“Don’t have to. I live here and you don’t.” Norvel hadn’t wasted any time consoling himself for his ordeal, I saw, and smelled.
“This time, the police won’t come and I won’t stop,” I said.
I could tell from his eyes that Norvel had made up his mind to move, but before he could shift his feet, a shove from behind sent him flying out the door, staggering to keep his feet under him.
T. L. stood in the doorway, his arm still extended, his mouth in a tight line of anger.
“You piece of trash,” he told Norvel, who had spun around to face this unexpected attack, “if the next landlord don’t evict you, it won’t be for lack of my trying. You leave this woman alone. I don’t care where you go, but you get out of my sight.”
T. L. was absolutely sincere, and that evidently impressed Norvel, no matter what Norvel’s condition was. He looked sullen, but he acted swiftly, heel-and-toeing it out of the parking area.
Now I had to thank T. L., and I didn’t much want to.
“Lily, you probably wanted to get in a few more licks,” T. L. said, with a smile that looked like his old self. “But I just can’t sit still when I hear something like that. And I am the acting landlord. At least the lawyer asked me to lock the doors at night like Pardon did.”
I had to smile. “I appreciate it, T. L.,” I said.
“You come to see us? Alvah said you were going to drop by.”
“Yep.”
“Come on in.”
The door to the York apartment was still open. I couldn’t help glancing over at Pardon’s. The crimescene tape was still across the door. I followed T. L. into his living room, where Alvah was cross-stitching something blue and pink.
If T. L. was close to recovery, Alvah was not. I was sorry to see her face looked old, far older than it had the week before. She moved slowly and stiffly as she rose to get my money.
“Will you be needing me to help finish up?” I asked. I was babbling, but there was something awful and self-conscious about Alvah’s sudden decline that made me want to fill the silence.
“I pretty much done it,” Alvah said listlessly. But the curtains were still off the windows, and the ceiling fan above their little dining table hadn’t been dusted, a quick look told me.
T. L. had sat himself down in his favorite chair, a leather easy chair with a pouch hanging over one arm that held a TV Guide, the remote control, and a Sports Illustrated. He opened the Sports Illustrated, but I had a feeling he wasn’t really reading the page in front of him.
“Harley Don Murrell killed himself,” Alvah said, handing me the money.
“Oh,” I said slowly. “Well, that’s…” My voice trailed off. I had no idea what that was. Good—a bad man dead? Bad—he hadn’t had time to get the full horror of being in prison? A relief—their granddaughter no longer had to fear the day he got out on parole?
“How’d he do it?” I asked briskly, as if it mattered.
“He was on the third tier. He jumped over the rail and landed on his head.” Alvah’s eyes were fixed on my face, but I didn’t think she was seeing me any more than T. L. was reading Sports Illustrated.
“Quick then,” I said, almost at random. “Well, see you soon.”
I had barely cleared the door when I heard it close and lock behind me.
I was unnerved by this little exchange. I wondered what the Yorks’ future would be like.
I went to the lawyer’s office, and I cleaned, but I was absorbed in my thoughts the whole time and hardly remember doing it afterward. I was recalled to my self when I nodded to his secretary on my way out the door. Now I had to drive two miles out of town to Mrs. Rossiter’s. I had forgotten my earplugs, damn it.
Today was Durwood’s biweekly bath. Durwood is Mrs. Rossiter’s old cocker spaniel, and Mrs. Rossiter likes him to smell good, which is not a normal state for Durwood. When Mrs. Rossiter had fallen out with the local pet groomer, she’d been in a quandary, since Durwood doesn’t travel by car well enough to handle a drive to Montrose. She’d been explaining her problem at her church-circle meeting, and God bless Mrs. Hofstettler, she’d chimed in to say she was sure Lily Bard could bathe that little dog.
Durwood isn’t a bad dog, but bathing him is a hard job, and drying him is worse, to say nothing of cleaning the bathroom afterward. As I went to Mrs. Rossiter’s front door, my rubber apron under my arm, I thought for the twentieth time that the worst thing of all was Mrs. Rossiter, who always regards Durwood’s bath as a monologue opportunity, with me cast as the listener. I’d done everything in my not-inconsiderable power to quell the woman. It hadn’t worked. And I didn’t have my earplugs.
