 Night Guests
Josip Novakovich A loud
knocking. I stumbled out of bed and to the door. I lived in Wayne National Forest in Ohio,
near a little-traveled road, with the nearest neighbor half a mile away, and I should have
had the policy of not answering the door or of having a gun handy. But that was the risk I
usually took, to answer the door, with no bad consequences except a lot of boring
conversations with the Mormons, who, of course, visited only during the day, in the most
beautiful, heavenly weather.
But now it was terribly dark out there. The
silhouettes in the door, I thought, looked familiar; it was probably Mimi with John, my
former house sitters, who might have needed something. My dog didn't bark but sniffed
their crotches; maybe they had been somewhere interesting. They were giggling. I opened
the door, and a splash of cold air and the images of complete strangers, two women, one
tall and long-haired and the other chubby and short-haired, woke me up enough to realize
that I was not entirely decent.
I was not entirely indecent either, so I didn't
apologize or shut the door as I stood in my cotton underwear. At least it was American
underwear, which was pretty big, certainly not meant to please the eye, but to cover the
skin. I had just got back from Italy, from a research trip, where I could buy only tiny
Italian underwear at a shopping mall, or thongs, suitable for carnivals and gigolos. I
used to wear that kind of underwear as a child, growing up in Italy, but as a grad student
in the States I first made do with what I could find at the shops, and then I got used to
it, actually liked it. Now I was still aware of my underwear, as the tall woman spoke, in
a beseeching tone.
Could you help us? We just drove off the road into the
ditch!
She straightened with her hand her curly, fluffy,
light brown hair. She had a thin straight nose, full lips, and a shine in her eyes. She
looked happy even though she was clearly in trouble.
I wish I had a truck to pull you out, I said.
Could we come in and use your phone?
No problem, I said, and led them into the living room,
with a large red Persian carpet that felt good under my bare feet.
I went to the bedroom and pulled on my jeans and came
out.
The tall woman dialed three times, while I put a log
in the stove and stirred the embers, admiring how they still had plenty of body and glow.
The flames licked the log almost instantly, and with satisfaction, I closed the door.
I can't get through, the tall one said.
Try again later. How would you like a cup of coffee?
I'd love it. By the way, my name is Marietta.
I ground some Italian espresso beans (Illy), and
dripped a strong brew, which with a bit of Swiss chocolate wafted an intoxicating wakeful
aroma of delight and pleasure, to which hardly any caffeine addict could remain
indifferent.
How did you get into the ditch? I asked.
We was drivin' around, and out of nowhere, this
fuckin' big deer jumps on the road. I swerved and ended up in your ditch.
That seems a good choice, better ditch than
deer—safer, too, I think. How's your car?
Just a little banged. The right headlight's smashed is
all.
I didn't tell them that just the other day I had hit a
big deer with majestic antlers. I was rubbing my eyes, after a long day at the library,
and trying to defrost the window, when all of a sudden his majesty leaped into my hazy
vision. I braked and swerved to the left since he was already moving to the right. There
was a thump. What did I hit? His legs? His hoofs, which may have been in the air after a
leap? Whatever it was, the car kept going, and I was sure the deer was alive. I was not
going to try to hunt him. As it was deer-hunting season, someone would get him no matter
what, and should I feel sorry for him now, now that I lost all the light in the car? I
couldn't see the odometer, and I drove shedding such dim light onto the asphalt as though
using lanterns. When I got home, I saw that the hood was busted. It didn't seem a big
deal, but the man in the cheap body shop said it would be three hundred bucks. I realize,
buck was an unintended pun, at the expense of the poor buck on the road. Since it was an
old Sentra, I could get the job done more cheaply if I found the headlights with the
assembly trinkets in a junkyard, but all the junkyards I visited along the way were out of
the parts.
Anyhow, Marietta's right headlight was out, by a
different method, yet the same cause: trying to duck a deer.
