Blind Spot (17 page)

In the year after Michael’s death, Bernadette didn’t think about sex, and the idea of ever being paired again evaporated from her head. She’d interviewed murder victims’ relatives who were so grief-stricken they’d stopped seeing colors or tasting food. Similarly, she’d become blind to other married people. Couples didn’t exist in her dark, single world.

Then, one summer day, she noticed two teenagers strolling in front of her on the sidewalk. The boy reached over and took the girl’s hand. The natural, affectionate movement sparked something inside of her.

The desire for sex was rekindled.

At first she’d tried getting what she needed from guys at work, but she quickly learned that was a mistake. It wasn’t as much a concern over violating policy—whatever the hell that policy said—as it was a fear of getting a reputation. She didn’t want people to fix her up with guys and go out on formal dates, either. She wasn’t seeking a relationship; she wanted sex.

She finally fell into a practice she knew was dangerous: sleeping with strangers. She picked them up in hotel bars, high-class establishments with martini menus and Scotch drinks priced in the double digits. Even more than the venue, she was discriminating about the men. They had to be well dressed and immaculately groomed. She looked for professionals attending conferences, or business travelers flying into town for trade shows. They’d go up to his room. She never gave him her real name or told him what she did for a living. She always brought her own condoms—and her Glock. What more did a girl need to stay safe?

She stripped down to her panties and sat on the edge of the mattress while she fiddled with the clock radio on her nightstand. No matter which station she turned to, she heard rock music—faint but pounding. She snapped the radio off for a minute and looked toward the ceiling. “Rats in the Cellar” was vibrating over her head. She heard barking, too. Were Augie and his dog partying right above her? She’d have to read him the riot act when she saw him again. She turned the radio back on and continued messing with the knob until she hit on a station with Sinatra. “When Your Lover Has Gone.” Perfect. Sinatra was always perfect, no matter what the occasion or mood.

Bernadette collapsed back on the bare mattress and pulled the comforter up to her chin. Her eyes popped open; she’d almost forgotten. She turned the radio down, slid out of bed, and went down on her knees. She propped her elbows on the mattress edge and folded her hands together. A smattering of the words she’d exchanged with the Franciscan invaded her head:

Do you believe in God?

Yes.

Do you believe He deserves your time and devotion?

I give Him my time in private prayer.

She told herself her private prayer was good enough, and then she launched into her nightly ritual of the Lord’s Prayer followed by the Hail Mary:

“Our Father, Who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name…”

By the end of the Hail Mary, her body was starting to surrender to the pills and exhaustion. She made the sign of the cross, got up off her knees, and crawled back between the covers.

She felt a breeze combing her hair and moisture beading on her skin. She sensed the rolling of the boat under her sneakers and heard the distinctive thump of a wind gust catching the sails. The smell of the lake—a combination of pine and moss and rotting vegetation—invaded her nostrils. This time she was alone on the boat, bobbing and rocking in a space without lines, where the sky and the water dissolved into each other.

The noose dropped and danced in front of her face. She grabbed it and slipped it over her head. “My turn,” she said, tightening the loop and waiting for it to lift her and carry her up to him. She saw the end of the line was cut, so she ran to the stern to jump off. From behind, massive arms wrapped around her waist and stopped her from leaping. She scratched and clawed until her captor loosened his hold enough for her to turn around and face him.

“You,” she said.

“The man of your dreams,” he said.

“What do you want from me?”

“Do you believe in God?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Do you believe He deserves your time and devotion?”

“I give Him my time in private prayer,” she said.

“Then stay home. Don’t go back to church. He isn’t there.”

She squirmed. “Who? Who isn’t there? God?”

“A good priest.” His arms tightened around her.

Instead of pushing him away, she pulled him closer and buried her face in his chest. She whispered his name as if uttering a prayer: “August.”

Seventeen

She’d gone to bed with Sinatra and Steven Tyler. Spent the night immersed in a bizarre dream starring her neighbor. Woke up with the weatherman.

