buddies. Now, how about calling back tomorrow, okay?”
“Really, Tom died? I never even met him! Every body’s dying! Daddy, Aunt Winnie … Mother looks awful … God knows whether Cricket’s alive or dead … but you have the baby! The only one of us who’s produced an heir is Deirdre , you know that . The end of the ‘dynasty.’” He broke into mawkish sobs.
Sloane Renee was now standing up in her Port-a-Crib, yanking on the upper rail like a prisoner planning a breakout. She was winding up to a good fuss, I could tell. “I’m going to switch this phone off now,” I said. “Whoever you are.”
“No, wait!” the voice said, suddenly sounding almost sober. “I’m not shitting you, Faye, something’s really wrong with Mother. The doctor calls it pneumonia, but then why isn’t it clearing up? Answer me that! And she’s got lesions on her fingers, and she’s seeing things funny. I tried to get her to the hospital, but Deirdre wouldn’t let me move her!”
I picked up the baby and began to walk her. “Give me your number,
okay? I’ll have Faye call you. This is Em Hansen, her roommate, do you understand?”
I heard the sound of a phone clattering into its cradle. The connection went dead.
I stared at the illuminated screen at the top of the phone and considered throwing the instrument out the window, or flushing it down the toilet, but settled for switching it off. Then I began again the laborious task of getting the baby to sleep.
IT WAS 9:06 p.m. when Faye showed her face again at the Pawnee Hotel, exactly eight minutes after Sloane Renee had finally drifted back to sleep. Still waiting for the twitching that would herald deep slumber, I had not yet even put her down in her crib.
The Faye who returned was not the Faye who had left. This one was glowing with vitality and good humor. Quickly undressing and going about her evening tooth-brushing with a light dispatch, she hummed a jaunty tune.
I asked, “What’s put the roses in your cheeks, Faye?”
She snorted, a quick dismissal of my question. “Give that girl to me,” she told me. “It’s late. I got some nursing to do, and it’s sacktime for all of us.” She took the baby, checked her diaper although I always kept it clean, lay down on her bed, swathed the child in the folds of her arms and the blankets, presented her a milk-swollen breast, closed her eyes, and smiled a private smile.
How I missed the days when Faye shared her heart with me. I watched her Mona Lisa smile, wondering not for the first time what had turned the tide between us. Was it the stresses of motherhood, or losing Tom? Was she so tightly bonded to her child that there was no room for me? Or was I forever cursed for having been with her husband at his death when she was not?
I turned out the reading lamp over my bed and stared up into the darkness, listening as Faye’s breathing deepened and grew slower. I thought she was long asleep when she murmured, “There might be a job for you.”
“Oh?”
“Time to be getting back into the working world, don’t you think?”
“Yes …”
“Nice little mystery, just your kind of puzzle. It involves a missing painting.”
I said, “Tell me more.”
I listened for an answer, but it was lost to sleep, or perhaps hidden behind a charade.
THE PLAN, WHEN we had left Salt Lake City, had been to drive up to Cody starting early on one day, arriving as we had done by midafternoon, and, if Faye’s business could be concluded quickly, driving home the afternoon following. Aside from the fact that I needed to get back to my classes, this would save the cost of a second night’s stay, part of my campaign to teach Faye to live frugally. Food, apart from that glorious cinnamon roll, the not-so-glorious pizza, and whatever Faye could mooch off her client, was to be something we got out of paper sacks stored in the trunk of the car. So the next morning, having taken a quick trip out to the car, I sat on the
“Really, Tom died? I never even met him! Every body’s dying! Daddy, Aunt Winnie … Mother looks awful … God knows whether Cricket’s alive or dead … but you have the baby! The only one of us who’s produced an heir is Deirdre , you know that . The end of the ‘dynasty.’” He broke into mawkish sobs.
Sloane Renee was now standing up in her Port-a-Crib, yanking on the upper rail like a prisoner planning a breakout. She was winding up to a good fuss, I could tell. “I’m going to switch this phone off now,” I said. “Whoever you are.”
“No, wait!” the voice said, suddenly sounding almost sober. “I’m not shitting you, Faye, something’s really wrong with Mother. The doctor calls it pneumonia, but then why isn’t it clearing up? Answer me that! And she’s got lesions on her fingers, and she’s seeing things funny. I tried to get her to the hospital, but Deirdre wouldn’t let me move her!”
I picked up the baby and began to walk her. “Give me your number,
okay? I’ll have Faye call you. This is Em Hansen, her roommate, do you understand?”
I heard the sound of a phone clattering into its cradle. The connection went dead.
I stared at the illuminated screen at the top of the phone and considered throwing the instrument out the window, or flushing it down the toilet, but settled for switching it off. Then I began again the laborious task of getting the baby to sleep.
IT WAS 9:06 p.m. when Faye showed her face again at the Pawnee Hotel, exactly eight minutes after Sloane Renee had finally drifted back to sleep. Still waiting for the twitching that would herald deep slumber, I had not yet even put her down in her crib.
The Faye who returned was not the Faye who had left. This one was glowing with vitality and good humor. Quickly undressing and going about her evening tooth-brushing with a light dispatch, she hummed a jaunty tune.
I asked, “What’s put the roses in your cheeks, Faye?”
She snorted, a quick dismissal of my question. “Give that girl to me,” she told me. “It’s late. I got some nursing to do, and it’s sacktime for all of us.” She took the baby, checked her diaper although I always kept it clean, lay down on her bed, swathed the child in the folds of her arms and the blankets, presented her a milk-swollen breast, closed her eyes, and smiled a private smile.
How I missed the days when Faye shared her heart with me. I watched her Mona Lisa smile, wondering not for the first time what had turned the tide between us. Was it the stresses of motherhood, or losing Tom? Was she so tightly bonded to her child that there was no room for me? Or was I forever cursed for having been with her husband at his death when she was not?
I turned out the reading lamp over my bed and stared up into the darkness, listening as Faye’s breathing deepened and grew slower. I thought she was long asleep when she murmured, “There might be a job for you.”
“Oh?”
“Time to be getting back into the working world, don’t you think?”
“Yes …”
“Nice little mystery, just your kind of puzzle. It involves a missing painting.”
I said, “Tell me more.”
I listened for an answer, but it was lost to sleep, or perhaps hidden behind a charade.
THE PLAN, WHEN we had left Salt Lake City, had been to drive up to Cody starting early on one day, arriving as we had done by midafternoon, and, if Faye’s business could be concluded quickly, driving home the afternoon following. Aside from the fact that I needed to get back to my classes, this would save the cost of a second night’s stay, part of my campaign to teach Faye to live frugally. Food, apart from that glorious cinnamon roll, the not-so-glorious pizza, and whatever Faye could mooch off her client, was to be something we got out of paper sacks stored in the trunk of the car. So the next morning, having taken a quick trip out to the car, I sat on the
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