I asked, Were you driving back from a party? Were you
drunk? Excuse me for asking.
Oh, no, said the other woman, we wasn't drunk. We had
only four or five beers each.
That would do it for me, I said. No party?
No, we was looking for my aunt, said Marietta. I kinda
remembered where she lived, but we got lost, and kept drivin' along these backroads, and
we couldn't figure out how to get out of the maze.
It took you till four in the morning to reach this
point? When did you start? (If you get lost, how long can you stand to be lost? Suppose
they were looking for the aunt at ten, sort of the last decent hour to start looking for
aunts. Six hours of wandering? Doesn't sound right, but what the hell. Let me buy the
story, I thought.)
We stopped by to get some cigarettes. Shelly, what
else did we do?
By now I had the coffee ready, and I proudly presented
it to Shelly and Marietta.
Jesus, what fine coffee. That tastes great! Shelly
said all that, but I didn't see her taste the coffee, and she laid the cup down next to
the rocking chair on which she was sitting.
Thank you, I said. Why don't you try that number
again?
All right, said Marietta, and Shelly said, Do you mind
if I go to the car to get some cigs and beer?
I minded but said, No, I don't mind.
Who are you trying to call? I turned to Marietta.
My ex?
That's a good ex if you can call him at four in the
morning for help.
Yeah, he's good at some things. But he's a real jerk.
I don't like him. I'm glad we're gettin' a divorce.
You are still married? (I wondered at myself. Why
should I need to know the details?)
Just on paper. We're separated. I hope never to see
him again.
But now you want to see him.
Now, yes. I wish I knew more people I could call, but
that shows you the problem; he didn't want me to meet any people. Jerk!
Shelly was back with her dangling six-pack, or rather,
four-pack by now, Bud Lite. My stomach turned at imagining the pale insipid taste. Nothing
bodied like Urquell or Trappist ale. But that was a snobbish attitude, and momentarily
ashamed of being a snob, I didn't mind when I heard the beer pop. Actually, I enjoyed the
whiff of the cool and breezy yeast-foam.
Shelly responded, Yes, he's a real jerk. I mean, what
can you expect, her husband's a damned cop.
So it's a real husband?
Real cop, said Shelly, real asshole.
I can't get through, Marietta said.
What area code is his number? I asked.
Seven-four-zero.
We are in six-one-four.
Shit, I thought it was a local. No wonder I couldn't
get through. I'll call collect.
Don't bother. Just dial direct.
I'd hate to get you stuck with a bill. You're already
doing so much for us.
Soon she said, It's me. Me.
A voice was shouting in the phone on the other end of
the line, Who?
Me. Gee, don't pretend you don't know my voice.
At four a.m., I don't know nobody's. Where are you?
The guy's voice carried even through the receiver so far.
I don't know.
What do you mean you don't know? You've been drinking.
No, we slid off the road in a ditch and can't get out.
Can you come over and get us out?
Calm down, Marietta—where are you now?
I don't know, I told you.
I saw it was time to intercede, and I said, Give me
the phone, and I'll give him directions. And so I did. I listed all the turns, about three
or four, and answered a couple of questions. Yes, their car is in a ditch somewhere
around. They aren't drinking.
I'll be there in twenty minutes. Can I speak to
Marietta again?
As much as you like.
He shouted something.
I love you too, lilted Marietta and hung up.
That sounded odd to me. She had just said what a jerk
he was and how she hated him, and now into the phone, he said he loved her and she said
she loved him. Was that like saying, See you later? Good night? Just a greeting? Habit? Or
truth? I didn't ask her to explain. But something here was not truth. Maybe she did love
him but liked complaining about him on the road. All that divorce and hate rap was valve
talk.
Shelly wanted to open another beer.
No, I said. No way. I don't want to be bossy, but it
seems you have had enough beer. Drink coffee instead, especially if you are bringing in a
cop.