“A break in the rain today. We’ll have partly cloudy skies over the Twin Cities and a high of sixty degrees. Lows tonight in the mid-forties. Sports are up next. Twins have another home game against…”

Bernadette flipped onto her stomach, reached over, and slapped off the radio. She cracked open an eye and checked the time. Almost ten. The radio had been blaring for nearly two hours, and she’d slept through it. “Great,” she said, rolling onto her back. She hoped the market was still going. She hopped out of bed and grimaced as her feet hit the cold floor. Her arms wrapped around her torso, she made her way down the spiral. The wrought iron felt like ice on her bare feet. She contemplated turning on the heat in her condo and then immediately chastised herself for the thought. She was a Minnesotan, for God’s sake.

Bernadette padded into the bathroom and shut the door. Turned the shower on
hot
, so it steamed up the small room. She stepped into the tub and gingerly pulled over the curtain. Was it her imagination, or had the mold gotten worse overnight? Shades of
The Blob.
While she showered, she made a mental note to put the new curtain at the top of her list.

She pulled on some sweats and a pair of sneakers and her watch. She checked the time. She’d do her grocery shopping before calling Garcia. She grabbed some cash and her keys, slipped her sunglasses over her eyes, locked up, and stepped into the hallway. She walked ten feet and stopped in the middle of the corridor. She checked both ends. No one there. She wanted to try that echo effect.

“Hey, kid!” she yelled to the ceiling. No echo. She felt foolish.

She went outside. The Farmers’ Market, at Fifth and Wall Streets in Lowertown, was just a couple of blocks from her place.

Hmong embroidery. Hanging flower baskets. Wild rice. Herbs. Homemade soaps. Beeswax candles. Buffalo meat. Lamb. Fresh eggs. Apple cider. Exotic, stinky cheeses. Vendors handing out samples. Aisles packed with people and strollers.

Bernadette spotted a bagel stand on the other side of the market and decided to grab a quick bite before she started loading her arms. She weaved her way through the crowd and got in line. When she got up to the counter, she scanned the selection listed on the sandwich board parked on the ground, to the right of the counter. “Veggie and cream cheese, please. Hold the onions.”

“What kind of bagel?” asked the girl behind the counter.

“Sea salt,” said Bernadette. “Coffee, too, please. Black.”

While she waited for her order, she felt something bumping into the back of her legs. Probably a stroller. She didn’t bother turning around. Then the stroller nipped her ankle. She swung around and looked down. “Oscar. Knock it off.”

“He likes you.”

She looked up. Augie was standing next to her, in the same outfit he’d had on in the hallway. The gladiator lawyer was definitely a slob—a character trait with which she totally empathized. She felt herself softening up. Being rich didn’t make him a bad guy. She didn’t know what to say to him—she’d never mastered the art of small talk—so she tried to thank him again for his help with the door. “Last night was…”

“Last night was amazing,” he said with a big grin. “I agree.”

A woman pushing a stroller up to the bagel line gave Bernadette a strange look. Bernadette felt her face redden. Smart-ass. She’d get back at him. “Actually, I’ve had better.”

The stroller lady gave an uncomfortable last glance at Bernadette and quickly steered the stroller out of the line.

Augie laughed and put his hand over his heart. “I’m hurt—and surprised.”

The bagel clerk handed Bernadette her bagel and coffee. Bernadette smiled at Augie. “I’ll bet you’re not
that
surprised.” She stepped away from the counter.

Augie was on her heels, dragging Oscar behind him. “I’m going to take that as a challenge.”

“Don’t,” said Bernadette without turning or stopping. “I was just giving you some grief.” She took a bite out of her bagel while weaving around a knot of shoppers. Realizing she didn’t have enough elbow room to wolf down her breakfast comfortably, she searched for a gap in the crowd. The sidewalks across the street from the market were empty.

“Are you seeing anyone?”

“What?” She dashed across the street, eating as she went.

He followed her. “You seeing anyone? Dating anyone? I know you’re not living with anyone. Right?”

Stepping between two parked cars, she went onto the sidewalk. Oscar was the one following her now, pulling Augie up onto the pavement. The dog spotted Bernadette’s bagel. He stood on his back legs and did a dance in front of her, a sort of pirouette. “I didn’t know dachshunds could do that on those tiny little legs,” she said in between nibbles.