by Jodi Thomas
“Move close to the preacher,” Miller grumbled. “You’ll be safe enough there. He’d never hurt you.”
Blaine knew Miller might be her only chance to be left alone. The Annas couldn’t protect her, Shakespeare wouldn’t. He might like her, but he cared far too much for his whiskey to stand by her. And the preacher’s only world lay within these walls. He would be no help as a friend outside the door.
That just left Miller. She had to win him over. If folks thought they were friends she might be left alone. “The preacher gives me the willies. I can almost see them jumping off him and landing on me every time he gets within ten feet of me. Holy willies are the worst kind, nothing kills them.”
Blaine grinned. It felt good to stretch the truth, something Mark never liked her to do. Just the facts, Blaine, he used to say. She never had the nerve to tell her husband that there was a time, when she was first alone after her mother died, that she lied about almost everything in her life.
She glared at Miller. “If I get them holy willies, I’m coming back here and giving them to you.”
She thought she saw the hint of a smile crease the old man’s lips.
Miller took a bite of his orange and wrinkled his forehead in thought. Finally, he said in a low, none-too-friendly voice. “All right, you can sit by me but be quiet. I don’t like to talk to folks and you are downright chatty.”
“I can do that. I’ll sit right here, quiet as a mouse.” Her voice still sounded scratchy to her ears. “You won’t even know I’m around. I’ll just eat and be on my way and you’ll—”
“Shut up.”
He glared at her, but there was no anger burning in his dark eyes.
Blaine met his stare even though her fingers trembled so badly her spoon clamored into the bowl. “Mary,” she managed to say. “Shut up, Mary. You might as well know my name if you’re going to talk to me, Mr. Miller.”
“I’m not going to talk to you.”
The minister interrupted with staccato clapping to tell everyone that he had all the help he needed for cleanup today thanks to a group from the Goodwill Baptist Church who were breaking bread with them this morning.
Blaine glanced back at Miller, trying not to let her disappointment show at the knowledge that she wouldn’t be taking a shower. This was not starting out to be her day, but then compared to yesterday, nothing seemed bad. “Oh, all right,” she grumbled at Miller. “You don’t have to talk to me, but thanks for letting me eat by you.”
To her surprise he answered, “You’re welcome.”
Blaine finished her meal in silence, watching the crowd, ignoring the announcements the preacher made. Everyone ate, but no one seemed to be enjoying the meal. Surviving. That was all they did. Just survive.
Suddenly she missed home. She missed Mark and her cat, and all the little things like a warm shower, the feel of clean clothes, the taste of oatmeal with cinnamon and sugar in it. She wished she could reach Mark without anyone knowing. He’d think of some way to protect her. What good was she doing wandering the streets? Maybe even getting killed by the gangs, or the cold, or a passing car? Even the problems that had driven her to the clinic two days ago seemed small.
Miller stood to leave, rattling the table as he bumped against it.
“Goodbye,” she said softly, not really expecting him to answer. “See you tomorrow, Mr. Miller.”
“All right,” he mumbled so low no one else could hear.
Miller didn’t speak to anyone as he left and she wondered if the man had a friend in the world. What kind of life must he have lived to be so alone?
She frowned and answered her own question. Right now Miller lived the same life she did. Maybe they weren’t as different as she thought. A few days ago she would have died at the idea of confronting such a man, but apparently, dying wasn’t as easy as she’d once thought it would be. Surviving seemed to be the challenge.
As Miller shouldered his way through the door, Blaine watched a man in an old blue cap slip past, using the remaining space.
She forgot to breathe as the stranger removed his hat with oil-blackened fingers. She watched him survey the room, then turn toward the food line.
He couldn’t be the guy who’d planted the bomb, she told herself, yet somehow the message didn’t reach her pounding heart. He had the blue hat, the same body build, the identical way of moving as though calculating each turn. He moved like the man she’d seen at the clinic…like the man talking to Winslow about “taking care of the wife.”
