Before She Knew Him(66)
“I guess I talked about how our relationship has changed, how everything about us now is how we deal with things. So first it was your illness and taking care of that, and it made me feel like I was just a caretaker and nothing more, and then we bought this house together and everything was about mortgages and moving costs and decorating—”
“It’s called real life,” Hen said.
“I know. I’m not saying I’m in the right. I’m just saying how I felt. I know it’s not fair. I know I’m the bad guy here.”
“Okay,” Hen said. “Continue.”
Lloyd kept talking, and Hen was surprised to find herself almost bored listening to him. She could have told the story herself. It was just a midlife crisis, Lloyd wearied by the minutiae of his life—its health crises and financial decisions, and a job that was less creative than he thought it would be—and suddenly there was a new woman to talk with and sneak away to, and it kept things interesting for a while. And Hen even believed him when he said that it was really over, because it became clear that what happened between him and Joanna was no great love; it was just two semi-lonely people hooking up as though they were still in their twenties. Had she been hoping for more? Had some small part of her been hoping to hear that Lloyd was madly in love and wanted to leave, and that Hen would have to fight, or not, for her marriage? Maybe it was just that Lloyd’s sordid little affair paled in comparison to what she’d learned in the last few days about her neighbor and the secrets that he kept.
“I’m tired, Lloyd,” she said, interrupting another crying jag. “I’m going upstairs to sleep. We can talk about this more in the morning.”
Before she left the living room, Lloyd said, “What were you talking about with Matthew Dolamore?”
“He kills people,” she said.
“What?”
“That’s not news. I’ve already told you that, but now he’s told me about it as well.”
“What? Are you going to go to the police again?”
“I can’t, can I? He’d deny it, and they’d believe him. I have no proof, and the police know all about what happened in college. They’d never believe me.”
“Is he dangerous?”
“To me? No, I don’t think he is. I’d worry more about you. He knew you were a cheater, by the way.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“He told me he could tell as soon as he saw you. He could tell by the way you looked at his wife.”
“Jesus Christ. You’re not going to talk to him again, are you?”
“I don’t know. Probably. He wants to stop what he’s doing and maybe I can help him do that. It’s the only thing I can do.”
“I think you should go to the police and tell them everything, even if they don’t believe you. Put it on record.”
“So you believe me now?”
“Yes! I mean, I believe that you’ve been talking with this creep, and he’s been telling you that he kills people, and that you believe him.”
“So now it’s him you don’t believe?” Hen was standing at the foot of the stairs, one hand on the bannister.
“I don’t know what to believe.” Lloyd took a deep breath, his mouth open. Hen noticed how dry his lips were, almost white at the edges.
“We’ll talk more tomorrow, okay?”
Hen slept a small amount just after dawn. The light in the room gave the undersides of her lids a reddish tint, and she pretended she was lying at the edge of the lake in the Adirondacks where her parents owned a bare-bones cottage. It was one of her happy places, surrounded by pines, the cool lake water still on her skin, the distant sound of a motorboat. Then she was awake, and the motorboat was actually a lawnmower somewhere on Sycamore Street. She sat up in bed, realized she’d forgotten to take her meds the night before, so doubled up on them now, then went and took a shower. Afterward, she dressed, but couldn’t bring herself to go downstairs and resume the conversation with Lloyd. It was exhausting and sad, and she was surprised to find that a part of herself didn’t really care all that much. The shock of his infidelity had already worn off, and she was somehow numb to it. What she really wanted to do was to go downstairs, tell Lloyd that he should just go to work, and they could talk some more later. She wanted to be alone and maybe go to her studio, and she wanted to continue her conversation with Matthew, find out more about his brother and what was going on there.
She lay back on the bed and listened to the house. She wondered if Lloyd was up yet, but couldn’t hear anything. Finally, she braced herself and went downstairs, expecting to see Lloyd still on the couch, probably still crying. Why did he get to cry so much? She was the one who got cheated on.
When she got to the first floor, the couch was empty, the single blanket lying on the floor.
“Lloyd,” she said aloud, and as soon as she said it, she realized he wasn’t in the house. She walked to the window that faced the driveway. The Golf was gone. There was no note in the kitchen, the place where he’d most likely leave one. Had he just gone to work, taking the car instead of the train? No, that made no sense. And if he had he would have let her known. He wouldn’t have left while she was still asleep upstairs. She pulled her phone out. No text messages, and no voice mail. She dialed his number, and as she started to listen to it ring, a familiar noise came from the living room, the opening notes of “Coronado,” the Deerhunter song Lloyd used as his ringtone.