all.”
“You going on vacation now, you and that boyfriend of yours?”
“I'm just about to call him and find out.”
“Take me with you?”
George is a fifty-six-year-old gay man with a longtime love. They're both former military men on good pensions, but they get bored; hence George's part-time job in our guardhouse, where he can read espionage novels to his heart's content.
“What would Bennie say if I did?”
“He'd be jealous. That boyfriend of yours is too pretty to be a lawyer.”
I laugh, as will the “boyfriend” when I tell him this. “George, you've never told anybody but Bennie about my friend, have you?”
“ 'Course not. Didn't you ask me not to? But listen, Marie, if you've got to conduct a relationship in secret, you might as well be gay.”
I know he means well, but it annoys me to hear him say the truth. I can't even work up a laugh about it, and he meant it halfway joking, I know. Ignoring his last comment, I tell George to shoo my visitors up this way.
“Bye,” he says, sounding contented.
I put my phone down, thinking: There's not enough time to clean up. The best I can do is unclasp the barrette and pull a brush through my hair.
That's the doorbell ringing, isn't it?
I dimly recall that sound from the days when I wasn't writing night and day, from when I was a fairly normal human being. Now, let's see, what do people do when their doorbell rings? Oh, yes. They get up, they walk through their house to the door, and they peer through their peephole, because they are paranoid, in spite of living in a residential enclave with round-the-clock security. And they are sometimes completely bemused to find coincidence waiting for them on their doorstep. Hadn't I just been reading my own words about these people?
I recall how to open the door and do so, squinting into the noonday sun and the faces of the two people on my front stoop.
“Oh, Ms. Lightfoot, thank God you're here.”
It's little Jenny Carmichael and her mother, whose name I can't immediately call to my mind. She's looking frazzled, as befits the mother of this child, and of four other little Carmichaels. Both of them are in sundresses and sandals withtheir gorgeous red hair held back by elastic bands. Jenny and her hair have both grown a lot since I last saw her. Jenny and her mom are carrying a large white canvas boat bag between them. Jenny's got one handle of it, her mother's got the other. Anne! That's her name, Anne Carmichael. She's a forty-one-year-old version of Jenny, and married to Herb Carmichael, who calls this child their “little handful.” I wonder what he calls his wife.
“Anne?” I say, forcing pleased surprise into my voice. “Jenny.”
The child glances quickly up at me, then down. This bold and forthright child looks scared. Of me? “I apologize for doing this,” her mom says, frowning in the sunshine and talking so fast you'd think somebody was timing her, “but I've been trying for a week to get hold of you and I keep getting your message machine.” She waits a beat, to give me time to make excuses for myself, but I just nod. “I didn't know if you were out of town or what, but we finally took a chance and came by to see if we might find you home.”
“Why?” I asked her, trying not to sound rude.
“Jenny's got something to show you,” Anne tells me, looking tense and sounding really angry at her daughter, whose averted eyes begin to leak tears that surprise and dismay me. “It's something that she didn't show you before, something she found in the old mansion, that she hid and never showed anybody. I think it's important, but I can't get anybody to listen to me!” Her eyes seem to be begging me to give them an audience, so how can I refuse her? But what really prompts me to admit them to my house, and what disturbs me as much as her daughter's tears, is the matching look of fear on Anne's face. While I hold the door open, she pulls her daughter past me as if somebody is chasing
“You going on vacation now, you and that boyfriend of yours?”
“I'm just about to call him and find out.”
“Take me with you?”
George is a fifty-six-year-old gay man with a longtime love. They're both former military men on good pensions, but they get bored; hence George's part-time job in our guardhouse, where he can read espionage novels to his heart's content.
“What would Bennie say if I did?”
“He'd be jealous. That boyfriend of yours is too pretty to be a lawyer.”
I laugh, as will the “boyfriend” when I tell him this. “George, you've never told anybody but Bennie about my friend, have you?”
“ 'Course not. Didn't you ask me not to? But listen, Marie, if you've got to conduct a relationship in secret, you might as well be gay.”
I know he means well, but it annoys me to hear him say the truth. I can't even work up a laugh about it, and he meant it halfway joking, I know. Ignoring his last comment, I tell George to shoo my visitors up this way.
“Bye,” he says, sounding contented.
I put my phone down, thinking: There's not enough time to clean up. The best I can do is unclasp the barrette and pull a brush through my hair.
That's the doorbell ringing, isn't it?
I dimly recall that sound from the days when I wasn't writing night and day, from when I was a fairly normal human being. Now, let's see, what do people do when their doorbell rings? Oh, yes. They get up, they walk through their house to the door, and they peer through their peephole, because they are paranoid, in spite of living in a residential enclave with round-the-clock security. And they are sometimes completely bemused to find coincidence waiting for them on their doorstep. Hadn't I just been reading my own words about these people?
I recall how to open the door and do so, squinting into the noonday sun and the faces of the two people on my front stoop.
“Oh, Ms. Lightfoot, thank God you're here.”
It's little Jenny Carmichael and her mother, whose name I can't immediately call to my mind. She's looking frazzled, as befits the mother of this child, and of four other little Carmichaels. Both of them are in sundresses and sandals withtheir gorgeous red hair held back by elastic bands. Jenny and her hair have both grown a lot since I last saw her. Jenny and her mom are carrying a large white canvas boat bag between them. Jenny's got one handle of it, her mother's got the other. Anne! That's her name, Anne Carmichael. She's a forty-one-year-old version of Jenny, and married to Herb Carmichael, who calls this child their “little handful.” I wonder what he calls his wife.
“Anne?” I say, forcing pleased surprise into my voice. “Jenny.”
The child glances quickly up at me, then down. This bold and forthright child looks scared. Of me? “I apologize for doing this,” her mom says, frowning in the sunshine and talking so fast you'd think somebody was timing her, “but I've been trying for a week to get hold of you and I keep getting your message machine.” She waits a beat, to give me time to make excuses for myself, but I just nod. “I didn't know if you were out of town or what, but we finally took a chance and came by to see if we might find you home.”
“Why?” I asked her, trying not to sound rude.
“Jenny's got something to show you,” Anne tells me, looking tense and sounding really angry at her daughter, whose averted eyes begin to leak tears that surprise and dismay me. “It's something that she didn't show you before, something she found in the old mansion, that she hid and never showed anybody. I think it's important, but I can't get anybody to listen to me!” Her eyes seem to be begging me to give them an audience, so how can I refuse her? But what really prompts me to admit them to my house, and what disturbs me as much as her daughter's tears, is the matching look of fear on Anne's face. While I hold the door open, she pulls her daughter past me as if somebody is chasing
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