Little Deaths(38)

“Where did you go next?”

“I drove around the neighborhood for a while.”

“Were you looking for him?”

“I guess at first I was looking for Ruth’s car. I wanted to be sure she wasn’t there. But I didn’t see it. There were cars everywhere, but they were mostly new. Station wagons, Chryslers. You know, mom cars. But they were mostly shiny, like they were taken care of. I would’ve noticed her car there.

“A while later, I realized I wasn’t even looking for her anymore. I was just driving. It was a nice neighborhood. Quiet. Green lawns. It seemed like a place you’d want to bring up kids.

“Anyway,” Frank cleared his throat. “Anyway, she wasn’t there. Then I drove home and took a nap. Then I watched some TV. About eight, I got hungry, so I headed out along Union Street. There’s a guy has a stand there, makes good pizzas. I bought a large pepperoni. Went home again to eat.”

“Did you stay home the rest of the night?

“Mr. Malone?”

“I drove back to the Union. Went to a bar—the Lakeside. Had a few drinks.”

“What time did you leave there?”

“About eleven. Maybe a little before.”

“You talk to anyone?”

“The bartender, Al. He knows me, I’ve been there a coupla times. He’ll remember me. I was drinking gin. We talked about the Mets game. He’ll remember.”

“You normally drink gin?”

“Felt like a change.”

“Okay, then what? What did you do when you left the Lakeside?”

“Drove around some more.”

“Where did you go?”

Silence. Then: “I went to Ruth’s. I drove to her place and parked outside.”

“How long were you there?”

“I dunno. Fifteen, twenty minutes. There was a light on in the bedroom and in the living room.”

“Did you get out of the car? Speak to her?”

“No.”

“Did you see anyone while you were there?”

“No.”

“If you didn’t go there to see Ruth or the kids, why were you there?”

“Well, to get evidence. For the custody case. I thought she might have another guy there. I wanted to be sure the kids were okay. And . . .”

“And what?”

Another sigh. “I just went there sometimes. I’d park up and just sit. I wanted to be near her, I guess. Near Ruth. Near my kids. She’s my wife. That’s . . . that was my family.”

He spread his hands. Looked at Pete.

“I’m living in a shitty boardinghouse with three other guys. The bathroom stinks, the kitchen’s a mess. That’s why I don’t eat dinner at home. No one cleans. Things never get fixed. The lightbulb in the hallway went out nineteen days ago, and nobody’s replaced it yet. Nineteen days. I count ’em, every morning.

“That’s where I live now, and I miss my home. I miss my wife. I miss my family. Sometimes I used to go to the apartment building to be near them. So what? That’s not a crime.”

There was another pause, and then Pete asked, “What time did you leave?”

“Eleven-thirty, eleven forty-five maybe.”

“Then what did you do?”

“Like I told the cops—I drove home. Went to bed. I didn’t wake up until Ruth called in the morning.”


Pete was back outside Ruth’s building the following night. He watched her get into a cab, and trailed her to Gloria’s. It used to be a fancy place, back when it first opened: ropes for the lines, the bouncers young and tough. When the novelty had worn off, the lines died away, the bouncers were replaced by an older guy with glazed eyes and a broken nose, and then even he disappeared.

The night Pete walked in, the sidewalk outside was dead. There was no one on the door, no one lined up outside. No homeless, even, panning for change—there wasn’t enough passing traffic to make it worth their while.

He saw Ruth right away. She looked at him, puzzled, like she half-recognized him, then turned back to her drink. She was sitting alone at the bar, but there were two cops at the far end. She kept shooting them filthy glances, checking her nails, looking up from under her lashes whenever someone stood next to her. Pete knew her well enough by now to guess she was on her third Scotch Mist. Almost drunk enough.

She leaned into the bar, beckoned the bartender over.

“Another one, Hud.”

Hud and Pete both looked at her and there was a moment where Pete thought the other man might say something. It passed, like all moments, and Hud just shrugged and poured her drink in silence. She raised it to the cops at the end of the bar, threw it back, and turned to face the room.

She leaned her weight on her elbow, resting on the bar, back arched. Her hair was pinned and sprayed, her skin matte and flawless, her eyes huge: what Pete’s Irish grandmother used to call “put in with a smutty finger.”

As he watched her, Ruth lowered her gaze. Moistened her lip with the tip of her pink tongue. Crossed her legs.

She reminded him of the cat who lived in the apartment building across from him: a tortoiseshell who spent hours staring at the birds that settled on the small plane tree in the front yard. They both circled their space with golden eyes: they owned it.