Suggestion of Death Read online

  “Fine.” She sat at the kitchen table where there were pencil and paper and a glass of iced tea. Clearly she’d been home for a while. Crossing her legs, Pat turned in the chair and leaned against the wall. “What’s the matter with you, Jim? Sit down.”

  His breath didn’t come easily. He slid into a chair, reconsidering his plan. How could he ask for carfare to Dallas when it was apparent she couldn’t pay the summer electric bill? “I was just thinking about us.” He hadn’t meant to say that and found it hard to meet her eyes.

  She stared back, still and quiet. “Us? In what way?”

  He fought for a deep breath. “I—I don’t think I ever apologized to you.”

  Her face opened like a flower in the early morning. “You? That’s what you’ve been out there doing? Thinking how to apologize?”

  He nodded, still having difficulty breathing. What was she thinking now? Was that what she wanted to hear? “I was so angry when—well, when I found Bob—”

  “Wait, Jim. Is this what you came over here to talk to me about? That you couldn’t do over the phone?” She held her hands clasped between her thighs.

  “No. Yes. Well, both. I’ve wanted to say that for a long time. So here it is. I’m sorry I was such a lousy husband. Sorry I was never here when you needed me.” His heart was really pounding, and he waited for her to yell and scream like the old days and kick him out of the house.

  “Oh, Jim. Why after all this time?” Her eyes widened, the lower lids curving around like half circles.

  Jim gripped the edge of the table to still his hands. He started to speak, uncertain how to reply, but his mouth was dry. He swallowed. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking since the divorce.”

  Her eyes held his. “Me, too, Jim. I was wrong, too. This is hard for me to say, but I apologize, too.” She blew out a full breath. “I’d always said people should end one relationship before entering into another and then didn’t do that myself.”

  Astonishment swept through Jim like an electric current. He couldn’t move. His eyes remained on hers. He supposed he’d find out momentarily what that revelation meant but for a second he would let it hang in the air.

  Finding it difficult to meet her eyes, Jim stared at the paper that was laid out on the table without really reading it. He recognized the WiNGS letterhead. He averted his eyes when what he wanted to do was grab it and stick it in his pocket to peruse later. His attention needed to be focused on her now. What she had said, not her physically. That was part of his problem. He was incredibly turned on by her scantily clad, sweating body.

  “So—so we’re both sorry.” He released the table and rubbed his hands up and down his bare legs, glad, because of the heat, that he still wore his running shorts. God, he probably stank, though.

  Her breath came out like a shudder. “A couple of sorry individuals.” She cupped her hands over her mouth and laughed twice and snorted like he remembered she used to do when something really tickled her.

  Jim wanted to leave then, leave while things were on a happy note, leave before something spoiled it. He didn’t know what it all meant. If they were both sorry, it could mean there was hope for the two of them. She was smiling and rocking forward and backward in her chair, waiting for him to say something.

  He was afraid to speak. He wanted to explore the situation, but it was late. Fatigue hung on him like a heavy jacket. There’d been court. There’d been a job interview. There’d been those two phone calls. A five mile run. And now this revelation. He still had to talk to her about money. Now was not a good time to get into a possible life-changing discussion. He hadn’t been thinking straight when he’d started the conversation. He hadn’t been thinking much at all. His stomach hardened. “Your eyes are twinkling. I remember your eyes looking like that when you were happy. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen that.”

  “I am happy. Tired, it’s been a long day. But a happy day. And you?”

  “Yes, and Pat I want to talk more.”

  She stiffened. “But—”

  “We’re both tired. It’s late. Would another time be okay with you?” He wanted to reach for her but didn’t want to spoil the mood. Their apologies were like laying the foundation of a building. Let it set a few days. Let them get their thoughts together.

  “You’re right, I know.” She took a sip from her glass. What Jim had assumed was iced tea he realized now was Long Island Iced Tea. Nothing wrong with that, but it explained her relaxed behavior. “You want to stay a few minutes and have something to drink?”

