by L. R. Wright
He preceded her down the hall to the reception area, where Isabella was peering over her half-glasses at the computer screen. Draped over her shoulders was a thick gray and white sweater that sported a pattern of Canada geese in full flight. Beneath it, Isabella wore black slacks and an orange silk T-shirt.
“Isabella.”
“Yo,” she said, looking up, which caused her gold and brown hair to swish, gently.
“Have you met Sergeant Henderson?”
Eddie stretched out her hand, smiling. “Hello.” Her hand was large and square, with short nails. She wore no rings.
“Hi,” said Isabella, giving Eddie an appraising glance. “Welcome.”
“Thanks.”
“Okay, over here, now,” said Alberg, leading the way behind the counter to the table against the wall that had been Sid Sokolowski’s turf. “There’s office space down the hall, between me and the exit to the parking lot, or you can take this here. It’s up to you. And this is Constable Mondini. Ralph, come and meet your new sergeant.”
Alberg felt falsely hearty, and imagined that Ralph and Isabella were glancing at him with curiosity and amusement; and god only knew what was going through the new sergeant’s head.
“Come on, Mondini, get the hell over here,” he said, gesturing fiercely. The constable got up so fast he tripped, and had to grab the edge of the reception desk to prevent himself from falling. “This is Sergeant Henderson,” said Alberg, reaching out to steady him.
“Hi,” said Eddie, grasping his hand and giving him a brilliant smile.
What the hell had Mondini done to deserve that kind of a smile? Alberg wondered irritably.
“When you finish the tour,” said Isabella, stretching, “get Ralph here to take you over to Earl’s for coffee. It’s a good place to observe the civilians.”
Alberg looked at her coldly. He had planned to do that himself. “Come on, Sergeant,” he said. “Let’s go take a look at what passes for the locker room.”
As he strode down the hall with Eddie Henderson at his heels she called out, “I think I’ll take the desk behind Isabella’s. I like to be in the middle of things.”
Alberg nursed his mood of incivility and complaint but it was too weak, and he soon succumbed. He decided that he liked the fact that she was tall and strong. He decided that she had a friendly, ingenuous quality that could be perceived as pleasant. He expected that she would also turn out to be smart, and decided that he could live with this.
He walked her through the detachment, watching her shake hands, smile, and file away first and last names with rank. He observed that she ignored Cornie Friesen’s blank, judgmental stare with as much aplomb as she disregarded the covertly lascivious inspection of Constable Joey Lattimer. And welcomed with her wide, confident smile greetings of genuine friendliness from Norah Gibbons and Frank Turner. And kept her body relaxed and her mind alert through the ordeal of being a newcomer.
Alberg, who was familiar with the difficulties often faced by female officers, wondered what experiences Eddie Henderson had had; what moments of embarrassment, rejection and unpleasantness might have littered her thirteen years on the Force. Had she ever lain awake at night, struggling against an urge to give up, to resign? How important a role had pride and image played in her decision to tough it out?
He was pretty sure he’d never ask her.
***
Susan Atkinson had wakened that morning slowly, easily—early. She reached over to turn on the radio, tucked her hands under her head, and smiled at the ceiling. A few minutes later she stretched under the covers, pointing her toes, reaching high with wide-apart fingers. She was thoroughly savoring spring break, and the end of the longest stretch of the teaching year.
She had decided for once not to program her days off. She was keeping them unstructured, uncluttered, so that she could spend time at a moment’s notice with her lover. But even so, she had mentally composed a list of things she wished to accomplish during her precious days off. Lying in bed, she reminded herself that she must order hanging baskets from the nursery for her balcony; give the apartment a thorough cleaning; return that pile of books to the library; and make a dental appointment, too. And do some preliminary looking around for a new car. And replace her portable telephone, which was broken.
***
Consequently, her mind was pleasantly, purposefully cluttered as she glanced at the clock and threw back the bedclothes, but she knew that she would drop any plan, set aside any good intention, if her lover had a better idea.
She went into the kitchen and opened the fridge. And as she stood there, examining its meager contents, Susan had a thought that was completely alien to her. It sprang into her head uninvited, and unwelcome.
She let the fridge door close, lowered herself onto a kitchen chair, and experienced an extremely sobering moment. She considered, within it, a myriad of choices, including quitting her job and moving away, instantly, that very day: this was for a while quite the most appealing alternative that presented itself.
She got up, crossed to the sliding door, and let herself out onto the balcony, which faced west. She pulled her robe tightly around her and leaned out, looking down at the gravel shore. A man with a cane and white hair to his shoulders walked slowly along, accompanied by a blond shorthaired dog that was somewhat overweight; otherwise, the beach was empty. Susan rested her forearms on the balcony railing and gazed across Trail Bay, its winkled surface glinting in the early morning sun.
She had not believed that this would happen. She had assured her lover that it wouldn’t, confidently telling him: “I’m only interested in your body, sweets,” laughing, pressing him close to her. And she had meant it. But looking into her fridge, at the almost empty shelves there, she had felt an instant of impatience: she had thought, When is he going to leave her, for god’s sake?
