After she toweled off, she returned the spider to the exact location where she’d found it.
After five days in New York, Kate took the shuttle to Boston. Anna picked her up at the airport. Kate shoved her luggage into the trunk of Anna’s old Volvo, which contained, much to Kate’s pleasure, a spare tire, among Anna’s other incongruous nonessentials: ice skates, hockey puck, throw pillow, toolbox, and an old-fashioned coffee mill.
Kate slipped into the passenger seat and slammed the door.
“Was your mission successful?” Anna asked.
“I believe it was. We have photographic evidence and everything.”
“It always seemed like such a waste,” Anna said.
“What part?”
“She was
one
year into her career and she gave it all up for him. What was the point of getting an education if she wasn’t going to use it?” Anna said.
“So there’s no point in being informed, having an area of expertise, if you don’t use it? That’s ridiculous. I know all sorts of things that I don’t need to know when I’m steaming milk. And not once have I wished that I hadn’t learned those things.”
“You know what I mean,” Anna said.
“I do,” Kate said. “I just don’t agree with it. She quit her job to get married and have a child, and there’s nothing wrong with that. What’s wrong is that she gave it all up for
that
guy.”
“Agreed. So how is she?”
“Look, I’ve suffered through almost a week of domestic purgatory,” Kate said, “in which I’ve revisited in excruciating detail every aspect of George’s married life. I want to talk about the weather, global warming, rising tides, I want to talk about how sad I am that Marty Feldman is dead—”
“He’s been dead a long time, you know.”
“I’m still sad about it. Also, I want to talk about the one billion birds that die every year by flying into windows and why we’re not doing anything to stop it. And I want to talk about those whacked-out people who want to amputate perfectly healthy limbs.”
“You really want to talk about that?”
“I want to talk about anything but men.”
Anna reached into the back seat and dropped a textbook on Kate’s lap.
“Hemochromatosis,” Anna said. “The page is marked.”
“I know that word,” said Kate.
“That’s what I forgot in my last e-mail. It’s a condition where too much iron builds up in your organs. The treatment is phlebotomy and chelation therapy. The disease is extremely rare, but in medieval times, if you had it, and your barber practiced bloodletting, you’d be in good shape.”
Anna pulled her car into the airport traffic, cutting off an SUV.
“That’s so awesome. How rare is the condition?”
“Extremely rare.”
“Got a number off the top of your head?”
“I don’t have your recall. Must come in handy with all those drink orders.”
“More useful when I waitress. There are a limited number of caffeinated beverages. Sometimes you can just look at a person and know what she’ll order.”
“Your birthday is in two days. What do you want?”
“Nothing.”
“Pick something or I’ll assume you want a Saint Bernard puppy.”
“There
is
a new book on the plague out.”
“More plague? Haven’t you learned everything there is to learn?” Anna asked.
“There wasn’t just one plague, you know.”
St. Louis, Missouri
“Did you know that the Great Plague killed an estimated twenty percent of the population of London?” Kate said to the nameless man in her kitchen.
Kate didn’t bother introducing herself, since she wasn’t likely to meet him again. She couldn’t even be sure that Anna knew his name. Why should she learn it? Anna was conveniently long gone, leaving Kate to deal with the detritus from her night out. This wasn’t the first time, nor would it be the last. Kate’s current method of ridding herself of these human pests was blathering on about pestilence.
“You must be the roommate,” Nameless Man said.
“You must be the guy who spent the night with Anna,” said Kate.
“Darren.”
She’d preferred not knowing. It made them more human.
“Twenty percent of London at the time was approximately one hundred thousand people.
Dead
within the year,” Kate continued.
“That sounds horrible. Mind if I get a cup of coffee?”
I would be most grateful if you left
, she wanted to say, but instead she went with “Help yourself. I recently cleaned the coffeemaker, so it might taste a little bit like vinegar.”
This statement was false, but Kate was just as interested in the power of suggestion as she was in the Great Plague. She’d often try minor experiments on Anna’s lingering guests. As expected, Darren poured a mug of coffee and scrunched up his nose before he even took a sip.