  Jim nodded. “But not alcohol. Just some regular tea if you have it or even a glass of ice water.” He watched while she filled a tall, blue glass with ice cubes and tea, and then bent over the produce drawer to fetch a lemon. He had a clear view of her upper thighs and the bottom of her buttocks. Damn it, she was torturing him. Feeling himself growing hard, he straightened his shirt over the front of his body and fanned his face with his hand. “Air conditioning broken?”

  “Nuh-uh,” she said placing the glass on the flowered placemat in front of him, together with a slice of lemon and an iced tea spoon. “Trying to save money when the kids aren’t here. It’s not so bad, is it?”

  The scent of her perfume clung to her. Flowers. A summer day. Making out in a patch of clover. “Is money really that tight?” Jim kept his eyes glued to her face to get his mind off the other parts of her anatomy. They were within a few feet of each other. It would be so easy to reach out, though as tired as he was, he might not be able to follow through.

  “I was hoping to stay home with the kids the second half of this summer. I’d like to spend some time with them, maybe take a little trip. They’re growing up so quickly.”

  “So you’re not teaching summer school again?” Jim scraped some sugar from the sugar bowl into his tea glass, squeezed the lemon, and stirred while he listened for the hostility in her voice. It wasn’t there. Their conversation resembled that of two normal, rational, thinking adults.

  Shaking her head, she said, “Not planning on it if we can get by. Though it’s not too late to get a position. Why? Is your unemployment running out?”

  “What would you think if I left town?”

  She put her hand over her heart. “Why are you talking like that? Are you going to take that little job with The Daily Sun?”

  That little job. “He all but offered it to me. You think I should take it?”

  “You can do better.”

  “I’d be close by.” He sipped his tea and stared over the rim of the glass at her. As much as he loved her, right then he just wanted to find out about the money and go home to bed. His limbs felt weak, like he might fall down if he stood up. He’d overdone it with the run. He’d thought he could get in, have the conversation, and get out. That’s what he got for thinking.

  “From the way you describe it, you’d be miserable at the Sun and you know it. Did the interview turn out to be any better than the job sounded over the phone?”

  “No. I’d have a drab little office at a drab little newspaper. But it’s a job.”

  “So you didn’t just come over here to tell me that or to apologize. There’s something else, isn’t there?”

  “I don’t want you to get angry.” He took a risk. “I like you better this way.”

  “Next you’ll be saying I should drink more often. Whatever, just tell me. I won’t get mad, I promise.” Her grin was like a dare.

  “It’s a little difficult to ask you for money as we sit here sweating to death.”

  Her eyes flared, and she reared back. “What do you need money for?”

  That sounded rather offensive, but he wasn’t going to argue with her. He wanted her to be as enthusiastic about his interview as he was. He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her and fondle her and tell her he wanted to take the job in Dallas and get married again and move the family to North Texas and forget all the bad blood that was between them. Instead, he said, “What would you think if I got offered a job as an inves
tigative reporter for a big city magazine?”

  She toyed with her straw. “How big city?”

  “Dallas. Good money. Job of my dreams.”

  “But...”

  “Pat, I can’t even fill up my gas tank until my next unemployment payment is deposited.”

  “And the interview is—”

  “Monday.”

  “You’ve got it.”

  “What?”

  “Honey—I mean, Jimmy, if a few dollars is all that stands between you and a job in Dallas, Texas, you came to the right place.” She reached under her chair for her purse.

  From the moment he’d met up with her that evening, Jim had entered a world fraught with ambiguities. She’d greeted him half-naked. She’d apologized to him. Offered him a drink. Now this highly sexual creature was offering to give him money so he could go away to find a job. And while she was speaking, she slipped and called him by a term of endearment. He didn’t know which of them was more confused. Did she want him or want to get rid of him?

