(LB2) Shakespeare's Landlord

by Charlaine Harris

  “Could I just look at your ribs? That’s your problem, right? Listen, you’re in a doctor’s office.”

  I kept on scrubbing, but my good sense conquered my pride. I laid down the sponge, pulled off my gloves, and pulled up my shirt.

  “Oh, someone taped you, I see. Well, let me just take this off….” I had to endure all the probing again, to hear abona fide doctor tell me just as Marshall had that none of my ribs were broken but that the bruise and pain would last for a while. Of course Carrie Thrush saw the scars, and her lips pursed, but she didn’t ask any questions.

  “You shouldn’t be working,” the doctor said. “But I can tell that nothing I could say would stop you, so work away.”

  I blinked. That was refreshing. I began to like Carrie Thrush more and more.

  Cleaning the Shakespeare Clinic was an exasperating task because of paper. Paper was the curse of the doctor’s office. Forms in triplicate, billing forms, patient health histories, reports from labs, insurance forms, Medicare, Medicaid—they were stacked everywhere. I had to respect each stack as an entity, lift it to dust and put it down in the same spot; so the office shared by the receptionist and the clerk was in and of itself a land mine. Compared with the office, the waiting room and examining rooms were cakewalks.

  For the first time, it struck me that someone must also be cleaning those more often than once a week. As I vacuumed, I mulled this thought over. Nita Tyree, the receptionist? I couldn’t picture Nita agreeing to that as part of her job. I barely know Nita, but I do know she has four children, two of whom are young enough to be in day care at SCC. So Nita leaves when the last patient walks out the front door, no matter what is sitting on her desk.

  Gennette Jinks, the nurse, was out of the picture. I’d been behind the fiftyish Gennette in line at the Superette Food Mart only the week before and had heard (as had everyone else in a five-foot radius) about how hard it was to work for a woman, how young Dr. Thrush wasn’t accepting the wisdom she (Gennette) had attained with years of experience, at which point I had tuned out and read the headlines on the tabloids instead, since they had more entertainment value.

  So the surreptitious weekday cleaner had to be the good doctor herself. I had stacked up the bills. Without wanting to, I knew how much Carrie Thrush still owed for her education, and I had a feeling that some weeks it was hard for Carrie to pay even me, much less Gennette and Nita.

  I chewed this over as I mopped, having dusted and vacuumed around the doctor as she sat at her desk, a stack of the omnipresent paper on every available inch of surface.

  When I had everything gleaming and smelling at least clean, if not sweet, I stuck my head in the office door and said, “Good-bye.”

  “Oh, let me write you a check,” said Dr. Thrush.

  “No.”

  “What?” Carrie Thrush paused, her pen touching her checkbook.

  “No. You examined me. Call it bartering.”

  I was sure that was against some doctors’ rules, but I was also sure the offer would appeal to my employer. And I was right. Carrie Thrush smiled broadly, then said, “Thank God! No paper to fill out.”

  “Thank God, no insurance to file,” I answered, and left, feeling that Carrie Thrush and I, cleaning woman and doctor, had, if not a relationship, at least the beginning of good feelings between us.

  Chapter 9

  MY BRUISED SIDE ACHED MORE AND MORE AS SATURday dragged by. I moved through Mrs. Hofstettler’s apartment like a snail, but she was having one of her bad days and didn’t seem to notice. I wondered what it would be like to feel this way many days and to know for a certainty it would last the rest of my life.

  I made my statement at the police station, sitting bold upright and taking shallow breaths. The man who took it down was a detective, I had to assume, since he wasn’t wearing a uniform. He told me he was Dolph Stafford and that he was mighty glad to meet me. He glanced at me out the corners of his eyes, and I saw pity in his elaborate courtesy. I knew he, too, had heard my old story, which I dragged around with me wherever I went, like the albatross around the Ancient Mariner’s neck.

