The Vanishing Year(43)
“Why is it so goddamn spotless?” I laugh, my voice slurring on the word spotless so it sounds like spa-aaaas. He pretends not to notice.
“I had it cleaned last weekend. I had the whole house cleaned. Penny does all the rooms before I come out.”
“Penny?” I sit up straight. For some reason, this fact gets under my skin and sits there like a fat, well-fed tick. He had Penny clean the house last weekend? He’d made the trip seem spontaneous, a reaction to the break-in.
“Sure. Who else?” He tops off my glass with the last of the bottle.
“But you made it seem like this was a last-minute trip,” I protest weakly. I can’t find the right words.
“What does that matter? I was thinking about surprising you. Is that a crime? Then the break-in happened and it seemed like an opportunity. Jesus, Zoe, are you always so exacting?”
“I don’t know what that means.” My stomach roils.
“I just mean, you need to know every little thought and if it doesn’t align with the script in your head, I’m the bad guy.”
“You’re not the bad guy.” I push away from the table, roughly, and the table wobbles. “You’re not a bad guy.”
I mumble something about the bathroom. I concentrate very hard, walking in a straight line, with my head up, as though I’m perfectly fine. I find the ladies’ room in the dark, back corner of the restaurant. Inside I lean against the door, the room spinning and whipping around me. I feel along the wall and flip the light switch. Without warning my stomach heaves and I retch into the toilet. The tile floor is cold on my legs and I remember that I’m naked under my dress. I feel my face flame red. God, did I think I was twenty years old? I’m just a second wife living someone’s second life, at thirty.
I wipe my bottom lip with the back of my hand and push myself up to standing. The room has stopped spinning and I smooth the front of my dress down with my hands. I feel better. At least like I could walk across the room. I wash up and rinse my mouth. I slowly make my way back to the table.
“Are you all right?” Henry leans forward and takes my hand.
“I drank too much,” I say, plainly.
Henry smiles, teasing me. “Let’s get you home.”
I lean on Henry and he leads me out. I remember saying earlier that it would be good for us to walk. The spring air is cold on my arms and the night is black and quiet, the kind of quiet that seems to absorb sound. Our footsteps are silent. I occasionally laugh and it sounds muted, like coughing into a pillow.
I concentrate on walking straight as to not give away my level of drunkenness. I’m reminded of the countless nights stumbling home, my arm linked through Lydia’s as we leaned on each other. We’d whisper and giggle and bump hips as we walked, her hair in my face smelling of cherry candy and cigarettes.
I lean close to Henry and wrap my hands around his arm. His bicep bumps and flexes under his cotton shirt. I nuzzle his neck and he smells like the ocean, fresh and salty.
At home, I peel my dress off and lie on the bed, the fan moving the air across my skin. Henry runs the bath, the pipes creaking and groaning under the floor. The water rushes up the wall, all around me, until it sounds like it’s coming from inside my head. He calls my name from the bathroom.
“I’ll be right there,” I whisper, and then I giggle because I know I’m lying. I wave in his direction, the diamond on my left hand catching the dim light and throwing prisms on the wall. I fan my fingers in front of me and study the ring, a solitary glittering stone, the size of a marble.
If I squint my eyes, it looks like there are two of them.
CHAPTER 14
Washington Square Park, desolate and gray in the winter months, is lush with life come April. Aging beatniks loaf on the grass, retirees challenge children to a competitive game of chess, mothers sit on park benches with their e-readers, rocking baby carriages with one foot. NYU students take to the park in droves, studying the human condition for psychology, sociology, and film classes. The park bursts with budding cherry trees and barely contained hope.
It is Monday. Vacation Henry is back to Work Henry, buttoned up and pressed, heavy on the starch. I’m back to reality. My credit card is still not functional and Henry has promised to call the bank. He’s left me a hundred dollars in cash on the counter for daily expenses, which feels both extravagant and oppressive. I could surely ask him for more, I reason. But for what?
I’ve called Yates twice, who tells me nothing. She sighs into the phone, a tap tap tap of her acrylic nails on a keyboard coming through the line. She talks a good game. Tells me all the things they’ve done, but that everything is inconclusive. Penny has an alibi, and besides, what on earth could her motive be? The hazard pay? Henry wasn’t a fan of that joke. Henry has changed the apartment locks; we are safely sequestered in our tower again. I should feel more relieved than I do.
Away from Fishing Lake, with nothing else to think about the burglary being “inconclusive and all,” the idea of finding Caroline has trumped all else. Cash sits on a bench, in the middle to discourage company, and is heavily involved in a paperback. His forehead is ridged in concentration, his heavy bottom lip protruding out, curling back against his chin as he works at a hangnail on his thumb with his teeth. I peek at the cover before he sees me. As I Lay Dying. When he sees me, he stashes the book under his left thigh and scoots over, patting the boards next to him. I sit, my purse primly on my lap, a good foot between us.