Before She Knew Him(16)
“Not really,” Lloyd said, swiveling his stool so that he was now completely facing Hen. He lowered his voice. “Even if he thought he got away with sexual assault, that wouldn’t mean he would murder him. And take a trophy as what, a souvenir?”
“All I’m saying is it’s a possibility.”
“It would be a huge coincidence.”
“Why would it be a huge coincidence? Someone killed Dustin Miller.”
“No, it would be a huge coincidence that we lived on the same street as the victim, then moved to the same street as the murderer.”
“Okay, yes, that is a coincidence.”
They were both quiet for a moment. The Red Sox game had just been called for a rain delay, and groundskeepers were pulling a tarp onto the diamond. Hen instinctively looked toward the large front windows of the tavern to see if it was raining yet in West Dartford.
“To be honest,” Lloyd said, “I’m more concerned right now with you than with whether our neighbor killed Dustin Miller.”
“I’m fine. I promise.”
“You weren’t fine last time you became obsessed with Dustin Miller.”
“No, I wasn’t, but this is different. Also, when I was looking at the trophy, I could sense Matthew’s eyes on me. It was like he knew I knew.”
“Great.”
“There’s one other thing,” Hen said.
“Okay.”
“I went to their house today, and Mira was there. I asked her if I could look around again, try and get some decorating ideas.”
“Seriously?”
“It wasn’t entirely a lie. I did want to see their house again, even though I really wanted to see the trophy.”
“And she let you in?”
“She did. She was really happy to see me.”
“And so you saw the trophy again, and it had Dustin Miller’s name on it.”
“Not quite. It was gone, Lloyd. Matthew had moved it or gotten rid of it—either way, it’s because he saw I was looking at it. I’m not being paranoid or obsessive, and I don’t feel manic, but I know. Our neighbor killed Dustin Miller.”
Lloyd was quiet for a moment, clearly thinking. Hen knew how his mind worked and knew that he was considering everything Hen had just said, and that he was also considering, as he always did, Hen’s state of mental health. It was how he processed their world together, their marriage. Hen loved him, and she truly believed that if it weren’t for Lloyd Harding, her life would be far worse. But because of all the times she’d relied on him for care, he now treated her with kid gloves. It had been that way ever since her last episode when they’d lived in Cambridge. He checked on her mood constantly, monitored her eating and drinking, made sure she was sleeping okay. She appreciated it—and loved him for it—but sometimes she missed the Lloyd she’d first known when they’d each answered an ad to move into a six-bedroom house in Winter Hill in Somerville. They were both recent college graduates, Hen starting a program—one she never finished—at Lesley University in art therapy, and Lloyd tending bar and working an unpaid internship in public television. They’d immediately bonded, mostly because the other four residents of the damp, drafty house were like a coven of vegan shut-ins. The house smelled of patchouli and body odor, and every item in the “animal-free” fridge was labeled with a note of ownership. Lloyd and Hen formed their own alternative unit, smoking cigarettes together on the unsafe balcony and buying food, including dairy-based milk, together.
There had been an instant attraction, at least from Hen’s side. He was tall and skinny, with a bad haircut, but he had beautiful pale brown eyes and he always smelled nice, like coffee and cinnamon. But Hen was dating one of her fellow students, a very sincere comic book artist from the Midwest, and Lloyd was technically still with his college girlfriend, then in Moldova with the Peace Corps. When Hen and Lloyd first slept together, after a warm evening spent on the balcony with a gallon jug of Burgundy and a pack of American Spirits, it was almost combative, as though they were rushing to complete the act before the guilt stopped them. Afterward, they both swore it would never happen again. But two weeks later, a day before Lloyd’s girlfriend—who’d suddenly quit the Peace Corps—was set to arrive, Lloyd crawled into Hen’s bed, with beer on his breath and tears in his eyes, and stripped Hen from the boxers and T-shirt she slept in. That night was the first time she’d had an orgasm just from intercourse. Lloyd left the bedroom having never spoken a word.
It was six months until they were officially together. By that point they’d both broken off from their respective partners—Hen did it easily, Lloyd not so much—and they’d abandoned the semi-commune in Winter Hill and both moved to separate cohousing situations that were only marginally better. In some ways, it was a stressful, terrible time for Hen. Lloyd, guilt-ridden over his college girlfriend, took out some of his self-loathing on Hen. They had many drunken fights and lots of frenetic sex, sometimes simultaneously. Hen wasn’t happy, but, even now, she could remember that time so clearly, in the way that she couldn’t always remember the years of contented happiness—marred only by her bouts of manic depression—that came later. And there had been a dangerous edge to Lloyd at that time. He’d been a good guy, but he was confrontational, sometimes belligerent, and always willing to call Hen out on her bullshit. Also, back then, when they’d had sex there was always a moment when Lloyd would take control. She could feel him objectifying her, and instead of it making her feel bad, it made her feel good, as though something was freed up between them. But ever since her first bout of depression that led to her dropping out of Lesley, that side of Lloyd had disappeared. He’d become a caretaker, overly aware of Hen’s condition. These days they didn’t argue, and when they had sex it was reverential, almost. She had mentioned that to her best friend, Charlotte, now married with four kids, and Charlotte had laughed and said that dull sex had nothing whatsoever to do with Hen’s mental health and everything to do with the institution of marriage.