Death Will Extend Your Vacation (24 page)

I checked the bedside clock, but I don’t remember hitting the pillow. I slept soundly for three and a half hours and woke up refreshed and wide awake at three in the morning. I don’t know how long I lay there, listening to the night sounds: Stewie’s heavy breathing in the next bed, a loon on the bay scaring the bejesus out of anybody who didn’t know what made that eldritch cry, the tock of the old-fashioned battery clock on the wall as its hands jerked from second to second, minute to minute. A door down the hall opened with a furtive squeal. I heard the rush of running water. The toilet flushed. The electric pump hummed as it replenished the water in the tank.

This group house thing was oddly intimate. I’d lived on my own for a long time. Even during my marriage, we’d both kept our own places. In New York, a rent-controlled apartment like mine and a SoHo loft like Laura’s were both too hard come by to give up. Besides, we’d both maintained barriers of alcohol and drugs, not to mention her intermittent off-the-wall mental state. Here, we saw a lot of skin and heard a lot of body noises.

On the other hand, living at such close quarters, people kept a lot of walls up. For example, Cindy and I hadn’t gotten very far. Or had the murders derailed our journey toward each other? I could hardly blame her for remaining wary. Maybe it was simply a matter of logistics. Although the house was big and everybody walked around half naked, she shared the loft upstairs with Jeannette and Stephanie, and I slept with Stewie. I couldn’t make myself ask if he’d clear out long enough for me to get Cindy into bed.

I knew damn well that wasn’t it either. They said sobriety fucked up your drinking. It also played hell with your ability to bullshit yourself. I held back with Cindy because I was afraid I wasn’t up to her weight. I didn’t know what her mysterious job was, but I was certain she did something focused and responsible. What I did was a joke. How could she take a male pink collar temp seriously? Everybody said a recovery job was okay for a while. Focus on sobriety, go to meetings, take your time on that bridge back to life. So far, I hadn’t a clue as to where I wanted mine to lead.

I lay there thinking and listening to Stewie run a buzz saw through his tonsils until the groan of a warped board in the floor above my head brought an end to my reverie. I hadn’t heard the stairs creak. Most likely, one of my housemates was raiding the refrigerator. It might even be Cindy. On the other hand, I’d look awfully foolish if it turned out that a killer had cut someone’s throat or a burglar had stolen Jimmy’s iPad, and I’d lain here idly listening as he did it. I’d better go investigate.

I rolled out of bed and pulled on my shorts. I kicked around the stuff I’d dumped on the floor at my bedside— my storage system— looking for a pair of shoes. Then I decided to go barefoot. If I meant to catch someone sneaking around upstairs, I’d be stealthy too. Should I arm myself? The house didn’t provide much choice of weapons. I’d seen a can of ammonia-based cleaning spray and one of pesticide under the downstairs bathroom sink. If the intruder was a dirty ant or hornet, I’d be all set. A beach umbrella to use as a lance? A heavy shoe to throw? I could tie a pair together by the laces, whirl them over my head, and let fly with it, like a bolo or mace. Jimmy, with his encyclopedic knowledge of military history, would be better at this. I settled for the sawed-off broom handle someone had left propped up at the foot of the stairs after a half-assed game of stickball in the back yard a couple of days before.

Stick in hand, I crept up the stairs. I kept my back against the wall and my feet at the edge of the steps, where I figured they’d be better supported and therefore less likely to creak. As my head emerged from the stairwell, I saw lights in the kitchen. My precautions were probably unnecessary. An intruder would have left the light off or used a flashlight. I straightened up. The refrigerator door stood open. I was about to toss the stick to one side when I heard a snuffling sound coming from behind the counter, down near the floor. Could a raccoon have gotten in? Squirrels? I inched cautiously forward. Snuffle, chomp, scuffle, and a crackling and rustling of what sounded like cellophane bags. I peered over the counter, prepared for anything.

“Barbara! What the hell are you doing?”

Barbara sat sprawled on the floor, her back against the cabinet under the kitchen sink. She wore a stained pale blue T-shirt so big it had to be Jimmy’s. Her hair was matted, her bare feet thrust carelessly out in front of her. Her face was streaked with tears. In general, she looked as if she’d just crawled out from under a rock. On the floor next to her sat a greasy plate piled with well-gnawed ribs. Two or three had toppled and slid part way under the cabinet. Empty potato chip and pretzel bags had been crumpled and tossed. A giant bag still a quarter filled with popcorn had evidently been propped against the counter but had fallen over, spilling kernels far and wide on the kitchen floor. A cylindrical gallon container of ice cream perched on her lap. I identified the flavor as chocolate from the smears on her shirt and face, along with barbecue sauce and mucus from her runny nose. Caught with a spoon in her mouth and a bulging cheek, she stared at me like an animal at bay.

