“Take me for a drive,” she said. “Out into the country.”
Fifteen minutes later, she asked him to pull into the deserted parking lot outside a greenhouse, led him into a copse of trees. He actually believed that this was her thing, that she didn’t want to make love in a bed, hardly ever. All summer long, they did it outdoors and when fall came and her new identity was under way and she could get a for-real job—waitressing, at a decent place, a Crab Imperial kind of place with fat tips, although the cab fare ate up too much of her earnings for the job to be practical—she started taking him into bathrooms and, once, the dressing room at Nordstrom. Sometimes they used his bed, at his crummy apartment over on Loch Raven, but the pilled sheets, even when clean, felt itchy.
She put a deposit down on a sweet little place over the city line, near Belvedere Square. It was an old Victorian cut up into apartments, so the appliances were half-assed and the closets tiny, but she didn’t mind. It was hers, the first place that had ever been hers. Still, she wouldn’t have sex with Gregg there. Force of habit, she guessed, although maybe there was something deeper going on, some part of her mind trying to tell her that her new life was here and it was time to leave Gregg behind, the last station on her journey to becoming Pauline Smith.
Then she peed on a stick and her life was over. Again.
She had misread him, badly. She believed him when he said he wanted their child. She told herself she had to stop thinking that every man was Ditmars, acted like Ditmars, thought like Ditmars. But maybe they were. She remembers when Gregg spanked her the first time. She went numb, limp, terrified that she was going to do something crazy. But then it turned out that was all he wanted, just a few light slaps, nothing more. She still wants to laugh when she remembers his face when she asked if he wanted a few whacks. That was something to behold. This gander wanted no sauce, but he had to take it or be exposed for the bully he was.
“She’s eating ice cream for breakfast!” The older boy is pointing a finger in her face, almost touching the tip of her nose. It takes enormous control not to swat that finger away.
“She’s a grown-up.”
The boy continues to glare. Polly levels her eyes on him. He holds her stare for an impressive amount of time, but he finally folds.
The woman struggles to get him into the two-seater stroller with his brother, to roll out the door into the already burning hot day. She and Polly have the same number of hours ahead of them. But for Polly, who is on her day off, the hours feel like a long, slow bath in which she can luxuriate, whereas this young woman is confined, caught. Down in South Carolina, a woman is being tried for drowning her own kids, letting a car roll forward into a lake with them still strapped in the back. She claimed she was carjacked, but it turned out she just wanted to start over without the kids. A new man had entered the picture. A horrible thing to do—and yet what would you have her do? Men leave their kids all the time and no one thinks them unnatural for it. Not great guys, but not deviants. Women seldom have that option.
Everyone likes to tell that story about the mom who was able to lift a car off her toddler, how maternal love can give you superstrength. Polly’s pretty sure it’s bullshit. Besides, what if you’re under the car with your kid? What do you do then? You can’t save a kid if you can’t save yourself.
She grabs a PennySaver, heads out into the long July day.
9
Adam is enjoying life more than he should. At least, that’s the opinion of his boss—his real boss, not Mr. C—who is skeptical at the lack of results Adam has posted. But what can he do? It was never his intention to wind up here in Belleville. And he’s keeping expenses to a minimum. His client actually has the nerve to suggest that Adam’s earnings at the High-Ho should be counted against his per diem.
“Yeah, it doesn’t work that way,” he tells him. He cannot believe this guy wants to nickel and dime him all of a sudden.
“I don’t know,” the client says with a sigh. “Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe there’s no money. Remember, 20 percent of nothing is nothing.”
Yeah, that’s why I’m charging you expenses plus forty hours a week, Adam thinks. And I could be charging you for my time 24/7, but I’m a good guy. You’re only paying me for the time I’m actively with her.
