"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 running water, "and find out?"
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 planning on anything lasting, I knew the degradation I'd undergone had altered me permanently, and I was afraid.
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 Jenny O'Hagen.
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.
One of his students had taken a personal interest right back.
Someone had rolled a body into the arboretum.
Someone else had deposited handcuffs where I would find them; killed a rat; left a painted Ken doll on my car hood.
"Overall," I said, turning to Marshall, "it would be hard to top last week."
"We can give it a shot," he suggested, and was surprised when I laughed.
"Let me tell you what happened last Monday night," I said, and for the first time I told Marshall what I'd seen when I was out walking.
"You saw the murderer?"
"I saw the person dumping the body."
Marshall thought my story over. "I can understand why you didn't want to tell the police," he said finally. "With your cart being used. And since they didn't arrest anyone yet, you might be putting yourself in danger."
"How so?"
"The killer might think you had seen more than you actually saw," Marshall said. "At least, killers always do in the movies. They're always coming after the person they think knows something, whether or not it's true."
"Yeah, but that's the movies. This is Shakespeare."
I suddenly realized what I'd said and I laughed. Marshall looked at me warily; I had to explain.
"Lily, I think the sooner the police arrest someone for this, the better it'll be for you."
"No argument there."
"Then we can concentrate on finding out who's playing these tricks on you and Thea."
There was something in his voice that alerted me. "Has something else happened to her?" I asked.
"She called me about six this morning. Someone came to the back door and spray-painted 'Bitch' across it."
"Is that so." Marshall looked a little surprised at my lack of horror.
"So, Marshall, did you come over here to enjoy my company or see if I was gonna walk back up in my yard with a spray can in my hand?"
Marshall closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Lily, I think if you were mad at Thea, you would challenge her to fight, or ignore her for the rest of your life. I can't imagine you sneaking around in the dark spray-painting a woman's back door."
But I wasn't so sure he believed that down to his bones. Hadn't there been a moment, a flicker, of something else - of relief - when I challenged him?
I sank down in the armchair and looked at him intently. "I don't know if I'm at fault, if I'm being overly prickly, or if Thea has undermined your confidence in your own judgment so much that you can't trust your own instincts."
Marshall was not quick to respond, and I was glad. I wanted him to think about this.
"Maybe both," he said finally. "Come on, it's almost time to work out."
As I pulled on my ancient gray sweatpants and a dark blue T-shirt, I pondered the fact that he was quite willing to have sex with me even though he hadn't exactly given me a rousing vote of confidence. Did that mean he was so delighted with his returned virility that he just didn't care whether I was tormenting his wife?
Dealings between men and women are all too often like picking through a minefield, I thought with some disgust. Marshall was out in the living room waiting for me. He'd walked over in workout clothes, blue sweatpants and a maroon Body Time T-shirt.
It was strange that I could stand in the hall and watch Marshall stretch that wonderful body and feel a wave of lust, that I could love the way he didn't flinch at the horrible story I'd told him. But still, I drew back from him from time to time.
This was one of the times.
We didn't talk much on the way to Body Time in my car, but the prospect of doing something I enjoyed with Marshall, who also enjoyed it, made me feel more relaxed.
Janet Shook was on the treadmill when we entered. Her eyes widened. She clearly was adding two and two in her head. I waved casually. Marshall exchanged a few words with Derrick, who'd opened for him, and then we mapped out our workout. It was legs days - not my favorite - but doing legs was not so bad with company.
It was very convenient and pleasant having Marshall there to take the weights on and off and spot for me; it was equally pleasant being able to return the favor.
People who before had only nodded to me came up to speak, since I was with Marshall. Of course, everyone knew him. And I found that they knew who I was, too: They all called me Lily. Though my scratched face got some sideways glances, no one mentioned Norvel Whitbread.
This, too, was pleasant, but I found that after greetings had been exchanged, I had nothing to say. I just listened as they chatted with Marshall. Marshall is a kind of community clearing house. Everyone who approached him had some piece of gossip or news to relate and seemed to feel free to speak in front of me. I wondered why.
I found, as the second gossiper in a row referred to it, that I had a reputation for being closemouthed. It surprised me to think that people thought of me at all, but I should have remembered: In small towns, there is no such thing as an invisible life.
Despite twinges in my side, I had finished leg-pressing three hundred pounds when Brian Gruber, an executive at the mattress-manufacturing plant that was one of Shakespeare's larger employers, drifted by in the course of his workout to murmur quietly in Marshall's ear. Marshall listened grimly, doing a lot of curt nodding. This was so definitely a man-to-man talk that I did an extra set so they could finish. After all, Marshall had said my quads needed work.
When I was through, I just lay there and panted. Brian wandered away to do bicep curls while Marshall added a twenty-five to each side of the leg press for his set, looking thoughtful and grim. He didn't meet my eyes as I made way for him. I reached for my sweat towel and began dabbing at my forehead.
Damned if I was going to ask.
Marshall slid into position. He put his feet up on the push board, aligned them carefully. He pushed a little, taking the pressure off the relief bars, which he flipped to the side simultaneously. Then he bared his teeth in a snarl of effort and began his set. Maybe he was trying to make me feel equal; three hundred was my top weight, and I knew Marshall could do double that. I waited stonily till his set was over and he'd flipped the bars back into place. He beckoned to me to crouch down where he lay.
So, here came the bad news.
"Brian just heard that Thea's been telling everyone at her church that she's going to put me through the wringer as far as property goes. But he also told me the same thing you did - that she'd been having overnight company, which'll count against her in court."
"You've been having company, too." I watched his face go blank.
I stood up and covered my face with the towel as though I was bathed in sweat, when in fact I'd cooled down. I had to get my indifferent face back on. I felt a strong inclination to pick up my workout bag and leave without a word, but that would be cowardly.