It was the kind of unguarded, utterly revealing moment from which there was no retreat. She could pretend it hadn’t happened, but that would become increasingly painful, because she was a person who tried to live honestly.
He would have an advantage over her now, she realized, even though he wouldn’t know it. She would be vulnerable to all kinds of crap, now that she had exposed herself as having serious intentions toward him.
Susan shivered and went back inside. She had absolutely no interest in breakfast now.
She was already thinking about him differently. Instead of wondering when he would call, she was wondering if he would call. Instead of figuring out what would be the best way for her to get in touch with him if he didn’t call, she had already decided that she couldn’t possibly get in touch with him—this would be indicative of infatuation, and she didn’t want him to think of her as infatuated.
Damn! Why had she had to open the damn fridge door?
She didn’t even feel like drinking coffee now.
In the bathroom she showered and dressed. She had for the moment even lost confidence in her body, in its ability to lure him, seduce him, satisfy him. She observed with dissatisfaction her broad shoulders and muscular thighs, the width of her hips, her stout neck, her strong capable hands. Her hair was wet and sleek from the shower and she thought she looked like a sea creature, robust and sturdy, an excellent swimmer, which in fact she was.
It wasn’t as if she wanted to be married to him herself. She was almost certain that she didn’t. She just all of a sudden didn’t want him to be married to anybody else. She considered this as she stepped into a pair of cotton underpants. She was confused. She attempted to apply logic, meticulously, as she pulled on pantyhose, buttoned her shirt, stepped into a skirt and flat shoes. She dragged a comb through her short, damp hair, fluffing it with her fingers. It would fall into soft waves as it dried. Her hair was Susan’s best feature and she was grateful for it, but wished that her eyes were a darker blue, and larger, and thought she would probably have plastic surgery someday to reduce the size of her nose.
But this was ridiculous, she told herself crossly. Sh
e had a perfectly serviceable face, a strong, trustworthy body, and a healthily libidinous nature that gave her much pleasure. Also, a job that she enjoyed and that was actually worth doing. And if she had a biological clock, at thirty-five she hadn’t yet become aware of it.
She went back into the living room and looked out through the glass doors at the unruffled sea. No, she definitely didn’t want to marry him. She didn’t even want to live with him. Much as she loved being with him, she was always glad when he left, always turned back contentedly to the comfort of her apartment, her books, her balcony.
What, then, did this signify, this flash of impatience, her treacherous ego making this mean little display—“When is he going to leave her?” As if he had ever said he would. As if Susan had ever wanted him to. But apparently she did want him to, now.
Susan looked at the telephone, wondering how she would feel when next he called, allowing herself to imagine for a moment that his voice would wipe all this extraneous shit from her mind; that at the sound of Ivan Dyakowski’s voice she would laugh with relief and be right back where she was yesterday, or first thing today, or just before she opened the damn fridge.
***
It was five o’clock in the afternoon when Janet Maine locked the door of the lawyer’s office where she worked as a secretary and set off up the street. She wore a plaid skirt, a red sweater, and a navy blazer, with thick cotton socks over her pantyhose and sneakers on her feet—gray, with purple stripes along the sides. Her shoulder bag was slung across her body and she carried a plastic bag containing a pair of navy pumps. She was on her way home, to a townhouse in a complex that had recently been carved out of the forest that blanketed the hillside outside the village.
She lived there with her husband Andrew, who was twenty-five. Andrew worked in a men’s clothing store. They had only one car, and although there was a bus system in place on the Sunshine Coast the service was not frequent, so that when Andrew had to work late at the store, which happened several times a week, Janet sometimes stayed at the office, getting caught up; or had dinner with Clara Mulholland, who worked for the doctor in the office next door; or, if she had remembered to bring the proper shoes and socks to work in the morning, she might walk home. It wasn’t far—only a couple of miles.
Janet wasn’t in the mood to do extra work tonight. In fact, she had left work early, which was fine with her boss, because of the days she voluntarily stayed late.
She would heat up some soup, she decided, walking quickly through town, and make some whole wheat toast, and eat her dinner while mulling over the situation with Andrew. Maybe she’d call her mother—talk about it with somebody sympathetic.
She strode along the edge of the highway, glimpsing the sea from time to time, through trees and underbrush already thick with new growth.
It was old news she had given Andrew, after all, events from the first year of their marriage. Old news and not relevant. Yet she must have decided that it was relevant, for she had decided she had to tell him, hadn’t she? What a big mistake that had been. There were definitely times when confession was not good for the soul, neither the confessee’s nor the confessor’s.
He had tried at first to pretend that it didn’t bother him. But she could see the untruth of this in his face, of course. Andrew’s face always revealed absolutely everything that was going on inside his head.
“I’m just telling you, Andrew,” she had said—last Friday morning, it had been—“so as to get it out of the way, because I think it’s time now that we had a baby.” And she had reached across the breakfast table to give his unresponsive hand a squeeze.
Now, days later, he was still unresponsive. Andrew needed time to absorb important things. This was obviously considerably more important to him than Janet had anticipated.
She glanced left and right, crossed the highway, and headed uphill on a newly paved road with forest on both sides.
