Summer Session (16 page)

‘I’m not staying here by myself.’ Who did he think he was, ordering her around?

‘Don’t piss me off, Monique. I’m warning you—’

‘Fuck you, Larry. You’re nobody.’

As soon as she said he was nobody, Monique knew she shouldn’t have. Larry seemed to inflate, Hulk-like. His eyes got weird, his gaze got dull; even though he was looking at her, it seemed like he didn’t see her anymore.

Monique backed away from him and kept talking as if she’d never said it. Changing the subject. ‘What if she comes home? What’ll we do?’ It seemed to work; Larry’s eyes came back into focus. ‘What if she walks in on us?’

Larry thought that if Monique asked one more question, he’d bash her skull in.

He glared, but Monique chattered on, oblivious.

‘She might, you know. She might show up. How do you know she won’t? What if she sees your car in the bushes? What if—’

She stopped mid-question, gasping as Larry yanked her hair, pulling tight.

‘I told you to shut up.’

Monique’s eyes teared with pain, but she wasn’t going to let Larry push her around. She clawed her fingers, reached her unbandaged hand around and grabbed at his crotch, squeezing as hard as she could. Larry yowled, released her hair and stomped up the path, staggering just a little. Popping a pill as he went. Monique rubbed her sore scalp. She was mostly positive that Larry had been cheating on her. His touch was different – rougher, as if he was pretending she was somebody else. He even kissed different. And since Graham’s jump, Larry had been a complete ass. It was as if the guy’s death didn’t even bother him; all he talked about were the pills and the money. He had to find the pills. He needed the money. Meantime, Larry was swallowing whatever pills he had, doing things that were risky and rash and made no sense. He pushed her into helping him, made her do things. Shit, her arm still hurt from that last thing. And now this. Suddenly, he’d decided they had to break into the Loot’s house.

She reached into her pocket for a Lifesaver, sucked on one as she looked around. The place was old, rambling. Kind of crumbling, although someone was working to fix it up. The front porch and latticework were new, painted a cheerful sky-blue. Even so, the building looked unfinished and off balance. Haunted. Monique had a bad feeling about being there. She wanted to leave and hurried to catch up to Larry as he stepped on to the porch.

‘How do we even know the Loot has them?’

‘Graham had them with him in class. But they weren’t there when I went back up to get them because she took his book bag. She must have them.’

‘But how do we know they’re here in the house?’

‘Because they aren’t anyplace else.’

‘But you haven’t looked everywhere else—’

‘No, Monique.’ Lord, she was annoying. He faced her, determined to stop her infernal blithering. ‘You’re correct. I personally have not looked literally everywhere else. But I checked out our apartment. I tore his room apart looking for a copy. There was nothing remotely resembling numbers. Nothing. Zip.’

‘But that doesn’t mean—’

‘Between the three of us, we’ve looked all over. In her office. In Graham’s book bag. Nothing. So that leaves her house. They must be here somewhere.’

‘Not necessarily – not if she threw them out. I mean, she doesn’t know what they are. She might have thought they were just a list of random numbers and tossed them in the trash. Or maybe she gave them to the police—’

‘Shut up, Monique. I swear, I’ll break your fucking neck.’

He meant it, too. He was real tired of Monique. He thought of that waitress. The fire he felt with her. The things he’d done to her. Just remembering got him pumped. The fact was that Monique was boring. Screwing her wasn’t even interesting anymore, didn’t do it for him. Once he got this pill thing taken care of, he’d dump her. Meantime, he had work to do. He tried the door. Locked. No big deal; he checked out the porch windows. Because of the heat, they were open, covered only with screens. One of which came loose as he jimmied it and, just like that, they were in the dining room, standing in dim light, looking around. The wallpaper had been completely peeled off; the hutch and table were covered with drop cloths. The Loot was redecorating.

‘Shh—’ Monique grabbed his arm. ‘Listen – did you hear that?’

He listened, heard nothing. Started for the hallway, but she wouldn’t let go of him.

‘Wait. Larry, did you hear that? Like footsteps.’

‘Get off me, Monique.’ Larry shoved her, walked away. ‘Go outside. Keep watch like I told you to.’

‘No, I’m serious.’ Monique ran after him, clinging. Whispering. ‘I think somebody’s here.’

Christ, he wanted to kill her right here. Strangle her and watch her fat pink tongue pop out. Damn Monique. But to shut her up, he stood still for a few seconds, listening. ‘I don’t hear anything.’ Peeling her hand off his arm once again, he started across the room. The floor creaked under his feet, and Monique gasped, grabbing Larry yet again.