You are right, said Shelly. That's okay with me. She
took the beer and poured it in my sink.
I love your coffee, said Marietta.
Have more then. Now, that seemed a better use of the
word love to my ears.
I poured her more, with a bit of milk, and she sipped,
tossing her hair over her shoulders. Nothing could stop her from having a good time, not
even car accidents. That was impressive. She stood up to go to the bathroom, and I saw she
had a graceful figure; she moved lightly, sinuously. A strange creature, untouched by
poverty, bad circumstances, bad marriage, car accident. She was clearly wonderful. When
she had gone to the bathroom, I was facing Shelly, who burped, and clearly was not
wonderful, and she said, Sorry.
What do you do, asked Shelly, and burped again.
I am a college professor, European history.
Renaissance crime is my specialty.
Sorry.
Sorry for what? Now and then I am sorry to teach
European history.
That we are bothering you.
You aren't bothering me. You are in need and I am glad
to help.
We thought, when we saw that big tobacco barn, a
farmer lived here, so we didn't feel shy about askin' for help. If we'd known—
Come on.
If we'd known—Here you are, a gentleman,
European, and you have to deal with us hicks.
Don't give me that. I opened the door in my underwear.
That ought to have relaxed you.
Well, no, a farmer would never open the door in his
underwear, so we knew at once you was a gentleman.
I laughed. She had a sense of humor. Or did she? She
didn't laugh, but seemed doleful. Did she mean that? Were we communicating? Maybe she was
wonderful too, with hidden treasures of the mind.
How can you live here and teach at a university? Is
there a university around?
No. I drive to Columbus during the week and stay
there, and weekends I am here.
I regretted I had told her. Suppose she had friends
who were thieves, they would know how to get to my place and rob it. So I added, During
the week, I have a house sitter. He likes it here.
Oh, she said. You have another house?
Yes, nothing spectacular. Not even as nice as this
cabin. I come here to get my reading and writing done, and to stay away from students,
bars, restaurants, and infernal temptations.
Two houses! Her eyes filled with the alarm of envy, I
could tell. She hated me at that moment. Hell, I thought, I better say nothing about
myself. Maybe they should say nothing about themselves. Knowledge is harm.
Where do you work? I contradicted my conclusion and
asked her, from inertia of the conversation. I couldn't say anything safely in the
affirmative, so questions seemed the best way.
Yes, I work, she said.
Where?
Marietta and I build dog houses. We nail them all day
long. You want to feel my muscle?
No, thank you.
We have fun at work, said Marietta. She's a hoot. Do
you want to feel my muscle?
She lifted her arm and tightened it, and her flannel
shirt slid, and I could see gentle slopes of her small and shapely breasts. Did she wear a
bra? Maybe not, couldn't see it, and the slopes went on, shedding light into a precipitous
darkness in her shirt. The breasts looked larger now than they had let on.
No, thank you. I believe you that you have good muscles.
I would have enjoyed feeling the proffered muscle, even the
biceps, but I had already committed to not feeling muscles by saying No to Shelly. It
wouldn't be consistent now to say Yes to Marietta. It would hurt Shelly. Or maybe it
wouldn't. I had my hang-ups of being considerate, or more accurately, of wanting to appear
considerate.
Marietta smiled with a shine on her lips and looked at
the stove. Nice how you can see the flames inside, she said.
For a second, I thought that maybe the two worked as
hookers, and this was a strange trick. But no, ditching your car would be a hard way to
earn a living. On the other hand, how did I know they had ditched a car? I hadn't gone out
to see it. But then, why would they call a policeman? No, they can't be hookers. Plus,
Marietta seems too airy, untouched, for that. No, how could I think that. That was dirty
and insulting of me. Good thing they can't read thoughts. But then, why was I sure that
they did call a policeman rather than a thief? Maybe they aren't hookers but thieves, with
complex schemes, which work, of course. They could speak in code. I love you too could
mean, He doesn't have a gun. Come here and clobber him. But she looks too nice for that,
too innocent even.