“What’s the matter? Have you gone crazy?”

She whimpered, tears spilling from her glazed eyes.

“Are you drunk?”

“I can’t—” She choked, removed the spoon from her mouth, and tried again. I watched in horror as her hand dropped limply. The spoon bounced twice on her lap, splattering more chocolate.
Creeping paralysis,
I thought.
Psychotic break. Invasion of the body snatchers.

“I can’t stop eating!” She burst into sobs with terrifying abandon. Chocolate spewed out of her nose. “I don’t know what to do!” she wailed.

I rounded the counter, slid onto my knees beside her, and took her in my arms. I felt the ooze of barbecue sauce transferring itself to my chest. My prickling knees informed me I was kneeling on popcorn. She sniveled into my shoulder. Her mouth was so distended by painful sobbing that her teeth sank into my arm. I rocked her back and forth as I kept up a soothing babble.

“Shhh, it’s all right, Barbara. It’s gonna be okay. Go ahead and cry. It’s okay, we’ll figure it out. You don’t have to do it alone. I’ll help you, Jimmy will help, it’s all gonna be all right. It’s just another fucking addiction. You’ll join another twelve-step program. It’ll be fine.”

The sobs ebbed a bit.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m such a mess— I didn’t mean to let anybody see me like this. I’m so embarrassed. You must be disgusted.”

“Shhh, shhh. It’s okay, no problem. What’s a little snot between friends?”

At that, she fended me off and tried to pull herself together. Running her arm under her nose smeared things even more. She clawed at her hair, which only spread the chocolate around.

I sat back on my heels.

“Hey, I’m not dressed up either. Come as you are.”

“I’m a compulsive overeater,” she said, her face like the mask of tragedy.

“Hi, Barbara, keep coming back,” I said.

That raised a doleful snuffle. I scootched around and sat next to her. I raised my knees and rested my back against the sink. I used an empty bag to brush bones and popcorn away from my bare feet.

“I’m so disgusting I’m not worth helping,” she said.

“As a terrific counselor I know sometimes says to me, that’s the disease talking.”

“I don’t want to be an addict!” she said. “I’m a codependent.”

“As the same counselor said when she told me I needed Al-Anon, we’re all probably both on some level.” I reached over and picked a puff of popcorn out of her hair.

“You have a right to gloat,” she said.

“I won’t gloat,” I said. “Last time I sat on the kitchen floor with a bag of potato chips, it was just about this time of night, and what I really wanted was a drink. You’ve got a different jones, that’s all.”

“Only one bag?”

“See? You haven’t even lost your sense of humor.”

“It’s so humiliating!” she burst out. “Look at me! No, don’t! All I’m missing is a custard pie in the face. It’s not fair. At least alcoholics are sexy.”

“We are?”

“Drinking is cool. Overeating is repulsive, unless you’re the one in a million women who can eat like a pig and never gain an ounce. Men love that.”

I could see my consciousness was about to get raised.

“You think I’m sexy?”

She threw a fistful of popcorn at me.

“Hey, hey! No food fights,” I said.

“I guess now I have to go to OA. Honestly, I knew all along that I belonged there. I didn’t want to admit it to myself.”

“Hmm, I wonder why that sounds familiar.”

She slid down a bit and rubbed her cheek against my shoulder.

“You’re nicer than me,” she said. “When you hit bottom and landed in detox, I gloated.”

“Okay, you owe me one,” I said. “Anyhow, your eating never hurt me the way my drinking hurt you and Jimmy. That makes us even. Listen, should I go wake him up?”

“Oh, God, no,” she said. “I don’t want anybody else to see me like this. I’m so ashamed, and you’re being so sweet. I’ll tell Jimmy in the morning.”

“What else can you do different?” I asked, feeding her back one of the lines she used on me when I first got sober.

“I can ask for support from the other women in the house.”

“It’s kind of obvious Jeannette and Stephanie have body issues.”

“The day I went to the nude beach with them,” she said, “they both talked about it.”

