I parked the old convertible in the driveway next to a child's red bicycle. It was growing dark, the humidity hanging heavy in the air. A miniature backboard and basketball rim was propped in the yard, a child-size soccer ball lay against the trunk of a bottle-brush tree. The compressor of the central air conditioner whined from a concrete pit at the side of the house, and a rusty water stain streaked the stucco wall. The garage door was open. Inside sat an eight-year-old Toyota, pleading for a wax job.
There are a hundred thousand houses just like this one in our town. The domestic suburban middle-class cliche. From the outside, familial bliss, folks who can handle a VA mortgage and pay off the credit cards over time, but no frills. Inside, a thousand secrets-fractured marriages, wandering husbands, boozing wives.
The doorbell didn't work, but my fist did. She answered on the third knock. Priscilla Fox was a tidy package in leotard, tights, leg warmers, and a wide belt that didn't hold anything up but accentuated her flat waist. The leotard was low cut in front with a tiger motif that matched her eyes, nut brown with a touch of gold. Her hair was cinnamon, and she hadn't been born that way. The smile was wide and inviting.
"Come in, Mr. Lassiter," she said, leading me through a tiny foyer. In pink sneakers, she moved like a cat. All in all, one of those women who looks better at forty-two than at twenty-one. "You'll have to forgive me. High-impact aerobics after two hours of racquetball. I must look a fright."
"I'm not scared a bit."
She turned and winked at me over her shoulder, then showed me into the living room. I eased into a beige sofa that was worn in the seat. I declined coffee but said okay to something cold. She excused herself and came back a moment later with bottled water from Maine and a bowl of grapes. Ten years ago it would have been potato chips with sour-cream dip, and something alcoholic to wash it down. I popped a few green grapes into my mouth, took a swig of the bubbling water, and felt gloriously healthy but in need of something salty and greasy.
Priscilla Fox reached down and peeled the Velcro straps from her sneakers. Maybe it's old-fashioned, but I'm opposed to sneakers without laces. Digital watches and pocket calculators, too. Gizmos that make life easier and dull our minds. Besides being unable to read or write, today's kids have trouble telling time, multiplying nine times seven, and tying their shoes.
Freshly un-sneakered, Priscilla Fox gracefully lowered herself into a wing chair and tucked her legs beneath her. She studied me a moment, and I returned the look. Beads of perspiration formed between her breasts, and she shivered in the air-conditioning. She excused herself again and returned this time in red nylon shorts and a tight T-shirt with a drawing I didn't understand until I read the caption: "A woman without a man is like a fish without a bicycle."
She opened the conversation. "Nick told me about you, but he neglected to mention how damned attractive you were."
"Funny, he seemed to forget the same thing about you."
"Has he ever! Oh well, I don't sit around waiting for him to come back. I've seen too many of my friends do that. A woman turns forty, her husband trades her in for two twenties. Let the prick go and get on with your life. That's my philosophy."
"There are other fish in the sea," I agreed, gesturing at her T-shirt, where a salmon tried to ride a Schwinn.
"You got that right. A woman has to be independent these days. You can't depend on a man, because a man's not dependable."
"Expendable," I said, "but not dependable."
"You got that right," she repeated. "Now, I enjoy a man's company as much as the next woman. More than most. A bottle of wine, a hot tub. That's all fine. But in the morning, get the hell out, I've got things to do."
"A modern woman," I said.
She smiled, straightened her legs, and pointed her sweat-socked toes toward the ceiling in what seemed to be a tummy-tightening exercise. "How much you weigh, anyhow?"
"What?"
Now she was twisting her torso, attacking the love-handle zone. "Your weight, honey. What do you tip the scales at? Two hundred, two-oh-five?"
"Two-twenty-five, give or take."
"Oooh. You carry it real well. All that height helps. Nick goes about two-ten, but he's a lot shorter than you. Built like a bull and hung like a stallion. Strongest man I ever knew. We could make it standing up, he'd just grab me under the butt, lift me up, I'd wrap my legs around his hips. Never showed any strain, and could hump from here to Sunday. Takes a strong man to do that."
I didn't disagree. I just sat there, and she cocked her head, as if waiting for me to flex my biceps or otherwise challenge the Nicholas G. Fox Olympic Stand-Up-Humping Record. I thought about it and felt a twinge between the L3 and L4 vertebrae where I once took a knee from a pulling guard.
"Not that I miss him," she volunteered. "Except…except the wimps I've met lately. Sheesh. Noodle necks and pencil wrists. Half the time they can't get it up, other half, you wish they hadn't."
"You meet these guys on the computer?"
"Oh, that's why you're here, right? What some monster did to Marsha. I hope you nail the bastard."
I nodded gravely and let her think about Marsha. Priscilla Fox's smile disappeared, and for a moment the pretty face sagged and nearly showed its age.
"The computer club," I reminded her.
She seemed to shake herself awake. "Forty Something."
"What?"
"That's my handle. Forty Something. You'd think it'd scare a lot of guys off, you know, looking for young stuff. But you'd be surprised."
"You spend a lot of time online?"
"Too much. The computer helps pass the hours when you can't sleep and the batteries are dead in the vibrator."
"What about the men? Anyone ever threaten you? Anyone talk about killing a woman?"
She thought about it. "I don't remember that. One guy wanted to tie me up and spank me. Leather Lizard, I think. Unless it was Bondage Bill."
She smiled sweetly and pulled off her sweat socks and leg warmers, then wiggled her toes at me. "My feet are killing me," she said, kneading the palm of her foot with one hand. Then she got up, walked over, and plopped onto the sofa next to me, swinging her feet into my lap. "There's nothing like a foot rub from a man with strong hands."
Before I could figure which little piggy went to market, we were interrupted by a squeal. "Mommy! Mommy, you didn't tuck me in."
The boy wore Fred Flintstone pajamas and had a good set of shoulders for a five-year-old. There's no substitute for genes.
"Nicky," Priscilla Fox said, swinging her legs smoothly to the floor. "Say hello to Mr. Lassiter."
He gave me a wordless sideways look that other men on the same sofa had doubtless seen. "Hello, Nicky," I said. "You look like a little fullback. You play football?"
He wrinkled his nose. "Football sucks. Soccer's rad."
Priscilla got to her feet and marched Nicky off to bed. I used the time to wander around. Just off the living room was a small study. A metal desk, shelves with law books. On the wall, plaques from every civic group in town. The room had been Nick's, but a feminine hand was creeping in. A lacy blanket covered the love seat in the corner. A flower vase with plastic tulips sat on the desk next to the computer.
She found me as I was studying an old black-and-white photo in a plastic frame. Nick was bare-chested, dog tags around his neck, the left hand holding an M-16, the right draped around another soldier's shoulder. Both wore grins and were clean-shaven and muscular, and something in their eyes said they hadn't yet seen combat.
"Wasn't he something?" Priscilla asked, the tone just this side of wistful. "Look at those pecs."