Read Online Stacking in Rivertown by Barbara Bell - Free Book Online Page B

until they’re just right.
    “Broder,” I say. “It’s Broder.” He almost got me there. I don’t take his hand. “You know, you could benefit from a night course on ironing.”
    He gets a smile somewhat like Ben’s. “Funniest thing,” he says. “I found an old mug shot. Looks a lot like you, with the name Elizabeth Boone.” He shows it to me.
    Oh yeah. I forgot to say I spent a couple of days in jail for shoplifting. Ben locked me in the box for that.
    “So what do you want?” I say.
    “Can I come in?”
    I smile. Coffee, tea, or me? He follows me into our nicely appointed living room, taking a moment to stare up into the three-story entry, arched over by the winding stair and pouring with sunlight. I offer him a chair and wince as he sits in it. I hope he at least cleans his mangled clothes.
    “Why don’t you look at these pictures now,” he says.
    I don’t say anything.
    “You wouldn’t want anybody to find out about your past, would you now, Mrs. Broder? Can I call you Beth?”
    I stare straight through him.
    He shows me the first photo. It’s a woman in a Dumpster. A blanket has been pulled away from her body and she’s lying on her back. There’s a smile across her stomach and out of that, some of her guts are pouring out. Her neck has a line along it. The head is near cut off. Her face is covered with a red-stained towel.
    I try not to flinch. I’ve had a good amount of practice at not flinching. But the picture gets to me.
    He hands me the next. It’s a close-up of her face.
    A dead face doesn’t look quite like a living face. You can see a resemblance, but the face is missing some element that binds it into one, making it alive.
    “You know her,” he says.
    “No.”
    “Are you sure?”
    He’s in my face now. I throw the picture at him. “I told you no. Now get out of here.”
    He gathers his photographs and slides them in his case. “Tape can be nasty stuff,” he says. “Makes the skin raw.”
    I turn away so that I don’t try to strangle him.
    “Be careful, Miss Boone. Very deep water.”
    I want to make a crack about how long I can hold my breath, but I feel too sick.
    After he leaves, I close the front door and lean against it, sliding down. I cry like a baby. I keep seeing those small breasts. Those lips so pure, so chaste. The dead face, beaten badly. The face that used to belong to Violet.

    I’m wishing I had the Prozac now.
    Upstairs, I fill our tub that’s big enough for six and settle in for a long soak. I sink down, counting one to five, checking how many minutes until I come up for air. I curl on the bottom, pretending I’m dead and that everyone has forgotten me. Oh, for a memory wiped clean.
    Miserere mei.
    After my bath, I write a note to Jeremy:

    Left town. Needed some space. Be back in a couple of days. Your adoring wife,

    Clarisse

    Jesus, the things I do.
    I rifle my blouses and skirts in a closet that’s as big as a living room. I choose a blouse made of cobalt silk and tuck it into a luscious blue print midlength skirt with a slit up the side. After I’m dressed, I sit in front of my mirror, blotting out what remains of my rash with makeup.
    Now my head is starting to spin with the push, the need to get the hell away from here, and my memory of the pictures of Violet.
    I ride the commuter to Penn Station, arriving a little before five. The limo is waiting. Just the sight of that car freaks me into high gear as I float, my body going along on automatic pilot.
    The muscular hunk of a driver opens the door. I slide in. Ben’s two girls are inside. The larger one apologizes and slips a hood over my head.
    We drive for a bit. Then the other girl says to me, lie down across the seat on your back.
    I comply, lying with my knees up.
    Take hold of the armrest, she says, grasping my wrists and raising them above my head. Then the girl leans over me, raising the hood enough to kiss me. The other begins fondling me.
    Ben has this theory about men. He says that a