herself, throwing herself into her Porsche SUV every Tuesday as if it were a grim duty.
She always returned promptly at seven, sometimes stepping out of her clothes as she crossed the thresholdâwhatever she had been in her past life, it had left her without modesty. She then handed Terri $25 and fixed a drink. Terri wasnât sure if the extra five dollars was a tip or a math error, and she didnât ask Mrs. Delafield for fear of embarrassing her. Mrs. Delafield was shy about her lack of education, to which she made vague, sinister references. âWhen I had to leave school â¦,â or âI wish I could have stayed for prom, but there was just no way.â Sometimes she examined Terriâs armload of textbooks, as if just touching them might convey the knowledge she had failed to acquire. âIs algebra hard? When they say European history, do they mean all the countries, even the little-bitty ones? Why would they want to you to study psychics?â The last was a misreading of âphysics,â but Terri didnât have the heart to correct her. Instead, she told Mrs. Delafield that River Run High School had been founded at a time when there were a lot of alternative theories about educationâperfectly trueâand that it still retained a certain touchy-feely quality. Also true, although parents such as Terriâs, who had known the original River Run, were always complaining it had become a ruthless college factory.
Given that the Delafieldsâ house, like the Delafieldsâ baby, was so huge, it had taken Terri a while to inventory its contents. Still, the wonders of Mrs. Delafieldâs underwear drawer were well known to her long before she found the gun. Drawers, really, because Mrs. Delafield had an entire bureau just for underwear and nightgowns. The bureau was built into the wall of a walk-in closet, one of two off the master bedroom, both almost as big as Terriâs bedroom, but her family lived in a Phase II house. Terri had been through those drawers several times, so she was certain that the elegant little handgun she found there one March afternoon was a new addition, along with the rather nasty-looking tap pants of transparent blue gauze, with a slit where the crotch should be. Terri did not try on the tap pants, which she considered gross, but she did ease an emerald-green nightgown over her bra and panties. Small and compact, with thin legs and rather large breasts, Terri could not have looked less like Mrs. Delafield. Still, she rather liked the effect.
It never occurred to her to touch the gun, not at first. In fact, she was petrified just reaching around it to pick out various bits of lingerie. She treated it as if it were an explosive sachet. To Terriâs knowledge, guns were like coiled snakes, always ready to strike. Didnât everyone know about the Shellenberg brothers, perhaps River Runâs greatest tragedy? Not to mention that scene in
Pulp Fiction.
But as time went by, and Terri kept returning to the lingerie drawers, the gun began to seem integral to the clothes she found there, an accessory, no different than the shoes and purses arrayed on the nearby shelves. It was so ⦠pretty, that little silver gun, small and ladylike. Such a gun would never go off heedlessly. One Tuesday afternoon, Terri pulled on a black lace nightgown, one that was probably loose and flowing on Mrs. Delafield. On her, it bunched around the upper part of her body and tangled around her ankles. She slipped on a pair of Mrs. Delafieldâs high heels so she wouldnât trip on the hem, picked up the gun in her right hand, and posed for the full-length mirror at the back of the closet. The gun really made the outfit. She went into all the poses she knew from filmsâthe straight-up-and-down Clint Eastwood glare, the wrist prop, the crouch. Each was better than the last.
A trio of quick, high beeps sounded, the signal that the front door had been opened and
She always returned promptly at seven, sometimes stepping out of her clothes as she crossed the thresholdâwhatever she had been in her past life, it had left her without modesty. She then handed Terri $25 and fixed a drink. Terri wasnât sure if the extra five dollars was a tip or a math error, and she didnât ask Mrs. Delafield for fear of embarrassing her. Mrs. Delafield was shy about her lack of education, to which she made vague, sinister references. âWhen I had to leave school â¦,â or âI wish I could have stayed for prom, but there was just no way.â Sometimes she examined Terriâs armload of textbooks, as if just touching them might convey the knowledge she had failed to acquire. âIs algebra hard? When they say European history, do they mean all the countries, even the little-bitty ones? Why would they want to you to study psychics?â The last was a misreading of âphysics,â but Terri didnât have the heart to correct her. Instead, she told Mrs. Delafield that River Run High School had been founded at a time when there were a lot of alternative theories about educationâperfectly trueâand that it still retained a certain touchy-feely quality. Also true, although parents such as Terriâs, who had known the original River Run, were always complaining it had become a ruthless college factory.
Given that the Delafieldsâ house, like the Delafieldsâ baby, was so huge, it had taken Terri a while to inventory its contents. Still, the wonders of Mrs. Delafieldâs underwear drawer were well known to her long before she found the gun. Drawers, really, because Mrs. Delafield had an entire bureau just for underwear and nightgowns. The bureau was built into the wall of a walk-in closet, one of two off the master bedroom, both almost as big as Terriâs bedroom, but her family lived in a Phase II house. Terri had been through those drawers several times, so she was certain that the elegant little handgun she found there one March afternoon was a new addition, along with the rather nasty-looking tap pants of transparent blue gauze, with a slit where the crotch should be. Terri did not try on the tap pants, which she considered gross, but she did ease an emerald-green nightgown over her bra and panties. Small and compact, with thin legs and rather large breasts, Terri could not have looked less like Mrs. Delafield. Still, she rather liked the effect.
It never occurred to her to touch the gun, not at first. In fact, she was petrified just reaching around it to pick out various bits of lingerie. She treated it as if it were an explosive sachet. To Terriâs knowledge, guns were like coiled snakes, always ready to strike. Didnât everyone know about the Shellenberg brothers, perhaps River Runâs greatest tragedy? Not to mention that scene in
Pulp Fiction.
But as time went by, and Terri kept returning to the lingerie drawers, the gun began to seem integral to the clothes she found there, an accessory, no different than the shoes and purses arrayed on the nearby shelves. It was so ⦠pretty, that little silver gun, small and ladylike. Such a gun would never go off heedlessly. One Tuesday afternoon, Terri pulled on a black lace nightgown, one that was probably loose and flowing on Mrs. Delafield. On her, it bunched around the upper part of her body and tangled around her ankles. She slipped on a pair of Mrs. Delafieldâs high heels so she wouldnât trip on the hem, picked up the gun in her right hand, and posed for the full-length mirror at the back of the closet. The gun really made the outfit. She went into all the poses she knew from filmsâthe straight-up-and-down Clint Eastwood glare, the wrist prop, the crouch. Each was better than the last.
A trio of quick, high beeps sounded, the signal that the front door had been opened and
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