Simon Said (21 page)

Sergeant Gates had taken up a lot of the physical and psychological space in the booth, and after he left, Simon was conscious that he and Julia were alone and sitting very close together. He wondered if he should get up and move over to the other side. She didn't seem uncomfortable—with her spoon, she was carefully steering some spilled beer through the trough of a name cut deep into the wood of the booth. Simon was acutely aware that he had nothing at all to do. He envied Otis Gates.

"Would you like to stay and eat dinner?" Simon asked. Instantly, he could have kicked himself. His question probably insulted her by assuming she had no plans, either. He should have asked her out for the weekend instead.

"I would love to," she said. "But could we eat someplace else? I've had my quota of hamburgers this week."

 

Simon and Julia wound up two blocks away at the new Indian restaurant in town. The place was in an old gas station, but the food was wonderful.

Julia ordered aloo tikki and lamb kofta with naan and chutney. Simon had samosas and chicken curry. He ordered extra basmati rice, which he loved. He and Tessa used to go to the Indian supermarket and buy a five-pound bag every month. What was left of the last bag was still sitting in his pantry He hadn't cooked any since she had gone.

Fortunately, Julia was a sharer rather than a hoarder, so they happily ate off each other's plates as well as their own, washing everything down with Indian beer.

"Time travel," Julia said while spearing a bite of samosa off his plate. "What?" Simon said. He had to wait until she finished chewing for his answer.

"Science fiction," Julia said. "We were talking earlier about going back in time, and I was just thinking that there's a lot of literature based on time travel."

"H. G. Wells," Simon said.
"And Jules Verne. Not to mention Star Trek and the space-time continuum." "The what?"

"You know, some space event happens and the Enterprise is catapulted back in time and the crew accidentally affects some little thing that would change the course of history so that they'd be slaves of the Romulans when they go back, so they have to fix it. And they don't have access to their technology and Spock or Data has to use a toaster and a curling iron to make the transporter work, and so on."

"That does sound familiar. Except I think the space-time continuum is from Back to the Future."

 

"Same thing. But I thought science fiction was supposed to be based on elements of truth," she said. "Time travel is impossible."

"Oh, I don't know," Simon said. "You just have to think of time in a non-Western way. We think time is linear, a straight line that continues on forever. Instead, picture it as a river with eddies and whirlpools and curves and bends. Then you can imagine that the river doubles back on itself in places, and you can cross over a little spit of land and wind up in the past."

"I don't think my brain can quite grasp that," Julia said.
"Law school probably ruined you for real thought," Simon said.
"Probably so."

"Look at it this way. Suppose you had to clean up your grandmother's house after she died. You wind up in the attic, and you find a trunk full of letters and photographs and other stuff that you spend the whole afternoon reading. You become so engrossed that you lose yourself completely in her story, and you also lose complete track of time in the present. Haven't you spent time in the past, and lost some of your own present? Isn't that time travel?"

"That's stretching it, don't you think?"

"Let's suppose you find out something about your family you never knew before. Something astounding. Say you discover that your father wasn't really your father, but a stepfather. Your real father is in jail for murder or embezzlement or whatever. Wouldn't finding that out change your past and your future? You aren't who you thought you were, and what are you going to do about this father who's still alive? Visit him in prison at Christmas, or what?"

"Could I find one hundred shares of original Standard Oil common stock in that trunk and be rich beyond my wildest dreams, too?"

"Why not?"
"Then I'm all for it."
"Speaking of science fiction, have you seen Independence Day?"
"No, but I'd like to." "Let's go," Simon said.

WHILE STANDING IN line at the theater for popcorn and sodas, Simon and Julia ran into Bobby Hinton and his date. She had one of those southern double names that started with Mary. She was dressed in preppy clothes, from her tortoiseshell headband right down to her Pappagallo flats. Bobby Hinton coordinated well in khaki slacks, polo shirt, and Bass Weejuns without socks. They both had the kind of tan one couldn't get if one worked for a living.

"Well, how's the investigation going?" Hinton asked.

 

"It's interesting," Simon said. "We're accumulating some contemporary information. Some of Anne Bloodworth's friends are still alive."

