We scare easy tonight. At one point Georgia sneezes. It practically gives me a heart attack. A few minutes later Penelope drops her plastic fork. We stare at her with terror.
Things get misinterpreted. The slightest sounds. If someone laughs, the rest of us hear it as evil and expect the worst.
“Wow, you guys are like jumpy, high-strung thoroughbred horses,” Strad says. “You’ve really honed that flinching trait.”
A few grunts is the only response.
No one tries to make conversation during dinner except Strad, but he doesn’t get very far. He asks me about my costumes. I give him brief, bland answers. I’m not capable of more. The others don’t seem to be either. So he gives up. The ticking of the clock is noticeable in the silence. There isn’t even the familiar clanking of cutlery — typical of conversationless meals — since everything is plastic and paper. I spend long stretches of time in a sort of trance, staring at Strad and his plate, lost in thought, trying to make sure I haven’t overlooked any killing methods or schemes the murderer might have come up with.
While Strad chews on his food, Lily, too, stares at him. But hers is a very different look from mine. Her look is one of adoration.
Strad gazes at all of us sitting there stiffly, and says, “Do you guys always have this much fun?”
Georgia can’t help laughing.
When the fake bird flies out of the clock at nine, screaming “CUCKOO!!!” we all hit the ceiling except Jack.
“I saw it coming,” Jack explains.
Three more hours to go. Why did I think marking the slow passage of time with this clock would be a good idea?
“Ah!” shouts Strad, slapping the table, which scares me even more than the cuckoo did, “I have been wanting to ask you something for ages, Georgia!”
“I’m all ears,” she says.
“What in the world is the anagram for ‘Whiterose’ at the end of your novel The Liquid Angel? I’ve been racking my brains for months. I simply must know.”
“Otherwise what? You’ll die?” Georgia says.
He chuckles. “Uh, something like that.”
“And we wouldn’t want that, would we?” She pauses. “Which is why I’ve given you the answer.”
“What do you mean you’ve given me the answer? No you haven’t.”
She turns to the rest of us, “Have I?”
We nod.
She turns back to Strad. “You see. I have.”
“When?”
“A few seconds ago.”
After a pause, he says, “You’re not going to give it to me in a way I can understand?”
“Guess not,” she says. “I’m a little sadistic, I suppose.”
Nothing much but chewing goes on at the table for a while.
Strad gets up. “Where’s the bathroom?” he asks me.
We all get up. He looks surprised and says, “No, please, you don’t need to get up.”
“It’s all right,” I say. “Jack, will you lead the way?”
“Certainly,” Jack says, and proceeds toward the hallway. I keep an eye on Strad’s plate until everyone has left the table. We begin escorting Strad to the bathroom.
“Uh, what are you guys doing?” he asks.
“Showing you to the bathroom,” I say, trying to sound as casual as possible. “We’re almost there.”
We go through the hallway, turn a corner, and there we are, all crowded in front of the door.
“Please make way,” I say, and open the bathroom door. I take a quick look, to triple-check that everything seems safe, and show him in.
Strad steps inside, closes the door, and we hear nothing. After about thirty seconds he says, not very loudly, “Are you still there?”
I don’t answer right away, unsure what to say. Finally I answer, “Yes.”
Softly, he says, “Why?”
After a pause, I say, “In case you need anything.”
“I don’t need anything. You can go back to your seats now. I’m sure I can find my way back even though I got lost in your building.”
I don’t think this requires a response, so I give none. We still hear nothing. Time passes and still we hear absolutely nothing. I get worried. Having him out of my sight makes me nervous even though I’ve searched that bathroom multiple times and found no danger. I imagine things. Impossible things, perhaps, but when they’re dwelled on, they start to seem possible. I imagine a lethal gas seeping through the bathroom vent. I imagine a deadly electrical current connected to the metal faucet knobs and activated only when Strad is in the bathroom. I imagine that maybe I was not vigilant enough about staring at his plate and that now he’s quietly dying from poisoning.
I’m straining to hear the slightest sound. My fingertips are against the thin wooden door that separates us.
And then I hear him say softly, “Are you still there?”
“Yes,” I reply, almost as softly.
“I’m a bit uncomfortable with you all standing out there, you know,” he says.
I nod and murmur, “We know.” That wasn’t meant for him to hear and I don’t think he did.
There is the sound of the sink faucet going on, and a second later, the bathwater running. I have a preposterous vision of the killer having arranged for these faucets to turn on by themselves. The door would be locked, jammed, no way to unlock it, the faucets would keep running, no way to shut them off, and the tiny bathroom would fill up like a fish tank.
“Are you okay?” I ask through the door.
“Fine, fine.”
Finally, despite the racket of the running water, we make out the sound of him urinating.
A few moments later, the water noises stop and he comes out of the bathroom, intact.
Relieved, I’m about to take him back to the table, when Lily says, “I need to go, too.”
I give her permission.
“But I’m not sure I’ll be able to, with you all standing here,” she says.
Strad decides to make her feel more comfortable by masking her sounds. He fetches his violin and plays The Four Seasons by Vivaldi, right outside the bathroom door.
Upon her exit, I frisk her, prompting Strad to ask me, “What are you doing?”
“Just routine,” I reply.
“I need to pee, too,” Georgia says, and slips into the bathroom.
Strad plays “The Devil Went Down to Georgia.”
When Georgia emerges, I frisk her very carefully.
“Did she steal anything?” Strad asks.
“Uh, it doesn’t look like it,” I say.
“You didn’t frisk me,” he says.
“Not yet.”
As I’m about to give Strad his token frisk, I get a better idea. “Lily, frisk him.” Why not give her some gratuitous pleasure?
She stares at me hard with embarrassment, and then slowly advances toward Strad. She pats his arms, from wrist to shoulder, then his chest. Her hands seem a little shaky as they descend toward his belly. She is carefully mimicking the way she saw me frisk her and Georgia — she does no more and no less. She strokes Strad’s waist, his hips, his pockets — which are bulky, but she ignores them — then his legs and ankles. She walks around him and frisks him from behind. His back pockets have some bulk in them as well, but she does not explore.
“All good?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says.
“This is surreal,” Strad remarks to me, as we escort him back to the table. “You have me frisked, my pockets are bulging with things, and yet you don’t ask to see what’s in them. It could be your soap, you know. I could have stolen your soap.”
“I trust you.”
We take our seats and finish our sardines.
The time has come for the table to be cleared for dessert. The problem is, I don’t want any of my friends to take the dirty dishes to the kitchen because of the opportunity it would give the killer to sprinkle sleeping powder on the fruit salad I’ve prepared (which is sitting on the counter) or in the coffee pot. We’d all fall asleep and the killer could kill Strad at his or her leisure. Or while setting the dessert plates, the killer could apply some poison directly onto Strad’s plate or plastic spoon or fork.