Would you like a dog house for your dog? asked Shelly.
We'll get you a forty percent discount.
So where does your husband live? I asked Marietta.
She sat back in the armchair. On top of the hill,
before you turn to 248, there's a white trailer, with many pots of flowers in the windows.
You are welcome to stop by.
To see him?
Well, no, there's another trailer, a pink one, and
that's mine, way back in the yard.
You think I could just drive in and talk to you all?
Your trailer doesn't have the flowers?
No, I have cats. They're always sunbathing in the
windows. Why wouldn't you stop by?
If you usually don't even talk to each other?
Oh, we do, I just hope we won't. We have a kid to take
care of, so that keeps us pretty close, better than dropping kids off fifty miles away, as
some people I know do. I'll need a better car before I get a divorce.
Who's taking care of the kid now?
The aunt. Not the one we was lookin' for, another one,
just two hundred feet past our place.
Blessed are the aunts, I said.
The phone rang. The cop wanted the directions to be
repeated to him. I found the chains, he said. I'll be there in twenty minutes. Is she all
right, sir? Not passing out?
Far from passing out, Marietta was buzzed on coffee,
and since she kept repeating how much she liked it, I made her a cappuccino. You better
watch out, she said. I may get addicted to this stuff and I don't know anybody else who
makes it.
Soon lights showed up in the yard, it seemed less than
ten minutes. Why did he say twenty, I wondered. I walked out and welcomed the bony man
with a crew cut and a mustache who jumped out of a red pickup.
Where are they? he asked, out of breath.
Inside.
Are they all right? Are they hurt?
Yes, they are all right, just silly.
He walked in, with a big flashlight in one hand. Are
you all right? he shouted.
Yeah, we are fine, said Marietta.
You didn't bang the dashboard, or anything like that?
No, we just knocked our heads together. Doesn't hurt.
He walked to Marietta, and said, Look at me.
She did, and he shone the light straight into her eyes
and peered.
Man, you'll make me go blind. Cut it out!
I got to look again, he said.
Do her first, I'll take a break, she said.
No, we got to finish this. This is serious.
What did I tell you, said Shelly to me. I understood,
she meant, What a pain in the ass this jerk is.
As though he understood that too, he pounced and
poured light into Shelly's eyes. He held the flashlight in his clenched fist above his ear
in a trained manner, which would allow the flashlight to become a billy club in a second
if need be.
I guess you are conscious, he said.
That shouldn't take that much guessing, said Shelly.
You've been drinking. How much have you had?
Oh, nothing, just two, three beers.
That's too much, Marietta. You should've let Shelly
drive.
But I don't have a driver's license, said Shelly.
Don't matter. If you drink, you shouldn't drive, let
Shelly do it.
But I drank more, said Shelly. I think Marietta had
only one beer.
Oh, did you? For a second the cop lost his staccato
pursuit stance. Never mind, Marietta, you still shouldn't have drove. You're an awful
driver.
I am not that bad.
So tell me, what happened?
We was laughin' so hard tears came into my eyes,
Marietta said. Jokes, we know some good new ones. Wanna hear them?
No. Keep going with your story.
Tears made it hard to see—this big deer jerk just
leaped out of nowhere, and I swerved.
That was stupid. Don't you know, you must brake and
keep your direction.
But then I would have hit him.
Probably not, if you'd started soon enough.
I didn't start soon enough. Plus, he just jumped out
of the total darkness.
You shouldn't have drove for the ditch.
It wasn't a highway, I could change my direction,
what's so bad about a ditch?
You wrecked the car.
She did fine, I said. Hitting a buck head-on would
cause more damage.
Don't defend her, sir. She should learn once and for
all. You see a deer, you brake, and keep going straight.