 

"You're kidding," Hinton said. "I wouldn't have thought of that. Is my illustrious ancestor still one of your suspects?"

"Absolutely," Simon said.
"He's got motive, but that's about it so far," Julia said. "Real facts are in short supply."

"Let me know what you find out," Hinton said. "I'd be interested. It's not everyone whose relative is part of a mysterious murder case."

"Did you learn anything new from your mother?" Simon asked.
"What? Oh, no. Just what I told you at the funeral," Bobby said.

Independence Day turned out to be a great date movie. Simon wasn't sure if thirtyyear-old men were supposed to get off on holding hands, but, apart from the sexual frisson, he liked the warmth of contact with another human being again.

Chapter Twenty-Two

WHEN THEY GOT TO HIS PLACE, SIMON MADE ICED HAZELNUT coffee for them. Julia browsed his CD rack and put on Ray Charles. They went out to Simon's small porch and talked about music and books and movies while the ceiling fan turned slowly overhead and june bugs crashed into the porch screen.

Ray Charles's cover of "Still Crazy After All These Years" faded into silence. Maybelline strolled proudly onto the porch and leapt into Julia's lap.
"Why do you call her Maybelline?" Julia asked.
"Because she can't be true. She'll go with anything with gonads."

Julia eyed the cat critically. "It looks to me like she's not having safe sex, either. She's pregnant."

 

"No kidding," Simon said. "That's great."

 

"You must still be feeling the effects of all that carbon monoxide," she said. "No one wants his cat to have kittens."

"I wouldn't mind."
"You could still have her fixed."

"I wouldn't dream of it." Maybelline had started to knead Julia's lap, so Simon picked her up and put her on the floor.

 

"Pick out some more music and I'll get us some more coffee," Simon said. "It's decaf." Julia watched him walk into the kitchen. She could not even imagine her two exfiances, or any other man she had ever dated, taking care of kittens.

 

Julia was trying to decide between Lyle Lovett and Rubenstein playing Chopin when Simon walked up behind her and slipped his arms around her.

"Lyle Lovett," he said.
"Okay," she said.

She put the disc into its slot. As she pressed the play button, Simon pulled her closer to him and held her with crossed arms and rubbed her hips with his hands. She breathed deeply and covered his hands with hers. He had to tiptoe slightly to nuzzle her neck and kiss her hair. His hands moved up to cup her breasts. Julia pulled his hands away and turned to face him. She was steeled for anger and frustration, but she saw only disappointment in his face.

"I'm sorry," Simon said. "Did I offend you?"

"Not at all," she said. She tried to make her voice sound casual, as if she didn't know that Simon wanted to make love to her. "It's just time for me to go home. I have to work tomorrow."

"Okay," he said. "Let me get my keys."

It was just a few blocks to the parking lot of the bar where Julia had left her car. Simon opened her door and made sure she was in her own car with the doors locked. He didn't try to kiss her good night. Julia realized that she felt awful.

"I didn't hurt your feelings, did I?" she asked.

 

"Of course you did," Simon said. "But I take rejection extremely well. I'll even come back for more. Will you go out with me again?"

"Of course. I'd like to."
"Okay. I'll call you."

Simon watched Julia drive her noisy old BMW out of the parking lot and into the empty street. Damn, he thought, damn and damn and damn. He wondered how long he should wait before calling her again, or if she really wanted him to. She could just have been being polite. He could have sworn that he had felt a response when he touched her, though.

When Julia was out of Simon's sight, she put one hand on her face to see if it was as hot as she thought. She was still shocked. Her response to his touch was so profound that she had run away from him long before the situation had really called for flight. She hadn't even let him kiss her. Yes, Simon was cute, intelligent, funny, and gracious. And he hadn't acted like a thwarted child when she asked to go home. But sexy? No way. Too small, too bookish, too unambitious. But he had provoked a physical response in her that was beyond her understanding. She must have just been taken off guard. She really hadn't expected him to try to sleep with her so soon.

After the fiasco with the banker, Julia had decided that her next serious relationship would be the one. She wanted to get married and have kids, and she wasn't getting any younger. She didn't have time to waste on a man who wasn't appropriate, as Simon obviously wasn't. He was nice, though, and she didn't want to hurt him. She wondered if he would call her, and if he didn't, how she would go about making friends with him again. Compulsively, she counted all the streetlights on the right-hand side of the road until she arrived at her duplex. There were thirty-three, if you included one in the parking lot.

