna approached Maya, gently detached the hand that was gripping Owen’s arm, and led her to the front door.
“Thank you, Maya and Greg, for your kindness. Owen needs his rest now.”
“Of course,” Maya said, as she was led outside the front door. Maya was on the brink of another paragraph of condolences, but Luna interrupted.
“We’ll see you later,” Luna said, shutting the door and clicking the deadbolt.
“Thank you,” Owen said.
Luna scanned the room. “Where’s Leo?” she asked.
Owen checked the kitchen. Luna opened the sliding door to the backyard and leaned out. They shouted his name a few times. Eventually, he answered from the top of the stairs.
“I’m here, for fuck’s sake,” he said. “Please stop shouting.”
Leo snailed down the steps on his titanium knees.
“What were you doing up there?” Luna asked.
The first floor of the Mann-Boucher house had everything a guest might need. Only the master suite and Irene’s office were upstairs.
“I was looking for a book I lent Irene,” Leo said.
“What book?” Owen said.
“The Hockney coffee-table book. I’m sorry. It’s precious to me.”
“You could have asked,” Owen said.
“You were busy with that woman,” Leo said.
Owen’s phone chirped and then the doorbell rang. Luna winced at the competing sounds. Owen turned to Luna, his eyes wide in panic. What now?
“I’ll get it,” Luna said.
It was Sam, still wearing his scrubs. Sam always claimed that he wore them because it was easier than assembling another outfit, but Owen wasn’t buying that bullshit.
“Hey,” Sam said to Luna. “I thought I should—”
“Right,” Luna said.