The Sound of Broken Ribs(3)

Belinda rushed down the hallway and into her bedroom and dropped to her knees beside her bed. She pulled a Reebok shoe box from the space under the box spring and carried it with her back to the kitchen. She dropped the box on the table and flopped into the chair. Out of breath, she collected herself with a deep breathing exercise as she pried the lid off the shoebox and dug through its contents.

She removed the last six months’ worth of rental receipts and arranged them in a two-by-three grid. She snapped a picture of all six then individual pics of each receipt. Then she sent all seven photos to Nancy’s number.

Several minutes that felt like hours later, Belinda’s phone rang.

She answered with, “See what I mean?”

“Do you think me a fool, Mrs. Walsh?”

“Excuse me?”

“That is so obviously not my signature on those forgeries that I am offended to my core. Good day, Mrs.—”

“Hang on a second!” Belinda nearly screeched. “What do you mean they’re not your signatures?”

“Exactly what I said. They are neither my signatures nor receipts from my receipt book. Do you have any previous receipts? I’m sure you’ll see what I mean if you compare them.”

“Hold on.” Belinda smashed the phone between her cheek and shoulder and pulled out the older receipts. The difference was immediately obvious. Belinda’s heart plummeted.

“I—goddamn it—I don’t understand.”

“Oh, my. Oh, my dear.” Nancy’s voice changed yet again. Now her tone was full of empathy, mournful. “You really didn’t know, did you.” It was not a question.

Belinda was on the verge of tears but managed to hold them back. “I don’t know what the hell is going on.”

“Your husband gave you those receipts?”

Belinda nodded, realized Nancy couldn’t see her or hear her head rattling, and said, “Yeah. Yeah, he did.”

“Oh, you poor dear. I’m sorry.”

But Belinda, in her confused state, still couldn’t see the whole picture. She knew that the receipts were different. She knew that she was truly being evicted. But her mind had blocked some important piece of information. Her mind refused to see the most pressing fact. Because that fact stated she had been betrayed by someone she dearly loved.

“I don’t understand,” Belinda said, her voice a pitiful moan.

“This is awkward,” Nancy said. There was no humor in the woman’s voice. “Your husband, honey. Your husband’s been lying to you.”

*

Lei ran every day, without fail. Two and a half miles down to the vineyard. Two and a half back. Five miles in all. She could do more. There was no question about that. But she settled on five miles because of The Dog Patch, which was the next property down from the vineyard. There was no telling if one of their dogs would be loose. If she chanced it and one of the dogs was outside its gated yard, her run home would be far less leisurely than usual.

The Dog Patch was not a nickname created by Lei. The place was actually called The Dog Patch. And, truth be told, it wasn’t a puppy mill in the traditional use of the term. The dogs were well fed and groomed, but there were, in her honest opinion, a fuck ton of pooches residing within the gated doggie community. And the little fuckers did get out—not often, but it did happen.

She changed into blue spandex tank, highlighter-yellow running shoes, and blue-and-white-mottled yoga pants that made her ass look fantastic. Her Japanese heritage hadn’t granted her much of a gluteus maximus, but yoga pants helped the flattest ass come into its own. All in all, Lei was evenly proportioned, if not a little too skinny for her own liking. But this was the Conundrum of Lei. She found herself to be a bit of a waif, but she was addicted to running. The high she felt while pounding feet was only matched by Harry’s prowess in the bedroom. The more she ran, the less she weighed. But it felt good. Like a shot of heroin. Like the afterglow of a truly intense orgasm. She could deal with the side effects as long as she was allowed to keep doing her drug.

She jogged to the end of the driveway where she bounced and stretched and limbered up. Mr. Clark—her neighbor across the street—was watering his hydrangeas. He waved at her and she waved back. The old man was this side of ancient, and she always wondered how he managed to get around on his own. Hunched and shriveled, he resembled something that belonged in a crypt, not out and about watering his shrubberies. But he managed, and Lei supposed she could respect that. Although, at times, she felt concern for her elderly neighbor. As far as she knew, he lived alone, and only rarely did he have company. A blue minivan filled with middle-class adults and three hyperactive children came around once a month, and a black BMW once every blue moon, but other than that—no one. If he broke a hip between these visits, he could be dragging himself around the house for weeks before someone came to see about it.

That, of course, was ridiculous. They were deep into the information age. Mr. Clark surely had a cell phone and tablet, as well as a laptop and desktop computer. Or maybe not. No telling nowadays. But everyone Lei knew was connected, be they freshly squeezed from their mothers or on the first step of Heaven’s stairway.

Great, now she would have Led Zeppelin stuck in her head all day.

Mr. Clark went back to his hydrangeas and Lei got started. She clopped down to the stop sign at the end of the street. She turned left. Her jog became a run. Her run increased in speed until she reached her limit. Her heart opened up, spilling gas into her carburetor, and she was gone. Had technicians hooked her up to an EEG machine, they would have found that her mind was in roughly the same state as a person who had been hypnotized.