She stared, trying to see his eyes.
A hundred men in Austin could own old blue hats, even more might have dirty fingers. But the killer’s hands had not been just dirty, they’d been oily, just like the man in line who now pointed to what he wanted.
She stared at her empty bowl, trying to remember what the man riding the mower had been wearing. Work clothes. Plain, nondescript work clothes.
Just like those of the man in line.
The need to run pounded through her body, but she froze. She had to get a better look. She’d worry over what to do when she was positive. Right now she needed to make sure. She’d be laughed out of any police lineup if all she could identify was an old hat and a hand with greasy fingers.
Through her lashes, she watched as the stranger picked up his tray and walked toward the only empty seats by the preacher’s table. Blaine felt sure she would explode if he turned in her direction. She told herself he wouldn’t recognize her, he’d only seen her for a moment and he hadn’t known she stood in the shadows and watched him the next morning.
As he sat down, the scarecrow of a preacher stood to deliver what he called his “nuggets of wisdom” to those dumb enough to stick around.
Hurrying toward the trash can with her paper dishes, Blaine figured she had just enough time to get away before the serving of preaching started.
But she couldn’t walk away without knowing if the stranger’s eyes were gray. She’d never forget those eyes. If this man’s eyes were gray…
“Now this morning,” the preacher shouted, “I’m going to ask you to come to the front and shake hands with the Lord.” His words were slow, drawn out for effect. “I’ve got several of my church brethren here to welcome you to the Lord’s family. All you have to do is walk the walk to our Lord.”
Blaine moved slowly toward the man sitting almost directly in front of the preacher. People passed back and forth blocking her view again and again. All she needed was one glance, she told herself, then she’d blend into the crowd. If he was the same man, she’d know to avoid him at all cost. She’d know he was walking the streets looking for her.
She glanced between two people. His dirty fingers smashed the white bread as he sopped up the last of his oatmeal. He paid no more attention to the scarecrow than if the sermon were blaring from a radio.
Everything she remembered about him matched, she told herself, but she had to be sure.
“Come on down, sister,” the preacher boomed. “Come on down and confess your sins. We’re all children of the Almighty here.”
Not taking her gaze from the blue hat, she moved closer. If he’d only look up, she’d know if he was the man she’d seen outside the clinic window a few moments before the bombing…. A few moments before her world shifted.
If he wasn’t, she could relax. If he was, she’d better be ready to run.
But the man kept eating, his head down, the tattered hat on the table beside his tray.
Ten feet away, she slowed as the crowd thinned until no one stood between her and the man with oily hands. She’d come too far to turn back now.
He couldn’t be the one, she reasoned, but she had to be sure. The killer would have vanished moments after what he’d done. If he’d killed the guard as well, he wouldn’t be walking the streets of Austin only blocks from where he’d murdered innocent people.
“The time is now, sister! Your salvation is at hand.”
Blaine stared, willing the stranger to raise his head. One look was
all she needed. One look at his eyes. She’d gone so long without sleep, maybe her mind was playing tricks on her. She might just think the hat was the same. But if he raised his head, she’d know. Blaine would never forget his eyes.
“Welcome the Lord into your heart!”
She moved closer, rounding the last table between her and the stranger. Nothing else mattered, not the room or the people or the yelling preacher. She had to know.
Five feet. Three feet.
Look up, she wanted to scream. Look up and have any color of eyes but gray.
“Bless you, sister.” The preacher grabbed her hand but his smile was for those standing with him waiting to bring in the sinners. “Bless you for recognizing you are a lost soul in need of saving.”
Blaine halfheartedly tried to free her hand as the stranger looked up from his food.
Their eyes met. Just as they had forty-eight hours ago. Angry gray eyes, cold as stone.
She jerked her hand from the preacher’s grasp as she saw a question register in the stranger’s stare.
The preacher grabbed for his one fish, but Blaine darted away as the bomber slowly stood.
