Brian woke up stiff and sore and bruised from his fight with Jeff; and with a hangover. But, of course, there’s still work. And the banging and whining and hissing and whirring that hadn’t blocked everything out on Tuesday still didn’t block it out on Wednesday. Neither did the headache and the nausea of his hangover, because it only reminded him that the hell Rachel was in was worse than his. And when, after an hour and a half, he finally gave up and came home he was still in hell. The kind where you lay in bed and moan, and then dash to the bathroom and lean over the toilet and puke. Then you lay on the bathroom floor and watch the ceiling spin and pray to die. But, even through all that, there are still the voices and the burden.

   I was in a hell of my own, but not the same kind. Tuesday’s hell had been easier. Cassidy had been with me which forced me to wear the mask. The kind where you smile and pretend that life is fine, that everything is going to be alright. And, after awhile, you start to think that maybe it is. But with a light work day and no Cassidy and no mask, all I had were voices; the ones that came from having read Rachel’s journal. They mingled with the voices from my own life, two radio stations struggling to broadcast over the same frequency. And it made me wish for Brian’s hangover. Because then I’d have Pain and Nausea to distract me.

   After a supper we didn’t eat the Burkes came over for Penny Poker, even though it wasn’t Sunday. Brian won five hands in a row. It pissed him off because he knew that Jeff was letting him win. Jeff just shrugged and rubbed the cut on his forehead and the bruise on his cheek. Then he looked at Brian’s black eye and the cut on his lip and let him win some more. And when they got ready to leave Brian’s eyes were a little panicked. Because once they left there would be no more distraction. So I said:

   “Why don’t you let Cass spend the night? That way you don’t have to come back here in the morning to drop her off.”

   All five heads nodded and smiled at that. Cassidy would have Novelty. Brian and I, Distraction. Jeff and Laura would have the house to themselves which meant Sex with Noise, as much as they wanted. It was a concept I’d taken for granted until Rachel had moved in.

   So our Wednesday Night became Disney Channel Night. Brian gave Cass an old t-shirt for a night gown and we told her that she could stay up as late as she wanted. The three of us snuggled on the couch and watched cartoons until she fell asleep on Brian’s lap at 10:25. And that meant it had been fifty-one hours and twenty-five minutes for Rachel. And I wondered how bad it was getting for her. If she still hated Brian and me.

   With Cassidy snoring on the couch and Brian’s hangover mostly gone there was only one thing left to distract us. And so we had sex in the bedroom with the door closed. It was quiet but good and it made us both tired enough to finally fall asleep. And still there were voices, even in my dreams.

   And then Thursday, exactly the same as Tuesday. And after Laura picked up Cassidy we had sex. Again. And it was alright. Maybe even a little better than alright. But not much.

   Then it was Busy Friday. Real estate office and Dr. Stephens’ office and then, of course, Zeke’s house. I spent my lunch break at home watching stupid game shows and even stupider soap operas and trying not to listen to the ticking clock. Then, finally, it was time to clean the Kendall’s camp.

   I’d been back every week since I’d stolen and returned their gun, and every week it beckoned from the top of the den closet. The beautiful silvery nose and the sturdy black grip and the lovely engraving that said Undercover 38 SPL. And on this day, a day when Distraction was a necessity, I tried to imagine what a freshly fired revolver smelled like. In my mind it was like woodstove smoke, only metallic. It made me wish for my too-big boots and extra clothes; made me grateful for the heavy, thick gloves in my glove compartment and the big black trash bags that waited for me in the Kendall’s kitchen. But then: reality. The reality that comes when you pull into a driveway and--once again--find cars that you aren’t expecting to see. Two cars this time. Mr. Kendall was back in town early. And he’d brought company.

   3:30. On the dot.

   I stumbled to the kitchen door and found it locked. The cleaning lady can’t go through the front door, not when her Client is home. Not even when she has a key and a code. So I knocked. Then again. Knocked a third time and, finally, it opened. But it wasn’t the cook and it wasn’t George or Tiffany Kendall. It was a man who looked about my age. He had a sour, snobby face and wore a light blue sweater; probably cashmere. It reminded me of Baby Powder Fresh deodorant. He gave me a look that made me think he knew I’d recently stolen and returned the Kendall’s gun for the purpose of committing a brutal murder, then he asked, “What can I do for you?”

   He was looking at a shabbily-dressed woman with a bucket of cleaning supplies in one hand and a canister vacuum in the other, the hose coiled loosely around her shoulder. And he had to ask what he could do for her.

   I cleared my throat. “It’s Friday. I’m here to clean.”

   He gave me a quick up and down and, apparently satisfied that I was telling him the truth, let me in. He gave my vacuum cleaner a quizzical eye and said, “I’d like you to leave the vacuuming for next week. We arrived from Connecticut only an hour ago and my father is asleep.”

