Small Town

“You spoke to me right away, through your books. But I was ready for your books to speak to me. From the very beginning, I wanted something from you. I didn’t know it, not consciously. John, do you know what I wanted?”

“I think so.”

“But you don’t want to say it. Well, in that case you know. I wanted you to kill me.”

“You didn’t know it consciously. When did you find out?”

“When it stopped being true.”

“And when was that?”

“When I put your hands on my throat. When I asked you to do it.”

“ ‘Please.’ ”

“Yes. That’s what I was asking for. And you wouldn’t, of course, and I suddenly realized that was what I was begging for, and realized, too, that it was no longer something I wanted. That I had probably stopped wanting it our first night together. Or even earlier, when I went to Medea.”

“The piercing lady.”

“Yes.”

“Shave and a haircut, two tits.”

“When I started expressing myself sexually,” she said, “and making art out of my madness. When I started to discover that I could be me and still be alive. But there was a part of me that never woke up and caught on, and that part didn’t stop wanting you to kill me.”

“Until I didn’t.”

“Until you didn’t.”

“Maybe it really doesn’t matter what happened on Charles Street.”

“Duh,” she said. “Haven’t I been saying that all along?”

“You know,” he said, “all things considered, there’s really only one thing that makes me think I might have done it.”

“The rabbit.”

“The rabbit. It’s not like me to take something. I must have been in a bad way to do it, and if I was that far gone...”

She got up, brought the little rabbit back to the bed with her. “It’s adorable,” she said, “but I can’t believe you took it intentionally. I think it was inadvertent. I think you were looking at it, holding it in your hand, and then she called for you to come into the bedroom, or whatever, and halfway there you noticed you still had the rabbit in your hand. And you didn’t want to go all the way back to where you found it, and you didn’t know where else to put it, so you stuck it in your pocket for the time being.”

“Intending to put it back later.”

“And then you went to bed with that poor crazy lady, and when you were done all you wanted to do was get out of there. So you forgot all about the rabbit, and when you came home you thought, oh, hell, I’ll have to give it back, which means I’ll have to see her again.”

“I could have put it in the mail.”

“And would have,” she said, “if you’d seen it first thing the next morning, but you didn’t and by the time you did...”

He thought about it. “You know,” he said, “that’s perfectly plausible.”

“I know, and it’s a lot more plausible than your taking it on purpose, no matter who killed the woman.” She looked at the rabbit she was holding, then at him. “I mean, it’s not as though a rabbit’s a likely totem animal for you. I see you more as a bear.”

“Yeah, I guess I’m sort of bearish.”

“Ursine,” she said. “And if anyone’s a rabbit, it would probably be me.”

“Well, you sure do fuck like one.”

“It’s settled, then,” she said. “You be the bear. I’ll be the rabbit.”

forty-two

On September 11, 2002, sunrise came at 6:31 A.M. The forecast called for partly cloudy skies, with a forty percent chance of showers in the late afternoon.

Jerry Pankow, who worked for a catering service and didn’t have to report until nine, had not broken the habit of early rising. He was up before dawn, took a long hot shower, and thought about the cute guy he’d picked up over the weekend. Really sweet, in and out of bed, but he could have been a guest on I’ve Got a Secret, because he sure did. Wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, but was wearing the mark the ring had left, and kept touching the spot nervously. Married, clearly, and new to the sin that dared not speak its name, which in recent years had become the sin that would not shut up. Lou, he’d said his name was, but he’d stuttered a little getting it out, and Jerry’s guess was that his name did in fact start with an L, but that it was anything but Lou. Dressing, he wondered if he’d ever see him again.

At 7:24, a young woman in a white uniform attached a fresh bottle to one of Fran Buckram’s IV lines. “Oh, good,” he said. “Breakfast.” She giggled as if she’d never heard the line before, which struck him as unlikely.

He closed his eyes but couldn’t get back to sleep. He hoped they’d let him out of here soon, and wondered what he would do when they did. Mend, of course, and eat real food again, and do a lot of physical therapy, but what would he do after that?

Not run around the country making speeches. Not run for office. Not hang out a shingle as a private investigator. None of the above, but what?

He’d think of something.