“Maybe you can help each other. Talk to them tomorrow and see what happens.”

“For all I know, Karen and Cindy could be bulimic,” Barbara said. “Not every woman with a great body has no trouble with food. In fact—”

“What? You can tell me.”

“I tried to stick my finger down my throat tonight. Nothing happened, and I was afraid I’d scratch my vocal cords or something, so I stopped.”

“Just as well you couldn’t do it,” I said.

“I know.” Barbara sighed. “I don’t want to ruin my teeth or get throat cancer. But I’m so afraid of gaining weight.”

“One day at a time,” I said. “Come on, I’ll help you clean up the kitchen.”

Barbara leaned heavily on me as she rose to her feet. She crossed the room and started running water in the sink.

“When did you get so smart?”

“I suspect the process started on the Bowery two Christmases ago.”

“Oh, Bruce, you’ve done great, you really have. Jimmy and I are so proud of you.”

“Why, thank you.” I sounded pleased because I was. Staying sober and everything that had turned out to go along with it, like being a better person, was often more of a struggle than I liked to show.

“Oh, God, and now I’m a beginner again.” She squirted detergent into the sinkful of water and put the bottle on the counter. Resting her elbows on the edge of the sink, she put the palms of her hands over her eyes and clutched at her hair. “Hi, I’m Barbara, and I’m a fucking food addict. As you guys like to say, shoot me now, Jesus.”

“I don’t think Jesus shoots nice Jewish girls.”

“I swear I’ll do it myself if I can’t get a handle on this thing.” She held out her hand, and I handed her the plate piled with rib bones. She emptied it into a big black plastic garbage bag and plunged the greasy plate into the sink.

“Don’t be silly,” I said. “You’re too much of a good girl to off yourself.”

She groaned.

“Hi, I’m Barbara, I’m a codependent, and I don’t get to have any fun at all.”

“Poor bunny.”

“It’s not fair,” she said. “I’ve hardly ever busted out. If I’m in recovery two times over, I never will.”

“Trust me, being a fuckup and an asshole isn’t as glamorous as it’s cracked up to be.”

I swept up the evidence of Barbara’s binge and whisked it into the garbage bag. I twisted a tie around the bag and swung it over my shoulder.

“Let me do that,” she said. “It’s my garbage.”

“If you insist.” If doing penance made her feel better, I wasn’t going to get in her way. I watched as she dragged the bag across the kitchen and heaved it into a can by the door.

“Bruce?”

“What?”

“I have to tell you something else.”

“Lay it on me.” I thought she was going to confess to another gallon of ice cream or a two-pound box of chocolates.

“The night before Phil died, he caught me sneaking into his room.”

“What!”

“I wanted to find the notebook. And I did, but he got it away from me before I could open it. He— he was very angry.”

“My God, Barbara, were you out of your mind? And why didn’t you tell Jimmy and me?”

“He scared me. I was too humiliated. And then, the next morning— I couldn’t tell you once we heard that Phil had been killed. As long as you and Jimmy didn’t know, you didn’t have a motive.”

“You should have told us anyway,” I said.

“I know,” she said in a small voice. She hung her head. She still had popcorn in her hair. “But I was afraid to tell anyone. It gave me a motive too.”

“For God’s sake, Barbara, what did he do to you? Did he hit you? I would have killed him, and so would Jimmy if he’d known.”

“I knew you’d react that way. He shook me and called me some ugly names. He almost socked me at one point, but he never lost it completely. He didn’t want anybody else to hear.”

“How did it end?”

“He told me to get the hell out of there, and I did. Then he got in his car and drove away.”

That meant he’d had the notebook with him when he died. Had the cops had found it on his body? If they had new information, I’d expect them to use it as leverage. That hadn’t happened.

“We should tell the police.” I couldn’t believe I’d said that. “If the killer took the notebook from his body, that means it wasn’t just a hit and run. They met for a reason, and the reason was in that notebook.”

“I know,” Barbara said. “But we can’t. They’d think I did it. Wouldn’t you?”

“You don’t have the notebook,” I pointed out. “But yeah, they would suspect you. Come here and bend your head down.”

I picked the last few pieces of popcorn out of her hair. Then I squeezed out a sponge and ran it over one lock of hair at a time.

“Hold still. I can get most of the chocolate out. Beyond that, I recommend shampoo. And promise me you’ll tell Jimmy first thing in the morning.”