rooted through the cabinet over the sink. All she could find that might accommodate the long-stemmed rose was a tall beer glass with “Busch” stenciled on it in dishwasher-faded blue letters. She ran three fingers of water into it and carried it into the living room.
Jake hadn’t moved. She took the rose from him and inserted it in the tall glass, then set the glass on top of a TV Guide on the television set. A jackhammer chattered outside, off in the distance. Something being built, or torn down.
“What happened to your door?” Jake asked.
“I don’t know. It looks like somebody tried to get in while I was gone.”
He shot her a concerned look. “You call the police?”
“Yeah. Not much they can do.” She considered telling him about last night outside Casa Loma, then decided she didn’t want to confide in him and give the impression she needed him.
“So,” Jake said, “you leaning toward forgiving me?”
“You know which way I’m leaning.”
He started to cross his arms, but he changed his mind and absently scratched a bulging bicep. Then he let his hands dangle at his sides, like lifeless appendages made obsolete through evolution. “Listen, you sure you’re . . . okay?”
“I’m about healed, if that’s what you mean.”
“Goddamnit, Mary, I hate to hurt you . . . to have hurt you. You know that, don’t you? It’s important to me that you realize it. I wouldn’t admit this to anybody else, but I get scared sometimes, Mary. I just lose it and lash out. It’s fear, that’s what it is—fear. You understand what I’m trying to say?”
“What kinda fear?”
“Hell, I’m not sure, or I could do something about it, you know? Sometimes I can’t figure out why I do things, Mary.”
She felt the familiar pity trying to coil itself like snakes around her heart. Not this time, not this time! “Jake, Jake . . . I could have you arrested.”
“Yeah, you could.” He stared at the carpet. “I wouldn’t blame you. Maybe you should.”
“It won’t be necessary,” Mary said, “if we stop seeing each other. Or if you go get some professional help.”
His mustache arced down and his eyes flashed anger. He drew a deep breath, containing his aggravation. “It’s nothing I can’t handle myself!”
“You haven’t so far.”
“That’s so far, right?”
She sighed. “Right, Jake.” How he wanted to be tough, to kill the parts of himself that felt.
The weekend early news had gone full circle and was rerunning on TV. Mary had been barely conscious of it, but now a name snagged her attention: “Danielle Verlane.”
A severe woman in a tailored suit was co-anchoring the news this morning. She led into a repetition of the tape Mary had watched earlier, Rene Verlane being interviewed in his New Orleans home, seated on his sofa and looking handsome and suave and deeply touched by tragedy, wearing his grief like a true Southern gentleman. He again expressed his opinion that his wife’s murder might have had something to do with the world of ballroom dancing, since on the night of her death she’d been last seen doing a tango with a man in a New Orleans night spot. Not many men, he pointed out, knew how to tango. This tape ran several seconds longer than the last version Mary had seen. She watched as Verlane barely repressed his outrage at how the police and some of the media were suggesting Danielle was somehow to blame for her own murder.
“See what your dancing can get you?” Jake said, his injured gray eyes fixed on the screen.
Mary knew he was only partly joking. They’d talked about her dancing before. Jake thought it was a stupid pastime and refused to join her in it, but he accepted her absences when she spent time at the studio. She’d tried to explain why she danced, but either he couldn’t understand or she couldn’t find the right words. It was her fault, she supposed, because she’d never completely explained even to herself why she so desperately needed to
Jake hadn’t moved. She took the rose from him and inserted it in the tall glass, then set the glass on top of a TV Guide on the television set. A jackhammer chattered outside, off in the distance. Something being built, or torn down.
“What happened to your door?” Jake asked.
“I don’t know. It looks like somebody tried to get in while I was gone.”
He shot her a concerned look. “You call the police?”
“Yeah. Not much they can do.” She considered telling him about last night outside Casa Loma, then decided she didn’t want to confide in him and give the impression she needed him.
“So,” Jake said, “you leaning toward forgiving me?”
“You know which way I’m leaning.”
He started to cross his arms, but he changed his mind and absently scratched a bulging bicep. Then he let his hands dangle at his sides, like lifeless appendages made obsolete through evolution. “Listen, you sure you’re . . . okay?”
“I’m about healed, if that’s what you mean.”
“Goddamnit, Mary, I hate to hurt you . . . to have hurt you. You know that, don’t you? It’s important to me that you realize it. I wouldn’t admit this to anybody else, but I get scared sometimes, Mary. I just lose it and lash out. It’s fear, that’s what it is—fear. You understand what I’m trying to say?”
“What kinda fear?”
“Hell, I’m not sure, or I could do something about it, you know? Sometimes I can’t figure out why I do things, Mary.”
She felt the familiar pity trying to coil itself like snakes around her heart. Not this time, not this time! “Jake, Jake . . . I could have you arrested.”
“Yeah, you could.” He stared at the carpet. “I wouldn’t blame you. Maybe you should.”
“It won’t be necessary,” Mary said, “if we stop seeing each other. Or if you go get some professional help.”
His mustache arced down and his eyes flashed anger. He drew a deep breath, containing his aggravation. “It’s nothing I can’t handle myself!”
“You haven’t so far.”
“That’s so far, right?”
She sighed. “Right, Jake.” How he wanted to be tough, to kill the parts of himself that felt.
The weekend early news had gone full circle and was rerunning on TV. Mary had been barely conscious of it, but now a name snagged her attention: “Danielle Verlane.”
A severe woman in a tailored suit was co-anchoring the news this morning. She led into a repetition of the tape Mary had watched earlier, Rene Verlane being interviewed in his New Orleans home, seated on his sofa and looking handsome and suave and deeply touched by tragedy, wearing his grief like a true Southern gentleman. He again expressed his opinion that his wife’s murder might have had something to do with the world of ballroom dancing, since on the night of her death she’d been last seen doing a tango with a man in a New Orleans night spot. Not many men, he pointed out, knew how to tango. This tape ran several seconds longer than the last version Mary had seen. She watched as Verlane barely repressed his outrage at how the police and some of the media were suggesting Danielle was somehow to blame for her own murder.
“See what your dancing can get you?” Jake said, his injured gray eyes fixed on the screen.
Mary knew he was only partly joking. They’d talked about her dancing before. Jake thought it was a stupid pastime and refused to join her in it, but he accepted her absences when she spent time at the studio. She’d tried to explain why she danced, but either he couldn’t understand or she couldn’t find the right words. It was her fault, she supposed, because she’d never completely explained even to herself why she so desperately needed to
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