The Color of Blood Read Online Free PDF Page B

had been turned where the concrete was lifted, and I scattered some grass seed for want of any better idea of what to do with a space I still considered haunted. Tommy was outraged, and accused me of wanting “a businessman’s lawn, like a fuckin’ snooker table”; he had worked for my father once, and restored the Volvo in the garage, so he felt he had a claim on the space. He got busy with paving stones, cobbles, recycled tiles and anything else he could steal from the day laboring jobs he occasionally worked, laying them in a loose path and planting herbs and heathers in the gaps between them. The hedge at the front of the house was of holly, yew and cypress; Tommy flanked the path with these, adding bay to give richness; the result was a secluded, tranquil path running south toward a gate of spiked black palings that let in the afternoon light. It was a good job, and I was grateful to him.
    Inside, I had done little other than sand, stain and varnish the floorboards and paint the walls and ceilings white. I didn’t have much in the way of furniture, but I bought a brown leather couch long enough to pass out drunk on without waking with a deformed spine. Tommy Owens was sitting on the couch now with two remote controls in his hands. I sat beside him and reached out a hand and he passed me the DVD remote.
    “Why d’you still wear your wedding ring, Ed?” Tommy said.
    It was a good question, one I’d been asking myself. My marriage had fallen apart after my daughter Lily died, days short of her second birthday; I have the vaguest memory of signing divorce papers, drunk, like everything else I did in the aftermath. My ex-wife had recently been in contact with me for the first time since then. She wanted to be the one to tell me that she was getting married to the man she had gone out with before she met me, the man she had never entirely gotten over or indeed separated from while we were married, although of course I didn’t know about that until it was too late. She wanted me to know that she would soon have this man’s child, and she wanted me to hear it from her, not someone else. I thought it unlikely in the extreme that anyone who knew me in L.A. would ever mention my ex-wife to me again, but maybe she was acting out of sensitivity. Maybe she wanted to tell me that she grieved too for what we had had, for what had been lost. It didn’t feel that way, however. The way it felt was that she had held our shared past, our child, our history, held it aloft in one hand, and then set fire to it, and she wanted to make sure that I had seen the flames. I didn’t say that though. I wished her luck, and hung up before I said anything else, before she could hear the bitterness and anger in my voice, the grief that had never entirely abated, and that felt sometimes like it never would. I still wore my wedding ring because I didn’t want to forget the flames that burned me, or the past that binds.
    “Saves me beating them off with a stick,” I said. Tommy rolled his eyes.
    I’m not sure if there are ideal conditions to watch porn, but sober before midday doesn’t even come close. On the screen, a blue-eyed blonde in her early twenties was going at it with a pale, blond-haired bloke about the same age or younger on someone’s living room floor. The woman wore a black satin eye mask, the man wore black wraparound shades. I looked at the photographs of Emily’s threesome. It looked like the same guy in the film. Something about the blonde looked familiar too. They were joined by a plumpish dark-haired woman wearing a lot of complicated black underwear, most of which she left on. There was no attempt at a story, no dialogue other than moans and groans; the camera work was shaky and amateurish and there was no lighting, so the action was enveloped in shadow and murk.
    “Tommy, where are we going here?” I said.
    “Hold on, hold on.”
    Scowling, for Tommy had always been puritanical about anything to do with sex, he