Melancholy Baby

He was still sort of round-shouldered. But away from his wife, the furtive-nerd persona faded fast.

“Yes,” I said. “They still talk about her out there.”

“I don’t know anything about it or her or out there,” George said. “I simply do not know what you are talking about.”

I took his picture out of my purse and held it up.

“Is this you?” I said.

“Yeah,” he said. “Sure.”

“That’s what Millie said.” I smiled at him. “She said you hadn’t gotten better looking in twenty years.”

“The hell with her,” George said, looking at the picture.

Then he looked at me.

“The hell with you too,” he said, and stood and walked out of Starbucks.

I thought when I had him cornered, that he was supposed to crack under my relentless pressure and confess. Instead he told me to go to hell, and stuck me with the check.

Maybe I should try rubbing my thumbs together.

19

In the fall, on clear days, the morning sun shined straight through my skylight until eleven. I usually painted then, to take advantage of it. While I did this, Rosie normally lay on the bed among the decorative pillows, on her back, with her head turned so that when she felt like it, she could open one black, beady eye and check on me. She was doing it this morning while I was layering gray shadows among the columns on the upper stories of my South Station front.

My doorbell rang. Rosie jumped from the bed and charged to the door and stood, barking. As often as I’d told her, she never got that the person ringing the doorbell was several flights down and outside the building. It was one of her few confusions. I walked over and pushed the intercom button.

“Hi,” I said.

“Sunny?”

“Yes.”

“It’s Sarah. I need to come in.”

“Fourth floor,” I said. “Elevator’s right in front of you. Wait for me to buzz.”

I went to my door and watched through the peephole until I saw her get off the elevator. She was alone. I opened my door and she came in. Rosie stopped barking and was thrilled to see her the minute the door was opened. She did a couple happy spins. Sarah pushed past Rosie without paying any attention to her. Rosie looked slightly put out and went and sat by the kitchen counter in case anyone wanted to give her a cracker. Sarah’s left eye was swollen nearly shut, and she had a darkening bruise on her left jawline.

“Wow,” I said.

“They beat me up,” she said. “They came to my room and beat up my boyfriend and me.”

“Where’s your boyfriend?”

“He ran off.”

“And who are they?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you tell the police?”

“No. I came right over here. I’m scared. I thought they were going to kill me or something.”

I closed my front door, and, mostly for effect, pushed the bar on the slide bolt into place. Then I went to my bedside table and got my gun, and brought it back and laid it near me on the countertop. That was for effect, too, mostly.

“Would you like some coffee?” I said.

“No... yes... yes, I would.”

She took out a cigarette and lit it. She didn’t ask if I minded. It didn’t seem the right time to say “Thanks for not smoking.”

“Did anyone follow you here?” I said.

“Follow?”

“Yes. Might your assailants know you’re here?”

“Here? My God. I don’t know. Can they get in?”

“No,” I said.

She went to the window and peeked out at the street.

“I don’t see anybody,” she said.

“You take cream and sugar?” I said.

She continued to look down at the street, standing to the side so that she wouldn’t be seen.

“Just sugar.”

I brought the coffee over and put it on the breakfast table.

“The building is quite secure,” I said. “And my loft is quite secure. And we have a phone to call the cops. And I’m quite a good shot.”

“I don’t see anybody,” she said.

“Good,” I said. “Have some coffee. Tell me about it.”

Sarah left the window and sat across from me. Rosie came over and sat at my feet in case we were planning to eat something. Sarah looked around the loft.

“You have a nice place,” she said.

“So what happened?”

“Well...” She drank some coffee and lit another cigarette. “My boyfriend and I were partying in my room.”

“At the dorm,” I said.

“Yeah, sure, at the dorm.”

Partying could mean Hawaiian Punch, or beer or dope or sex or all of the above, though I was skeptical it meant Hawaiian Punch. On the other hand, the details of that could wait.

“And?” I said.

“And these two guys came in without knocking or anything and told my boyfriend to beat it, and he said, like, ‘Why?’ And one of the guys punched him out.”

“Can you describe these guys?”

“Sort of,” she said. “One of them was straight-looking, like a lawyer or an accountant, you know? Slim. Thick glasses. Dark suit. Tie. The other guy was bigger. He had on a leather jacket.”

“Was it the bigger man who punched out your boyfriend?” I said.

“Yes. He was so quick. Poor Woody.”

“Then what?”