"I don't think so," she said.
"My mother was seventy-nine and ailing," he said. "She died a few months after I went in. Since the job had been done in Illinois, I did my time in Stateville."
"How long have you been out?" she asked.
"Three months, four days," he said. "Three months, four days."
"And now?"
"I'm on parole. I drive a bus up and down Western Avenue, report to a parole officer, mind my business."
Ringerman smiled.
"Am I missing a joke?"
"I don't know. Just kind of funny that I wear a uniform now instead of looking at other people wearing them."
"And you built your own prison cell," she said looking at the barred window and then at the bolted, reinforced door.
"What did you study in college, psychology?"
"A little of lots of things," she said. "Nothing to make a living with. I think I should be going."
She stood, barefoot, and handed the empty mug to Ringerman, who stood to take it. Then she just stood there looking at him. He looked back.
"Have you… it's none of my business, but have you been with a woman since you've gotten out?"
"Yes, twice," he said. "Paid for it."
"You're a good-looking man," she said. "I wouldn't think you'd have to pay."
"That's the way I wanted it," he said.
"This is crazy," she said with a laugh, shaking her head, looking up at the ceiling and then back at him. "Would you like, do you want? I mean with me?"
Ringerman clinked the two empty mugs together.
"You mean? …"
"Yes," she said. "Before I change my mind. I've never done anything like this before, not even remotely like this. We're strangers. We'll never see each other again. One time. No more. Never again."
He stood looking at her and she looked at him.
"Not your type?" she asked.
"My type covers a lot of possibilities," he said. "You're a very beautiful woman."
"Thanks, but?"
"No 'but'," he said.
"You have protection. I mean…"
"I have," he said. "You sure you want this?"
"I'm sure," she said. "I'm very sure."
She moved in front of him, reached for the top button of his denim shirt, paused and then leaned forward to kiss him. They were about the same height. After a few seconds, he put his arms around her and kissed her, feeling her breasts against his chest.
"I feel you," she said pulling her face a few inches back.
He saw her full lips, her white, even teeth. He nodded his head.
"Before I panic, before I change my mind, before…" She paused. "The bedroom?"
He turned his head toward the closed door next to the bookcase.
"You want to know my name?" she asked.
"Make one up," he said.
"Emma," she said. "Emma Bovary."
"Emma Bovary," he repeated.
"I'll go in first," she said. "Please. I need a minute, just a half minute. This is crazy… I need a minute. Please, wait till I call you."
"I'll wait," he said.
She hurried into the bedroom and began to take off her clothes. She did it carefully, laying each item out on a chair, not taking time to look at the paintings on the bedroom wall. The bed was narrow. A single. She and her husband had a king-size. When she was naked, she looked around for a mirror to examine herself in. There wasn't one. She got into the bed and called, "Ringerman."
He appeared in the doorway, stripped down to his undershorts. She knew he was freshly showered and she knew his body was strong and hard. She searched for the tattoo. He moved to the bed, sat beside her and touched her breast.
"Oh, God," she said sitting up. "I forgot something in my purse. I'll be right back."
Ringerman sat, back straight, looking at one of the ten paintings in the room. It was of his mother's house, now supposed to be his house, at least as he had remembered it. If it were still standing, it was probably smaller, probably in worse shape than he recalled. Probably not quite so close to the massive cold lake of dead, dark black and blue.
He could hear her go into her purse.
When she came back into the room, he was still looking at the painting. He did not turn his head toward her.
"That was our house," he said.
"I know," he heard her voice, soft, not at all confident.
Then he turned his head.
She stood there with a small gun in her hand. She was quite beautiful. He knew how old she was but her body was young, straight. Her breasts were high, not large.
"I'm going to kill you," she said.
He nodded, unsurprised. His lack of surprise or fear made her shake slightly, but she was determined.
"You're not afraid," she said.
"No," he answered.
"I want you to be afraid," she said.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm not much of an actor."
"Don't you want to know why I'm going to kill you? You think I'm just some crazy robber?"
"No," he said.