That struck me as insane. She indeed did fine, better
than I did or than he would. He probably would have ended up in a hospital if he stuck to
his idiotic rules. Where did he pick them up? Do cop manuals print nonsense like that?
If you wasn't my wife, I'd revoke your license. Still
might, he said.
Have they been drinking here, sir? he asked.
Hardly. I gave them coffee. You'd like some?
He walked to the sink and grabbed two cans of Lite.
You drink this, sir?
No.
I didn't think so.
They brought in the cans already empty, I said.
I didn't know why I lied. He frowned and cringed as
though he understood I was lying.
Would you like a cup of coffee? (A cup for a cop.)
No, thank you. I'm going to pull out the car. I'll be
back. Please, sir, don't let them drink.
He walked out.
I see what you mean, I said to Marietta. But he is
helping you.
I know, it just don't feel like it.
I had to agree with her, and we sat in silence like
three convicts.
Pretty soon, the cop was back, with the red car in
tow. He shone his light over the damaged area. We all came out.
That's at least two hundred fifty bucks' worth of
damage right there, he said. Maybe three hundred.
I was impressed, he was right with his estimate.
Where are you gonna get that? he asked her.
Insurance? Marietta said cheerfully.
No, not with drunken driving. Plus, the rate would
jump up. You got to come up with the money.
How?
You figure it out. That's your problem.
Maybe this is the pimp moment, I thought. Now she'll
be forced to moonlight, and they'll offer the services to me. Maybe he's the one who
designed the whole thing. I chuckled at the thought.
The cop looked at me strangely. Not the right moment
to chuckle.
Where's the assembly part? he asked. It fell out
somewheres.
Oh, that black thing? I saw it fall out. I'll find it,
said Shelly. They looked in the ditch, shining to and fro, and found nothing, and they
came back and sat in the car.
Marietta sat with her hands together, clasped between
her knees, as though she was chilled.
Shelly, you drive my pickup, he commanded.
You sure? she said, but climbed in it anyhow.
The cop sat with Marietta, and said before closing the
door, Thank you, sir, for your help.
Oh, nothing to thank.
Marietta lifted one of her hands and waved to me
briefly and looked away, at the barn. That seemed an indifferent greeting after our
conversation. She had seemed much friendlier before, but now, she just waved me off like a
fly. She doesn't need me. I am just a middle-aged guy with a tobacco barn, in which
there's no tobacco, but only firewood and mountain bikes.
It was five in the morning now. Should I go to bed?
No, it wouldn't work, after all that coffee. I made more, and thought, They were sweet,
except the cop, of course, but he must be a good guy despite being such a bore. Will I
ever see Marietta again? They told me where they worked. Should I stop by and see them at
work? No, I thought, that would be silly. Should I stop by at their trailers? No, even if
they are separated, somehow that wouldn't be decent, to come by to visit her, and to visit
him, that would not make any sense at all. Maybe I'll run into her at the Kroger's and if
she's divorced—oh, forget it, I told myself in my thoughts and gave myself sound
advice: Don't be an ass.
I was glad I had helped them, despite the policy not
to open doors to strangers at night deep in the forest.
The following morning, I saw a cop's car, and the same
cop walk up and down the road, looking into the ditch.
I drove past, rolled down the window, and said,
Missing something?
Yes, the assembly part.
Good luck, I said.
Thank you, he said, politely, and continued walking
back and forth by my barn.
It would have been more pleasant if Marietta had come
by to do it, or at least, if she had come with him. Now I had a cop snooping around.
Well, that's all right. It could be worse, I thought.
And of course, it could be.
Now and then I remembered Marietta and thought how
wonderful it would be if I could kayak with her, or hike in the woods, or simply drink
wine and talk. I was sure she was much smarter than she let on; it would be great to hear
her jokes. Each time I began to daydream about her, I reminded myself that it was all
pointless, and that was that.
A month later, however, the cop stopped by just as I
was doing my email—though "stopped by" may not be the right expression.