Simon walked back into his house. A few lights were on, the door to the porch was open, and the ceiling fan still turned the hot air slowly. Two iced coffees, both full, sat where Simon had left them on the table near the CD player. Lyle Lovett was singing
All My Love Is Gone.
The house seemed a lot emptier than the absence of one person could explain.

Simon hummed along with Lyle while he cleaned up, turned off the lights, and locked the doors. He was disappointed but not unhappy. He knew that attraction is a more complicated issue for women than for men. Julia needed time to worry their relationship to death before she made any decisions about it. He was willing to wait and see what happened.

Chapter Twenty-Three
WHEN HE GOT TO WORK THE NEXT DAY, SIMON FOUND A MESSAGE on his desk from Joe Bagwell at the Safety Taxi Company. Simon called him immediately.

"I don't drive much myself anymore," Joe said. "I dispatch mostly. I just drive a few regulars, like Mrs. Holland. She and I talk about old times, mostly about how glad we are those old times are over. Anyway, my daughter and my sister's boys drive three cabs for me now."

"Is this a bad time?"

"There's not going to be a good time," Joe said. "Things are always wild around here. Listen, I found Bessie White, but I don't know if her people are going to let you talk to her."

"Don't say that. I've got to talk to her."

"She's real old, and she was very upset about the newspaper story. Finding the Bloodworth girl dead and everything. Her granddaughter is afraid she might have a heart attack. But the granddaughter said she'd talk to you herself. Her name is Cofield, Dr. Elizabeth Cofield. She's one of those doctors who read X rays. She works out at the medical center. Said she'd talk to you at her lunch break, but she was real frosty about the whole thing."

"Thanks, Joe," Simon said. "I really owe you. I'd about given up hope of finding her." "Hey, you," Joe said. "Get your paws off that old tire. You'll get dirty and your mama'll fuss at me."

 

"What?"

"Not you. My granbaby. I'm keeping her for a while. Hold on.... Doris!" he shouted distantly. "I said Park Road, not Park Drive. You need to listen to me, girl. Sorry," Joe said to Simon.

Simon was thoroughly confused, so he started over.
"How did you find her?"

"It wasn't hard," Joe said. "I recollected that Bessie's second husband, the one named Cofield, was in the Fidelity Lodge with a cousin of mine. It was easy after that. She lives with the granddaughter I told you about, the doctor who reads X rays. In my day, you just had to go to one doctor to get patched up. Now you need one to see for this and one to see for that. No wonder everybody's got to have Blue Cross. Hey, Leroy," he yelled, "if you got that fare to the VA, go on out to Jimmy's Market and pick up Mrs. Wilson. She should be done with her shopping. If you keep her waiting, I'll hear about it at church."

Simon thanked Joe, then hung up and called the radiology department of the county medical center, where he was told that Dr. Cofield had her lunch break at one o'clock and he could meet her in her office.

THE BLUE-HAIRED volunteer at the information desk in the medical center directed him down two halls and two flights of stairs to a dingy basement corridor. The fluorescent lighting overhead buzzed and popped as he walked down the hall, looking at room numbers. When he finally found the office to which he had been directed, it was empty. It was clearly not Dr. Cofield's personal office, but a room where anyone on duty could come and write up notes or have a cup of coffee if they had the time. One desk sat askew in the middle of the room, surrounded by four plastic stackable chairs. It was covered with empty, stained Styrofoam cups and wadded-up balls of paper. The coffeepot sat in the corner, surrounded by spilled sugar, a creamer, and stained plastic spoons. The coffee smelled as if it had been made three days ago. The pot probably hadn't been cleaned in years. Simon sat on the one upholstered piece of furniture in the place—an orange vinyl sofa with rips in it. Dirty stuffing was coming out of it.

Dr. Elizabeth Cofield opened the door and walked in. She was the same woman Simon had seen at the cemetery with the elderly black woman he had hoped was Bessie. He had been right.

"Dr. Shaw," she said, extending her hand to him. "I understand that you want to talk to my grandmother."