False Mermaid

A noise came from the darkened space beyond the kitchen, and he felt a jolt of alarm. Across the nearly empty living room, a shadowy figure seemed to float up from the couch. The faint glow from the kitchen caught Karin Bledsoe’s short fair hair, the bottle of red wine and two glasses on the table beside her. Even in the dim light, he could see the bottle was nearly empty. She’d been here awhile. A handful of old LP sleeves lay scattered across the floor, and now he heard the click of the record changer, the reedy throb of accordions, and the faint, pleading voice of a corrido singer. He let out his breath and felt the adrenaline rush subside.

“What are you doing here, Karin? It’s late.”

She moved closer and pressed a wineglass into his hand, her body swaying slightly. “Wow, you really know how to make a girl feel welcome. Not ‘How was your day, Karin?’ or ‘Good to see you, Karin’? Not even ‘Hello.’ Just ‘What are you doing here?’” She kept her distance, as if trying to gauge his mood. “I thought you might need to unwind. You seemed a little tense this morning.” She swirled the wine in her own glass, still studying him curiously. “I told Rolf we were on surveillance again. I figure it’s only half a lie—I’m keeping an eye on you.”

He set down the glass she’d handed him without taking a drink. It was the last thing he needed right now.

“Oh, come on, Frank, if you’re not going to drink with me, you’ve at least gotta dance.” She took his hand and wrapped it around her, but he felt paralyzed. It had always seemed to him that unhappiness had its own distinct scent, and suddenly that sour, stale smell crept into his nostrils. Or maybe it was just acid fumes from the wine and dust from old record sleeves. Karin often paired corridos with serious wine-drinking. He remembered her tearstained face from the last time. He’d always hated corridos for their nauseating, self-pitying tone, and had meant to pitch those records ages ago, but somehow he never got around to it. They’d probably get stacked back on the shelf again after Karin went home this time, too. That was how it went.

Everybody at headquarters knew about them. He didn’t know why they even bothered sneaking around anymore—that part had never been easy, even if Rolf Bledsoe had it coming. That bastard had been playing around on Karin since the day they met—he never bothered to deny it. Why she ever married Bledsoe was a mystery—maybe something to do with the perverse pleasure they seemed to take in tormenting each other. Frank had always understood that he was just the current round of ammunition in Rolf and Karin’s ongoing marital war. The whole thing was pretty sick. He tried not to think about it as he walked over and switched off the turntable.

Karin spoke behind him. “Aren’t you going to ask how everything went in court today?”

“How did it go?”

“Swell. The defense is dredging up the broken home, the abusive father, all the playground bullies who damaged his client’s sensitive soul, but you can see it on every face in that jury box—our boy is going down.” Karin moved in close behind him. “I suppose I should be happy. Another miscreant off the street. How did everything go with Dr. Gavin?”

That was the real reason she was here. Frank winced suddenly and pressed two fingers just below his breastbone. His stomach was at him again—that same hot, stabbing sensation, just like this morning. Then, as quickly as the pain had started, it began to pass. “Look, Karin, it’s late. And I don’t feel much like talking right now.”

She set down her glass and turned him around with one languid motion, reaching for his tie and slowly slipping the knot. As she leaned closer, he felt the warm gush of her breath in his ear: “Who the hell said anything about talking?”

Just after five, he awakened with a start. It was that same dream again, wandering a strange house, hearing cries and words muttered over and over, like prayers or incantations. He always woke from it feeling anxious and unsettled, and usually couldn’t get back to sleep. Sometimes, as he was waking or drifting off to sleep, he would see an old man, dressed all in white, crushing leaves, or brushing a kind of broom over someone lying facedown on a bed. Susto, susto, the old man kept whispering to himself. Es muy importante. Had he actually seen these things, or just dreamed them? He had often wondered who was on the bed, what power was in those leaves. Something else floated to the surface as well, a word he didn’t know: curandero.