  As I drearily went through the details of the Ken doll and Norvel’s attack, I pondered an old problem. Now that my past was out, should I move? Before, the answer had always been yes. But I’d been in Shakespeare for four years now, longer than I’d been anywhere since I was raped. For the first time, I wondered if I might not just weather it out. The thought crossed my mind, and in crossing, it stuck there. When Dolph Stafford dismissed me, I went home to lie down, finally giving in to the pain. I’d just have to go grocery shopping Sunday or Monday.

  My reluctance to go to the store wasn’t wholly due to the pain. I knew by now the story about Norvel’s attack would be all over town, and I just didn’t want to encounter sympathetic looks or horrified questions.

  Carrie Thrush had slipped me a few sample pain pills when I’d left her office. Normally, I’d think twice before taking Tylenol, but I was positively longing for whatever relief the pills might bring.

  Swallowing two of the capsules with some water, I was just about to leave the kitchen to ease myself onto the bed when I heard someone knocking at the door.

  I nearly decided to ignore it. But it was the brisk kind of rap-rap-rap that tells you that the caller is both impatient and persistent. I was already peeved when I got to the door and looked through the peephole, so discovering the caller was my sometime employer the Reverend Joel McCorkindale did not make me any happier. I shot back the bolt reluctantly.

  The minister’s “happy to see you, sister” smile faltered as he took in the scratches on my face and the awkward way I was standing.

  “May I come in?” He was wisely settling for dignified sympathy.

  “Briefly.”

  Taking that in his stride, McCorkindale stepped across the threshold and surveyed my tiny domain.

  “Very nice,” he said with great sincerity. I reminded myself I must be careful. Sincerity was the Reverend McCorkindale’s middle name.

  I didn’t offer him a chair.

  This, too, he absorbed without comment.

  “Miss Bard,” he began when he’d taken measure of my attitude, “I know that you and Norvel Whitbread have had a personality conflict”—here I snorted—“ever since you’ve had to work together at the church. I want you to know I’m extremely disturbed that he was so stupid last night, and I want you to know Norvel himself is very, very sorry he frightened you so badly.”

  I had been looking down, wondering when he’d get through blathering, because my bed seemed to have acquired a voice and it was calling me louder and louder. But now I looked up at Joel McCorkindale.

  “I was never frightened,” I said. “Mad, yes. But not frightened.”

  “Well, that’s…good. Then, he’s apologetic for having hurt you.”

  “I beat the shit out of him.”

  The minister flushed. “He is definitely a sad sight today.”

  I smiled.

  “So, cut to the chase,” I prompted.

  “I have come to ask you, most humbly, if you would consider dropping the charges against Norvel. He is repentant. He knows he should not have been drinking. He knows it is wrong, very wrong, to hold grudges. He knows it is against God’s commandments to harm another person, much less a woman.”

  I closed my eyes, wondering if he’d ever listened to himself.

  The bad thing was, I reflected as McCorkindale expanded on Norvel’s mental anguish, that if I hadn’t had my little life-altering experience, I might be tempted to listen to this crap.

  I held up a hand, indicating for him to stop.

  “I am going to prosecute him to the full extent of the law,” I said flatly. “I don’t care if you ever hire me again. You’ve known he was drinking again for weeks; you had to have known. You know whatever convictions he expresses are going to vanish when he sees another bottle. That’s his religion. I have never been able to understand why you kept him on when that became apparent
to anyone who cared to look. Maybe he has something on you. I don’t know and I don’t care. But I will not drop charges.”

  He took this well, like the shrewd man he is. He looked off to one side thoughtfully, turning something over in his mind.

  “Lily, I have to tell you some members of our little church have felt the same way about you. They’ve wondered why I haven’t let you go. You know, Lily, you’re not everybody’s cup of tea.”

  I felt an intense desire to laugh. The medication was undoubtedly kicking in.

  “You’re a mysterious and violent woman,” McCorkindale prodded further. “Some people have wondered out loud to me if you should still be working in Shakespeare, or at least at our little church.”