   I gave a brief nod and waited for him to move his soft, useless ass out of my way so I could start dusting the dining room. He didn’t. He just stood there, staring.

   I hated that.

   Finally he spoke again. “I don’t suppose you’re a cook as well?”

   “No, sir. Just a cleaning lady.”

   He gave me a faint smile. An amused air of superiority.

  I really hated that.

   “Do you know how to cook?”

   The Great Debate, the one that wasn’t really a debate at all. He was a first rate asshole, obviously. There were lots of words bouncing around in my mind, and some that I could actually taste. But there were two jobs at stake, and a very long winter ahead. So I said:

   “Yes, sir. I know how to cook.”

   “My father decided to come up here rather hastily. Apparently his cook is out of town visiting family, so we’re a little short-staffed here.”

  His tone made it obvious that he didn’t approve of an old woman leaving town during the holidays to visit her family. Naturally, she should stay locked inside her home, waiting breathlessly, whisk in hand, on the off chance her employer might gallop into town a month early with his spoiled shithead son.

   And he waited. For me to drop my cleaning supplies and my canister vacuum, don a frilly apron and prepare him a feast. I smiled sweetly and said, in the thickest, most dim-witted accent I could manage:

   “Sir, Mrs. Pelletiah didn’t leave no food in the cubbahds, ‘cause it’d just rot right away. If Mrs. Kendall makes up a list I kin run down t’market aftah I’m done cleanin’ and fix you guys up somethin’ wicked good f’suppah.”

   He scoffed and rolled his eyes, but not because of me or my accent. “Mrs. Kendall isn’t here. In fact, you won’t be seeing her again.”

   Did she find herself another sugar daddy? Or did she get caught with the pool boy? I tried to smother my grin, but it was too late. He noticed.

   “Excuse me, Miss...”

   I cleared my throat. “Mrs. Dyer.”

   He glanced at my empty ring finger. Still didn’t notice the heavy bucket of cleaning supplies that it was helping four other fingers to hold. Then he scoffed again.

   “Mrs. Dyer, my father is in a very vulnerable state at the moment. He came up here to recuperate, not to shop for a new wife.”

   I dropped my bucket. Bit my lip, hard, so I wouldn’t laugh. Even though it really was the funniest thing I’d heard in a long time. But he wasn’t amused.

   “I can imagine that for someone like you this might seem like a perfect opportunity to improve your lot in life.”

   I un-bit my lip.

   Someone. Like. Me?

   So I picked up my bucket. Swallowed. Took a deep, deep silent breath. In through the nostrils. “If you’ll excuse me, sir, I’ve got work to do.”

   But he didn’t move. He just looked at me. The look that was really a word. The look--the word--that I knew all too well. Then he said, “Before Tiffany became my father’s third wife she was a waitress. And his second wife was once our cook. So I know all about the kind of work women like you...do.”

   Women. Like me.

   I closed my eyes briefly and when I opened them again I thought the room would be spinning; but it wasn’t. It was blurry, though. In fact the only thing in the room--the only thing in the world--that was in focus was this man’s ugly face and the expression on it. I took another deep breath, the kind that wasn’t silent, and I let it out with:

   “Fuck you. Sir.”

   I turned around and walked out door, walked out on the job that paid well and on time. I shoved the bucket and the canister vacuum into the back seat and started the car.

   And that meant it had been ninety-two hours and forty-one minutes. For Rachel.

   I drove home quickly and hopped in the shower. It was Friday so Brian and I were going to Zeke’s. Not just because there’s distraction in Routine, although there is, but because we didn’t want Zeke to think we were pissed at him. He’d had to give Rachel’s job to someone else. Just temporary, he’d said, just until she gets back, until she gets better. But we knew the truth. And we couldn’t blame him.

   The phone rang while I was getting dressed. Mr. Kendall, Senior, full of apologies for his son’s behavior. It was a relief, of course, because I really couldn’t afford to let the job go. And Brian couldn’t afford to let the job go, or any of the others, because of me. So I smiled, even though Mr. Kendall couldn’t see the smile, and when he begged me to reconsider quitting I opened my mouth to tell him I’d stay on.

   Until he said it.

   “I’ll double what I’m already paying you.”

   I grabbed hold of the chair that was leaning against the wall, waiting for Brian to fix it, because the room was spinning and nothing was in focus. And through the fog I searched for words that were Polite. Because there was still Brian’s job to consider.

   “I’m sorry, Mr. Kendall. Unfortunately my schedule is just too full right now.”

   I gave him the name of a cleaning service that I knew of in Westville and hung up the phone without waiting for a response. And even through the fog and the spinning room I could hear the ticking clock. The ticking that told me just how bad Rachel was feeling. Right now. I looked at my hand and wondered if hers was shaking, too.

   Brian wasn’t at the bar when I got there, and that was good. I hadn’t had a chance to really talk to Zeke since before we brought Rachel in and there was something I had to know.