“It would kill around fifty percent of the infected individuals within a week’s time. A horrible death. Enlarged lymph nodes, nausea, fever, vomiting, diarrhea, petechiae. That means broken blood vessels, in case you didn’t know. How’s the coffee?”
“It’s okay. Do you have any sugar?”
“We’re out.”
“Why do you know so much about the plague?” Darren asked.
“I’m writing my dissertation on it. Do you want to see pictures?” Kate said, picking up her one reference book, which she’d found at a used-book store for five dollars.
“No, thanks,” Darren said. “I better run.”
“See you around,” Kate said, confident that she would not.
“Did you know that Pythagoras founded a religion of which the major tenets were the transmigration of the soul and not eating beans?” Kate said to the nameless man in her kitchen.
“Is that coffee?” the nameless man said, eyeing what was clearly a pot of freshly brewed coffee.
“Decaf,” Kate lied. She wished she had chosen a more macabre topic, but she was on a new book and couldn’t resist sharing this morsel of information.
The nameless man scoured the cabinets until he found a mug and then helped himself. He sat down across from Kate.
“Pythagoras? The triangle guy?”
“The Pythagorean theory guy. He didn’t invent triangles or anything.”
“You the roommate?”
“Yes. Anna’s gone, you know.”
“Yeah, I figured that out when I woke up and she wasn’t here.”
“Do you have to go to work?” Kate asked.
“Not today. Do you?”
“No.”
“What do you do?” he asked.
“I’m currently unemployed,” Kate said. She then realized her strategy was all wrong. If she pretended to dress for work, she could usher the stranger out as she left and return thereafter.
“I’m Shayne.”
“Hello.”
“Do you have a name?”
“Um, yes. It’s Sarah,” Kate said. She had already given the stranger too much information.
“What do you do with all your free time?”
“Stuff,” Kate said.
Shayne drained his coffee and poured himself another cup. He searched the refrigerator and began plucking out items and placing them on the counter. After he was done, he turned to Kate and said, “Mind if I make breakfast?”
She did. Especially since every food item he had chosen came from Kate’s fist-tight budget.
“Excuse me,” she said, and she ducked into her room and dialed Anna’s pager. While she waited for her to call, she put on a pair of old blue jeans and threw a sweater over her pajama top. When Anna didn’t respond right away, Kate returned to the kitchen.
“I just remembered I have a doctor’s appointment,” Kate said. “I have to go.”
“Okay,” Shayne said, setting the plate on the table and taking a seat.
“So maybe I can put that in a container and you can take it to go.”
“Or I’ll just eat it here.”
“I bet you can finish that in like five minutes,” Kate said, rocking on the heels of her slippers. She noticed her footwear and returned to her bedroom for a pair of sneakers.
“I was thinking of taking a shower after this,” Shayne said when she came back.
“I don’t mean to be rude. But I have to lock up.”
“No worries. I can lock up myself when I leave.”
“Oh,” Kate said.
Shayne flipped open the newspaper and consumed his egg-and-bacon breakfast like a suited family man in a vintage film.
“Um. Well, goodbye.”
Kate’s hand hovered over the doorknob for a spell as she tried to concoct another plan. But she was at a loss. She opened the door and closed it behind her. She strolled down the hall and found a corner on the stairwell, where she tucked herself out of view. As soon as Shayne left, she could return. She opened her library book on Pythagoras and the Pythagoreans and tried to focus on the text.
“Can I help you?”
Kate lurched awake like a car screeching to a sudden stop.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” the man with a hook for a right hand said.
Kate looked at the man as she gathered herself. She must have nodded off on the stairwell. The man stood in front of apartment 3B. Cans of paint and brushes waited at his feet.
“Do you live here?” the man asked.
“Yes,” Kate said. “Not in the stairwell. Just in the building. 3E.”
“I’m James Lazar. Your neighbor. 3B.”
“Kate . . . Smirnoff.”
“Like the vodka?”
“Yes.”
“Are you locked out?”
“No. I, um, there’s someone in my apartment. I’m waiting for him to leave.”