  “I don’t care if I work at your little church or not,” I said. “But I’ll tell you, if I catch you pressuring my employers to fire me because I’m ‘mysterious and violent,’ I’ll sue you. Anyone who cares to can look up my past. And as for violent, present me with a list of fights I’ve started, or times I’ve been in jail, and I’ll be real interested to read it.”

  Ashamed of myself for offering even that much defense of charges that were indefensible, I waved the minister out of the door and locked it firmly behind him.

  My bed was screaming now, and I never could ignore a scream. I floated down the hall and didn’t even register the painful process of lying down.

  WHEN I WOKE up, there was a note on my bedside table.

  I’d have to admit, were the Reverend McCorkindale to chance by, that this did scare me.

  It was from Marshall.

  “I came by at six to take you to supper in Montrose,” the note began, in Marshall’s tiny angular handwriting. “I knocked for five minutes, and then you came to the door. You let me in, walked back to your bed, got in, and went back to sleep. I was worried till I found the little envelope with ‘For Pain’ written on it. Call me when you wake up. Marshall.”

  I read it over twice while I recovered from my flash of fear.

  I looked at the clock. It read 5:00. Hmm. I rolled over somewhat gingerly to exit the other side of the bed. I peered between the blind slats. Black outside. It was five in the morning.

  “God Almighty,” I said, impressed with Dr. Thrush’s medicine. I took a few steps around the room, and I was pleased to discover that I felt much better after my long rest. The worst of the soreness seemed to be gone. It worried me that I’d let Marshall in. Had I known it was Marshall? Would I have let just anybody in? If so, it was lucky that no one else had knocked. Or had they?

  Suddenly anxious, I went through the whole house. Everything was exactly as it had been the day before; the only addition was Marshall’s note and the pill envelope, still containing two capsules.

  After I stowed the remaining pills away with great respect, I made some coffee and wondered what to do with the day. Sunday is my day off, not because it is a church day, but because it is the least desirable day of the week to clean, from my clients’ standpoint. And I feel I deserve one whole day off every week. Usually, I clean my own house or mow my lawn in the morning. When Body Time opens at one, I walk in the doors. I often stay for two hours, then come home to cook for the week. I rent movies from Rainbow Video (“Cinema across the Spectrum”), and every once in a while I call my parents.

  Since I’d risen so early, and since all week had been unusual, somehow none of this sounded appealing at all.

  After I had skimmed through my big Sunday Little Rock paper, treading my difficult reading path around stories of battered wives, neglected children, and starving, abandoned elders to arrive at those I could actually read (which pretty much boiled down to escaped dangerous pets—this week a boa constrictor—politics, and sports), I dressed in a gingerly way, hoping the bending wouldn’t wake up my side. To my pleasure, the terrible ache did not return; there was a certain amount of tenderness, and leaning in some directions was painful, but nothing nearly as bad as it had been the day before.

  All right, then. I’d just quell those rebellious feelings I had, this discontent.

  My house needed cleaning.

  I put on my rubber gloves with what was very nearly pleasure. It crossed my mind to call Marshall, or to drift through the dawn to his house and share his bed again. But I put those thoughts aside; I was in danger of counting on him, of thinking of my life as substantially changed. I found myself wistfully staring at my gloves and thinking of the pleasures of sex with Marshall, of the wonders of his body, of the excitement of being desirable.

  But I began serious cleaning.

  It is a small house, which never gets very dirty anyway, and I know it very well. In an hour and a half, by the time the rest of the world was waking up, my house shone and I was looking forward to a shower.

  The quiet tap on the back door came as I was about to step in. With a curse, I wrapped my white terry robe back around myself and padded quietly to the door. I looked through the peephole. Marshall looked back. I sighed, not knowing if I was glad to see him or sorry that he kept raising my expectations. I unlocked the door.

  “If you don’t stop this,” I said flatly, “I’ll think you really like me.”

  “Hi to you, too,” he said, his eyebrows arching in surprise. “Are you conscious this time?”

  “Why don’t you get in the shower with me,” I said over my shoulder as I went back to my hot running water, “and find out?”

