homicide not being generally conducive to hard-ons), and also because wanting to know what was under her T-shirt made me feel ridiculous. If she were in a movie, she'd be the heroine's good-natured girlfriend, a tomboy with a heart of gold. But for someone who wasn't attractive, she was so attractive. Here I was, half hoping she'd need something on a high shelf. She'd have to stretch up her arms; her shirt would rise and I would get to see her ass. It made me feel like a louse. Since AA and especially since Lynne, I'd stopped my bad-boy crap, my automatic concentration on anything female, my reflexive coming on to almost every woman I met.
"Tell me about you and Sy Spencer," I said quickly. "How long were you married to him?"
"Three years—1979 to 1982." She poured the boiling water through the coffee filter. "You don't take notes?"
"I think I can manage to remember 1979 to '82." I'd forgotten to take out my pad. Suddenly it felt like a block of lead in my jacket pocket. "Amicable divorce?"
"Even if it hadn't been, do you think I'd shoot him seven years later?"
"I'm open to all possibilities."
"Well, I didn't shoot him." Her manner was solemn, sincere, proper; if Bonnie Spencer's mouth was from the city, the rest of her had grown up in that nice non-New York hometown, wherever it was.
"Good. Now, do you want to answer my question? How was the divorce?"
"Amicable."
"Fair settlement?"
"I got this house."
"Just the house?"
"Yup."
"Was there any litigation?"
"No. Both of us were just overflowing with amicability. 'Bonnie, please take the alimony.' 'No, Sy, but thanks so much for thinking of me.' "
"Why no alimony? He was rich."
"I know. But back then, I didn't care about money. Oh, and I was in my wronged-woman phase: 'Do you honestly think a monthly check will make up for the loss of a husband, Sy?' " She shook her head. "God, was I morally superior. You can imagine Sy—and his matrimonial lawyer. They must have been shouting 'Hallelujah!' and jumping up and down and hugging each other."
I didn't like this. At the same time I was being vigilant, trying to figure out just what was wrong with Bonnie Spencer—because I knew there was something wrong—I was finding there was something about her I really liked. Maybe I was just intoxicated by the homey atmosphere—being at that bright-polished wood table in the fresh-smelling country kitchen, watching a woman open a cupboard and think for a second before choosing from a bunch of mugs. Maybe it was that big hairy black mop, Moose, warming my feet. I could just feel myself letting go, my brain turning to mush. Bonnie put the cow pitcher and a sugar bowl down on the table and handed me a mug of coffee. The mug said "I love"—the "love" was one of those hearts—"Seattle!" and had a cartoon of a smiley animal with funny-looking flippers.
"I know it's tacky," she said. "It was a choice between tacky and chipped."
"You didn't get any alimony at all?" I tipped the pitcher. The milk came out of the cow's mouth. It was so dumb.
"I never dreamed I'd need it. See, when I met Sy, I was a hot screenwriter. My movie— Cowgirl —had just opened. It got great reviews, did decent business. And during the time we were married, I wrote five more screenplays. Three of them were in development." She sat down across from me at the table. "When you're a big success right off the bat, you assume it's going to go on forever."
"It didn't?"
She shook her head. "No. Cowgirl was my first and only movie. Nothing ever happened with any of the others. Anyhow, Sy offered to pay me alimony at least three times. But I wanted to show him I could be independent. And you know what? In the long run, it really was better this way."
"Why did the marriage break up?" She was clearly not a New Yorker, because instead of giving me a socio-psycho-feminist analysis of the relationship, she clammed up. "Come on," I urged. "I know this may seem like an invasion of your privacy, but someone's been
"Tell me about you and Sy Spencer," I said quickly. "How long were you married to him?"
"Three years—1979 to 1982." She poured the boiling water through the coffee filter. "You don't take notes?"
"I think I can manage to remember 1979 to '82." I'd forgotten to take out my pad. Suddenly it felt like a block of lead in my jacket pocket. "Amicable divorce?"
"Even if it hadn't been, do you think I'd shoot him seven years later?"
"I'm open to all possibilities."
"Well, I didn't shoot him." Her manner was solemn, sincere, proper; if Bonnie Spencer's mouth was from the city, the rest of her had grown up in that nice non-New York hometown, wherever it was.
"Good. Now, do you want to answer my question? How was the divorce?"
"Amicable."
"Fair settlement?"
"I got this house."
"Just the house?"
"Yup."
"Was there any litigation?"
"No. Both of us were just overflowing with amicability. 'Bonnie, please take the alimony.' 'No, Sy, but thanks so much for thinking of me.' "
"Why no alimony? He was rich."
"I know. But back then, I didn't care about money. Oh, and I was in my wronged-woman phase: 'Do you honestly think a monthly check will make up for the loss of a husband, Sy?' " She shook her head. "God, was I morally superior. You can imagine Sy—and his matrimonial lawyer. They must have been shouting 'Hallelujah!' and jumping up and down and hugging each other."
I didn't like this. At the same time I was being vigilant, trying to figure out just what was wrong with Bonnie Spencer—because I knew there was something wrong—I was finding there was something about her I really liked. Maybe I was just intoxicated by the homey atmosphere—being at that bright-polished wood table in the fresh-smelling country kitchen, watching a woman open a cupboard and think for a second before choosing from a bunch of mugs. Maybe it was that big hairy black mop, Moose, warming my feet. I could just feel myself letting go, my brain turning to mush. Bonnie put the cow pitcher and a sugar bowl down on the table and handed me a mug of coffee. The mug said "I love"—the "love" was one of those hearts—"Seattle!" and had a cartoon of a smiley animal with funny-looking flippers.
"I know it's tacky," she said. "It was a choice between tacky and chipped."
"You didn't get any alimony at all?" I tipped the pitcher. The milk came out of the cow's mouth. It was so dumb.
"I never dreamed I'd need it. See, when I met Sy, I was a hot screenwriter. My movie— Cowgirl —had just opened. It got great reviews, did decent business. And during the time we were married, I wrote five more screenplays. Three of them were in development." She sat down across from me at the table. "When you're a big success right off the bat, you assume it's going to go on forever."
"It didn't?"
She shook her head. "No. Cowgirl was my first and only movie. Nothing ever happened with any of the others. Anyhow, Sy offered to pay me alimony at least three times. But I wanted to show him I could be independent. And you know what? In the long run, it really was better this way."
"Why did the marriage break up?" She was clearly not a New Yorker, because instead of giving me a socio-psycho-feminist analysis of the relationship, she clammed up. "Come on," I urged. "I know this may seem like an invasion of your privacy, but someone's been
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