“Your boyfriend?”
“No. I don’t know him. I have a first name, but that’s it.”
“There’s a strange man in your apartment?” James asked.
“Yes.”
“Have you called the police?”
“My friend invited him over. But she’s not home. I don’t think it’s a police matter.”
“Did you ask him to leave?” James asked.
“I strongly suggested he leave. He didn’t pick up on the subtext.”
“Men kind of like direct communication.”
“Good to know.”
“Do you want me to ask him to leave?”
“If you think it will get a better result,” Kate said skeptically.
James walked down the hall with Kate on his heels. When he reached the door of 3E, Kate passed him the key. James opened the door and found Shayne sprawled on the couch with the television playing backup to his hiccupped snoring. James picked up the newspaper and smacked Shayne’s legs with it.
“Buddy, wake up.”
Shayne slowly came to. “What’s up?”
“It’s checkout time. Get your shoes and go.”
Kate closely studied James’s technique. No hesitation. Clear, concise language that was not open to interpretation. She also noted that while Shayne appeared disgruntled, there was no danger in the situation. He responded predictably.
“Whatever, dude,” Shayne said as he slipped on his shoes and ambled out the door.
An hour later, Kate, wearing her grandfather’s old dress shirt and some battered denims, knocked on the door of 3B.
James opened it, wiping his beige-paint-streaked hand on his shirt. Plastic tarps covered his living room from one end to the next. Paint fumes traveled into the hallway.
“Hi, Kate.”
“I noticed you were painting today,” she said.
“How’d you figure that out?” James asked.
“Deductive reasoning and now direct observation,” she said.
“I’m impressed.”
“I thought maybe you could use a hand,” Kate said. And then she realized what she’d said. “Sorry. That came out wrong.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I brought a paintbrush,” Kate said, holding up an old synthetic wall brush containing the memory of a blood-red kitchen backsplash. Anna’s idea.
“You want to help me paint?” James asked. When he smiled, Kate noticed that his two front teeth looked like they were at odds with each other. Almost like an old-fashioned boxing photo. Only they were teeth.
“It seemed like the neighborly thing to do, and I owe you.”
“It’s not necessary,” James said.
Some offers were merely gestures. James had learned this distinction after his accident. It was a shift in the eyes that usually gave it away, the person searching for an exit. Kate’s offer was not a gesture. She entered his apartment without invitation.
“Why don’t I start on the baseboards, since I’m short?”
James poured a layer of paint into a pan and passed Kate a trim brush.
“I know what I’m doing,” Kate said. “In case you were worried.”
“I wasn’t,” James said.
Kate and James painted for three hours. Since moving to St. Louis, Kate hadn’t made any new friends. She liked chatting with the woman at the library, and there was a homeless man she talked to sometimes at Black Forest Park, and she really liked a docent at the City Museum. But Anna was her only real friend in St. Louis, and Anna was always absent. Friendships had never come that easily to Kate. She refused to cover unpleasant silences and yet would share her opinions at the most inappropriate moments. This was what Anna had always liked about her—there was no subtext. Anna never had to read meaning into Kate’s words, which meant she could trust her. But even Anna had to admit that Kate asked too many questions. They grew in Kate’s mind like weeds.
During what James would later describe as a friendly interrogation, Kate culled the following information:
James was recently divorced. He had one daughter, who lived with his ex-wife two miles away in Creve Coeur. He was an electrician by trade but was currently reconsidering his options. He had a sister, Mary, recently diagnosed with MS. He rode his bike everywhere. He had a special prosthetic for gripping the handlebars. He wore the hook because when he met someone new, he wanted the person to know right away so he could dispense with the awkwardness of discovery. He wanted to see whether someone avoided eye contact or swelled with pity. James had been in the military some years ago, was a veteran of the Gulf War; the irony was that he’d lost his hand riding a motorcycle a week after his return. A drunk driver.
There was a zigzag rhythm to Kate’s inquiries, like the sharp sierras of a lie-detector readout. James eventually managed to sneak in one question of his own.
“What brought you to St. Louis?”
“I was abducted,” Kate said.