Rooms(39)

Maybe that’s why Caroline was so crazy about her greenhouse. Maybe she liked pretending, too.

I’d seen Martin once or twice in passing. He had the kind of face you remember: broad and flat, with eyes as round as gumdrops, like a little kid’s face that’s just been stretched and pulled a little by the years. He was tall, too: six foot two, and sturdy as a bulldozer. That’s just how I like my men: if I wanted someone I could knock over, I’d start going in for women.

It was July and a heat wave and I’d come to the store to cool off, stick my face in the freezers and under the mist, pick up a refill of tonic and maybe some ice cream to eat for dinner. And there in the center of the produce aisle was a huge display of watermelons: a pyramid of them, stacked halfway to the ceiling, and several of them cut open to show off their insides, juicy and red, winking at me like a promise.

Of all things, it made me think of my mother, how she greased one up in lard before the church social every June, and how the kids would fight to catch hold of it; and spitting watermelon seeds off the front porch and watching the birds swoop down to eat them; and the first bite, letting juice run all the way to your elbow. The heat was making me loopy. It nearly made me start crying to think of how long it had been since I’d had a watermelon.

So I went poking and squeezing and looking for the perfect one, like I’d seen my mother do hundreds of times, working my way around the pyramid and taking my time. I never saw Martin come up. But just when I got my hands around a watermelon, his hands landed on it, too.

“It’s mine,” was the first thing I said, not taking my hands off it.

“I don’t think so,” he said. He didn’t take his hands off, either, so we were standing there, two strangers, holding a watermelon between us.

“Ladies first,” I said.

He laughed. I have a thing for teeth, and he had nice ones. “That’s old-fashioned,” he said.

“I’m old-fashioned,” I said.

“I doubt that.” The smile stayed in his eyes. “I’ve got an idea.”

“What’s that?”

“How about we share it?” he said.

So we did. We drove back to my place, and we polished off the whole damn watermelon and a bottle of Glenlivet he picked up on the way. It was the most fun I’d had in a long time, and I was flattered, too. Martin worked on the Buffalo City Council and had his own business selling medical equipment. He wasn’t some lowlife I’d picked up in a bar.

That first night was great. One of the best of my life, I’d say. I pretended not to notice his wedding ring the whole time.





PART V

THE BEDROOMS





ALICE

“Well, she didn’t waste any time, did she? Couldn’t have been quicker if she’d tripped and fallen on his—”

“Please, Sandra. Not today.”

I’m trying to ignore Sandra’s voice. I am trying to ignore what is happening in the Yellow Room entirely, but the rhythm of grunts and groans, the tapping of the headboard, like a periodic spasm, keeps drawing me back.

There is no way to get around this fact, and no point beating around the bush: Minna is bedding the undertaker in the Yellow Room.

The room smells sweet and slightly rotten. It brings back memories of nausea, makes long-ago echoes in my head—Ed’s hand gripping the headboard, eyes squeezed shut in concentration, a bead of sweat tracing its way from his forehead to the tip of his nose. Knock, knock, knock. Iron and hardness; as though he could pound away all the past disappointments.

Ed closed his eyes and saw railroads. I, too, learned to escape. Maybe that’s why I was able to adapt to this new body so quickly. I severed the connection to the old one long ago.

“Do you know what her problem is? Nymphomania. Sex addiction.”

Sandra fancies herself an amateur psychologist because she did office work for a Dr. Rivers before he fired her for stealing pills. She has the names of over two hundred phobias memorized, as she is fond of reminding me, including the word geniophobia, which is a fear of chins. For the most part, I think that psychology is no better than phrenology.

However, in Minna’s case, Sandra might have a point.

The man was in the house less than twenty minutes before she had him stripped down to his socks and he was mounting her like a dog. That is, in fact, exactly what he looks like: his pale, mole-speckled back reminds me of the shaved, ridged spines of a greyhound.

Minna is closing her eyes. I can tell she doesn’t want to look at him. I used to close my eyes, too, with Ed. The undertaker is speaking, a low murmur of babble words, curses, and exclamations. Impossible to ignore, however disgusting it is.

I try to think my way into the tangle of wiring behind the radiator. Just a little spark . . . a little friction is all I need . . .

“I think I’ve underestimated the girl,” Sandra says. “It’s impressive, really. Just think about it. Urns to underwear in thirty minutes or less! It could be a TV series, don’t you think?”

For two days, Danny Topornycky has been ignoring Minna’s calls; she’s been walking around with her phone plastered to her palm, checking it constantly. Today, she has had better luck.

Are you really here to talk urn styles? Don’t you find it depressing? I could never do what you do for a living. I’m pleasure oriented—that’s what everyone says. I love to have a good time. Do you like to have a good time, Chris?