Back at the very beginning, I would sometimes—not so often, but occasionally—see Margaret tucked up in her bed under mountains of quilting and electric roastery and consider crawling in beside her to avoid walking out into the cold and snow. It will sound mad to you, reader, I know, and even I, in my delirium of exhaustion and homesick ennui, realized that to cross this threshold would mean a sweet death at the very best. To hunker under all that heat, where surely there was sweat between Margaret’s shoulder blades, a waft of salty bread yeasting out from underneath her arms. She would kick once or twice in her slumber and I’d curl up in the shadow of her back to evaporate, evaporate, evaporate. Melting, husking, fading to a vapor, which would, when she threw back the sheets, simply disperse into the air. Fine, I thought. Fine.
“What are you doing?” she asked once, turning to see me standing beside her, all kitted up in my green coat.
“Nothing. Just checking”—I grasped at straws—“whether you needed another blanket.”
She, gruff. Half-sleeping. Her hair all chestnut disarray. “I’m fine.”
“If you’re sure.”
“Mmmhmm.” She turned away from me and lay her glowing cheek back on the pillow. Gone before I closed the door behind me. She never needed to study much to make her grades. She got up in the morning at half past eight unless she had an early class, and ate a slow breakfast in the caf, sometimes flipping through the newspaper that her father had subscribed her to against her will. She liked the science column, the society column, the reviews of books and plays. I read her a passage, once, from Lev’s first book, Knife, Knave, thinking we might share the pleasure of his words, his turn and flick of felicitous phrasing. She wrinkled her nose.
“God, too much,” she said. “Can’t he just say anything plain?”
She was the sweetest when she was sleeping, air coming through her lips all a-flutter. A different person from the girl who stood in the lunch line as shiny as brass, laughing with her friends and maybe waving to me from across the room with the understanding I’d never try to join her. In her sleep she softened, unthreaded. She was susceptible to whispers, and would sometimes talk to me from deep within a dream. I never told this to her waking self, because she wouldn’t have understood. She knew only the back of my head as I walked into the hall, the quiet lifting of my hand from the other side of a long corridor. And never mind. Never mind all that. A fever of the past, long since broken. Mystifying Margaret, gone entirely her own way.
A few blocks from Vera’s house my toes began to pinch and I slowed down to a walk. My feet were sweaty, and I felt every sickening slide they made against the leather of my shoes. The few people I passed on the street shot worried glances my direction, and it was hard to blame them. I needed someplace peaceful, someplace cool to clear my head. What had just happened? The glinting emeralds, Vera’s chalky scent. Her accusation. I supposed it wasn’t a loss. She had agreed to see me again, after all.
Downtown, I found the bookstore closed, which was disappointing. I didn’t want to eat a hamburger (in fact I never quite got my head around this as a form of food), didn’t want to sit through a movie and let my thoughts get overwhelmed. I mooned around outside the hardware store counting the loose screws in the window display, and letting the June sun beat down on my head. A pigeon hopped along the sidewalk, cooing, and I had the urge to kick it. But I couldn’t. And wasn’t that the point? Not much of a murderer, me, for all the bloodred dresses in the world.
A bell chimed from a nearby doorway. Of course, I thought. Marie’s café. In the years since I’d been a regular there, the shop had stayed open and practically unchanged. The flaking paint on the door frame had been replaced by a pristine coat of blue, but otherwise, nothing. Through the window you could see the same old tablecloths, littered with coffee stains and frayed at the trim. I walked in and was greeted by three familiar paintings hung in dusty frames with yellowing price placards perched hopefully beside them. The work of a local artist, whom I’d never known to come by and check on her wares. In the air, butter and spice.
“Hello?” I said at the counter, to no one. Marie popped up from the floor, her face covered in flour and loose bits of scone.
“Whoops, had a little mishap. Just a tick.”
She ducked back down and then hustled into the kitchen, arms full of something. I heard the back door open and momentarily wondered if she was running away—there was the dim memory of Marie as a refugee, perhaps escaping a brute husband or leaving a baby on some doorstep, all wrapped up in a blanket—but then came the slam of a lid on a trash can.
“Alright, inspector,” she declared upon reentering. “Nothing to worry about here.”
“Oh no, I’m not—”
She waved her hand. “Bad joke. Sorry. What’s your pleasure?”
“I think—” I looked at her and welled with hope, waiting to see some flicker of recognition. “A coffee? Do you still do free refills?”
“Up to two.” She frowned. “We never did more than that.”
“Oh,” I said. “Alright.”
I took my cup to the window seat and sipped, though the pot had obviously been sitting on the warmer for hours.
“Want anything else?” Marie called. I was the only customer in the store. “Food? Baked goods? Scattered crumbs?”
“No, thanks.” I rested my chin on my fist, elbow on the table, and watched her sweep cookies off the display plates only to replace them with fresh, identical versions. Her hair had streaks of grey now. New dangly earrings, a touch more eyebrow pencil. Her fingers, moving with quick assessment over her wares, had developed a permanent curl, bulging out at one or two of the joints. She seemed happy enough, though. I wished I’d brought a book, some small reminder. Marie had been—how to describe it? A balm. When I had little else to make me feel safe.
At last I got up the nerve to flag her down, lifting my hand as if I had decided on a bite to eat, after all. When she came over I asked, “Do you remember a girl, who used to study here?”
“You’d have to be a bit more specific, honey. There’s a school nearby. And the junior college.”
“Right, sure, but someone in particular? Came here a lot?”
There it was: just a faint shine across her vision, an unmistakable fond gleam. “Well, I guess there was a girl. Few years ago now. Long time, really.”
“Yes,” I said. “You gave her biscotti.”
“Mmm. She liked almond. Sure, I remember. But why?”
Wasn’t it obvious? “She’s me. I’m her.”
“Oh, honey, no. I told you, a lot of girls come in here.”
“No, I—” I wasn’t sure what to say. “Really, I used to sit here all the time, for hours.”
“Moved away, though?”
“Well, not quite.” I flushed. “I just got busy.”
Marie looked doubtful. “Listen, the girl I’m thinking of—” She tilted her head to the side, giving me a thorough once-over. “Maybe there’s something similar in the hair. But it wasn’t you. Much younger.”
“You said yourself, it was years ago.”
“In the eyes, I mean. You don’t age so much in the eyes. Not that fast.”
“Marie,” I said. “It’s me.”
She shook her head. “I’d remember. But I mean, don’t worry about it. It’s just that I’m thinking of someone else.”
“Ok,” I said. “Well. Ok.”
Marie looked at my cup. “Need a warm-up?”
“No thank you.” I pushed it away from myself with two fingers, and stood. I wasn’t sweating anymore, but my limbs still felt sticky, and now all abuzz. “Got to get going.”