Everything You Want Me to Be(23)
In the bottom drawer I found a program for a Rochester play where Hattie had gotten the lead. I remembered Bud saying something about that last fall. Scratching his neck, shrugging his shoulders as we winterized his boat. Kid’s a natural. Damned if I know where she got it.
Flipping through the program, my eye caught on a particular name.
Gerald Jones, director.
Now, why would Hattie be carrying, on the night of her death, the card and phone number of a man she hadn’t seen in over six months? A man she was connected to through the theater?
I smiled grimly, ready to put Jake in his place when I got back to the station. Look what old-fashioned police work turned up.
PETER / Saturday, September 8, 2007
SHAKESPEARE WAS one cunning SOB. I didn’t care much for his comedies, the farces full of village idiots and misplaced identities. I’d always gravitated to the tragedies, where even witches and ghosts couldn’t distract the audience from this central psychological truth: by our own natures, we are all inherently doomed. Shakespeare didn’t write anything new. He didn’t invent jealousy, infidelity, or the greed of kings. He recognized evil as timeless and shone a spotlight directly, unflinchingly on it and said, This is what we are and always will be.
Of course, right at this minute, I had no idea what my wife was.
“So Peter just found out he’ll be directing the spring play at school,” Mary said conversationally as she sliced through the tender breast meat of a chicken. She smiled at me, encouraging me to jump into the conversation, but I couldn’t concentrate on anything besides the chicken. It had been alive a few hours ago and now wafts of rosemary and cooked skin rolled off it, turning my stomach as Elsa and our neighbor Winifred lifted their plates for the entrée.
“Do The Music Man. I like the songs in that one,” Winifred ordered. She often joined us for Saturday-night dinners and usually I looked forward to the bang of the screen door that announced her arrival. She was wiry and opinionated and had all the strength of heart that Elsa lacked.
I shook my head weakly. “The principal said it had to be Shakespeare.”
He’d told me he didn’t care which play, except it couldn’t be Romeo and Juliet. Nothing suicide-related, he said.
Elsa smiled fondly as she scooped up some peas. “Lyle always likes his Shakespeare.”
“Remember when he had them do A Midsummer Night’s Dream in Will Davis’s bean fields?” Winifred scoffed. She glanced over and filled me in on the joke.
“All the chairs were set up on what they found out was a giant anthill, and before the first act was over, the whole audience was covered in biting ants.”
Elsa put a quavering hand on Winifred’s, changing the topic back to how she didn’t like Winifred living alone anymore. Having Mary and me around helped her see how much better it was to have support, she said. Winifred dismissed her friend’s concerns with a practiced flair and steered the conversation to the new furnace that was being installed in the town café.
Everyone enjoyed Saturday-night dinners with Winifred. The conversation was more animated. Elsa perked up and her complexion looked healthier, which made Mary relax. Once, we played cards afterwards and Winifred even had a beer with me, but it became obvious that Elsa didn’t have the capacity to play hearts anymore, so the game ended and the TV was switched on before she could become too flustered.
I was always the third wheel at these dinner parties, trying to find my way into conversations that debated the merits of different furnace brands or analyzed the year’s weather predictions from the Farmers’ Almanac. All my references to literature or pop culture fell flat, despite Mary’s or my attempts to explain the context. They didn’t intentionally ostracize me, but I was outside all the same. Tonight, though, I couldn’t even try to engage. My attention was torn between the chicken in the center of the table and Mary’s profile as she refereed the conversation.
“That doesn’t look very good.” Winifred leaned over my plate and poked at my veggie burger.
“Try it if you want.” I got up and grabbed a Coke from the fridge.
“They’re actually pretty tasty,” Mary put in. “Especially grilled and with some cheese and tomato on top. They make great lunches.”
“No, thanks, Winifred replied. “I only eat food I recognize.”
Then she and Elsa launched a discussion of the quality of various TV dinners. I took a long drink.
After dinner Mary and I tackled the cleanup. She washed the dishes and tossed comments into the older ladies’ discussion via the pass-through window between the kitchen and living room, just like everything was normal. Her hands were scalded red from the hot water. I couldn’t stop staring at them. She laughed at something, then caught my expression and sobered as she handed me a plate to dry.
As soon as the kitchen was in order I excused myself and went upstairs. I’d been spending more and more time in the spare room, which was obvious from the piles of books and stacks of student papers covering the tops of the dusty storage boxes. The heat from the oven had drifted up, stifling the air in the tiny space. Opening a window that screamed against its sash, I began picking up books at random. Lifting one, I traced the gilt in the cover, then grabbed another and checked a copyright date I already knew. I flipped to arbitrary pages and read a few lines, then turned to the next book and the next. I couldn’t settle into any of them, couldn’t make myself forget what happened today.