The Ninth Step (12 page)

“That’s AA-speak,” Steve said.

“And God forgive me for asking this, but I have to know—”

“Yes,” Edgar said. “It’s Judy’s ring.”

“Why on earth would you do that? It’s ghoulish. If you need the money for a new ring, we’ll—”

“I wanted Judy to be a part of this. An equal part. Like a triangle. All sides equal. No one side more or less than the other two.”

Jane nodded and pulled Savannah out of the pool and began to dry her off with a towel.

Edgar went inside for dry clothes. He walked down the hallway, a towel draped around his shoulders, but stopped outside the guest bathroom. He heard a hushed, urgent voice coming from inside. It was Martha’s voice.

In general, Edgar was not one to eavesdrop. And he certainly had never done so outside a bathroom, but there was something about Martha that hit him wrong. The way he would catch her looking at him and then look away. He was beginning to wonder if she was a lesbian with a crush on Helen. Or maybe he was just imagining things because he was a little jealous of the bond they shared. But her voice grew more heated and he quite clearly
heard her say, “Just break his fucking fingers,” and then something that sounded like, “Give him a Post-it note,” and then something about working with gamblers.

The bathroom door swung open without prelude—Martha in midsentence on her cell phone. She stared at Edgar and ended the call without notice to the other party. Martha reached back into the bathroom and grabbed a can of deodorizing spray. She handed it to Edgar.

“Sorry, dear.”

In their bedroom, Helen held her arms crossed in front of her.

“I just don’t like her,” Edgar said. “She was talking violence. She said something about breaking somebody’s fingers.”

“That’s just… she’s a good person. You were listening outside the bathroom? Jesus.”

“She’s a crafty-eyed bitch.”

“A crafty-eyed what? Are you kidding me? What does that even mean?”

“You know what it means.”

“I most certainly do not. This is a whole new facet of your personality. A scary facet.”

“I just want to protect what’s mine.”

“What’s yours? Am I an object now? A puzzle box you can display in your glass case?”

“She’s a criminal. That stuff about conning the waitress? Think about it. Stalking people? Photographing them? Breaking their fingers?”

“Everything except spying on people while they’re using the bathroom. Maybe we should get one of those nanny cams for over the toilet.”

“I don’t like her, okay? I don’t trust her.”

“Okay. But I do. I trust her with everything.”

“Fine.”

“Fine. Jesus, Edgar. What’s wrong with us? We’ve been married one day and we’ve had our first and second fight. Plus a little spousal battery thrown in.”

Edgar thought it over. “Well, you didn’t drink. And I didn’t feel guilty. Win-win.”

“Let’s see if we can wrap this thing up without a knife fight.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of a duel.”

Helen uncovered a plate of deviled eggs that Martha had brought.

“I have a platter for these somewhere. I saw it the other day.”

Martha watched Helen rummage through the undercounter cabinet.

“You make amends wherever possible. Wherever possible. It’s simply not possible to bring this man’s wife back. Nor his unborn child. What you’re doing is… something else entirely.”

Helen stacked pots and containers on the floor as she went through the cabinet. She pulled out a dusty bottle of brandy. It was labeled
Edgar and Judy
and decorated with a drawing of a bride and groom. A commemorative from their wedding.

Martha and Helen exchanged a look.

“Oh dear, that just has to be an omen.”

Helen replaced the bottle and pulled out the egg platter.

“He lost a wife and he lost a child. Because of me. Because I’m an alcoholic. But I’ve corrected it. Now I’m his wife. And I can give him a child. I can make amends.”

“Maybe it will work out for you.”

Helen looked Martha in the eyes and said, “Edgar doesn’t like you.”

“What?”

“Edgar doesn’t like you.”

“Oh, well then, that’s that.”

“He thinks you’re a criminal.”

“Oh. That business about breaking fingers. He heard. Well, he heard wrong. It’s a joke. I’m tracking down a man for one of my clients. A man with gambling debts. The joke is that instead of breaking his fingers like some loan shark, I leave him Post-it notes. At his work. His church. His home. To embarrass him. It’s silly.”

“You are a criminal.”

