wrapped in knitting or spread out over McCall's, the investigators' wives sit, and often I sit with them. Tonight, it is with the blond and blunt-nosed Edie Beauvais.
"Lora, I'm desperate. I've got to get pregnant. We've been waiting for so long now." She runs her tiny hand up and down her arm, which is flecked with goose bumps from the chilling night air. "We had this fantasy of getting pregnant on our wedding night. That's what I expected. But now ... I just want it so bad, Lora." Edie is the young wife of Charlie Beauvais, one of Bill's coworkers at the investigators' office. Although he was always willing to take a coworker who'd had a hard day out for a beer, and he'd always stop in at the local tavern when an after-work gathering was under way, Bill never had many friends. Besides, most of the men in his department are either heavy drinkers or gamblers or both, or are wrapped up in the politics of the office.
But Charlie has been a kind of mentor to Bill, showing him the ropes when the other men resented Bill's quick rise, which they attributed to luck or imagined connections.
"But you're so young, Edie," I say, watching the action absentmindedly, watching Charlie waving his hat, waving a player in, laughing mightily, big white teeth against his stubble-creased face.
"You've got plenty of time."
"I know," she says. "I've got nothing but time." She stifles a long sigh by dipping her chin and tucking her mouth into her collarbone.
Edie is twenty-three, Charlie's second wife. Born in Bakersfield, she was straight out of modeling school when they met four years Die a Little -- 39 --
before. She had talked her way out of a speeding ticket, claiming a "feminine emergency."
"Are you going to help out at the fund-raiser again?" I ask.
"Sure, sure," she says, eyelashes fluttering, trying gamely to focus on the action. "Where's Alice?"
"She wasn't feeling well," I say.
Edie nods vaguely, watching Charlie bounding in from the infield, removing his hat and rubbing his crew cut vigorously.
"Looking good, honeybunch," she coos, waving and twisting in her seat. Charlie's face bursts out into a grin. It seems to explode over his whole rubbery face as he turns to join his teammates on the bench.
"When are you going to get yourself one of those? A husband, I mean," Edie asks as we watch Bill take a few practice swings.
"So you think I'm in danger of old maid status too?"
She turns to me with a smile. "Don't you want to have a house and kids and nice things?"
I look at her with her blond lashes, eyebrows penciled with delicacy, face so fresh and flat and empty, as only California faces can be. "It's hard to find a man like Charlie, though, isn't it?"
"Hmmm," Edie says, eyes roaming dreamily back to the game, to the shoving match that seems about to unfold between Bix Carr and Tom Moran, who always fought, over sports, old debts, patrol assignments, cars.
I am supposed to say these things, the things I should want. It is what you say. I look at Edie, looking at the other tired, careless faces on the bleachers, hair tucked in curlers under scarves, bodies straining or flaccid, pregnant or waiting to be.
We watch as Bill and Charlie separate the men, and Bill talks them down, his hand on Bix's shoulder, Bix nodding, cooling. Tom abashed, kicking the dirt.
"I'm going home, sugar." Edie sighs, stumbling forlornly down the bleachers.
I wave good-bye.
An hour later, the game finally over, Bill wanders over. "Where's Edie? Charlie's looking for her."
"She left," I say.
"Oh. Really? That's funny. Charlie-"
Tom Moran comes running up behind Bill, slapping him mightily on the back. "Billy, where's that gorgeous wife tonight?"
Bill extends a hand to help me descend the bleachers. "Under the weather."
"Too bad. Don't mind gazing up at her."
Die a Little -- 40 --
Bill looks over at him for a second, as if caught between annoyance and good humor.
"You know." Tom shrugs, grinning at me anxiously. "She's different than the
"Lora, I'm desperate. I've got to get pregnant. We've been waiting for so long now." She runs her tiny hand up and down her arm, which is flecked with goose bumps from the chilling night air. "We had this fantasy of getting pregnant on our wedding night. That's what I expected. But now ... I just want it so bad, Lora." Edie is the young wife of Charlie Beauvais, one of Bill's coworkers at the investigators' office. Although he was always willing to take a coworker who'd had a hard day out for a beer, and he'd always stop in at the local tavern when an after-work gathering was under way, Bill never had many friends. Besides, most of the men in his department are either heavy drinkers or gamblers or both, or are wrapped up in the politics of the office.
But Charlie has been a kind of mentor to Bill, showing him the ropes when the other men resented Bill's quick rise, which they attributed to luck or imagined connections.
"But you're so young, Edie," I say, watching the action absentmindedly, watching Charlie waving his hat, waving a player in, laughing mightily, big white teeth against his stubble-creased face.
"You've got plenty of time."
"I know," she says. "I've got nothing but time." She stifles a long sigh by dipping her chin and tucking her mouth into her collarbone.
Edie is twenty-three, Charlie's second wife. Born in Bakersfield, she was straight out of modeling school when they met four years Die a Little -- 39 --
before. She had talked her way out of a speeding ticket, claiming a "feminine emergency."
"Are you going to help out at the fund-raiser again?" I ask.
"Sure, sure," she says, eyelashes fluttering, trying gamely to focus on the action. "Where's Alice?"
"She wasn't feeling well," I say.
Edie nods vaguely, watching Charlie bounding in from the infield, removing his hat and rubbing his crew cut vigorously.
"Looking good, honeybunch," she coos, waving and twisting in her seat. Charlie's face bursts out into a grin. It seems to explode over his whole rubbery face as he turns to join his teammates on the bench.
"When are you going to get yourself one of those? A husband, I mean," Edie asks as we watch Bill take a few practice swings.
"So you think I'm in danger of old maid status too?"
She turns to me with a smile. "Don't you want to have a house and kids and nice things?"
I look at her with her blond lashes, eyebrows penciled with delicacy, face so fresh and flat and empty, as only California faces can be. "It's hard to find a man like Charlie, though, isn't it?"
"Hmmm," Edie says, eyes roaming dreamily back to the game, to the shoving match that seems about to unfold between Bix Carr and Tom Moran, who always fought, over sports, old debts, patrol assignments, cars.
I am supposed to say these things, the things I should want. It is what you say. I look at Edie, looking at the other tired, careless faces on the bleachers, hair tucked in curlers under scarves, bodies straining or flaccid, pregnant or waiting to be.
We watch as Bill and Charlie separate the men, and Bill talks them down, his hand on Bix's shoulder, Bix nodding, cooling. Tom abashed, kicking the dirt.
"I'm going home, sugar." Edie sighs, stumbling forlornly down the bleachers.
I wave good-bye.
An hour later, the game finally over, Bill wanders over. "Where's Edie? Charlie's looking for her."
"She left," I say.
"Oh. Really? That's funny. Charlie-"
Tom Moran comes running up behind Bill, slapping him mightily on the back. "Billy, where's that gorgeous wife tonight?"
Bill extends a hand to help me descend the bleachers. "Under the weather."
"Too bad. Don't mind gazing up at her."
Die a Little -- 40 --
Bill looks over at him for a second, as if caught between annoyance and good humor.
"You know." Tom shrugs, grinning at me anxiously. "She's different than the
Similar Books