‘Jesus Christ, Monique. Calm the fuck down.’

Monique was breathless. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Why are you fucking whispering?’

Whispering? She hadn’t realized it. It was the place. Too dark. Too crooked. They shouldn’t be there. ‘I don’t like it here, Larry. Let’s just go.’

‘You know what, Monique? Nobody asked you to come with me. You insisted. Or doesn’t your idiot brain remember that? Whatever. Just wait right here. Just fucking let me do what I came here to do.’ Larry stormed off, leaving Monique alone.

Sunlight didn’t penetrate the dining room, and oddly shaped shadows lurked all around, made her skin prickle despite the heat. Wait right there? Uh uh. No way was she going to stay in that room. Instead, she climbed back out the window on to the porch where at least there was light and she could sit on the bench and wait.

The bench was one of those rocking things; she swung back and forth, wondering how long Larry would be. Man, she was sick of him, his moods, his pimples, his pills, his short height and his huge temper. The things he made her do. Her head still smarted where he’d pulled her hair. It was time to break up with him. But, for now, she waited in the heat, swaying back and forth, lulled by the motion, relaxing, closing her eyes.

She opened them as the knife penetrated her throat, and she recognized the person holding it. While her blood spurted, she tried to ask, ‘What are you doing here?’ and, ‘Why are you cutting me?’ But, with her neck so deeply sliced, Monique couldn’t speak, so she died with her eyes still open, her questions unanswered. Even unasked.

Vicki’s jaw dropped. ‘What the hell happened to your face? Bar fight?’

‘You should see the other guy.’ Harper smiled. ‘I like your hair.’

Vicki had dyed it again. Auburn this time. And she’d cut off about five inches; now it was short, spiky. Funky. Like Harper’s.

‘Do you? It’s the new me.’

They hugged a greeting, Vicki, taller than Harper, slouching to embrace. Harper was surprisingly glad to see her. She’d missed Vicki, her broad grin, her painted red nails and bright red lipstick that often clashed with her clothes. Vicki, despite her new do, remained rock solid, unchanged.

‘So really. What happened to your face?’

Apparently, Trent hadn’t told her about the mugging. Maybe he’d been too hungover.

‘Not a big deal.’ Harper didn’t want to go into it yet again. ‘Somebody mugged me.’

‘You got mugged, but it’s no big deal? Oh God, that guy sure picked the wrong victim. Did you go after him? Of course you did. How bad did you hurt him?’

‘Let’s go inside.’ Harper led the way into the Lost Dog Café, where a young guy in jeans seated them and recommended the special veggie chili.

Harper picked up a menu; Vicki took it from Harper’s hands, dropped it on to the table. ‘Uh uh. You’re not looking at the menu until you tell me why you haven’t returned my calls.’

Harper’s neck got hot. ‘Sorry. No excuses. It’s just the same old, same old.’ The same old suicides, muggings, murdered waitresses, stolen drugs. Oh, and husband with a damaged brain.

Vicki didn’t back off. ‘How’s Hank?’

Vicki’s eyes probed, genuinely concerned. And familiar. And comforting. It was good to see her again. Harper had missed their daily breakfasts and walks, their easy companionship. Vicki had been with her when Hank had fallen, had spent long hours with her in the emergency room, had stayed by her side as the doctors gave her the news. Vicki had been a steadfast, reassuring presence during the onset of Hank’s ordeal. So what had happened? How had they lost touch, not talking for weeks?

In the back of her mind, Trent piped up, answering her questions, elaborating on Vicki’s ‘thing’ for Hank. Harper began talking, drowning Trent out.

‘He’s doing OK.’ She stopped herself from urging Vicki to visit him. Not that she believed Trent, but just in case. ‘Little by little.’

‘So back up. When were you mugged?’ Vicki’s voice had its usual creamy tone. ‘Why didn’t you call me?’

Harper hesitated. Where should she start? With the mugging? Graham’s suicide? The horrid flashbacks? Chelsea’s murder? Or Trent’s drunken assertion that Vicki was attracted to Hank who, by the way, had recently mentioned that he was horny?

‘Ready, ladies?’ The waiter appeared out of nowhere. He looked exotic, multi-ethnic. His wrist bore a Chinese character tattoo.

