A Noise Downstairs(37)

“Possibly,” Anna said, “but that’s not really my area of expertise. But yes, I think it’s possible. You were still under the influences of a dream while you presented as awake.”

Paul stared at her for several seconds. “I think that has to be it. Unless,” and at this point he forced a chuckle, “it’s a ghost. That’s what Bill—a friend of mine—suggested, although he was joking.”

Anna managed a wry smile. “If that’s the problem, you’re absolutely in an area I don’t know much about.”

As the session came to its conclusion, Paul again asked Anna how she was.

“Better,” she said, holding up her bandaged finger and offering a crooked smile. “You’re my new hero.”





Twenty-One

I gave Bill shit today,” Charlotte said over dinner.

“What for?”

“Seriously? Letting you get into a squash court with him?”

“Oh, that.”

“I don’t know who’s the bigger idiot, you or him.”

Paul smiled. “Tough call.”

She gave him a sharp look. “It’s not funny.”

They moved on to other things. She asked if he had the ticket for the dry cleaning. She’d be going by there tomorrow and could pick it up.

“What dry cleaning?” he asked.

“The dry cleaning I asked you to drop off.”

“You didn’t ask me to drop off any dry cleaning.”

“This morning, I said to you, please drop off the dry cleaning. I pointed to the bag on the chair in our room. And you said, no problem, you’d do it on the way to your session.”

Paul stared at her. “No, you didn’t.”

Charlotte said, “Maybe this will help you remember. I said, tell them to be careful with that black dress. And you said, the one that looks like it’s painted on? And I said, why, you got some paint remover? Does that help?”

Paul’s face fell. “I don’t remember any of that.”

Charlotte tried to look upbeat. “It’s no big deal. I’ll drop it off tomorrow.”

_________________

TO HIS SURPRISE, PAUL SLEPT WELL. MAYBE TACKLING THE HOFFMAN business was having an impact, Volvo incident aside.

When he woke up at five minutes after seven, he heard water running. He threw back the covers and traipsed into the bathroom. Charlotte stood naked behind the frosted shower door, her head arched back to allow the water to splash across her face.

“Hey,” he said loudly to be heard over the water.

She turned the taps off and opened the door far enough to retrieve a towel hanging on a hook.

“When did you come to bed?” she asked. “I waited for you for about twenty minutes before I finally went to sleep.”

“I stayed up for a while, that’s all,” he said. “I was doing some writing.”

Paul studied his face in the mirror, examined his eyes. Charlotte dried off behind the glass, then opened the door and stepped out, the towel wrapped around her.

“But you slept through the rest of the night?” she asked.

“I did,” he said. “I feel kind of logy, but I slept pretty good.”

Paul knew what she was really asking. Had he heard anything in the night? He ran his hand over his bristly chin and neck. He opened a drawer, brought out a razor and shaving cream.

“You want to start the coffee while I get dressed?” she asked when he was done shaving.

He nodded wearily and, after another look at himself in the mirror, said, “It’s gonna take more than coffee to fix this.”

He slipped out of the bathroom and headed to the floor below. Charlotte took off her towel, dried her hair as best she could, and retrieved a handheld dryer from the cabinet below the sink. She plugged it in, flipped the switch, the small room suddenly sounding like the inside of a jet engine. She aimed the device at her head and let her hair fly.

Less than a minute later, Paul stood at the bathroom door, his face drained of color. She turned the machine off.

“For Christ’s sake, didn’t you hear me?” he said.

She waved the dryer in front of him. “With this on?”

“Come downstairs.”

“What is it?”

“Just come.”

She ducked into the bedroom to grab her robe, threw it on, and quickly knotted the sash. She ran after her husband, who was already halfway down the stairs.

“What’s going on?” Charlotte asked.

He led her straight to the small office, stood just outside the door, and pointed to the typewriter.

“Look,” he said.

“Look at what?”

“The paper,” he said. “Look at the paper.”

From where she stood, she could make out the letters. A partial line of them on the sheet of paper Paul had rolled into the machine a few days earlier.

“What the hell?” she whispered.

She slowly stepped into the room, bent over in front of the black metal typewriter, close enough to read the words that had somehow appeared between the time they’d gone to bed and now: We typed our apologies like we were asked but it didn’t make any difference.





Twenty-Two

I don’t want to alarm you, but it’s possible someone got into the house without our knowing it, so we need to be on our guard. I debated whether to even tell you, because I didn’t want to upset you.”