  As it turned out, I was fully conscious.

  As he kissed me while the water ran over us, I had a terrifying feeling that I wanted to save this moment, that it was precious. I knew the fallacy inherent in planning on anything lasting, I knew the degradation I’d undergone had altered me permanently, and I was afraid.

  Afterward, I loaned him my terry robe and I put on my bright, thin one, and we watched an old movie on cable together. I put a bowl of grapes between us on the love seat, we put up the footrest, and we had a pleasant time appreciating the actors and laughing at the plot. When the movie ended close to noon, I got up to return the grapes to the refrigerator. Through the open blinds of the living room window, I observed a vaguely familiar red car driving by very slowly.

  “Who’s that, Marshall?” I asked sharply, the outside world coming back with a rush.

  He was on his feet quickly and stared out the window.

  “That’s Thea,” he said. His voice was tight with controlled fury.

  “She’s driven by other times.” It was the car that had passed the day Marshall was kissing me in the carport. I’d seen it several times over the past few days.

  “Shit, Lily,” he said, “I’m sorry. I wish the divorce had already gone through. No judge would believe, with her sitting there looking so Southern belle, what she’s capable of.”

  I was still staring out of the window, lost in thought, when the Yorks walked by. Alvah and T. L. were holding hands, moving rather slowly, and wearing everyday clothes. They were missing church, an unheard-of occurrence.

  But I was not as amazed as I might have been days ago. This past week had been full of atypical behavior on the part of almost everyone I knew, including myself.

  Pardon had somehow talked himself into getting killed.

  The upright, churchgoing Yorks had been derailed by the rape of their granddaughter.

  Norvel Whitbread had shown his true colors after two years of being smarmy.

  Tom O’Hagen had cheated on Jenny O’Hagen.

  Deedra Dean had seen a dead body.

  Claude Friedrich had been careless with a report.

  Carlton Cockroft had exercised and revealed a wholly unexpected interest in his neighbor.

  Marcus Jefferson had gotten to entertain his son in his own apartment.

  Marie Hofstettler had had an interview with the police.

  The Reverend Joel McCorkindale had visited me in my home.

  Marshall Sedaka had taken a personal interest in one of his students.

  One of his students had taken a personal interest right back.
r />   Someone had rolled a body into the arboretum.

  Someone else had deposited handcuffs where I would find them; killed a rat; left a painted Ken doll on my car hood.

  “Overall,” I said, turning to Marshall, “it would be hard to top last week.”

  “We can give it a shot,” he suggested, and was surprised when I laughed.

  “Let me tell you what happened last Monday night,” I said, and for the first time I told Marshall what I’d seen when I was out walking.

  “You saw the murderer?”

  “I saw the person dumping the body.”

  Marshall thought my story over. “I can understand why you didn’t want to tell the police,” he said finally. “With your cart being used. And since they didn’t arrest anyone yet, you might be putting yourself in danger.”

  “How so?”

  “The killer might think you had seen more than you actually saw,” Marshall said. “At least, killers always do in the movies. They’re always coming after the person they think knows something, whether or not it’s true.”

  “Yeah, but that’s the movies. This is Shakespeare.”

  I suddenly realized what I’d said and I laughed. Marshall looked at me warily; I had to explain.

  “Lily, I think the sooner the police arrest someone for this, the better it’ll be for you.”

  “No argument there.”

  “Then we can concentrate on finding out who’s playing these tricks on you and Thea.”

  There was something in his voice that alerted me. “Has something else happened to her?” I asked.

  “She called me about six this morning. Someone came to the back door and spray-painted ‘Bitch’ across it.”

  “Is that so.” Marshall looked a little surprised at my lack of horror.

  “So, Marshall, did you come over here to enjoy my company or see if I was gonna walk back up in my yard with a spray can in my hand?”

  Marshall closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Lily, I think if you were mad at Thea, you would challenge her to fight, or ignore her for the rest of your life. I can’t imagine you sneaking around in the dark spray-painting a woman’s back door.”