  “Will a hundred dollars be enough?” Pat held her pen poised over her checkbook.

  “That’s more than generous of you.” He wasn’t about to ask her if she’d have any money left after she made him the loan. He didn’t want to know. Didn’t want to get into any kind of argument.

  She probably didn’t think much of him right then, when he couldn’t even afford gas to go for a job interview. She probably despised him for being unable to provide for her and their children. He could only hope she admired him at least a little for being willing to take a position over two hundred miles away, where he’d be separated from her and his children, in order to be able to meet their financial needs.

  On top of that, it was probably too much to even hope for that she might feel something for him in a romantic or a sexual way. Watching her make out the check, Jim hoped against hope that she did still have some feelings for him.

  When she finished writing, she became very business-like and pushed the check at him. It lay between them like a bridge as she recorded it in the register. She tucked the checkbook and pen back into her purse and glanced at Jim’s face after she noticed the check still lying on the table. “What’s the matter? Take it.” She held it out to him by one long end.

  Jim reached for the other end and saw the whole transaction in his writer’s eye as something symbolizing a change, a metamorphosis in their relationship. Was she reaching out to him? He took the check, folded it, and slipped it into his breast pocket. “Will you miss me if I have to move to Dallas?”

  “They haven’t offered you the job yet.” She picked up her straw and started playing with it again.

  “I’d hate leaving you and the kids.”

  “You mean the kids.”

  “No. I mean you. The kids come second.”

  “Don’t talk like that, Jimmy. It’s not right. We’re not married anymore.” She wouldn’t meet his eyes.

  “You’ll always be my wife as far as I’m concerned.”

  She had her arms crossed over her chest, and he reached out and took hold of her left wrist, pulling her to him. “Honey, you know I still love you.” She came around the corner of the table and sat on his lap. Jim knew she’d be able to feel his hardness against the back of her thigh, but he didn’t care. Suddenly he found himself gulping air as he covered her face with his mouth, kiss after kiss, not being able to get enough of her.

  Pat had hold of the hair on the back of his head in one hand and the skin on his back through his shirt with the other. Jim knew she wanted him as much as he wanted her. He rose from his chair and pinned her against the kitchen table, pressing his hips against hers so hard he thought he would come out of his pants.

  “No. No.” She struggled and pushed him away and distanced herself across the kitchen. “We’re divorced, and even if I wanted us to get back together, it’s best if we stay divorced.”

  A shiver ran around his neck. Confusion clouded his head—even if she wanted? He reached a hand toward her. “But honey, I want you and the kids to come to Dallas with me.”

  “No. I’m not going through all that again.” She crossed her arms over her breasts. “Take the money and get out.”

  “But, Patty, I thought—”

  “Go on before I say some things you don’t want to hear.”

  Straightening up his shirt, Jim wanted to stay and argue, but the expression on her face was the same one she wore on the day of their divorce: murderous. He brushed at his hair, checked himself in the hall mirror as she followed him to the front door, and let himself out. “Thanks for the money though, Pat. I’ll let you know how it turns out.”

  He stumbled down the steps, turning once, but she’d closed the door and turned out the light. What the hell was going on with her? He was going to go home, take a long cold shower, and see if sexual frustration would make a better writer out of him.

  Chapter Ten

  Betty Lou Johnson startled Jim when she answered her door on Saturday morning. There was no question he had stereotyped her. He had expected her to live in a trashed-out, substandard, government-assisted housing complex. Instead, her apartment stood in a middle-class, well-maintained neighborhood. The thick, green grass had been edged, the shrubs manicured, the pool cleaned, and no trash littered the grounds or the area around the dumpster.

  Betty Lou appeared to be a changed woman. Jim’s recollection of her from the courtroom was not a pleasant one—a shrieking, complaining, shrew of a woman. Describing her as unkempt would have been a compliment.