Mrs. Rossiter was off and running (at the mouth) the minute she came to the door. She told me I’d been beaten up by that drunk Norvel Whitbread, that the SCC people were saying it was because I’d made Norvel angry at church, though why that would make it okay for Norvel to hide in my yard and jump out at me, she couldn’t figure.
When I’d filled Mrs. Rossiter’s guest bathtub and set the shampoo handily within reach and pulled on my gloves, she told me that I lived next to Pardon Albee, who’d been murdered a week ago, and she’d heard I was seeing that strong young man who ran the health club, and did I know that he was still married to that cute little gal who worked at the SCC Day Care? Did I know that someone had left a rat on that gal’s table, and written a dirty word in spray paint on her door?
I was only surprised Mrs. Rossiter didn’t tell me I’d been raped in Memphis a few years ago.
By now I was soaping down the shivering Durwood. Letting Mrs. Rossiter’s words run over me like water, I rubbed the lather gently through the dog’s coat, wondering at the omission.
So far no one, no one, except for members of the Shakespeare Police Department, had mentioned Memphis to me or even looked at me as if they’d heard something. I simply couldn’t believe that Tom David Meiklejohn, for instance, wouldn’t want to share the sensational details with his drinking buddies—for that matter, wouldn’t he enjoy even more giving the gory details to Thea?
I mulled this over while Mrs. Rossiter, perched on the closed toilet so she wouldn’t miss a minute of my mute company, ran down the scale of gossip to arrive at her own blood pressure, which was always a prime topic.
I interrupted her once to ask her to turn on the ceiling heat lamp so Durwood could dry faster, and once again to ask her to pass me a towel that had fallen from its rack. By the time I’d gotten the dog dry and he’d pranced off with his owner to get a treat in the kitchen, I had arrived at the only possible reason the Shakespeare police force hadn’t talked: Claude had threatened them with dismissal if they did. That was what he’d meant when he’d told me he was taking steps to minimize the damage he’d caused.
I shook gentle scouring powder into the fiberglass tub, having pulled the rubber mat off the bottom to pop into the wash pile on my way out. I scrubbed the tub slowly, turning this idea over in my mind. Though I rummaged through my brain, I could come up with no other solution that fit the facts.
After I’d cleaned up, Mrs. Rossiter handed me a twenty-dollar bill, and I nodded, my hand on the doorknob.
“See you in two weeks, won’t we, Durwood?” she said, looking down at the sweet-smelling Durwood. He looked as if he hoped not, but he wagged his tail, since she seemed to expect it.
THE REST OF the day was a slump time for me. I would see Marshall that night in class, and for the first time since I’d come to Shakespeare, I was not looking forward to it. I was grateful to Claude Friedrich for trying to make up for his error, but I didn’t want to be. I couldn’t be sure what his motive was. The stop at the Yorks’ had upset me, not that I was bothered that a piece of trash like Harley Don Murrell was dead, but I hated seeing the Yorks in such a state.
There was nothing I could do about any of this.
I brooded my way through my last job, went home to get my gi, still dragging my feet. I even considered skipping class, a first. I couldn’t quite bring myself to do that: It seemed
like cowardice. But I deliberately waited till the last minute to go, so I wouldn’t have to talk to Marshall before class began.
I had a definite feeling of deflation when I bowed and straightened and realized Marshall was not in the room. He’d been afraid to face me, too. Oddly enough, this made me feel good, proud.
“You leading class tonight?” I asked Raphael, the only student who has been there longer than I.
“That’s what the man told me,” he said, pleased under his offhandedness. “You gonna be okay? Your ribs? I heard you put that guy in the emergency room. Way to go, Lily!”
To my amazement, the other class members strolled up for their turn at congratulating me. I saw that from their point of view, my short skirmish with Norvel had validated what they were doing in the class, the time and pain they were expending to learn how to defend themselves. Janet Shook actually patted me on the shoulder. It was an effort to keep still. I took my place in line—first, tonight, since Raphael was facing us—in a daze. Whatever I had expected, this wasn’t it.
