He was as duded up as I was. He was wearing a suit with a vest, a navy-blue pinstripe. Instead of Nikes, he was shod in gleaming wing tips. His shirt was white and his tie was a conservative navy, green, and gold stripe. The black ponytail and the puckered scar contrasted oddly with the banker’s costume.
As I located him, he turned his head to look at me. Our eyes met. I looked forward again. What was he doing here? Was he some long-lost army buddy of Howell’s? Was he Howell’s bodyguard? Why would Howell Winthrop need a bodyguard?
When the interminable service was over, I left the church as quickly as I could. I refused to look around me. I climbed back into my car and went home to change and go to work. Even for Marie, I wasn’t going out to the cemetery.
When I went in to Body Time the next morning, Darcy Orchard greeted me with, “Is is true you’re working for a nigger?”
“What?” I realized I hadn’t heard that word in years. I hadn’t missed it.
“You working for that gal rented the house on Sycamore?”
“Yes.”
“She’s gotta be half black, Lily.”
“OK.”
“What’s she doing here in Shakespeare, she told you?”
“No.”
“Lily, it’s not my business, but it don’t look right, a white woman cleaning for a black.”
“You’re right. It’s none of your business.”
“I’ll say this for you, Lily,” Darcy said slowly. “You know how to keep your mouth shut.”
I turned to stare at Darcy. I’d been doing lat pull-downs, and I didn’t rise, just swiveled on the narrow seat. I looked at him thoroughly, from magnificent physique to acne-marked cheeks, and I looked beyond him at his shadow, Jim Box, a darker, leaner version of Darcy.
“Yes,” I said finally. “I do.”
I wondered what Darcy’s reaction would be if I told him that the last time I’d cleaned at Mookie Preston’s house, I’d found a rifle under her bed, along with a bundle of targets. Nearly every target was neatly drilled through the middle.
The next day I stayed at Body Time longer than I usually do. I keep Wednesday mornings open for cleaning emergencies, and the only thing I had scheduled was my semiannual turnout of Beanie Winthrop’s walk-in closet.
Bobo was working that morning, and once again he seemed depressed. Jim and Darcy were attacking triceps work with determination. They both gave me curt hellos before diving back into their schedule. I nodded back as I stretched.
Jerri Sizemore fluttered her fingers at me. I decided it must be the effect of my new outfit. I’d unbent enough to buy a pair of calf-length blue spandex workout pants and matching sports bra, but I’d mitigated the bare effect by pulling on an old cutoff T-shirt.
I finished my regular routine and decided to try some chin-ups, just to see if I could. I’d turned to face the wall instead of the room, because the T-shirt came up when I raised my arms, exposing a stretch of scarred ribs. I’d pulled over a stool to help me grip the high bar initially, but after that I’d shoved it away with a dangling foot so I wouldn’t be tempted to cheat.
The first chin-up went fairly well, and the second and third. I watched myself in the mirror on the wall, noticing with irritation that the T-shirt certainly did expose a lot of skin. I should never have listened to Bobo’s flattery.
By the fourth rep, I wouldn’t have cared if the shirt fell off, I was in so much pain. But I’d promised myself I’d do at least seven. I shut my eyes to concentrate. I whined out loud when I’d achieved the fifth, and dangled from the bar, despairing of finishing my set. I was taken by surprise when big hands gripped me at the hipbones and pushed up, providing just enough boost to enable me to finish the sixth chin-up. I lowered myself, growled, “One more,” and began to pull up again. The hands gave a trifle more boost, enabling me to accomplish the seventh.
“Done,” I said wearily. “Thanks, Bobo.” The big hands began lowering me to the stool he’d shoved back into position.
“You’re welcome,” said a voice that wasn’t Bobo’s. After a moment, his hands fell away, leaving an impression of heat on my stomach and hips.
I pivoted on the stool. My spotter had been the black-haired man. He was wearing a chopped-off gray sweatshirt and red sweatpants. He hadn’t shaved that morning.
He walked away, and began doing lunges on the other side of the room. Picking an exercise almost at random, I hooked my feet under the bar on the lat pull-down machine and did stomach crunches, my arms crossed over my chest. I kept an eye on the stranger as he did leg presses. After he’d warmed up, he pulled off his sweatshirt to reveal a red tank top and a lot of shoulder. I turned my back.
As I was leaving, I almost asked Bobo if he knew the man’s name. Then I thought, I’ll be damned if I ask anybody anything, least of all Bobo. I gathered my gym bag and my jacket and started to the door.
Marshall entered as I was reached it. He threw his arm around my shoulders. I leaned away from him, startled, but he pulled me close and hugged me.
“Sorry about Marie Hofstettler,” Marshall said gently. “I know you cared about her.”
I was embarrassed at mistaking his intention, and his concern and tenderness reminded me of the reasons I’d hooked up with him initially. But I wanted him to let go. “Thanks,” I said stiffly. The black-haired man was looking at us, as he stood with Jim and Darcy, who were chattering away. It seemed to me now that something about him was familiar, an echo of long ago, from the darkest time in my life. I couldn’t quite track the trace of the memory back to its origins.
“How’s your hip been?” Marshall asked professionally.
“A little stiff,” I confessed. The kick that I’d taken in The Fight had proved to be a more troublesome injury than I’d guessed at the time. Standing on my left foot, I swung my right leg back and forth to show Marshall my range of motion. He crouched before me, watching my leg move. He told me to raise my leg sideways, like a male dog about to pee, the position the karate class assumed for side kicks. It was very uncomfortable. Marshall talked about my hip for maybe five more minutes, with other people contributing opinions and remedies like I’d asked for them.
None from the black-haired man, though he drew close to listen to the discussion, which ranged from my hip to The Fight to Lanette Glass’s civil suit to stop the upcoming meeting at one of the black churches.
While I showered and dressed, I thought how strange it was that this black-haired man was cropping up everywhere.
It could be a coincidence. Or maybe I was just being paranoid. He could have his eye on someone else other than me; maybe Becca Whitley? Or maybe (I brightened) the finances of the Shakespeare Combined Church had attracted the interest of some government agency? The church pastor, Brother Joel McCorkindale, had always alerted that sense in me that detected craziness, twistedness, in other people. Maybe Mr. Black Ponytail was after the good brother.
Then why the secret tryst with Howell? The black bags? I hadn’t opened the window seat when I’d been cleaning the day before, because I hadn’t any business in Howell’s study.
Of course, I could be attributing all sorts of things to a regular working guy, who also liked to keep fit, and go to funerals of old women he didn’t know, and have secret meetings with his employer.
What with Mookie Preston, Becca Whitley, and this scarred man with his long black hair, in no time at all I was going to lose my standing as the most exotic imported resident of Shakespeare.