Tapestry of Fortunes A Novel

32


“Would you like to try a sample of our new cheese?” I ask.

The older woman stops her grocery cart, squints at me. “What is it?”

“Well, it’s a new kind of Swiss cheese. Much lower in fat than the others.”

“Is it any good?”

“Would you like to taste it?”

She frowns. “I don’t think so.”

I put the foil tray back down on my card table. I’m wearing an apron with a cow on it. I would rather build a header. But this is the only job that was available for me today.

“Would you like to try a sample of our new cheese?” I ask a middle-aged man.

“Does it come with a burger?” he asks.

“No, it’s just cheese.”

“That was a joke,” the man says. “You don’t have a very good sense of humor, do you?”

I smile. “Guess not.”


. . .

Late that night, before going to sleep, I call King. “I handed out cheese samples today,” I say. “What did you do?”

“Painted bedrooms in a new house. Mission white, mission white, and mission white.”

“I’m tired of working.”

“Good. Let’s take a day off tomorrow and go to a movie.”

“Two movies.”

“Okay.”

I hang up the phone and hear the sound of voices, whispering. I get out of bed, come out into the hall. It’s Edward and Travis, huddled together downstairs at the front door. “What are you guys doing?” I call down. “It’s midnight!”

“Shhhh!” Edward motions frantically for me to come down.

“What is it?” I say, and then, shhhhh!ed again, wait until I am at his side to whisper, “What is it?”

“I think it’s … an intruder,” Edward says, looking meaningfully at Travis. Ah. What he means is, It’s a murderer. Edward is clutching his bathrobe at his neck with one hand, wielding his squash racket in the other.

I pull Travis toward me. “You go upstairs. Right now.” Tomorrow I’m getting a dog.

“I’m not going upstairs!” Travis says. “He might come up there!”

He might. He might be up there now. He might have watched me go down the stairs!

“When did you last hear him?” I ask Edward.

“He’s outside. I think he’s in the bushes.”

“Well, what should we do?” I ask. “Should I call the cops?”

“That’ll just make him mad,” Edward says. And then, “Oh, this is ridiculous! We need a man in the house!”

“Mom,” Travis says.

“What?” I look at his upturned face and immediately calm down.

“Come with me,” I say. “It’s all right. Let’s go call the police. They’ll be right over.” I dial 911, then use my best speaking voice, as I am being recorded.

It takes three and a half minutes for the police to arrive. We watch from the window as two overweight men get out of the squad car. The blue flashing lights are a comfort, for once.

“They should be careful!” Edward says. “What are they doing, just getting out like that!”

“They have guns,” Travis whispers. “Probably thirty-eights. Or maybe Magnums.”

“What are you talking about!” I say. “What are you talking about guns! That’s it, you don’t play with Howard Niehauser anymore!”

“Do you mind?” Edward says. “Do you think this is the time and the place? Why don’t you wait to see if we live? Then you can kill him.”

“Shhh!” I say. I hear it now, too, the rustling of someone in the bushes. And then the police see him, and put their hands, both of them, to their guns at exactly the same time, in the same way. A little police choreography. A little ballet. I start to laugh.

Edward stares at me, bug-eyed.

“I’m sorry,” I say. I always laugh when I’m nervous. I hate this about myself.

“Come out of there with your hands up,” I hear one of the cops say, and I thrill to the familiarity of the phrase, which, up to now, I’ve only heard in movies, on TV. A slight figure disentangles itself from the bushes. It is Lavender Blue, who, as she explains hysterically to the policemen, just forgot something, that’s all. A statue of Saint Jude she had buried out front when she first moved in. It was just for luck, she tells them as she slides into the car, the muddy patron saint clutched in her hand.

I open the door. “Excuse me!”

One cop slams the car door after Lavender, then heads up the walk toward me. The other cop gets in the front seat of the car and turns around to look at her, a weary sorrow in his face.

“It’s all right,” I tell the cop who is standing on my front porch. “She used to live here. She just moved out.”

“You don’t want to file a report?”

“No.”

“She always visit this late?” the cop asks.

“She has trouble sleeping.”

The cop tongues off a tooth, makes a muted smacking sound. “Okay, then. Take care.”

I close the door, turn to see Edward stashing his racket back in the front hall closet. He combs his hair back with his fingers, tosses his head, tightens his robe belt. “Well,” he says. “Good night.”

“I’m not tired,” Travis says, exhausted-looking.