Carlton was there again. Most people faltered after the second time, so I saw his attendance as a good sign. He wasn’t quite as sore, I could tell by the way he moved, and he was stretching better. It wouldn’t be long before he’d be able to do things that would amaze him. Raphael called us to attention, we bowed, and once again we began our uncomfortable routine.
Sit-ups reawakened the pain in my side, and I had to stop after thirty.
“Slacker,” said Raphael, and Janet laughed. I told myself they were teasing, and made myself smile. Carlton came over and extended a hand to help me up, and, surprising even myself, I took it.
“Seriously, Lily, don’t hurt yourself worse. Marshall told me to be sure and watch you don’t overdo it,” Raphael said as we drifted back in after our water break. I ducked my head to hide my expression and went back to my place, but when I faced forward for his next command, I saw Raphael looking at me with some speculation. We practiced some restraint moves, nothing I hadn’t learned already. Everyone pretended to be scared to be my partner.
“So, woman of steel, when’s your next match?” Carlton asked as we pulled on our shoes. He, Raphael, and Janet were the only ones left in the big room.
I actually laughed.
“You know, Norvel’s already out on bail,” I said, not knowing how to respond.
“Bet he won’t be coming around you anymore,” Janet said dryly. I figured she was still there because she was maneuvering to leave at the same time Carlton did, hoping for some significant exchange about meeting for a drink, maybe.
“Better not,” I said sincerely. There was a little silence. They exchanged glances.
“Did you enjoy it, Lily?” Raphael asked suddenly. “I mean, here we practice all the time, spar all the time, have aches and pains that make my wife ask why I’m doing this. And me, big man, I’ve never been in a fight since I got out of junior high. But you, woman, you’ve done it. So how did it feel?”
“I’ll tell you,” I said after I’d thought for a moment. “It was scary and exciting and I could have hurt him real bad if the police hadn’t shown up so quick.”
“They pull you and Norvel apart?” Janet asked.
“No, I had him on the ground—bleeding. He was whipped. But I would have hurt him more.” Raphael and Carlton exchanged uneasy looks. “It was the adrenaline,” I tried to explain. “I had beaten a real man in a real fight, but he scared me, coming at me like that, unexpected. And since I was scared, I was mad. I was so mad at him for scaring me, I wanted to hurt him even worse.” Admitting I’d been frightened wasn’t too easy.
Raphael and Carlton were thinking over what I’d said, but Janet was after something else. “So it did work, all this training,” she said, leaning forward to stare in my face. “You reacted just like you would in class, no freeze moment, the training kicked in.” I could tell what she was scared of—not too hard to figure out.
And there was a short answer. “Yes, the training kicked in.”
She nodded, a short, sharp bob of the head that signified confirmation of a deeply held hope. Then she smiled, a cold smile that made this shortish, ordinary woman something formidable. It was my turn to lean forward, and for once deliberately I looked someone else straight in the eyes, searching hers for what I suspected. I found it. I gave my own little nod. We were fellow survivors.
But we weren’t going to talk about it. I wanted to avoid a girlish mutual emotional bath at all costs. It was something I couldn’t bear. So I grabbed my stuff and mumbled something about going home to get cleaned up, said I was hungry.
I STARTED THINKING about Pardon’s shirt on the way home. I’ve done laundry. I know the way clothes look when they’ve been washed hundreds of times. Pardon’s shirt was a cheap shirt to begin with and he’d worn it and washed it repeatedly for years. It had been almost thin enough to read through. I remembered in my flashlight’s beam seeing the ripped chest pocket. The threads had been frayed. I did not doubt that some of those threads remained at the site of Pardon’s death, which had probably occurred in his apartment. More of them had to be at the place where his body had been stored. And where were his keys?
I prepared a baked potato and vegetables when I got home, but I hardly tasted the meal. That body had been hidden on the street I considered my turf. My cart had been used to haul Pardon to the dump site. Now that my mind was unclouded by thoughts of Marshall—or at least mostly unclouded—it began to run around the track of speculation about Pardon’s death.
