The Pink Flamingo Murders (33 page)

“That line is older than he is. What did you do?”

“I sent Shelley over to wait on a table for twelve,” Marlene said, “which kept her busy, and I personally waited on Charlie. I told him an important managing editor deserved the attentions of a more experienced server. He did not look happy. He left his usual fifty-cent tip.”

“Exactly the right amount to buy yourself a
Gazette,”
I said.

“Hah,” Marlene said. “Don’t have to. You won’t believe how many
Gazettes
get left behind in the morning. People read them and throw them down. They almost never leave
The New York Times
. They like that paper.”

Sigh. The readers didn’t love us. Well, that wasn’t anything new. And Charlie was back to his old habit of catting around on his wife. That wasn’t new, either. Now the woman who’d been sneaking around with a married man could sit at home and wonder where her husband was. I guess that was justice. But I wondered why Nails paid for their little romp and Charlie didn’t.

———

Charlie could break his promises, but Lyle stayed true to his word. He never called me. Not even when the
Gazette
reported that I’d broken my elbow during my encounter with Patricia. I thought surely he’d come see me then, or at least call. But he didn’t. Instead, he sent flowers, my favorite peach roses, with a card that said “Call me if you change your mind.” It made me so angry, I tore up the card. But I kept the roses until the petals fell off. Then I threw them away. I won’t call him. I haven’t cried, either. Not once. I’m proud of that. I sit up night after night, wrapped in my grandmother’s yellow-and-brown afghan, watching old movies and reading until my eyes are bloodshot. But I don’t cry. I didn’t want to be married. I won’t be forced into it. I got what I wanted. Well, I did, didn’t I?

Sometimes, when I can’t sleep, I wander around the neighborhood. Some people might think that’s crazy, walking alone at night. But I don’t care. I seem to be drawn to North Dakota Place. That’s where my life started unraveling. I walk on the green boulevard and watch the moonlight shimmering on the angel fountain. Sometimes I think I can see Johnny Hawkeye skimming across the grass, and Otto on his ladder, laughing, and Caroline yelling at him. So I wasn’t very startled when one night, about two
A.M
., I saw a wheelbarrow coming up the sidewalk, pushed by a sturdy woman in cutoffs. It must be Caroline, restlessly patrolling her street. North Dakota Place did seem super-naturally well tended lately. Even in eternity, Caroline couldn’t stop caring for it.

I kept walking on the boulevard grass, even though I knew this would upset Caroline, dead or alive. I wasn’t afraid of her. “The dead don’t hurt you, the living do,” my grandmother used to say, and since it was the pain over Lyle’s loss that kept me awake most nights, I agreed.

But it wasn’t a dead woman pushing the wheelbarrow.
It was Margie, browned and more muscular than I’d ever seen her. “Hi,” she rasped. “I kept thinking about mulching those trees I just put in at the end of the boulevard, and then I thought, why wait till morning? I have other things I can do then. I couldn’t sleep. So I got up to do it now.”

“You’ve been keeping up North Dakota Place, haven’t you?” I said.

“Someone has to,” Margie said. “I’ve been meaning to have a talk with you, Francesca. Could you please keep off the boulevard grass? At least give the new grass a chance to get started. I’m not yelling or demanding. I’m asking you nicely. I spend all my time cleaning out the fountain and raking and weeding and planting and picking up and I’m not going to get anywhere with you stomping all over my grass.”

“Sure,” I said.

I was right after all. Caroline was alive.