Time Off for Good Behavior (32 page)

The realization that I was a spinster freeloader crying over a home design show took me to a new low. This was even worse th
an the Lifetime movie thing. I looked over to my lonely bottle of Albert, sitting untouched in a brown paper bag on the coffee table.

Two hours later I was still watching
Trading Spaces
, with a Scotch flush on my cheeks now, and the pathetic feeling of bei
ng a permanent resident in Loserville had cemented into firm, unyielding blocks around my ankles.

I slept on the sofa, waking up when the first light of morning infused a pale glow into the drapes. My head hurt, my stomach was queasy, and the realization h
it me that I was way too old for this shit. I took the Doritos, the M&M
’
s, and Albert, put them all in a big trash bag, and walked it out to the curb, returning to retrieve Albert at the last minute. Dad had been right about some days requiring Scotch. I
s
tuffed the bottle into the back of Elizabeth
’
s liquor cabinet, knowing that someday I
’
d probably be grateful I did.

Even with the trash on the corner and an orange digesting nicely in my stomach, I didn
’
t feel better. Restless, I grabbed the keys to my car
and headed out to Wal-Mart, where I bought a pair of running shoes, blue shiny nylon running pants with stripes down the sides, a T-shirt with that obnoxious Nike
“
Just Do It
”
slogan on the front. If it wasn
’
t for my love handles and some serious thigh ji
ggle, someone might even have taken me for the athletic type.

It was still fairly early in the morning when I headed out for my run. I ran to the end of the driveway and tripped over the trash bag while trying to pull off the tag that I
’
d left on the neck
of my T-shirt. It wasn
’
t a sterling start.

It
’
s also important to note that just because pants are shiny and nylon and have running stripes on them, it doesn
’
t necessarily make them running pants. Or maybe it was that my wearing shiny nylon pants with runn
ing stripes didn
’
t necessarily make me a runner. At any rate, I hadn
’
t made it to the end of the street before I decided that maybe power walking was more my style.

I power walked through Elizabeth
’
s neighborhood, trying not to look like a geek with my elb
ows kicking and my legs snapping. The air was just cold enough to be sharp on my lungs, but not so cold that a little movement couldn
’
t keep me comfortable. I zipped through Such-and-Such Lane and Cute-Suburban-Home Way and marveled at how many wind socks
these people seemed to need.

I was about halfway around So-Cute-You-Could-Just-Throw-Up Circle when I saw it. Like all the other lawns, it was perfectly manicured and had about a foot of chilled morning mist hovering above its surface. What was different o
n this one was the For Sale sign. I slowed down and walked up the driveway to the single-car garage and picked out a sheet from the plastic box hanging on the Realtor
’
s sign.

Hardwood Floors.

Fireplace.

Open Floor Plan.

I walked up to the window and presse
d my nose against it, trying to see inside through the slats in the blinds. It was empty, but that was about all I could tell, except that the hardwood floors looked shiny and full of promise. I folded the Realtor
’
s sheet into eighths, stuffed it in my pa
n
ts pocket, and power walked back to Elizabeth
’
s house, my mind whirling with possibilities and pipe dreams.

A half hour later I was boiling water for instant oatmeal when the phone rang. I glanced at it and let it ring, figuring Elizabeth
’
s answering machi
ne would take a more reliable message than I would. The machine clicked, Elizabeth did her ,
“
Leave a message at the beep,
”
routine, and then Walter
’
s voice came through the line.

“
Elizabeth? This is Walter Briggs. I
’
m looking for Wanda. I don
’
t know where
she is, and I need to talk
—
”

“
Hey, Walter,
”
I said, my breath almost as choppy as when I was running. My heart had started
boom-boom-booming
at the sound of his voice, and I had practically cracked my kneecap lunging for the phone.
“
What
’
s up?
”

“
Wanda?
”
Hi
s voice sounded tense.
“
I
’
m glad you
’
re there.
”

“
Yeah,
”
I said, coiling the cord in my hands, almost cutting off the circulation.
“
What
’
s going on?
”

He paused for a moment.
“
I need you to meet me at Hastings General,
”
he said.
“
I think we
’
ve found your ex-
husband.
”

***

Walter was waiting in front of the hospital entrance when I got there. He looked so young, standing out in the cold with his hands tucked in the front pockets of his jeans, his Harvard sweatshirt ruffli
ng a bit in the breeze. He took a step toward me when he saw me coming.

“
Hey,
”
he said with a concerned smile.
“
How are you?
”

“
Peachy. What
’
s up?
”
I asked him, a little annoyed at the,
“
I
’
d rather tell you in person,
”
bit he
’
d given me on the phone.