“No, I used to be a criminal. And when you get right down to it, we’re all criminals, aren’t we? Ms. Cover-Up.”

“I think I want a new sponsor. I think I don’t want a sponsor at all. I’m done with the program.”

“Dear—”

“That part of my life is over. No hard feelings. But it’s over.”

“Helen—”

“It’s over. I don’t want to hear it. I have to do what makes Edgar happy. That’s my program.”

“Whatever you like. I won’t argue. Just promise me one thing. If you feel like you’re going to pick up a drink, call me before you do it.”

Helen parked her car at the far end of the Walgreens parking lot. Neatly taped to the back window was a
For Sale
sign with her and Edgar’s phone number. She’d told Edgar she wanted something new. They had already put her house on the market. Values were dismal right now, but she was upside down on her mortgage and needed to get out from under before it all came crashing down. So if she was selling her house, why not her car? A new start all the way around.

Inside, she browsed for a bit. She was wearing shorts and a halter top against the summer heat, but found it uncomfortably cool inside the store. At the makeup counter, she picked out some blush from an array of samples, tilted an oval mirror to reflect her face, and brushed some on. She found it too stark and wiped
it off. She selected another and tried it. Too muted. She leaned across the counter to select a third sample. When she leaned away from the mirror, what Helen did not see was the reflection of the man who had been watching her since she came into the store. His image was perfectly reflected in the oval frame, like a portrait. The man had jet-black hair, greasy, and combed straight back. A pink scar marred his otherwise pale forehead, and his top lip drooped inward a bit because of the two front teeth he was missing—otherwise Mr. Slick-Back looked just as he did the night Helen gave him her last dance as a drunkard. Her last one-night stand.

When Helen leaned back into the mirror, the portrait of Mr. Slick-Back was replaced by her own image—as though Helen’s life had been reduced to a series of images on a child’s View-Master disk.

She never saw him.

The man took another step toward Helen. He leaned in and looked as though he were trying to catch the scent of her hair. Helen sensed the presence and turned around, but he was gone.

Helen grabbed her shopping buggy and started pushing it. She needed to get what she had come here for.

The man fell in behind her.

At the end of one of the aisles near the pharmacy was a discreet sign:
Family Planning Center.
This was where Helen stopped. There was a baffling array of home pregnancy test kits, and Helen began reading the backs of the boxes. Mr. Slick-Back sidled past her and looked over her shoulder to see exactly what Helen was shopping for. When she turned to him, he simultaneously
turned to the opposite row of shelves and pretended that he had found exactly what he’d been looking for—KY Jelly, the warming kind.

Helen finally selected a kit that came with two units—a backup, she supposed, in case you peed on it wrong. She dropped it into her cart and headed for the front of the store.

One aisle over, the man matched her progress, step for step.

At the end of the aisle, Helen U-turned to head up the aisle Mr. Slick-Back had been coming down.

At the last possible second, the man pivoted on his heels and appeared to be simply strolling up the aisle by the time Helen and her cart completed the turn.

Helen followed just a step or two behind the man whose teeth marks were still just barely visible on her left breast, but only if you knew what you were looking for.

Mr. Slick-Back stopped and grabbed a package of Just For Men hair dye. Jet black. When Helen was past him, he shoved the box down the front of his pants.

Helen turned back to the family planning center. She returned the double test kit and selected the less expensive single version.
She was a licensed veterinarian, for Christ’s sake. She could pee on a stick and get it right the first time.

On her way to the front of the store, Helen picked up a few citronella candles from an endcap display because not only were they good to have on hand, but she really didn’t want the pregnancy test kit to be the only object she placed on the checkout
counter. She wanted to camouflage it somewhat. She stopped at the jewelry and fragrance counter and grabbed a pair of cheap opalescent earrings from a spin rack. They were big and gaudy. Perfect.

Three citronella candles, a pair of ugly earrings, and one home pregnancy test. The very definition of idle purchases.

