She picked up the card, turning it over like an artifact. The logo was raised; it ran beneath her fingers like Braille. City of Harper Woods Police Department. The handset was cool in her hand.
“May I have Officer Rozelle, please?”
Dead air while they were connecting her. She stood at the window, saw nothing. The birds outside swooped back and forth at the empty feeder.
“Rozelle.”
“Have you caught him yet?” she whispered.
A long silence. “Mrs. Foster?”
It rose inside her, threatened to suffocate her. She pressed the heel of her hand to her mouth, pushing back the moan. “My husband. Have you found the man who shot Michael?”
He was quiet again a moment. “Mrs. Foster…Christy. Are you alone? Is there someone there with you?”
She was crying again; it was leaking out despite her best intentions. “Why can’t you? Why?”
The voice on the other end of the phone was very gentle now. “Christy…I’m sending an officer out to see you. You need to let them in when they get there. Is the door unlocked?”
There were no spots in here, in the dining room. This was a good place. She sunk down next to the French doors, laying her face against the cool patio glass. The phone slid onto the floor, scattering the little birds outside the window.
“Christy? Mrs. Foster…? …Hello?”
“ What is THAT? “ She pulled her arms around herself, looking up into the trees. There was nothing there, at least nothing that she could see. Just the noise, a constant ratcheting like someone was running a miniature jackhammer somewhere above their heads.
The rumble of his laugh thrilled her, low and easy, even though the hair on the back of her neck was standing up. “It’s just a squirrel. There’s a lot of them up here.” He pulled the bundle of their firewood out of the back of the truck, bringing it over by the fire ring. “In a minute they’ll all scatter, you’ll see. They think you have food.”
She craned her neck, looking close. Sure enough, there they were. One on a branch about twenty feet up, another in the crotch of a tree several yards away. They were good hiders, but the flickering tails gave them away. She moved closer to one and it went around the backside of the tree, looking around the other side as if it thought she couldn’t see it. She stifled the giggle, not wanting to spook it off. But it wouldn’t have mattered anyhow; when he began to use the hatchet on the firewood they were gone in a flash, skittering up the tree at lightning speed.
Later that night they had a fire, and ate sausage dogs on long poker sticks, and Michael had laughed when she got hers too close to the coals.
“I like mine black!” she said, wrinkling her nose and biting the end off it to prove it.
“You can have mine,” he said. “Here, this one isn’t burnt.”
“I like this one.” She wrapped it in a bun and swiftly put it down, licking her fingers theatrically. “I am a fire pit chef,” she said. “Old professional. No wussy dogs for me!”
“No?”
“Nope.” She gave him back a saucy grin.
He leaned forward. “You have something… right… here.” He reached out with a thumb, gently wiping the end of her nose. “Charcoal mark.” She watched the blue of his eyes go misty grey.
She was suddenly aware of the darkness all around them, thick and velvety, breathing like a living blanket. The fire crackled and popped, sending sparks into the blackness. Outside of the fire circle, there was no light, no civilization, nothing but them. Nothing but Michael, and the skin of his thumb on her face, and then his hand upon her cheek, and finally, his lips on hers.
They kissed until the fire burnt down to coals, wrapped in a blanket against the mosquitoes and ducking under, until he could wait no longer and led her back to the tent. It was cold despite the air mattress and strangely humid, but after a few moments they were as warm as they wanted to be. And in the end, she lay awake a long time, sung to sleep by the nightbugs, Michael’s heartbeat, and the sighing of the wind in the trees as it made its way across the tangency of the tent.
“Christie? Mrs. Foster?” A hand, her shoulder.
The tan prescription bottle, skittering across the floor. ‘Shit…get that. where’s the lid?’
‘what did you take, Christie?’
She shook her head a little. Nothing.
‘they’re in the sink, Frank. looks like she spit em…’
‘how many did you take, Christie? how many were in the bottle?’
’open your eyes, Christie. can you open em?’
Hands on her again, lifting. Poking. Pain suddenly, in the back of her hand. She tried to open her eyes, but even though she told them to, they were too heavy. Just a crack.
‘there you go.. good girl. we got you now.’ A friendly voice, blond hair. He didn’t understand. None of them did. She stared at him for a long moment while the noise of the sea crashed through her ears, all around her. Movement around her, beneath her. She was going somewhere. Hands all over her, doing things to the breathing piece of meat that was her body. But no Michael. Anywhere.