“Don’t be afraid to leave the life of sin!” the preacher yelled. “You’ll find your home in eternal peace if you stay here with us.”
Blaine ran for the door. She didn’t have to turn around. She knew the stranger would follow. She’d seen it in his eyes. He had the look of someone trying to place her face. If he remembered, he’d have to finish the job he started.
When she reached the door, Blaine glanced back. The preacher had caught the stranger by the shoulder and shouted in his ear. But the man only put his cap on and stared toward the exit.
Darting outside, she hurried down the stairs, almost tumbling into Miller at the bottom.
He growled at her, but when she looked up at him, a hint of worry wrinkled his forehead. “What’s the matter, pest?”
After seeing the bomber, Miller no longer frightened her. “I need help!” She grabbed his lapels and pulled his face closer to her own. “You have to help me!”
To her shock he didn’t argue.
“There’s a man following me. Blue cap. Stop him long enough for me to run, to hide.” As an afterthought she whispered, “Please.”
Miller nodded once and shoved her on her way as he turned to face the stairs.
Ten
Mark Anderson parked his car and ran through the drizzling rain to the opening of his complex. He didn’t bother stopping at the mailbox. He didn’t want to communicate, even in writing, with anyone on the planet.
He’d waited around to sign the papers at the crematorium only to find that there was some question about identifying Blaine’s body. It seemed the dentist sent the wrong X rays over. By the time he made it back to the morgue downtown, they’d closed for the day. He’d have to wait another day to take care of Blaine.
Frustrated, he called his secretary and filled her in on the delay, asking her to inform Harry Winslow he’d be late tomorrow and why. Harry seemed to be the only one who made sense lately. The older partner had offered to help out with Mark’s latest case, taking some of the pressure off him until he could take care of Blaine’s memorial service.
Mark didn’t even want to think about that. The last thing he needed was a crowd of people surrounding him.
He shoved the half-completed form to cremate Blaine into his pocket and headed home. It bothered him more than he wanted to admit that he couldn’t fill out all the details of his wife’s life. He knew her dress size, her shoe size, her brand of perfume, even the flowers she liked during different seasons. She’d written down the details for him years ago on a slip of paper in the Rolodex on his home desk.
How could it be possible that he knew those facts but he didn’t know her mother’s full name? She sometimes talked of her work, but she never mentioned her past. When he thought about it he couldn’t remember her boss’s last name.
He rubbed his face as he waited for the elevator. How could he have lived with a woman, loved a woman for ten years and not know every detail of her life? She was shy, he reminded himself. Quiet. But was it possible that during ten years of marriage he’d never asked her all the little questions, like what she dreamed of being as a child, or how she felt about her father, or if her view of their future was the same as his.
One fact nagged him more than the others. If he knew Blaine, really knew her, why didn’t he know the reason she’d been at the clinic? The lack of that one fact summed up his defense and said simply that he didn’t know her at all.
Mark stormed down the long hall banked on either side by apartments as he made his way to the end where their large town house waited.
Halfway down the hall, Miss Lilly opened her door as he passed her apartment. Everyone knew where she lived. She was the only tenant who decorated her door for each holiday. This month’s choice was a long-armed bunny hanging from the doorknob. It looked more like one of those cheap wraparound monkeys sold at the fair that someone had sewn ears on and spray-painted pink. The bunny’s apron spelled out Hop Hop Hoppy Easter.
Mark glanced up at Miss Lilly, who, like the rabbit, also wore an apron, only this one said, Born O.K. the First Time. He was in no mood to be nice to the crazy old lady, even if Blaine always did take the time to talk to her. She reminded him of one of those boxes you turn over in a store and it rattles, or laughs, or moos. Only, Miss Lilly never seemed to stop rattling.
“I’m glad you’re back,” Lilly said as he tried to keep walking. “I’ve been keeping everything warm.” She turned and headed back into her apartment without waiting for him to comment.