She placed her items in front of the cashier, an elderly lady with a face like soft white leather. She rang up the candles first, then the earrings, and when she scanned the home pregnancy test kit, she smiled at Helen. The well-educated veterinarian blushed. Feeling awkward and self-conscious, Helen swiped her debit card through the terminal and keyed in her PIN. Replacing the card in her wallet, she knocked over a small display box of chewing gum. Helen and the customer behind her bent down at the same time to pick up the scattered packs of gum. Crouched on the floor, she met his eyes. Froze, as recognition set in. She remembered exactly who he was.

The man smiled, and his missing front teeth gave his face a vapid, evil quality.

Helen grabbed her purchases and ran.

The card receipt printed out, and the cashier tore it from the printer and held it out to Helen—who was disappearing through the door. “Guess she was embarrassed.”

Mr. Slick-Back snatched the slip of paper from the woman’s fingers. “I’ll be most happy to reunite that young lady with her receipt.”

The elderly cashier noted not only the pack of chewing gum that Mr. Slick-Back still held in his hand, but also the top of the
hair dye box peeking over the waist of his pants. “Sir, you have to pay—” But the man was gone.

The woman picked up the store telephone, punched the intercom button, and calmly spoke the code words that would alert security to the crime of shoplifting.

In the parking lot, Mr. Slick-Back was in time to see Helen slam her car door. As the car backed out of the parking space, the man began to repeat something to himself. Over and over he repeated the numbers. The phone number on the
For Sale
sign in the back window of Helen’s car.

The white-haired cashier emerged from the store, a stout security man in tow, and pointed a finger of accusation at Mr. Slick-Back.

Mr. Slick-Back turned around, Helen’s receipt in one hand, the pack of gum in the other, and the top of the Just For Men package poking out of his pants.

“God damn,” he said.

The judge peered down from his nest-like perch at the forlorn Cornell Smith—aka Mr. Slick-Back. The judge motioned for the evidence bag lying on the prosecution’s table. The bailiff retrieved it and handed it to the judge.

His Honor removed the pack of gum and the box of hair dye from the plastic bag and considered both of these items.

“Third offense. One hundred twenty days.”

The judge tossed the pack of gum down from his bench. Cornell caught it neatly.

“Enjoy your gum.”

“God damn,” said Cornell.

“Fine. Make it a hundred and fifty.”

Mr. Smith started mumbling something under his breath,
and the judge was about to up the ante yet again, when he realized Cornell was only reciting a string of numbers. Sounded like a phone number. The judge let it pass.

He’d been in jail before, but the most he’d ever done was thirty days in city lockup. Now he had to do five times that.

Cornell made his way down a concrete-and-steel corridor carrying his jail-issue belongings and thought about how he came to be here. He’d been surprised she’d remembered him. He didn’t think she would. He had thought a lot about her since the accident. Wondered on more than one occasion what might have happened between them. Cornell had been looking to connect with someone. They’d both been pretty drunk. He’d figured he’d look just like anybody else to her. He’d not been in a blackout that night, but he was pretty sure she had been. Cornell understood blackouts. But she’d remembered, all right. And she’d been scared. Scared. Wonder why?

A guard opened the cell door, and Cornell stepped inside his new home—which was already occupied. To himself, Cornell said
God damn
as he looked over his cellmate: a three-hundred-pounder, stubbly head with rings of fat circling his massive neck. And covered in tattoos. Aryan.
Yep, God damn.
The man’s eyes had a vacant look that reminded Cornell of the way his mentally retarded nephew never seemed to really focus his gaze. And there was a lethal, casual evil lurking in those eyes as well.

Though he had done two weeks here and thirty days there, Cornell had always done those stretches in the pissant city jail.
This was county. A whole different ball game. He was working his way up. Cornell grinned (conscious of exposing his missing front teeth) and said, “Very happy to be sharing my cell with a regular white man, I can tell you that much.”

The cellmate took Cornell’s blanket and towel away from him and placed them on his own bed. The man turned back around, smiled, and poked his grimy stub of a finger into Cornell’s mouth, probing the gummy gap.

“Smooth,” the man said.

God damn. God damn. God damn.

In the community room, Cornell played Mario Brothers on the wall-mounted television. He was
killing
. He moved his whole body with each move of the joystick. Six or seven other inmates stood around them, admiring Cornell’s proficiency.