The pain came crashing back in, taking her breath away. The images, flickering, like a perverse movie playing on the screen of her eyelids. The blood, the smell of the shot. The keening sound that filled the room. Too much. She slid sideways into the darkness, evading them, while her body rode the rails to Hell.
She came through the door with an armload of laundry, vaguely irritated that she hadn’t seen him all day long. How did he always manage to disappear when she dove headlong into the vast reaches of laundry that they seemed to generate?
Coming round the corner, she saw what had kept him. He sat there at the computer, headphones on. She stood and watched for a moment, the irritation siphoning away, yielding to the wash of fondness. His hands moved like birds on the keyboard, cutting here, stretching there, working with a song in the software. It was almost as if the computer keyboard were an instrument, so skillfully he played it. His head bobbed slightly to the beat, and every so often he’d breathe a chord, trying to decide where to sever it.
She set the basket down, wending her way to where he sat. She could hear the music faintly around the headphones. She moved around where he could catch sight of her, not wanting to startle him. His face lit up with boyish delight when he saw her, and she forgave him every sin he’d ever done or could ever commit. And not for the first time she thought I love this man. The simple and profound fact of it rocked her to her core.
“Babe!” he exclaimed, “Listen!” He lifted the headphones and put them on her and hit a key on the keyboard, and she was suddenly and hugely enveloped in this great wall of sound, a grand and exuberant dance of music. Their eyes met and he laughed out loud, a joyful soundless motion, at the expression of wonder that was written all over her face. She laughed then too, feeling the way the autumn sun lit up the hardwood floor and the toes of her stocking feet and the sheer joy of an incredible piece of music in the indescribable miracle of being there, living and breathing. In one motion she pulled the headphones off her head and the jack out of the computer, letting the music fill the whole room.
She stood on tiptoe with her body pressed against his, letting the music move them. She felt the way his body felt against hers, hard and soft at the same time, the soft swell of his belly against her own, his breathing, her breathing, the unique scent of the crook of his neck where the babyhairs curled. He swayed with her, his chest rumbling as he hummed in tune. She laughed a little out loud. The way he loved her, the way he loved the music, spilled over in her heart and swelled it to bursting.
She lay in the bed and let them fuss, all of them, but it was no use. Peggy was here, she could hear her voice in the room. The person she wanted to see the least. She needed to get up.
Someone had to know what happened to Michael. Who had hated him so badly? Wanted to see him dead? Who could hate Michael? The concept was inconceivable.
Someone had killed her husband. Intolerable. There must be justice.
She pulled herself up in the bed. A supreme effort of will. The voices were out in the hallway now. Perfect. She went to the little hospital cubby, rummaged until she found her clothes. She was just pulling her shoes on when she was met with Peggy’s shocked look.
“Christie! Oh sweetie… what are you doing?”
“Going home. What does it look like?” She gritted her teeth, tying the laces.
“You can’t go home yet!” Peggy flung a drowning glance over her shoulder at the doctor standing just outside the door. “They haven’t released you.”
“There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m going home. I don’t belong here.” Inexorably. She picked up another bag, searched it for keys or her purse. Something that made sense.
“But you… you’ve had a terrible shock, Christine. And… and you…well, you can’t go home in… your condition.”
“The hospital is for sick people. I’m not sick, Margaret. And I have things to do.” Bah, there was nothing here. She’d have to walk. Thank God it was only three blocks from the hospital to her house on Cherry Street. She stopped a moment. “What do you mean ‘my condition’?”
Peggy dropped her eyes then, twirled the little gold pendant around her neck between her fingers. “You.. you tried to… the pills, you know…”
She would have laughed then but her face had turned to cement, and she was afraid that it would crack. “I didn’t take a thing. I thought about it.. but I poured them down the sink. But you know that, don’t you? You and Dr. House out there. You took my blood. You didn’t find anything.” She turned and was gone.
The street was liquid; it swam in the bright sunlight. She walked past the Jacovic’s place and heard the thousand calling voices of the bean tendrils in their garden, raising their tiny arms to the sky. It’s time to plant the peas.
“It’s time to plant the peas.” His back was turned to her; he brooded at the window.
“Already? It’s still chilly out there. “
“The peas don’t know that. They’ve been sleeping so long. . I’m ready for summer.”
She laughed. “ Me too.”
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