   “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

   “Go for it.”

   “It’s kind of rude, so feel free to tell me to fuck off.”

   “I always feel free to tell you that.”

   “I’m glad to hear it.” I took a couple strengthening swallows from my beer then plunged ahead. “When did you know you were gay? For sure?”

   “I was ten years old. The Dukes of Hazzard gave me a hard on.”

   “Bo Duke?”

   “Yep.”

   I nodded, because I’d had a crush on him at that age, too. Outlaw with a heart of gold. Blonde and blue and hunky. Fast car, exotic accent. What’s not to love?

   “Are you asking because you’re curious, or is there something you’re trying to tell me?”

   I shook my head and didn’t smile, even though his joke was a funny one. “It’s not me. I just…” I sighed. “It’s something you know. Right? The same way you know you like Oreos or--”

   “Tess, it’s just the same as you knowing that you like men. It’s just like that.”

   “Yeah, but what if--”

   “Rachel isn’t gay. She’s scared of men right now, but that doesn’t make her gay. If that’s what you told her, then you got it right.”

   I gave him a weak smile. “She talked to you, too.”

   “Yeah, she did. And I told her pretty much what you did. But, that doesn’t matter right now. What matters is…you need to know that Rachel is where she is because of what she’s done. Choices that she made. Not because of anything you said or did, or didn’t say or didn’t do.”

   I shook my head, because I knew that wasn’t true. “Zeke…the first time I met her was right behind that counter out there, behind those doors. Right there. She was stoned out her fucking mind, and I thought it was funny. I thought it was funny. And even after I knew better I still didn’t--”

   “Listen to me. You tried to help her. Okay? The rest was up to her. You did what you could. And that’s all any of us can do.”

   I wanted to tell him that it wasn’t enough. Because if it had been enough then she’d be okay. Right now she’d be standing behind that counter, rolling her eyes at customers. Hollering back orders and giving people their change. Bored and restless and hurting…but healthy. Nearly healthy, anyway. But I couldn’t tell him any of that, because that’s when Brian sat down beside me. He cleared his throat and, without even a hi, how was your day, said:

   “George Kendall called me.”

   I just nodded and stared at my beer.

   “I’m supposed to talk you into going back to work for him.”

   “I can’t.”

   “Why not? It’s not his fault his son is an asshole. And he thinks you do good work.”

   “I know.”

   “He apologized to you, didn’t he?”

   “Yeah.”

   “Then what’s the problem?”

   I took a sip of my beer and glanced at Zeke. He set our supper plates in front of us then walked to the far end of the bar, pretending not to eavesdrop. Not that it mattered. He was going to hear the story from both of us at some point anyway.

   “The problem is that he doubled his price. And that means he thinks I’ve got one.”

   Which meant that--if I’d taken it--I really was a whore.

   He shook his head and looked at his watch. I looked at mine, too. Six o’clock on the dot. He waited until we were both nearly finished with supper before he spoke again. “Did you know that Tiffany signed a pre-nup?”

   I shrugged. “Don’t they all?”

   “Probably. But she left him, even though it means she doesn’t get a penny.”

   “Really? How do you know that?”

    “The lady in the camp next door to the Kendall’s. I was doing an estimate there this morning and she was talking on the phone to someone she knows in Connecticut.”

   I knew which lady he meant. One of my Wednesday house jobs, a year round lake family. And I chuckled. Because sometimes rich people talk about things in front of their carpenters. As if their carpenters don’t have eyes and ears and a brain. As if they’re not there at all.

   “I guess all Tiffany gets to keep are any gifts he got her.”

   I nodded and filled my fork with celery while Brian finished his steak sandwich. And while I chewed I wondered how much money a Connecticut pawn shop would give her for all of those diamonds. Then, just like he’d read my mind, he said:

   “She left all that jewelry behind, though. She said she didn’t want it.”

   “What?”

   He nodded and wiped the mayonnaise off the corner of his mouth. Then he winked. “The only thing she kept was some painting he got for her birthday last summer.”

   I gave him a smile, my first real one since I’d noticed the sand in my eyes. Because Tiffany had seen it. Not just a nice, pretty green that matched her wallpaper. She’d seen something that had made her strong enough to leave the cold comfort of a wealthy old man and grab hold of life. Before it was Too Late. And I wondered if it was Hope that she’d seen there or if it was Fear. Maybe, if I’d done it right, it was a little bit of both.

   It made me wonder, too, why I hadn’t been able to paint anything since then. Just sketches since the orchard, sketches of the lake that was really Brian and me. I wondered until later that night. The moon was out as I followed Brian’s truck home, two thirds full, so I could see the lake clearly through the naked trees. It was cold. Grey. Frozen. I shivered and looked away.

   And then it was home again. Home to the ticking clock…

Chapter 31

Chapter 33

Table of Contents

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