Mark had no choice but to follow.
“I guessed it would take you a while. I’ve been through what you’re going through a few times myself.” She pulled on an oven mitt shaped like a fish, and moved to the stove. “So I figured I would have time to cook something fresh, not just warmed-up leftovers from last week.”
Mark stood in a room that was stuffed with Home Shopping Network’s overflow of knickknacks. She had half a dozen afghans with Scottish-cottage scenes, a hundred candle holders made of everything from silver to mahogany, several ceramic birds and dozens of little butterfly wind chimes lining the top of the sliding glass door to her shelf balcony that was barely large enough to hold two lawn chairs.
He closed his eyes, not wanting to see more. The decor was “early garage sale,” the color scheme “clutter.” These apartments had been small when he and Blaine had looked at them five years ago. Though it had meant stretching their budget at the time they’d bought the larger town house at the end of the complex. Now, with all the stuff, the apartment looked even smaller than he remembered.
“I made chicken spaghetti!” Miss Lilly yelled as she pulled a huge dish out of the oven. “I hope you like it.”
He didn’t know what to do. What to say. Running crossed his mind. The only thing that kept him in this room was the fact that Miss Lilly’s conversation seemed preferable to being alone. For the first time in his life he wasn’t sure he wanted to walk into his place. The all-modern design he and Blaine had decorated in seemed cold with all the steel blues and grays. She’d been the one who loved the balcony garden, he never bothered to open the door.
“I have a secret way I make it.” Miss Lilly laughed. “I put green beans in it. It seems a more complete meal that way.”
He glanced around the kitchen. Over her stove was a little sign that said, Eat More Beef, Chickens Are Sneaky.
Lilly didn’t seem to notice he hadn’t said a word. “I always enjoyed talking to your wife. She was doing some fascinating work. She loved volunteering to help out with that story time the library had at midday, even though it took up her lunch hour. Seemed like almost every Friday she would tap on my door and tell me something funny that happened during story time. More often than not it was the parents, not the kids, doing crazy things. I’ll miss her dearly.” She shoved a tear off her cheek with the oven mitt and moti
oned for him to take a seat at the tiny table crammed into a corner of the kitchen.
Mark looked to his left, knowing her apartment, like the others he’d seen, would have a dining room. He wasn’t surprised to find the space had been turned into a study with books lining every wall and a collection of dolls strewn in one corner as if some child had been playing with them. He folded into the chair and brushed his hand over a plastic tablecloth decorated in a colorful fruit pattern.
“I don’t remember Blaine telling me any stories about her volunteering at story time.” In fact, he almost added, she never talked that much about her days. Only little things from time to time and he usually hadn’t listened all that closely.
“You probably had something on your mind when she did. My second husband was like that. Said he did his best thinking when I was talking. I didn’t find out until much later that the thinking he was doing was about another woman.” Lilly handed him a plastic plate that matched her tablecloth and napkins as she continued talking. “She gave me a ride once to the doctor when I couldn’t get my car started.” Miss Lilly dropped a huge helping of spaghetti on the plate in front of Mark.
“Who? The other woman?”
“No, your wife. She gave me a ride.”
Until that moment, Mark hadn’t thought about what had happened to Blaine’s car. It must have been parked by the clinic. Maybe it had been towed. Maybe it was still there. He’d have Bettye Ruth check tomorrow when he called in to the office. The police should be able to run a check on it. Vaguely, he remembered seeing the keys in her coat pocket.
“On the way back we decided to stop for ice cream just like I was a little kid who’d been brave at the doctor’s.” Lilly blew on her food before continuing. “It turns out we both loved the same flavor.”
Mark didn’t say a word. He had no idea what Blaine would order and it bothered him that this old woman knew more about his wife’s preferences than he. As he always did when he didn’t like the conversation, he changed the subject. “You love to read?” He glanced at the book room that should have been a dining room.