Suddenly, the parking garage popped into my mind. Something about it had sparked an uneasiness; something not as it was supposed to be? A memory jogged by something I’d seen there?
It bothered me while I washed my dishes, bothered me while I showered. I wasn’t going to sleep. I put on black spandex shorts and a black sports bra, then pulled a red UA sweatshirt over that. Black socks and black cross-trainers completed my outfit. I punched in Claude’s number, sure that if I heard his voice, I’d know what I wanted to tell him. But his answering machine came on. I don’t leave messages on machines. I paced up and down my hall. I tried his number again.
Finally, I had to get out. Dark night. Cool air on my bare legs. Walking. It was a relief to be outside, to be silent, to be moving. I passed Thea’s house without so much as a glance. And then I passed Marshall’s. His car wasn’t there. I walked on. I heard someone else coming on Indian Way and glided behind some azaleas. Joel McCorkindale ran by, wearing sweats, Nikes, and a determined expression. I waited till the sound of his running feet faded into the night before I stepped back out on the street.
The wind was blowing, making the new leaves rustle together, a sound almost like the sea.
I walked faster and faster, until I, too, was running down the middle of the street in silent Shakespeare, seeing no one, wondering if I was invisible.
I entered the arboretum from the far side, plunging into the trees and stopping to catch my breath in their concealment.
It came to me what I had to do. I had to go back to the garage. Looking at it would be better than visualizing. I would remember what had been niggling at me if I stood there long enough.
It was maybe eleven-forty-five when I walked silently up the north side of the apartment driveway. I hugged the brick wall so anyone glancing out a window would not see me. I checked the lights. Mrs. Hofstettler’s was out—no surprise there. A dim glow lit up the Yorks’ bedroom window; maybe one of them was reading in bed. I had a hard time imagining that. Maybe a night-light? Norvel’s second-floor apartment was dark, as was Marcus’s.
As long as I was doing a bed check, I circled the building.
Of course Pardon’s rooms were dark, and the O’Hagens’. Tom would be at work and Jenny would have to be in bed at this hour. Upstairs, Deedra’s lights were out. She was in bed either solo or duo. There was a light in Claude’s bathroom window, so I walked around front to check his bedroom window. It was lit.
I didn’t want to
go in the building. I squatted and patted the ground around me until I found a rock the size of my thumbnail. I threw it at his window. It made quite a sound. I flattened myself against the wall again in case someone other than Claude had heard the noise. But no one came to see what it was, not even Claude.
All right, then, I’d remember on my own.
And suddenly, I did.
I’d have to go in the building after all. I moved around to the back door, taking a terrible chance. I pulled the key no one had thought to take away from me, the key to the back door, from my bra. I unlocked the door as quietly as it could be done, then went in. The stairs creak less by the wall, so I went up them quietly and carefully, one foot in front of the other. I passed Claude’s door and went to Deedra’s, decorated with a little grapevine wreath wrapped with purple ribbon and dried flowers. I knocked quietly.
The door opened so quickly, I was sure Deedra had been lying on the floor right inside it, with company. In the light falling through from the hall, I could see a male leg, and since it was dark, I deduced that Marcus Jefferson had succumbed to temptation once again.
Deedra looked very pissed off, and I couldn’t blame her, but I didn’t have time for it.
“Tell me again what you told me—about when you came home from work early to give Pardon the rent check.”
“I swear to God you are the weirdest cleaning woman in Arkansas,” Deedra said.
“Talk to me. For once, I want to listen.”
“Will you go away right after? No more questions?”
“Probably.”
“Okay. I came home from work. I ran upstairs to get the check Mama had given me. I took it down to Pardon’s. The door was a little open. He was lying on the couch, his back to the door. The area rug was all rumpled and the couch was crooked. I said his name, I said it a lot, but he didn’t move. I figured he’d maybe had a drink and passed out or he was taking a hell of a nap, so I just put the check on his desk, to the left of the door. This what you want?”
I beckoned to her to keep on.
(LB2) Shakespeare's Landlord Page 18