I thought I had heard a car, perhaps the mailman, but
the days in which I had expected something good in the mail had been long gone, so I kept
going through my Hotmail, when suddenly the door bangs open, and the cop, with a gun in
his hand, shouts, Freeze!
It looked so ridiculous, a poor cop-show imitation,
that I didn't get scared.
Where is she? he shouted.
Who?
Don't play dumb. My wife!
How would I know?
You know very well. Don't play games now.
I never saw her after that night.
Sir, you have been calling my wife. Why?
No.
Don't lie. Are you having an affair with my wife?
No, far be it from me. I am glad I helped you all, but
what did I do to deserve this?
His hand was shaking. That made me nervous, and soon
terrified. This guy could pull the trigger. I looked up the barrel, then to his eyes.
There was rage, tears: a total madman driven by jealousy.
Hey, please, calm down, I said. I have nothing to do
with your wife. Haven't seen her again.
Ah, but you may have seen her before, right? I mean,
what would she be doing at four in the morning on this road? I don't buy the story she was
visiting her aunt. She don't have no aunt anywheres near.
I didn't buy that story either, but who knows where
she was driving to or from.
She was visiting you.
Come on. Her car hit the ditch before my place, she
was driving in this direction.
True, he said. True. But maybe she was just—
Don't speculate. That was the only time I saw her.
Honestly?
Honestly. Why would I lie?
Because of the gun.
You got a point, I must admit that.
Admit what? You saw my wife?
No, the point that the gun would scare one into saying
all sorts of things. Please remove it, if you want to talk normally. Would you like some
coffee?
Oh, I have heard about your coffee. I hate city
slicker coffee. No, thank you.
I have some Folgers somewhere, if that would make you
feel better.
No. He put the gun into the leather at his belt.
Have a seat, I said.
Okay, he said, angrily.
I was already seated. Sure you don't want tea? No,
thank you.
He remained standing, which gave him an unfair
advantage, but it would be awkward to stand up now, with his large black rubber shoes
close to my feet. Once I stood up from my rocking chair, I'd bump into him, and that
didn't seem comfortable. The last thing I wanted now was to imitate the postures of two
tomcats, one standing and the other cowering, but that was our geography now. I would have
to stand up, or this guy should learn to relax, but how can he relax when he is filled
with Marietta jealousy?
You've been calling my wife, admit it.
No.
Sir, I have the evidence. There's a collect call made
from this phone to mine, and when I am at work at night, that's her phone.
I never call collect. I have a good calling plan with
AT&T. What would be the point? I am not that poor.
You sure? he looked around, and his gaze fixed on the
computer. I guess you are right, but that still don't explain it all. And then there's a
call from my number to yours, also at night, and I work night shifts, as I said.
I don't remember her calling me at night.
Aha, but you do remember her calling you! he stood on
tiptoe, gaining in size.
No, I didn't put that right. She never called here,
night or day.
How can you say that, Sir!? I have the evidence, the
phone bill.
What's the date? (For a second, it occurred to me that
my house sitter may have called
her. Who knows, maybe he knows her.)
He said, November 28, 2000.
That's pretty far back. Wait, that was the night of
the accident! Of course, she called you from here, don't you remember? She called collect.
And then, since you weren't sure of the directions, you called back.
He slackened his shoulders. Boy, yes, yes, that makes
sense. Why didn't I think of that?
I don't know, I said. Have a seat?
Now he cowered, lost his posture, sat down.
Folgers?
All right, sir.
He looked totally defeated.
Why are you so depressed? Your wife is not having an
affair with me, so you should be relieved.
I just don't know. She must be having an affair, I am
sure. She disappears at night. This was the best clue I had.
He really was sorry the clue was failing him. Not that
I wanted to comfort him, but certainly to placate him.
Maybe she goes on a drinking spree with her buddy
Shelly.
How would you know?
She said so. I regretted that I had said that much.
