she demanded.
“He couldn’t make it,” Alex told her.
Lynda was edging toward fifty. Time and hard living had eroded her prom-queen looks, though she still exuded an earthy quality. Her hair was now all but colorless, wispy and fine, overprocessed. At five-thirty in the morning, she wore an ivory housedress and fuzzy slippers that might have once been white. The overall result was unbelievable paleness.
However, much more distracting than her appearance was the way she had of regarding people with her head tilted and one eye kind of half-shut, as though she was trying to discern everything they were hiding. It was unsettling, to say the least. Even the most virtuous person in the world doesn’t appreciate being looked at as if he’s a sleazeball.
“I know who you are,” she said at last. “You’re that cop who disappeared. You used to come out here and give me trouble, didn’t you? You cops, I swear, you’re all alike. Your picture was in the paper yesterday. You look pretty good for a dead man.”
“That’s because I’m not dead,” he said, attempting humor.
“Everyone thought you were.” She cast a long look at Jessica before looking back at him. “Why do I get the feeling you were really hiding? Not that I’d blame you. I think about doing that sometimes.”
“What?” he said incredulously. “I wasn’t hiding. The paper explained about the crash.”
“You can’t believe the things you read,” she said. “But I didn’t call you. I called Frank. A long time ago, too.”
“And Frank called me,” Alex said.
“That jerk.” She turned suddenly and, moving way faster than it appeared she could, retreated into her house. Since she didn’t close the door, Alex and Jessica hesitantly followed.
“What’s the problem?” Alex asked, stopping right inside the door because that was about as far as he could get. Piles and heaps of clothes, stuffed animals, books, magazines, newspapers, dishes and every other possible thing took up all the floor space, except for a couple of narrow paths carved out of the junk that ran down the middle of the room and a path to a love seat and chair situated in front of a television. Some of the walls were covered with sagging shelves crammed with dolls. All those glassy eyes staring endlessly were creepy. Even doorways sported mounds of objects that seemed to burst through the openings like lava from an inferno’s fissures. Alex’s gut clenched. Being inside was hard for him anyway, and being inside this closed junk pile felt suffocating.
Lynda gave him her one eyed stare as she watched his gaze travel her home. She didn’t respond to the question and he wondered if she’d heard him.
Right behind him, Jessica cleared her throat. “Mrs. Summers, is Billy here?”
Lynda’s attention turned to Jessica. “I don’t think so,” she said, stopping to pick up a paper sack full of what looked like dolls still in their boxes and mindlessly setting it back down. “You’re that teacher, aren’t you. Well, last I saw of him he was headed out to your house.”
“He got there about eleven last night,” Alex said, “but he claimed he forgot why he came. Do you know why he wanted to see us?”
She shrugged. “He spent the day moping around, muttering to himself like he does. You can’t get a decent conversation out of him when he’s like that.”
“He left our house hours ago,” Jessica added. “Are you saying he never arrived home?”
“Maybe he’s in his bedroom.” Lynda gestured at the doorway Alex had seen earlier, the one piled with junk. Moving carefully through the mess, he approached the door along a little side track, picking his way over discarded clothes. He could see where someone consistently climbed over the pile in the doorway. He found a switch and flicked it on, illuminating a sea of junk. How could anyone sleep in this?
A quick look around revealed a mattress in one far corner with a little lamp on the floor beside it. A couple
“He couldn’t make it,” Alex told her.
Lynda was edging toward fifty. Time and hard living had eroded her prom-queen looks, though she still exuded an earthy quality. Her hair was now all but colorless, wispy and fine, overprocessed. At five-thirty in the morning, she wore an ivory housedress and fuzzy slippers that might have once been white. The overall result was unbelievable paleness.
However, much more distracting than her appearance was the way she had of regarding people with her head tilted and one eye kind of half-shut, as though she was trying to discern everything they were hiding. It was unsettling, to say the least. Even the most virtuous person in the world doesn’t appreciate being looked at as if he’s a sleazeball.
“I know who you are,” she said at last. “You’re that cop who disappeared. You used to come out here and give me trouble, didn’t you? You cops, I swear, you’re all alike. Your picture was in the paper yesterday. You look pretty good for a dead man.”
“That’s because I’m not dead,” he said, attempting humor.
“Everyone thought you were.” She cast a long look at Jessica before looking back at him. “Why do I get the feeling you were really hiding? Not that I’d blame you. I think about doing that sometimes.”
“What?” he said incredulously. “I wasn’t hiding. The paper explained about the crash.”
“You can’t believe the things you read,” she said. “But I didn’t call you. I called Frank. A long time ago, too.”
“And Frank called me,” Alex said.
“That jerk.” She turned suddenly and, moving way faster than it appeared she could, retreated into her house. Since she didn’t close the door, Alex and Jessica hesitantly followed.
“What’s the problem?” Alex asked, stopping right inside the door because that was about as far as he could get. Piles and heaps of clothes, stuffed animals, books, magazines, newspapers, dishes and every other possible thing took up all the floor space, except for a couple of narrow paths carved out of the junk that ran down the middle of the room and a path to a love seat and chair situated in front of a television. Some of the walls were covered with sagging shelves crammed with dolls. All those glassy eyes staring endlessly were creepy. Even doorways sported mounds of objects that seemed to burst through the openings like lava from an inferno’s fissures. Alex’s gut clenched. Being inside was hard for him anyway, and being inside this closed junk pile felt suffocating.
Lynda gave him her one eyed stare as she watched his gaze travel her home. She didn’t respond to the question and he wondered if she’d heard him.
Right behind him, Jessica cleared her throat. “Mrs. Summers, is Billy here?”
Lynda’s attention turned to Jessica. “I don’t think so,” she said, stopping to pick up a paper sack full of what looked like dolls still in their boxes and mindlessly setting it back down. “You’re that teacher, aren’t you. Well, last I saw of him he was headed out to your house.”
“He got there about eleven last night,” Alex said, “but he claimed he forgot why he came. Do you know why he wanted to see us?”
She shrugged. “He spent the day moping around, muttering to himself like he does. You can’t get a decent conversation out of him when he’s like that.”
“He left our house hours ago,” Jessica added. “Are you saying he never arrived home?”
“Maybe he’s in his bedroom.” Lynda gestured at the doorway Alex had seen earlier, the one piled with junk. Moving carefully through the mess, he approached the door along a little side track, picking his way over discarded clothes. He could see where someone consistently climbed over the pile in the doorway. He found a switch and flicked it on, illuminating a sea of junk. How could anyone sleep in this?
A quick look around revealed a mattress in one far corner with a little lamp on the floor beside it. A couple
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