The Prettiest Feathers by John Philpin

Maybe I should go way out where it’s over my head. Would you rescue me?”
    “This isn’t a game.”
    I reached up and tickled the bottom of his foot.
    “Why don’t you act your age?” he said, and I could tell that he was truly angry. But when I started to walk away, he jumped down and came after me.
    “Hey,” he said.
    I kept walking.
    “I said hey.”
    I stopped, but didn’t turn around.
    He came around to the front of me, but I kept my head down. He put one hand under my chin and urged me to look up at him.
    “How old are you, anyway?”
    “How old do you want me to be?” I asked, smiling.
    “At least twenty-one.”
    “How old are you?”
    “Twenty-five.”
    “I’ll be twenty-five in seven years.” “I was afraid of that.”
    I reached out with one finger and touched his belly, but he didn’t seem to notice.
    “Do you have a boyfriend?” he asked. “Yes.”
    “Oh,” he said, looking disappointed. You.
    He smiled, slow and sweet.
    That’s how it began. We were engaged by Christmas—and married the following June, about three months after my nineteenth birthday. We didn’t have sex until our wedding night. I liked that about Robert—his restraint. It made me feel that he valued me even more than I valued myself.
    I thought no one would ever give me that feeling again. Then I met John Wolf, and my stock rose to a record high. That day at Harrington’s he brought back memories of how it once had been with Robert. He asked me about my marriage, my work, my daughter. He even volunteered to go with me to the cemetery on Liza’s birthday. And he didn’t make advances, physically, at all. Not even an accidental brush against my leg. While that was refreshing and flattering, it was also frustrating. I was powerfully attracted to the man. I got wet just looking at him. But I trusted him to know what was best. I willingly let him set the pace.
    The day after our lunch date, I was at the bookstore, doing what I always do at closing time. I was carrying the day’s receipts up the outside stairway, to Harry. The safe is in the massage parlor, and that’s where he keeps the money from both businesses. Just as I reached the top step, I heard a shot.
    I went down the instant I heard it, flat on the woodenlanding outside the door. Then I heard two more shots. They sounded like they were coming from the alley across the street.
    The massage parlor door inched opened and Harry said, “Gunshots?”
    “Over in the alley,” I told him.
    He opened the door a little wider so I could crawl inside. Right away Sheila started screaming. She thought that I had been hit, and said so into the phone. I found out later that she was talking to the dispatcher at 911. That’s why the police headed directly for the massage parlor, not the alley.
    When I told them where I thought the shots had originated, one of the officers said, “Nobody else called this in.”
    “I know a shot when I hear one.”
    “You got a gun?” the officer wanted to know.
    “I was married to a cop.”
    While Harry argued with the officers about whether I would know the difference between gunfire and firecrackers, Sheila and I led everyone over to the alley—and that’s when we found them: two black guys. Dead.
    In under five minutes, the scene was crawling with cops. Radios crackling, yellow tape strung everywhere—it was a zoo. I had recognized both dead guys, and knew that John Wolf would want to know their fate. So as soon as everything settled down, as soon as I had answered each investigator’s questions twenty times, I returned to the bookstore and dialed directory information.
    “What city, please?”
    “Landgrove.”
    “Go ahead.”
    “I’d like the listing for John Wolf, please.”
    The operator was silent for a moment, then said, “Still checking.”
    After another pause, she said, “I’m sorry. We don’t show any listing for that name.”
    “Then it must be unlisted.”
    “No,” she said. “We don’t have anyone by