Her mouth and cheeks were red from beard burn. “Who was he?”
She slammed her handbag onto the counter. “You have no right sneaking in here.”
“I didn’t sneak in. I’ve been waiting for seven fucking hours. We had a date.”
“I forgot and I’m sorry.” Then her eyes hardened. “And you’re drunk.”
“Who was he?”
“None of your business. Now get out.” Her arm shot out like a lance toward the door.
“It’s all over your face.”
By reflex she made a move to wipe her mouth then caught herself. Her lipstick was smeared.
The alcohol was making him reckless. It was also disorienting him. The swelling in Dana’s face, the purple shiners. The smaller, leaner nose. The wider, more open eyes. It was crazy, but for a split second he felt as if he were addressing Terry Farina.
“Did you screw him, too?” He tried not to let the images fill his head. Tried not to think that her mouth was red not just from kissing. “Did you?”
“You son of a bitch.” Her voice was scathing. “No, I did not, now get out of here.”
But he didn’t move. The alcohol was short-circuiting the wiring in his brain. He felt himself at the brink, knowing that in a moment he could yield to the heat and start tearing the place apart, smashing things, bringing Dana to a point of terror. But he also knew in some small pocket of reason that no matter how bad it got he could never physically harm her. It was one of the few absolutes in his makeup. He would assassinate the president or take his own life before he could put a hand to her. Of that he was sure. “Who was he?”
“That’s none of your business. Now get out before I call the police.”
The fury in her eyes parched any comeback. And in an absurd flash, he saw himself outside in the dark, explaining the circumstances to a patrol officer, Dana at the door with a meat cleaver. Wouldn’t that be fucking dandy? “You don’t have to call anybody,” he muttered. The heat rapidly seeped out of him and in its place, cold remorse.
“Then go.”
“You’re not wearing your wedding ring.”
Her hand shot up like an obscene gesture. “It’s on the other finger.”
“But you’re still married to me.”
“Yeah, and we’re separated,” she snapped. “And I have a right to do what I damn well please with whomever I damn well please.”
“Did you sleep with him?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“You’re still my wife.” Even through the booze, he knew how pathetic that sounded.
“That didn’t stop you from screwing Sylvia Nevins.”
He nodded. “Just tell me, are you sleeping with him?”
She looked at him for a long moment. “No. Now leave.”
No. Something in her manner said that was true. And he threw himself onto that syllable as if it were a life preserver. “Who is he?”
“Stephen, I’m not one of your suspects, and this is not one of your cases.”
“Why did he bring you home in a limo?”
“Because he felt like it.”
“Or was he some rich bopper you picked up at a rock club who hasn’t gotten his license yet?” He knew that was supposed to be funny, but he also knew he had struck at her quick. “You said you wished you were a kid again.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Fuck you, Steve. Fuck you.”
He had hit his mark.
In a flash, she grabbed a salt shaker and threw it at him. It punched his shoulder and clattered on the floor.
She picked up the phone handset. Her eyes were spitting at him as she stood there panting with fury, her lipstick smeared, her newborn face still puffy and red. A new yellow sundress that he hadn’t seen before, new backless white heels. New outfit, new Dana.
Suddenly he wanted to cry. There she was in front of him, dressed for another guy, the handset poised to call help, her eyes full of hate and resentment. It was so wrong. So wrong. So far from what it was supposed to be.
He turned and headed for the door. “I’m sorry, Dana. You’re right about all of it.”
And he opened the door and left.
75
“I’m an asshole.”
“You can say that again.”
“I’m an asshole.”
“You’re also a drunk.”
“I prefer the former, but I’m working on the latter.”
“I thought you had stopped.”
“I have now and forever. That was the end of it. I swear.”
It was a little after ten the next morning. He knew she was expecting his apology. He was hoping for forgiveness at best, maybe a snicker at least. He got neither.
“I think you need some psychological counseling. I mean it. You’re getting pathetic.”
“I’ll consider it,” he said. “So, who was he?”
“God! Are we back there again?”
“Because I don’t like thinking about you with some other guy.”
“Well, it’s too damn bad. Don’t think about it.”
“Let me move back and I won’t.”
“Why can’t you get it through your head that we’re separated?”
“But only on a trial basis, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I’ve tried it and I don’t like it.”
A faint snicker, and he sensed a slender turnaround.
“You’re impossible.”
“Yes, but does he make you laugh?”
“Can we please change the subject?”
“Okay. Want to go to dinner tonight? I found a new place in the South End.”
“I don’t believe this.”
“No, really, it’s got a great pork loin—kind of like myself.” The fact that she just didn’t hang up encouraged him on. And the fact that she had answered after checking caller ID.
“I’m busy tonight. And before you ask, I’m getting my hair done then going to a movie with Jane.”
“How about after the movie? We’ll drop Jane off.”
“No.”
“What’s he like?”
“Who?”
“The guy in the limo?”
“Jesus! Get off it, will you? I’m not going to talk about that.”
“Well, if I find out who he is, he’s going to have hell to pay.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means, he parks his car anywhere in greater Boston I’m going to bury it with tickets.”
“You’re not in traffic, you’re in homicide.”
“An even better solution.”
An outright chuckle. “I’ve got to go.”
“Okay, one more question.”
“What?”
“Do you love me?”
“Steve, you were building a decent apology, so don’t spoil it.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
There was a moment’s hesitation. Then, “Yes, I love you. But I just don’t want to live with you.”
He felt his chest clutch. “Ever?”
“For the time being.”
“I want to have kids.”
“Good.”
“With you.”
“I have to go.”
“If I stop drinking will you take me back?”
“It’ll be a start.”
“What else is there?”
“I didn’t say that to set up a bargaining table. My freedom is not negotiable.”
“You can be free with me, just don’t see other guys.”
“That’s not the freedom I have in mind. I’m enjoying being on my own for once.”
“For once?”
“Yes, without having to answer to anybody else, without having someone else control everything I do or don’t do.”
“Like what?”
“Like wanting to be independent.”
“Being dependent on another for emotional or moral support isn’t the opposite of freedom. Nor is monogamy.”
“Look, we’re getting into a semantic thing. I’m going to hang up.”
Before he said goodbye he asked, “Are you happy with your nose job?”