They are talking on his room phone. Adam has a mobile, but he tries not to use it and keeps it in his room at all times. A guy who takes a job working as a short-order cook wouldn’t have a phone like his. He did opt to use his real name, Adam Bosk, to keep things simple. If she got suspicious, she could go to the DMV over the line in Maryland and do a search—but why would she be suspicious? And how would she get there? Besides, all she would find is his address and his spotless driving record. Tell as few lies as possible, that’s his rule.
He knows he’s lucky now that he wasn’t able to strike up a friendship with Gregg at the beach, per the original plan. Because if he had started hanging out with her husband before she split, there’s no way he could have shown up here, too, in Belleville.
Why is she here? Does her husband know where she is? Does the husband know anything? Why did she leave him? And her little girl, how does that work? Feral, his client says of her. No capacity for genuine emotion. She’s out for herself, always.
“Whatever you do,” his client says, “don’t turn your back on her.” Then he chuckles in an odd way. “Even face-to-face, you might not be safe with that one.”
Adam cannot reconcile these dire warnings with the woman he sees at work. No, she isn’t warm, and she seems to have only two speeds with men, interested and uninterested. With him, she has flipped the switch so many times now, he’s almost dizzy. Not that he cares. He’s strong, he’s not going to muddy things. But that day at the auction, when he helped her to carry her new purchases into the apartment, even set up the bed for her, he had expected her to say something suggestive, throw him a signal. She couldn’t get him out of there fast enough. And since then she has been so cool. Nice, pleasant, but Max and Ernest get more attention from her than he does.
That night at work, the other waitress, Cath, catches him sneaking peeks at Polly through the pass-through for the food. Business has been picking up, and Mr. C now needs both women working Wednesday through Sunday. Cath, who has seniority, gets most of the tables. Polly has the bar and two tables near it.
“You like her.” Cath’s tone is almost accusing.
“What do you mean, I like her? I barely know her.”
Cath smiles. “I said you’re like her.”
“How so?”
“Mysterious. Not offering up much of anything. Not sure if you’re staying or passing through.”
“Oh, I’m pretty sure I’m passing through.”
“What could entice you to stay?”
She cocks a hip, gives him a look. She’s cute if you like that all-American type. He thinks about it, the pros and cons. If he takes up with Cath, he won’t have to worry about making a mistake with Polly. And Polly strikes him as someone who would find a guy much more interesting if she definitely can’t get to him. It could be messy, though, if Cath became attached. He has to be clear, say, This is just for fun, no strings.
Not that there’s a woman in the world who can hear those words if she doesn’t want to hear them.
“It’s out of my hands,” he says. “I got a job I have to get back to, come fall.” God, he hopes this job is over by fall, that he’s secured his bonus and is off on a trip. “But I like to have fun, if you know anyone who’s open to having fun, but not being serious.”
That night, Cath makes a big deal of parking her car behind the motel, waiting fifteen minutes before she comes to room 3. “It’s a small town,” she says. “People will gossip soon enough.”
Once inside, she comes on pretty strong, almost too strong. He wouldn’t have minded working a little harder. But she’s good company, quick with a wisecrack while they watch baseball, then blessedly quiet when they go at it a second time, eager to make him happy. Still, wh
en he studies her shoulders, her back in the moonlight, it’s only a back, fleshy and earthbound. No wings.
“This is all I’m good for,” he says to her back while he massages her shoulders. “I’m not looking to date or have a girlfriend.”
“You took Polly to that auction.”
“She doesn’t have a car.”
“I know. You ever wonder how she got here, without a car?”
He doesn’t wonder because he knows. “Bus?”
“Even if she did take the bus, why here?”
“Sign says it’s one of the ten best small towns in America.”
“Sure, if you’re married with kids. Or if you grew up here, I guess.” She sips her beer, takes on a way-too-casual tone. “What’s your excuse?”
“My truck was starting to overheat. I stopped rather than pushing it, risking the whole engine. Took a week to get the part and by then, I landed this job. I have the summer free, I can be where I want and here seemed as good a place as any.”
“What kind of job do you have to go back to?”
