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He took this well, like the shrewd man he is. He looked off to one side thoughtfully, turning something over in his mind.
"Lily, I have to tell you some members of our little church have felt the same way about you. They've wondered why I haven't let you go. You know, Lily, you're not everybody's cup of tea."
I felt an intense desire to laugh. The medication was undoubtedly kicking in.
"You're a mysterious and violent woman," McCorkindale prodded further. "Some people have wondered out loud to me if you should still be working in Shakespeare, or at least at our little church."
"I don't care if I work at your little church or not," I said. "But I'll tell you, if I catch you pressuring my employers to fire me because I'm ‘mysterious and violent,' I'll sue you. Anyone who cares to can look up my past. And as for violent, present me with a list of fights I've started, or times I've been in jail, and I'll be real interested to read it."
Ashamed of myself for offering even that much defense of charges that were indefensible, I waved the minister out of the door and locked it firmly behind him.
My bed was screaming now, and I never could ignore a scream. I floated down the hall and didn't even register the painful process of lying down.
When I woke up, there was a note on my bedside table.
I'd have to admit, were the Reverend McCorkindale to chance by, that this did scare me.
It was from Marshall.
"I came by at six to take you to supper in Montrose," the note began, in Marshall's tiny angular handwriting. "I knocked for five minutes, and then you came to the door. You let me in, walked back to your bed, got in, and went back to sleep. I was worried till I found the little envelope with ‘For Pain' written on it. Call me when you wake up. Marshall."
I read it over twice while I recovered from my flash of fear.
I looked at the clock. It read 5:00. Hmm. I rolled over somewhat gingerly to exit the other side of the bed. I peered between the blind slats. Black outside. It was five in the morning.
"God Almighty," I said, impressed with Dr. Thrush's medicine. I took a few steps around the room, and I was pleased to discover that I felt much better after my long rest. The worst of the soreness seemed to be gone. It worried me that I'd let Marshall in. Had I known it was Marshall? Would I have let just anybody in? If so, it was lucky that no one else had knocked. Or had they?
Suddenly anxious, I went through the whole house. Everything was exactly as it had been the day before; the only addition was Marshall's note and the pill envelope, still containing two capsules.
After I stowed the remaining pills away with great respect, I made some coffee and wondered what to do with the day. Sunday is my day off, not because it is a church day, but because it is the least desirable day of the week to clean, from my clients' standpoint. And I feel I deserve one whole day off every week. Usually, I clean my own house or mow my lawn in the morning. When Body Time opens at one, I walk in the doors. I often stay for two hours, then come home to cook for the week. I rent movies from Rainbow Video ("Cinema across the Spectrum"), and every once in a while I call my parents.
Since I'd risen so early, and since all week had been unusual, somehow none of this sounded appealing at all.
After I had skimmed through my big Sunday Little Rock paper, treading my difficult reading path around stories of battered wives, neglected children, and starving, abandoned elders to arrive at those I could actually read (which pretty much boiled down to escaped dangerous pets—this week a boa constrictor—politics, and sports), I dressed in a gingerly way, hoping the bending wouldn't wake up my side. To my pleasure, the terrible ache did not return; there was a certain amount of tenderness, and leaning in some direction was painful, but nothing nearly as bad as it had been the day before.
All right, then. I'd just quell those rebellious feelings I had, this discontent.
My house needed cleaning.
I put on my rubber gloves with what was very nearly pleasure. It crossed my mind to call Marshall, or to drift through the dawn to his house and share his bed again. But I put those thoughts aside; I was in danger of counting on him, of thinking of my life as substantially changed. I found myself wistfully staring at my gloves and thinking of the pleasures of sex with Marshall, of the wonders of his body, of the excitement of being desirable.
But I began serious cleaning.
It is a small house, which never gets very dirty anyway, and I know it very well. In an hour and a half, by the time the rest of the world was waking up, my house shone and I was looking forward to a shower.
The quiet tap on the back door came as I was about to step in. With a curse, I wrapped my white terry robe back around myself and padded quietly to the door. I looked through the peephole. Marshall looked back. I sighed, not knowing if I was glad to see him or sorry that he kept raising my expectations. I unlocked the door.
"If you don't stop this," I said flatly, "I'll think you really like me."
"Hi to you, too," he said, his eyebrows arching in surprise. "Are you conscious this time?"
"Why don't you get in the shower with me," I said over my shoulder as I went back to my hot ru
As it turned out, I was fully conscious.
As he kissed me while the water ran over us, I had a terrifying feeling that I wanted to save this moment, that it was precious. I knew the fallacy inherent in pla
Afterward, I loaned him my terry robe and I put on my bright, thin one, and we watched an old movie on cable together. I put a bowl of grapes between us on the love seat, we put up the footrest, and we had a pleasant time appreciating the actors and laughing at the plot. When the movie ended close to noon, I got up to return the grapes to the refrigerator. Through the open blinds of the living room window, I observed a vaguely familiar red car driving by very slowly.
"Who's that, Marshall?" I asked sharply, the outside world coming back with a rush.
He was on his feet quickly and stared out the window.
"That's Thea," he said. His voice was tight with controlled fury.
"She's driven by other times." It was the car that had passed the day Marshall was kissing me in the carport. I'd seen it several times over the past few days.
"Shit, Lily," he said, "I'm sorry. I wish the divorce had already gone through. No judge would believe, with her sitting there looking so southern belle, what she's capable of."
I was still staring out of the window, lost in thought, when the Yorks walked by. Alvah and T. L. were holding hands, moving rather slowly, and wearing everyday clothes. They were missing church, an unheard-of occurrence.
But I was not as amazed as I might have been days ago. This past week had been full of atypical behavior on the part of almost everyone I knew, including myself.
Pardon had somehow talked himself into getting killed.
The upright, churchgoing Yorks had been derailed by the rape of their granddaughter.
Norvel Whitbread had shown his true colors after two years of being smarmy.
Tom O'Hagen had cheated on Je
Deedra Deane had seen a dead body.
Claude Friedrich had been careless with a report.
Carlton Cockroft had exercised and revealed a wholly unexpected interest in his neighbor.
Marcus Jefferson had gotten to entertain his son in his own apartment.
Marie Hofstettler had had an interview with the police.
The Reverend Joel McCorkindale had visited me in my home.
Marshall Sedaka had taken a personal interest in one of his students.