Andrew was the happy one, the optimistic one. She depended on him for this, and was being made increasingly uneasy by his uncharacteristic gloom.
And impatient, too. Janet wanted to have two children, one right after another, getting all the childbearing stuff over with as quickly as possible, and she was ready to start now. At twenty-eight, she still had lots of time—but she had decided to go back to school to become a lawyer, and knew that if she put off motherhood until that had been accomplished, it might never happen at all.
She hadn’t told Andrew about law school yet. But she was confident that he would be thrilled, and proud of her, as usual.
She stopped and gave a quick sigh, looking across the tops of the trees to the moving sea, softly blue and gray.
She should have told him about it at the time. He was right, it had been his decision, too. Not as much his as hers (although they disagreed profoundly about that), but certainly he had deserved to know. And she had deliberately withheld it from him.
The sunlight was filtered through wispy layers of clouds and Janet couldn’t see the horizon, only the sea, and occasional winkings of sun on the water. She turned and resumed walking.
The only problem with her becoming a lawyer was that it might accentuate their differences, and maybe create a chasm between them. She was a lot smarter—intellectually—than Andrew. They both knew this. Andrew was good-natured about it and Janet tried hard not to let it bother her, and most of the time it didn’t. She had never met anyone, before Andrew, who was genuinely, consistently happy, and his happiness was more seductive than she could have imagined. Although the sex between them was pretty good, too.
Janet reached the top of the hill and the end of this stretch of forest. Here the land had been cleared for more development. She could continue walking along the road, or cut across the newly cleared area. She stopped to consider, poking her toe into the earth to see how wet it was. It wasn’t very wet at all, so she struck out across the clearing, which was about the size of a square city block, keeping her eye on the ground so as not to stumble over rocks or branches or the ruts left by bulldozers.
The only thing that bothered her about Andrew’s limited intellectual powers was whether this might be passed on to their children. But surely it was just as likely that they would inherit his ability to find life joyful, she thought, glancing up from the ground to check her bearings: once she reached the other side of the clearing, she’d have about half a mile to go, up an old logging road that paralleled the clearing and then zigzagged up the hillside behind the complex where she lived.
Before there could be children, though, or law school, Janet had to coax Andrew out of his depression. She had to persuade him to trust her again.
She stopped walking. She heard an engine in the distance. She looked up at the sky, aware of the absence of birdsong, and saw that the clouds were thickening. But she had lots of time to get home before it started to rain.
She missed Andrew’s cheerfulness, the frequent affectionate manifestations of his love: evening baths drawn for her and perfumed; morning coffee brought to her in bed; phone calls at work just to tell her that he missed her; flowers…
She had tried wheedling, persuasion, seduction—he had rebuffed her every time, kindly, patiently, but firmly.
“I have to think, Janet,” was all he’d said. “I need to think about this thing.”
It was possible, she thought, that she might not be able to bring him around. It was possible that Andrew would not trust her ever again. And what then? she wondered, sudden panic clotting her chest. What then?
She heard the motor again, and in her peripheral vision saw a vehicle disappear up the logging road that would take her home.
Chapter 9
ALBERG STOOD IN front of his house, trying to see it through the eyes of a prospective buyer. Small, but neat. Freshly painted. Looking good. Eavestroughs only a couple of years old. The front porch was new, too, and the fences, front and back. And the sunporch had been repaired. There was a little brick patio now, and a raised bed in the southwest corner of the
yard where Cassandra planted vegetables.
It had been on the market for only a few days and Alberg was hoping for a quick sale: the house they were building was almost finished. He was determined not to drop the price below fair market value, however, even though they didn’t need to get as much for it now because of Cassandra’s windfall.
Alberg liked to walk around the place, feeling proprietary, but he wasn’t about to do this today because Peter’s truck was there. Alberg didn’t pay much attention to the things that grew in his yard—he never had, except when greenery of various kinds had threatened to invade the house. Cassandra took care of the garden. With Peter’s help. Alberg often came home to find this dreamy, rotund person standing in his yard, leaning on a rake. Alberg didn’t know his last name. He thought Peter was perhaps besotted with Cassandra, who assured Alberg that Peter did good work at a reasonable rate of pay. He had made her acquaintance while looking in the library for books about needlework.
He was there today, raking the lawn. Alberg gave him a brief but courteous greeting and hurried inside.
They had almost finished packing, which Alberg found encouraging. But every time he looked at the colossal wardrobes he became more claustrophobic.
Their new house wasn’t on the water. It was on a hill. Maybe he would drive over there after dinner and walk the site, something he did rather frequently. He was a little worried, though, because he thought he surveyed the new house with less enthusiasm these days, and he hadn’t figured out why.
He looked in the fridge: he’d make dinner, eventually. Thaw some ground beef, make one of his special meat loafs, and some mashed potatoes. There were green beans in the freezer. And he’d open a bottle of red wine.
He looked at his watch. Six o’clock. Cassandra ought to be home by now. He called her at the library.
“My new sergeant,” he told her, “she’s as tall as I am.”
“She?”
“Didn’t I tell you? I must have told you. You don’t listen to me these days, Cassandra,” he said. “Are you coming home for dinner?”