“Sales.” True enough. “It’s seasonal work.” Also true. “I’m an independent contractor. I don’t get benefits, but I get lots of free time.”
All true. Adam makes top dollar, always has more work than he needs.
“What do you sell?”
“Depends on who hires me.”
She lets it drop. If a person is determined to be vague enough, almost no one has the forbearance, the curiosity really, to keep asking questions. She doesn’t ask about his parents, although Adam would be happy to talk about them. She doesn’t ask about why he went to the CIA, much less why he dropped out. (The instructors were assholes.)
No, Cath wants to talk about herself. Most people do. So he asks her questions—not too many or she’ll get too attached. Women can’t help themselves when men ask them questions. So he listens, asks a little, but not too much. She has a younger sister, and he gets the sense that Cath feels she is a little bit in her shadow. The sister is married, just bought a house, and Cath still doesn’t have a degree, although she drops in and out of the nearby community college. She got into some trouble when she was in high school—not a big deal, but it derailed her college plans and, somehow, she never got back on track, but she’s trying now, she has dreams. She’s not going to be a waitress forever. She might not even stay in Belleville.
When it gets so boring he wants to scream, he gives her a little kiss and they go at it again.
The next day at the High-Ho, she drops by during lunch hour, although she’s not on the schedule. At the first opportunity, she reaches over and flicks an invisible something from his T-shirt, makes sure Polly sees. Oh, Polly sees. The rest of her shift, she’s switched back to interested, which amuses Adam to no end. He’s pretty sure that she’s going to ask him to come by and see her apartment. He’s also sure that he’s going to say yes to that, then no to whatever happens next. He enjoys the anticipation, plays the scene several ways in his mind, but the fantasy becomes impossible to keep in focus once a short, squat woman with a butch haircut comes in and orders a chef’s salad. He knows the second he sees her that she’s a private investigator and she’s looking for the woman who’s calling herself Polly Costello.
Because like calls to like, and that’s what he’s doing here.
10
The chef’s salad at the High-Ho is better than Sue expected, but then—Sue’s expectations aren’t very high. Sue Snead always keeps her expectations low. Yet, somehow, she still ends up disappointed. By chef’s salads. By people, professionally and personally. It’s like there’s a wall in her head and nothing she learns about human nature from her job can get through to the other side. Sue the person is going to end up hiring Sue the investigator one day.
Still, it’s a really good salad. Crisp romaine, real bacon.
It has been three weeks since Sue and Anna broke up. She saw it coming for a long time. But it was like a blizzard in the weather forecast and she kept hoping she was wrong, that it wouldn’t materialize, or that it would swing to the north or south. Baltimore has always had snowstorms like that. She remembered the last prophesied big one, the grocery stores and liquor stores and video stores denuded, everybody preparing to hole up for days. Philadelphia got thirteen inches, Baltimore woke up to pure sun and dry sidewalks.
You might sidestep one blizzard, but another one will come for you. Anna was never going to be Sue’s happily ever after. They had embraced the lesbian cliché, renting a U-Haul six weeks after they met to bring Anna’s motley assortment of possessions to Sue’s house. Anna brought new meaning to doesn’t have a pot to piss in. Maybe that’s why Sue had never expected her to stay and maybe that’s what doomed them, Sue’s inability to believe that she could be enough for someone like Anna, a newly hatched baby-dyke, fresh from a bad marriage. Anna wanted to romp for a while, and who could blame her?
No, it was fair for Anna to leave her. Not so fair of her to raid the little safe where Sue kept some cash, or to take the Le Creuset Dutch oven that they had picked out together, but for which Sue had paid. It had been a nice winter, making stews and Bolognese in that bright-red dish. Then Anna had started complaining about her weight. I’m getting fat, look at me. She would grab her nonexistent belly with two hands while Sue contemplated her undeniable apple of a midriff, wondered if Anna’s distaste for her own body extended to Sue’s.
