Vulgar Boatman (31 page)

It probably didn’t last more than a minute. To me it seemed much longer. Then she fumbled a tissue from her bag and wiped her face.

She smiled wanly at me. “That’s been coming on for a while. Sorry.”

“You’re lucky you can cry. It’s supposed to make you feel better.”

“I’ll do it some more, no doubt.” She bit into her sandwich. “This is delicious,” she mumbled.

She wolfed down her sandwich while I ate my salad and watched her. She had once been beautiful, and perhaps she would be again. But time—or tragedy—had marked her, sucking the life from her skin and cobwebbing an intricate pattern of tiny lines onto her face. Tendons rose starkly from the backs of her hands. I wondered how she’d look after a good night’s sleep.

“We didn’t have a very good marriage,” she said abruptly. “I think Les was being kind to me by marrying me. I loved him in my simple, naive way, this brilliant, bizarre man. He was older than me. Experienced. Well traveled. Everything that I wasn’t. He had been married once before. Lester was not a conventional man. He liked to make his own rules. I never really got to understand him. At first it didn’t matter. Then it mattered desperately to me. He didn’t care. He never tried to help me. Oh, I think he cared for me. Or cared about me. But I didn’t really matter to him. I just wasn’t important. He knew how I felt about his—his eavesdropping, his skulking and sneaking and spying. I despised it. He didn’t care about that, either. I always knew something would happen to him. Whenever he was gone, I would wait there, waiting for what was going to happen. The other night was déjà vu. I’d seen it before. It had happened so many times in my mind already. It’s terrible to say, but I am so relieved that it won’t happen again.” She looked at me, and her smile momentarily transformed her face. “You see, Mr. Coyne, this has liberated me.”

I nodded, willing her to go on, sensing her need.

“After we got married, the magic went away. Les lost interest. I suppose I did, too, although now and then I tried to recapture it. We’ve been married six years. On our anniversary last fall, I prepared a special meal. Silly old broad. Candles, flowers on the table. I actually bought one of those Frederick’s of Hollywood things you could practically see through. Les had promised he’d be home for supper. I was going to seduce the bastard.” She smiled at me, and I wondered if she would cry again. “Of course, he didn’t show up. I guess he knew all along he wasn’t going to. I—”

“Omigod!” I said.

“Excuse me?”

“Gloria!” I don’t—”

“What time is it?”

She squinted at a clock on the wall. “Quarter of one. What’s the matter?”

I sighed heavily. “I had an appointment, that’s all. It’s okay.”

“Shouldn’t you call?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “I’ll call later. Finish what you were saying.”

She shook her head, denying the significance of her thoughts. “I was just feeling guilty, that’s all. I suppose it’s a natural reaction.” She picked up her napkin and dabbed at her mouth. “Thanks for listening to me.”

“Don’t you want to talk some more?”

“I don’t want to keep you.”

I reached across the table and put my hand on hers. “You aren’t keeping me.”

She looked down and gently withdrew her hand. “No, it’s all right. I do hope that you will be able to help me with…”

“Sure. When you’re ready, call me.”

I took one of my cards from my wallet and gave it to her. She put it into her purse without looking at it. “I suppose,” she said, “we ought to discuss your fee.”

“That’s all taken care of. Les paid me a retainer.”

She smiled. “That’s uncharacteristic, I can tell you that.”

We walked out together into the sharp winter afternoon. I hailed a cab for Becca Katz. Then I walked back to my office. I took my time. I wasn’t eager to find the message I was sure Gloria had left for me.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1987 by William G. Tapply

Cover design by Kathleen Lynch

978-1-4804-2740-2

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