“No, I know. I won’t. And Johnny? Come back safely.”
Michaelaen trollied round and round his room. The waddle truck he sat on was for small boys but sometimes he would get back up on it for old times’ sake. He could think and look at the television at the same time. “Mister Rogers” was on, and even though he’d let them all know he didn’t watch him anymore, he did, and he even liked him a lot. Especially when they did the land of make believe. Michaelaen unwrapped his peanut butter cup and popped it into his mouth. There it would melt ever so slowly until it was the best taste in the world and then he’d chew his brains out. Mommy didn’t go for that at all. She’d make her eyebrows wiggle down and then she always told what a good thing it was that the job had a dental plan, but she didn’t say it like it was a good thing. Worriedly, he eyed the closet where his secret box was. He knew the marble was still in there because he remembered when he put it in there how it had looked. It had looked nice. He had to bring it back though, or maybe someone else would get in trouble, like Miguel. Poor Miguel. They’d sent him far, far, far away. He’d promised Miguel he’d put the marble back and he was going to only … and Grandma always said if you didn’t do the right thing it would come back at you. So he was going to put it back. If he could just remember where the cufflink was. He scratched his head. He’d better check once more. He might have overlooked it when he’d gone in there to stash the pecan shorties. But no, he didn’t think so. It would be much better to have them both when he went back, so he wouldn’t have to go back there twice. Just the thought of going back at all made Michaelaen’s whole head swim. Uh-oh … it could have fallen out of his pocket the same as his quarter had done that time.
First Michaelaen pretended that it didn’t matter so much and he kept going in a circle around his room. Only he knew one thing. He didn’t want anyone to get in trouble because of him. So he better not tell anyone. Maybe he could tell Johnny. He chewed the skin just healing around his tender thumbnail. But if he told, he could get Mommy killed. His breaths came short and quick and on his tongue he met that eggy, awful taste of blood.
In the kitchen it was busy and still. Claire sat at the table and chopped garlic and pi?oli nuts into basil leaves and olive oil. The air was full with the fragrance and her taste-buds were almost anesthetized with the clovelike snap of the basil. She felt herself charmingly domestic and she hummed “Au Claire de la Lune.” It was, she noted, imperative to have a western window like this in the kitchen. She even liked her mother’s ginger red geraniums at the moment, all lit up like a Ladies’ Home Journal. Of course, she would have done it a bit differently, with dwarf hollyhocks, perhaps, or even blooming king aloe and New Mexican cacti. She sliced a lemon in half and caught the bursting juice with the rim of the bowl. There were limitless possibilities. Although she wasn’t sure if that house had a western window in the rear. Already she was scheming, she reprimanded herself. Of course she knew exactly which house it was he’d meant. It was the old Patton house. She’d passed it many times on her walks with the Mayor. She’d even looked at it, now and then, for its simple prettiness. She hadn’t known that old Miss Patton, an old-world sort of still-wore-a-hat-to-tea old lady, had died. She was the kind of woman who’d leave a good spirit in the house, a Katherine Hepburn sort of a woman, both elegant and salty. And the house, if she remembered correctly, had nice, big, square rooms. She found herself mentally decorating the bedroom in dim yellow chintz. And then imagining Johnny, cold legs from night duty, climbing on top of her under the quilt, raising her nightgown and warming his hands underneath her soft hips … She caught her breath and cleared her throat and threw another clove of garlic in. Not to mention the twin dogwood in front of the house. Pure billowy white in the springtime and red as maple ivy in the fall.
The telephone jolted her out of her reverie. “Hello,” she said while she smiled at the dog. He really looked like he could use a snack. She tossed him an entire Vienna finger—usually she reserved half for herself, but just now she could only be tenderhearted.
“Yes, hello. Is this the studio of Claire Breslinsky?”
“That’s one way to look at it. Who’s this?”
“This is Jupiter Dodd’s office. Will you connect me with Ms. Breslinsky please?”
Claire pulled her foot down off the chair beside her. “This is she.”
“Hold the line, please.” The telephone crackled, Spyro Gyra carried on over light FM on hold, and then Jupiter Dodd himself broke in. “Claire!”
“Hi. Gee. What a surprise.”
“Nice to hear your charming voice. Have your ears been ringing?”
“Sorry?”
“I’ve been talking about you to some friends. Have your ears been ringing?”
“Aunt Claire?”
“Actually, no.”