“
Let
’
s
go inside.
”
He put his hand on my elbow and guided me through the automatic doors toward the hospital lobby.

“
Walter,
”
I said, running my hands over my arms,
“
are you trying to freak me out? Because if you are, you
’
re doing a really super job.
”

Walter sat
me down in a row of seats by the registration desk, taking a seat next to me. His face was taut, his eyes locked on mine. I tried to glean some clues from his expression, but all I got was that there was news and it was bad.

“
Remember my friend, the priva
te investigator who was looking for your ex?
”

I nodded, my mind leaping from scenario to scenario, imagining what George had done to land himself in Hastings General. I saw fleeting images of bar brawls, resisting arrests, drunken car accidents. I felt Wal
ter
’
s hand covering mine, and I entwined my fingers tightly in his.

“
We think we may have found him. Here, in town.
”
I had images of him in my apartment, destroying my things. Scaring or hurting my landlady, Mrs. Forini. Harassing my neighbors. I heard Wal
ter say something, but it was lost in the static in my head.

Walter leaned his face down into my line of vision.
“
Did you hear me? We need you to identify the body.
”

“
The body?
”
I said, my heart clenched as my mind snapped to Mrs. Forini. But she has famil
y here. They wouldn
’
t need me to identify...

Oh.
A hush fell over my world. I replayed Walter
’
s words in my mind, finally accepting on a conscious level what I
’
d known the moment I heard his voice on the phone but hadn
’
t yet been ready to believe.

George w
as dead.

“
Okay,
”
I said, standing up.
“
Okay.
”

Walter put his hand on my shoulder.
“
Are you sure you
’
re ready to do this? Do you need a moment to
—
?
”

“
To what?
”
I asked.
“
To prepare myself? How exactly would I do that?
”

He nodded and guided me to the nurses
’
desk, asking for directions to the morgue, explaining to the woman at the desk who I was, handling the whole situation so that I didn
’
t have to say a word.

As we whirled through the hospital, I got the story from Walter. His friend had picked up George
’
s
scent in Kansas but lost him in Mississippi. A few days earlier one of his police buddies had mentioned arresting a guy from Alaska. He checked up on it and found that one George Lewis had been brought in on a drunk-and-disorderly and had been released to
the Randall P. McKay Shelter for Men. When Walter
’
s buddy went there to follow up, he was told that George Lewis had died in his sleep the night before.

Now it was up to me to determine if the dead George Lewis was my George Lewis.

An elevator ride and one
long, narrow hallway later, the morgue attendant was leading us to a wall of metallic drawers, pulling one out and folding the sheet down to reveal George
’
s face. It
’
s a funeral home cliche, the whole,
“
He looked so much like himself,
”
thing people say ab
out the dead. George still had the scar above his left eye that he
’
d gotten in a knife fight before I met him, and the birthmark on his chin was exactly where it used to be. But he looked nothing like George. He looked wooden, and cold, and peaceful. Geor
g
e had never seen a peaceful day in his life, and he certainly hadn
’
t earned one in death.

The attendant gave an uncomfortable cough, then,
“
Is this your husband, ma
’
am?
”

I nodded.
“
Ex-husband. Yes.
”

“
Is there anyone else we should notify?
”

I shook my head. George had lost contact with his family before I
’
d met him. I didn
’
t even know where they were.
“
I
’
m it.
”

Walter touched my elbow.
“
Do you want to sit down?
”

“
Can I go outside?
”
I asked. My voice sounded high and tight like a little girl
’
s. My limbs felt like they were made of foam.
“
Can you just get me outside?
”

Walter nodded, his hand on my elbow as he led me through the hospital hallways. The first outside door we found led to a central atrium, where they
’
d planted a garden with a statu
e of the Virgin Mary in the middle. Stone benches circled around her like subjects kneeling before a queen.

But it was all just a bunch of dead stone.

Walter led me to one of the benches and sat me down. He sat next to me as I stared at the Virgin. He was
still and silent, waiting for me to speak first, another statue in the midst of a garden made for mourning.

Snippets of memories wafted through my head like faint aromas in an attic. George bouncing at Pappy
’
s, buying me drinks when I was still underage. Z
ipping down the highway on the back of his motorcycle, my arms wrapped around his strong chest, feeling like nothing could touch us. The hate and anger in his eyes that I couldn
’
t understand. The fury I felt when he hurt Molly. How I separated from myself
when he kept me captive that weekend, watching him terrorizing me from a distance, only a taut string of fear keeping me shackled to myself.