Vicki ordered a tofu burger and iced tea. Harper still hadn’t looked at the menu, ordered the chili. They sat silent for a while. Out of sync.

‘We should go shopping,’ Vicki tried. ‘Get massages. Pedicures – no, makeovers.’

Harper didn’t respond. The suggestions were ludicrous.

‘Makeovers would be fun. And, honestly, you could use a new look. Enough military drab, Harper. Get some clothes with bright, cheerful colors. You’ll feel better.’

Harper said nothing.

‘What?’ Vicki persisted. ‘You think that’s superficial?’

‘I don’t need a makeover. New clothes won’t change anything, and, besides, I don’t—’

‘You don’t wear bright colors. I know all about your camouflage chic. But that’s nonsense. You should. You’d look spunky in red or yellow.’

Harper didn’t answer, had explained to Vicki about her wardrobe many times.

‘Come on. This is Ithaca, not Iraq. Bright colors won’t draw the attention of snipers.’

‘You never know.’ Harper closed her eyes, saw the boy with no face. ‘So what’s new with you?’ she changed the subject. ‘Pulled any wisdom teeth lately?’

‘Don’t be like that, Harper. It was just an idea, a way to have fun.’

More awkward silence.

‘OK, cut the crap, Harper. Something’s eating at you, and it isn’t just Hank’s condition. I can see it on your face.’

She saw it on her face? Reflexively, Harper’s hand went to her cheek, feeling for the something.

‘Dammit, Harper. Talk to me. I ask how Hank is; you say, “OK.” I say, “Let’s go do something to cheer ourselves up”; you say, “No.” That’s it, the whole extent of our conversation, after all these weeks? And don’t blame it on the war and how you don’t feel comfortable around people. I’m not “people”. Our friendship is deeper than that. But since the accident, you’ve – I don’t know. Withdrawn. Disappeared.’

She
had withdrawn?
She
had disappeared? Harper stiffened. No way, it had been Vicki who’d done the disappearing, never visiting Hank. Not stopping by. Calling only rarely when she knew Harper would be out. Not that Harper had returned those calls. ‘What do you want from me, Vicki?’ Her voice was chilly.

‘I knew you’d react like that, all pissy and defensive—’

‘I am not all pissy—’

‘Listen, Harper. Here’s some news: you weren’t the only one affected by Hank’s fall. Trent and I – things haven’t been easy for us, either. And I want my friend back. I want to drop by with scones and share bottles of wine. I want to be the way we were.’

Harper remained quiet, hearing echoes of her own voice in Vicki’s. She wanted their old lives back, too. And Vicki was right; lately, she had been too self-absorbed. But, hell, what did Vicki expect? That, with Hank so badly injured, Harper would still meet her for ladies’ lunches or trips to the farmer’s market? Why didn’t Vicki understand? Harper stared at Vicki, saw thin spidery lines around her eyes, vulnerability all over her face. And suddenly, she understood: Vicki needed a friend. They both did.

So, hesitantly at first, Harper listed the events of the last few days, omitting only the conversation with Trent. Vicki sat riveted, not speaking until Anna finally woke up in Harper’s office.

‘Wow.’ Vicki reached across the table and squeezed Harper’s hand. ‘My God. It’s a good thing you’re Superwoman. Nobody else could deal with all that.’

Two huge glasses of iced tea landed on the table. ‘Your lunches are coming right up.’

Vicki gazed into her drink, diddled with her straw.

‘What? You OK?’

‘Me? Sure.’ Vicki took extra napkins from the container and passed a few to Harper. ‘Compared to you, anyhow.’

‘Compared to me? Why? What’s going on?’

‘Harper, I can’t complain, not after hearing what you’ve been through. Suicide, murder, a mugging – not to mention Hank. No, everything’s peachy with me.’

‘Go to hell.’

‘How did our lives become such disasters?’

‘What’s your disaster?’

Vicki sucked on her straw. ‘Trent. He’s a mess. A drunk. Hasn’t been sober since the accident.’

Harper remembered Trent gulping Scotch in her kitchen.

‘You know how pumped Trent and Hank were, being up for tenure?’

Of course she did. Before the accident, Hank and Trent had constantly razzed each other, trying to make light of the competition. But they’d known that only one of them would receive tenure; the other would probably have to move on.

‘Well, that was nothing. Now, Trent’s obsessed with tenure. It’s all he talks about. And he doesn’t mention Hank. Ever. If Hank’s name comes up, Trent dives into the liquor cabinet.’