Anna then began carping about Sue’s house. A neat, well-kept, but undeniably suburban house, a brick one-story that had the potential to be transformed into a midcentury marvel, but only if one spent twice as much as the house was worth. Baltimore’s housing market was flat, flat as Anna’s belly. The house hadn’t gained a dollar in value since Sue bought it five years ago and it seemed crazy to Sue to take a second mortgage, harvesting what little equity she had managed to build. Anna brought home brochures for the condos going up along the waterfront, the promises of new developments where canning factories and shipyards had once stood. As if, Sue wanted to laugh. But Anna wasn’t from Baltimore. She didn’t know how often these dreams had been floated, how seldom they materialized.
The Pauline Hansen case was a nice distraction from her thoughts about Anna, although she doubted it would end happily. She can find almost anyone, she told the client, but she can’t make them do anything. It is not, alas, illegal to stop loving someone, as Sue knows all too well. Odd, sure, to walk away from your own daughter in the process. Maybe even creepy. But legal. Sue has been clear with Gregg that she won’t try to engage his ex if she finds her. She’s not a go-between, she’s a pointer. I find, you shoot.
God, she hopes there’s not shooting involved. But while the guy has a hothead vibe, he’s never been arrested for anything violent and there have been no police calls to the house on Kentucky Avenue.
He probably hasn’t told her everything, but that’s okay. They never do. She hasn’t told him everything, either, the ramifications of the name change that popped out of the Chicago Title investigation. Maybe that’s why Pauline Hansen ran, to put more distance between herself and her past. Again, it’s legal to change one’s name, legal not to share everything with a new partner. This lady wanted a fresh start, and Sue won’t deny her that.
If only Gregg Hansen knew that losing his wife could be the healthiest thing that could happen to him.
Sue steals a look at the photo in her wallet, glances back at the woman behind the bar. Yeah, it was her, no doubt about it. She’d done nothing to disguise herself. Probably too vain to lose that amazing red hair. Still, it was a lucky break finding her so swiftly. She’s been careful not to create a paper trail. No charges on the joint credit card, no withdrawals from the ATM. Finding her had been a bitch, but that just meant more hours, more money for Sue.
She’s going to buy another Dutch oven. Only not red this time. Maybe blue or hunter green.
Sue had started the week in Bethany, showing Pauline Hansen’s photo around. If you work hard, you make your own luck and
, lo and behold, Sue found a geezer who copped to giving the redhead a ride, saying he offered to take her all the way to D.C., but she surprised him by getting out of the car only an hour into the trip. No, he couldn’t remember where. A hundred dollars later, he gave up the name. Belleville. He had dropped her off in Belleville.
Once in Belleville, Sue made the tactical decision not to ask questions because it was way too small. Her queries would have gotten back to her quarry, could startle her into running again. So she walked around town, studying the shops, the restaurants. It’s summer. Strangers aren’t normal here, but they aren’t completely unknown this time of year. There’s a neighborhood of pretty Victorian houses and nineteenth-century stone homes. She pretended interest in those, all the while going in and out of various businesses. There’s only a few places where a person’s going to be able to work off the books and this dump, the High-Ho, was so clearly one of them.
And, bingo, there she is. Better looking than her picture. Or maybe just sexier. Sue can tell that this one would sleep with a person if it advanced her agenda. Not a moral judgment on Sue’s part, merely an assessment. Sex is currency to this woman. Sue knows the type. Sue dates the type, although she doesn’t mean to.
Sue doesn’t try to talk to her. She doesn’t want Pauline to remember her, even in hindsight. There’s no real reason to do her job this way, except it amuses Sue to be invisible, to use her seeming deficits as assets. In a day or two, maybe a week, the husband will show up here and this Pauline Hansen will search through her mind, try to remember the moment she was caught. She’ll never find it. Sue Snead. Sue Stealth, moving through the world without attracting attention. She knows what people think when they see her. Dyke. Dyke, dyke, dyke. They file her away under that heading and forget her. Great, makes her job easier.
Sunburn: A Novel Page 5