It's best not to know anything about him and his wife, clearly.
I have no idea what your wife does. Sorry not to be
able to help. Or rather, glad I can't help you.
I'll get to the bottom of it all yet, he said, more to
himself than to me.
Hey, mister, listen, I help you and your family, and I
get this in return? Next time strangers in trouble knock on my door at four a.m., maybe I
shouldn't answer the door.
Correct, he said. I meant to tell you that. Someone
knocks at the door, even if they don't look armed and dangerous, like two women, don't
open the door. Instruct them to go back to their vehicle, and you make the nine-one-one
call for them. That's better for you, safer. You never know about people.
I couldn't agree more at that point, at least about
the last statement.
He abruptly stood up. Thank you for the information.
But the coffee is not done yet.
It's the idea that counts, he said. I appreciate it.
He looked me coldly in the eye. I'll be seeing you, he said.
As he walked toward the door, his eye caught the sight
of my underwear lying loose. My Italian underwear, light purple, was on the floor near the
bathroom entrance. I had always been a slob, I must admit that, and although I hated this
kind of underwear, I had run out of clean Fruit of the Loom, and from my last trip I had
the clean foreign underwear, to which I resorted rather than to doing laundry, anything
but laundry.
There! That's hers! Sir, how do you explain that?
No, it's mine.
I know she wears that kind. It's not men's. Who do you
take me for?
It's men's. Italian. We wear it.
Sir, I've had it with you. I don't care if I shoot
you, just don't lie to me anymore.
You don't believe me?
Fortunately I remembered that under my jeans I had on
a pair of Italian underwear. I let my pants drop, and there it was, a blue pair, smaller
than a swimmer's Speedo. My pubic hair wasn't covered, but I didn't care. This could save
my life.
Yuck! he said. You a pervert or something?
Yes, sir, a certified masochist, with a Ph.D.
His eyes popped and he backed toward the door.
Good-bye, I said.
He rushed out, laughing. He jumped in the car and
honked.
My dog, who usually chases cars, didn't chase his, but
only stood there, staring with his jaws open. Maybe he could smell the gun and he knew
what it meant, from the hunting season. Why didn't he warn me about the cop's arrival?
Same thing, probably; he smelled the metal. Usually he barks. Come to think of it, he
hadn't barked when the strange women came. Did they have guns? Actually, he likes women,
so he was just glad there were women to sniff. Such is his loneliness; no female dogs in a
mile radius.
Later, I retold this story to my former house sitter,
John, as an anecdote, and he said, Boy, cops are dumb. You know that in Massachusetts,
they aren't allowed to be above average in intelligence?
I remember that, I said, and maybe he is dumb in some
ways.
In some ways! guffawed John. Dumb as a doornail.
I didn't say anything. It's the idea that counts, he
had said about coffee, and maybe he didn't say it about coffee, but had figured it out. He
could see the idea in my head about Marietta. He got the details wrong, but he got the
essential idea right. Maybe that's brilliant. Maybe that's the universal brilliancy of
jealousy, to see stuff like that. No he wasn't far off. I had committed the Jimmy Carter
kind of adultery, in my heart, not the Billy Clinton kind, but, essentially and
biblically, what's the difference?
Luckily, I hadn't done anything. Well, of course, I
wouldn't have done anything. Maybe she had that idea too, and he could see that? Now, that
was even flattering, that a young animal would consider an old animal like me. But forget
that kind of flattery. I didn't like looking into the darkness of the gun barrel in a
shaking hand of a jealous cop. No, that is not a good situation. I was surprised I hadn't
got terrified more then, because the sight of it in my mind even now gives me shivers.
And what does he expect? Of course, with him hounding
her around like that, with guns, she must like to fly off, to get a taste of freedom, and
maybe she is having an affair somewhere, or maybe only the idea of it, while she drives
around and knocks her head with her friend. I don't know, and I don't want to find out.
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