“I don’t know why I acted that way,” Luke said. “I know you’re doing me a favor here.”
“Just forget about it,” I said. “It’s in the past. It never happened.”
“Are you sure? ‘Cause I feel real bad about all the shit I said. It’s just that sometimes…” Luke paused. He stared at the dash, concentrating to find words. “It’s like I lose myself sometimes, like I change into someone else.” He looked embarrassed. “Does that make any sense?” he asked.
I thought that it did, that sometimes we were not the people whom we claimed to be or who others thought us to be, but different entirely, as though possessed. And because of it we could never fully know anyone, and trying too hard to figure it out would always be a losing game. I palmed the sweat from my face.
“Luke,” I said, “all that stuff yesterday, it’s water under the bridge. Alright?” I took a drink of Coke and pressed the cold can against my forehead before returning it to the cup holder.
“Alright then,” Luke said, his voice quiet. “Alright.”
After that things seemed to return to pretty much the way they had been. I picked up Luke in the mornings and on the way over to South Shore Drive we’d stop at Country Fair. I still bought my coffee and Luke still bought his cigarettes, but I’d get us a couple of sausage and egg biscuits too, just in case Peggy asked. We worked steadily, scraping the house and garage, making regular trips to the hazardous waste site across town to drop off the bags of old paint. After we’d finished with the stripping, we sanded the wood and painted on a clear water-repellant. By the end of July we’d finished applying the primer and Peggy chose a shade of taupe, which for some reason made me like her even more. We bought every can they had in stock at Value Home Center. But August started off wet. For a week straight it did nothing but storm. I picked up Luke anyways, mostly because Maggie said it wouldn’t be good for him to sit around the house all day, and I had nothing to do either. We had coffee at Panos Diner and stared out the front windows beyond the lunch counter, watching the gray sky and the rain as it hit the street and drew the oil up out of the asphalt. Every once in a while the weather would break, but usually not till late afternoon when it was too late to start working anyway. I’d pay our check and we’d just drive around aimlessly for a while, making turns for no other reason than how the road was banked. We drove without talking, past the city limits, out toward Fairview or Waterford where the pavement gleamed, slick with rain. We stopped at roadside stands for sweet corn and the last of that year’s strawberries, wine-colored and over ripe, which we ate until our mouths looked bloodied.
Finally the storms passed, blown inland by the lake. We returned to Peggy’s and applied the finish coats, spacing them two weeks apart and beginning a few smaller projects in the meantime. A week after we’d finished the trim and packed up our brushes and ladders and drop cloths, after we’d walked Peggy around the house to make sure she approved of our work, which she did, flattering us all the while, I drove over to thank her one last time for hiring us and to leave her the invoice. I rang the doorbell and waited for what seemed like a long time. It was Saturday and I’d called before I’d left to make sure she’d be home. She sounded genuinely happy when I asked if I could stop by and had told me to come right over. I rang the bell again and waited awhile longer. I was beginning to worry that maybe Peggy had fallen. I checked the door. It was unlocked and so I pushed it open, stepped inside, and called her name. The foyer was large and white with a wide staircase that rose to a landing and then on to the upstairs hall. A round skylight filled the room with filtered sunlight, and left a bright circle on the marble floor. Opposite the staircase was a long rectangular glass-topped table in the center of which stood an arrangement of fake lilies in a vase. I held the invoice and thought briefly about just leaving it there, but I had become nervous at Peggy’s not answering. An image of her, collapsed on the floor, popped into my mind. I had never been in the house and felt slightly uneasy as I passed through the front hall.
“Anybody home?” I called out. “Peggy?” The hall was dimly lit and smelled like old fruit. Framed pictures hung on the walclass="underline" family portraits, a painting of the peninsula, an old grainy black and white picture of a young Peggy standing on a beach somewhere. In the picture Peggy was wearing one of the modest swimsuits of the day and smiling, head cocked to one side knowingly. “Peggy?” I said continuing down the hall, “You home?” I stepped into what must have been the great room and saw Peggy sitting on a couch near a wide granite fireplace, her head bent down and her lips moving slowly, soundlessly, as though reading to herself. Her white hair was flattened on one side like she’d been lying down, and her eyes were squeezed shut. A man sat beside her watching me.
“Hello,” he said calmly. He was wearing a black t-shirt and jean shorts, and he had on high work boots with the laces tied around them. He smiled and squinted. “Talk about bad timing, huh?” he said. With his left hand he held a screwdriver to the fleshy underside of Peggy’s neck. The handle had been wrapped in what looked like black electrical tape.
“She’s praying,” the man said. Then, as though he’d just remembered what he was doing there, he said, “My partner is upstairs. He has a gun so don’t try anything or I’ll yell.” He said this in a hurried way, like the moderator of some meeting rushing through formalities. I stood stock-still. My arms felt heavy, and dangled awkwardly beside me. I was holding the invoice and thought of putting it in my pocket, but realized it wouldn’t be a good idea.
“Do you read lips?” the man asked. I heard footsteps above me and then something large and solid hitting the floor. The man looked at me impatiently.
“No. I’m sorry.”
He let out a long disappointed breath, like a teenager exhaling cigarette smoke for effect. “Don’t be. Who reads lips? I just can’t make out what she’s saying.” The man stared intently at Peggy’s mouth. “I only know she’s praying because I can tell when she says God.” He pulled the screwdriver away from her neck and rubbed his temple with the handle before returning it. “There,” he said suddenly, “she just said it. Come here. See if you can figure out the rest.” He waved me over.
I walked slowly, my hands out to either side like I’d seen in the movies, and sat down in an overstuffed leather chair that faced the couch.
“Now pay attention,” he said. “I might quiz you on this later.” He looked at me and smiled. His eyes were red-rimmed and he had a sparse line of black hair above his top lip like a teenager’s first mustache. His hair was black and combed straight back.
I moved toward the edge of the chair. “Peggy,” I said, “it’s Sam.”
“Don’t,” the man said, turning toward me. He pointed the screwdriver at me in an accusatory way, his index finger extending over the dull metal. “Don’t you fucking do that. Let her pray.” The outburst was sudden and furious.
“I’m sorry.” I inched back in the seat. Adjacent to where we sat was a large window, revealing the wide expanse of the back yard and the bay beyond it. The day had been windy and the water was choppy with whitecaps. Clouds were gathering over the lake, and the sky was gray and ashy. I heard footsteps and turned around and saw another man standing near where I’d come in. He was tall with a shaved head and loose-fitting jeans that hung from his hips. He had on a green flannel shirt and a backpack.
“You make a new friend?” he asked the other man.
The man beside Peggy laughed. “Yes, I guess I did.”
“I’m doing all the work and you’re entertaining,” the other man said, and he did not say it in a kind way. “Are you alone?” he asked me.