  The creature at the door that Saturday morning barely resembled the other woman, making him wonder whether he had the right address. She could have passed for a younger sister. Betty Lou was a large, round woman, no more than five-feet-two, with black hair to her shoulders, round brown eyes, and an artfully made up face. She was not as large as he remembered. And she sure dressed better. She wore a short-sleeved painted blouse and an ankle-length flowered skirt. Her toes, with nails long and painted a bright red, wiggled in sandals.

  “Betty Lou Johnson?” He asked when she appeared at the screen door.

  “Yes, sir. What can I do for you?”

  Several children lay on the carpet behind her. They were watching cartoons on at least a fifty-inch-wide, flat-screen TV.

  “Jim Dorman. I’m a writer. I’m doing an article on deadbeat dads and wonder if I could interview you.”

  “How’d you get my name?”

  “At the courthouse, ma’am.” He wasn’t about to tell her about Noel in the district clerk’s office. “All divorce files are a matter of public record. I was able to find several who would fill the bill.”

  “What bill? I’ve paid up all my bills. Just a minute.” Over her shoulder, she yelled, “Y’all turn that TV down like I told you, or it’s going off.”

  The children groaned and grumbled, then lowered the volume. Betty Lou shook her head and stared at him, waiting for an answer.

  “Not really a bill. That’s just an—I meant I found several cases I thought would be interesting to write about and yours was one of them. I’m writing a series of articles, like I said. I’d like to interview you.”

  “Uh-huh.” Her eyes wandered over his face.

  “If I could come in, I could explain it to you. I’m not going to hurt you or anything. I can show you my driver’s license or maybe you could come out?”

  “You know, I feel like I know you from somewheres.” She closed one eye and tilted her head.

  “Yes, ma’am, the courthouse.” Like a spotlight, the sun beamed right where he stood. Sweat sprouted under his too-long hair. “I sure would like to speak to you in the air conditioning, ma’am.”

  “I seen you there? At the courthouse?” She scratched at her hair and stared hard at him through the screen.

  “Yes, ma’am. At a child support hearing. I was there once when you were there.”

  “Ah-hah, so you picked me out of all them ladies?” Her lips spread into a wide, thin smile.
<
br />   “Picked out five ladies, all with different circumstances, to do a story on.”

  “What are them circumstances?”

  “Ms. Johnson, your electric bill is going to be mighty big next month if you continue to hold that door open while we have this conversation. Now, why don’t you let me come inside where I can interview you properly?”

  Betty Lou looked over her shoulder as if seeing her children could help her decide whether or not Jim was a serial killer.

  Jim held his hands up in a gesture of helplessness. “I’m not a mad rapist. I promise. I can give you my ex-wife’s telephone number if you like, and you can phone her. She sat next to you and made conversation once. A short, white lady with brown hair?”

  She smiled, showing rows of overcrowded teeth. “You can’t be too careful these days. Can I see that driver’s license?”

  Jim pulled out his wallet and flipped it open. Holding it up so she could peer at it through the cellophane, he said, “You want me to take it out and let you hold it ‘till we get through?”

  “Naw. That’s okay.” She beckoned to him. “Come in.”

  Jim stepped through the opening and banged the door closed behind him. “A woman living alone with children especially needs to be careful.”

  “Come on in here.” She walked past four children, the oldest of whom appeared to be preteen. The youngest three kids barely gave Jim a glance, enthralled as they were with their cartoon show. The oldest, feet hiked up in a wooden rocker, had a cell phone pressed up against one ear while she picked at her toenails and watched TV over the heads of the others. Her eyes flickered to him a moment, sizing him up, before shifting back to the television. As typical an American family as one would find on a Saturday morning. The only thing missing was the father.

  “Sit yourself down there at the kitchen table, and I’ll get you a glass of tea,” Betty Lou said, wrapping an over-sized dishtowel around her middle. “Loosen up that tie before you die. How you can go about with that thing up to your throat in this summer heat is beyond me.”