Tips for Living(57)

Even as I was appreciating our connection, I was fighting off demons. This can’t go anywhere. This isn’t good. This is the worst possible time to find passion again. I don’t know if I’ve done something terrible or not. I spotted a windup alarm clock lying on the floor by the glass doors to Ben’s balcony. In a few hours, I’d be back to grappling with my status as a murder suspect.

“God, it’s almost three o’clock in the morning,” I said.

“You have somewhere to be?”

Despite my anxiety, I laughed. “No.”

“Nora?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Do you do this a lot?”

“You mean do I sleep around?”

“No, I . . . I’m sorry . . . it’s none of my business.”

“You’re my first since the divorce.” I groaned. “Why does that feel like I just told you I was a virgin?”

He found my hand and squeezed it. “I’m flattered.”

“What about you?”

I already regretted I’d asked. The answer wouldn’t feel good either way. I wanted Ben red-blooded and lusty. Thinking of him living like a monk for years would be a turnoff. It was okay for me to grow cobwebs between my legs, not him. A double standard, I knew, but that’s how I felt. On the other hand, I’d hate to be merely one of a number of women he’d bedded since his wife died. No win.

“I’ve had a few encounters,” he said. “They didn’t feel like this.”

“Can you define ‘this’?”

My heart sped up, anticipating. He waited a good long time before he spoke.

“There was this giant door inside me and it was closed. We stood in front of it, you and me, and then we opened it together. The whole damn ocean was on the other side. We dove right in.”

I felt him grow hard against the small of my back and we made love again. This time very slowly, and we stayed on the bed. We lay quietly afterward, listening to each other breathe. For a few minutes, I felt happier than I’d felt in years. And then I remembered. Watching the tiny, blinking white light of a plane make a trip across the skylight, I envied the night travelers on board. I wished with all my heart that Ben and I could be up there flying far, far away. Thousands of miles from all the trouble I was in.

“Ben, tell me this will blow over. The police will catch the killer and leave me alone.”

He didn’t answer. I turned to find my new lover fast asleep. You are beautiful, too, the way the silver sprinkled along your hairline catches the light, the way your chin cleaves perfectly in two around that dimple. How could we have been just inches apart day after day without this happening earlier? Timing truly is everything, isn’t it? I closed my eyes, exhausted. I’d wake up with Ben tomorrow and he’d tell me it would all be okay. Really, how could it not be, eventually?



My hands were stinging and throbbing. The agony jerked me out of a deep sleep. Hot water scalded my fingers, and I yanked them toward me instinctively. Where was I? It was dark. Water splashed and flowed into a hot puddle around my feet. I smelled lemons. A sick, familiar feeling churned in my belly. Holy shit. Holy fucking shit.

Still disoriented, I stepped backward, my eyes adjusting to the low light. I saw a sink directly in front of me. Water poured from its faucet, running over the lip of the sink onto the floor. This was a kitchen. Ben’s kitchen. My pulse raced as panic took hold.

I stumbled forward and shut off the water quickly. How did I get here? No. This couldn’t be happening. After so many years? But the last thing I remembered was falling asleep next to Ben, and now I was naked in his kitchen washing my hands in his sink. More than washing. Scrubbing them raw. This was real. I looked from the lemon dish soap to my hands. What did this mean? the small voice in my head whispered.

Will these hands never be clean?

What?

Here’s the smell of blood still.

Lady Macbeth. That was Lady Macbeth’s lament.

All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand.

Guilty Lady Macbeth had tried to wash off blood. She and I shared an affliction. Sleepwalking.

Breathe. Breathe, dammit.





Diary entry:

After meeting with my lawyer yesterday, as per his counsel, I am keeping an official record of any aggressive actions on the part of my wife, Nora Glasser. Let me state, also for the record, that I take no pleasure in doing so. My lawyer insisted, after learning that Nora had tried to knife Self-Portrait with Pregnant Helene, and that she also sliced open my hand, accidentally, I believe. (“Mr. Walker, your career is in that hand.”) Should there be any more incidents, he advises seeking a restraining order. So far this week, the only event worth noting: Nora picked up some more of her belongings from the loft. She knocked a framed photo of me off the shelf and the glass broke. Another accident, she said.





Chapter Fourteen

At least Ben hadn’t woken up. He probably wouldn’t think anything of the dish towels drying on the rack in the morning, or the wads of paper towels stuffed in the bin under his kitchen sink. I tried to think what to do next while I let the cool tap water run over my hands to soothe the irritated skin. There was no point in trying to go back to sleep, or even lying down next to Ben while I was vibrating like a tuning fork. And what if I did fall asleep and the same thing happened all over again? Or something even more destructive?