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“Yes, you are. A fine present. ’Tis a far, far better thing and so on.” He took up a towel that had somehow found its way into the living room. “Think of this as a blindfold,” he said as he dropped it over her head. “If I hit too hard, this should take care of any mess.”
“Please, I want to see your face,” she begged, but he made no move to take the towel off.
He wanted her to have the towel over her.
At first, she didn’t think he was going to answer, and she waited for the blow that would end her life.
“Okay, sure,” he said.
He cared about her.
She could feel him leaning close. His hands touched her head gently through the terrycloth. He folded the towel back so her face showed. The smell of his cologne brushed her senses. More than anything in life she wanted him to kiss her-not because she asked, but because she was necessary to him, because she was the Woman in Red and only she could give him whatever it was that meant so much to him, because he was the miracle around which she had formed her life.
He stood and surveyed her. “I think it will be fine. Leave it there, though.” He fetched the axe and came back. “This isn’t something I particularly enjoy. I’m not a lunatic for God’s sake. It has to be done to make things right; there’s no passion involved to speak of.”
He lifted the axe, turned it so the blunt end was down.
The last thing the Woman in Red heard was, “I guess that’s the difference between art and science.”
26
Da
But wasn’t that how brides were supposed to look? Da
Then, “Tell me,” he said.
“I do love a direct man.” Polly’s usual twinkle was dulled, the half-hearted flirting merely habitual.
“Very well. Marshall is… ” Polly stopped and took a sip of the coffee the waitress had unobtrusively set on the table. “He is suffering and I ca
Da
As her coffee grew cold, she told Da
“I told Marshall about the reading. Da
“I am not surprised he was upset… ” he began in defense of his brother.
“Upset is not the half of it, sugar. He couldn’t eat. He could barely talk. He left the di
“I was so worried… ” Tears welled up in Polly’s eyes. She covered this lapse of good ma
Da
Over the rim of his coffee cup, he watched his brand-new sister-in-law. She had to be in her late forties-with Southern women it was hard to tell and she wasn’t telling, at least not the truth-yet she was easily the most beautiful woman in the Bluebird Cafe. Not to mention the one with the fewest tattoos.
A lot of things about his brother’s wife appealed to him: the taper of her fingers, the manicured nails, the way she tilted her head and didn’t windmill her hands when she talked, that she walked as neat-footed as a cat. Beautiful women didn’t disturb his peace the way they did that of other men. He couldn’t imagine going through the emotional storms Marsh was weathering for a woman. Or a man, for that matter. Once, when he was too young to know, but old enough to care deeply, he’d thought he was gay. Over time, he’d realized he wasn’t. Having anyone in his life in that way would be too complicated. And dangerous. Life would have been a good deal easier if Marsh had shared that epiphany.
Thinking of his brother, he smiled and shook his head.
“I must say, I am having a difficult time seeing the humor in this,” Polly said, a hint of lemon in the natural honey of her voice.
Realizing he was not responding appropriately, Da
“You are right. I suppose I have a streak of superstition in my makeup. No, that is not totally true. I know I have a streak of superstition. Try as I might, it bothers me when black cats cross my path or the girls run under ladders. I probably shouldn’t have told Marshall about the reading but I thought he would laugh at it, and I dearly needed someone to laugh to get the taste of that awful woman out of my mouth. Sorry about the image that must conjure up while you are trying to eat your lunch; it was an exceedingly unappetizing episode.”
“Not a problem,” he assured her. “A lot of people have a vein of the old dark magic: witches or angels, lucky bowling shirts. Mom was a court stenographer with a college education, but she’d believed in that sort of thing. Scaring the dickens out of her was a piece of cake. A little knocking, a few whispers, and she wouldn’t go to sleep until Frank got home.”
“Your father? You call him Frank?”
“We weren’t all that close,” Da
Discussing his brother with Polly was putting him on edge. She spoke of Marsh as if wife and brother were equals. Women took on an irritating sense of proprietorship when they married, an unquestioned belief that with the ring on their left hand, came a profound understanding of the man who’d put it there. A few weeks of marriage was not on a par with half a century of blood.
Polly might have marched into Marsh’s id like the Germans into Warsaw, but she didn’t know him like his own brother did. Da
“What did you make of the tarot reading?” he asked to change the subject. “Aside from the effect it had on Marsh, it must have jolted you considerably.”
“Considerably,” Polly agreed. “When I first came to New Orleans, for a brief time, I lived in that subculture. They are not without honor. There are customs and taboos, as there are in any culture. Those who are serious about their trade-or as serious as one can be when one’s clients are wearing feathers and silly hats-would never tell anyone they are sick or dying. It’s an unwritten creed.” Polly lifted her coffee cup and took a sip.