"I've been having you watched for weeks," she said. "Since you got out. I've been having you watched."
"By a little man, neat, not much hair," he said.
"Ye-Yes."
He nodded.
"I wanted to know where you lived, what you did, where you shopped. When I knew, I paid him and ended his services. He told me you were a very careful man."
Ringerman looked at the painting again.
"You learn to be careful in prison," he said. "Still you get scars. If you survive, you have scars."
There was another rumble beyond the room. The windows in here were also barred. The rumble this time was distant thunder. The sun was still shining.
"When you dropped your wallet, I saw my chance. Are you interested in this?"
"Yes," he said.
"Then look at me. Look at me."
There was a distinct edge to her voice now. Ringerman turned his head to look at her.
"Do you know who I am?"
"You're not Emma Bovary anymore," he said.
"I never was."
"No."
"My name is Charlotte Brenner. The name doesn't mean anything to you?"
"No."
"Before I married, it was Charlotte Dianne Glicken, a name given to me by my adoptive parents, and before that for a few days it was Charlotte Ringerman," she said. "I'm your sister, your twin sister. The Scorpio born less than an hour after your sign, Libra, had ended and mine had begun."
She looked at him for a reaction. There was none.
"I was the one they chose to give up for adoption," she went on. "You were the one they chose to keep. The boy. The boy who became an armed robber and went to jail."
"Prison."
"Prison," she repeated.
"So you're going to shoot me because our parents gave you up for adoption and you blame me? You've been holding this inside and now because our parents are dead you hold me responsible?"
"Yes."
"No," he said shaking his head. "It doesn't make sense. Resentment, maybe, but hate? No, unless you're crazy. I've known people in prison and out who killed for crazy reasons. There was a kid named Ramirez two cells down from me, in for drug dealing. Low-level stuff but he got caught and the Dade County attorney wanted numbers. Ramirez was a number. He was twenty-four when he took his sharpened spoon in the yard and started stabbing everyone he could reach who had a wife and kids. He went right by the single guys, young, old, black, Mexicans, me. Just started stabbing. Killed five, hurt the hell out of two more. One of them, Ian Plickwell, lost his voice box. Ramirez went for a guard. Guard was shaking, pissed in his pants. Guards weren't armed in the yard. Ramirez went down and out with two shots from a tower guard."
Ringerman lay back on the bed and flexed the muscle of his left arm. The scale moved first one way then the other. He reached down and ran his finger along a raised pink scar about four inches long, the memory of a prison gang fight he hadn't wanted to be in.
"You're the crazy one," she said, now holding the gun in both hands to try to keep the weapon steady.
"Maybe," he said. "I've thought about it. I mean whether or not I'm crazy. I don't think so, but maybe. I don't think you're crazy either. A year before I got out I had a friend who got out the year before check on Mom's property. A resort had built up around it. Choice lakefront property. Worth close to a million, maybe more. My friend, Alan, poked around. He was good at it. Con man. Knew how to find out things and use them. Alan found out I had a sister. I had him find you. Not hard. When did you find out you had a brother?"
She had stepped forward now, nearly frantic.
"It doesn't matter."
"Does to me," he said looking at his arm. "Does to me. You're going to shoot me dead. Least you could do is answer and be honest."
"I got a letter from a lawyer," she said. "He was trying to find out who owned the land. I don't know how he tracked me down. He said something about adoption records. That's when I found out about you, about me."
"And you told him you were the only heir?"
"Yes."
"You told him your brother was dead and he believed you? Stopped at that?"
"Yes. He wanted to believe me."
"But you had someone find out I was alive and in prison. I wonder why they couldn't find me. The lawyer. I wasn't that hard to find. But I've known men who've been lost in the system for years. Records lost, misplaced. People mistaken for other people. A guy named Pope released from a twenty-year sentence for tearing a woman's arm out and then raping her. He got out in two years. The Pope who was supposed to get out spent five extra years locked up. Of course, the second Pope was simpleminded. I doubt he knew till another con…"
"Stop it," she screamed. "Stop it. Stop it."
"You got the money," he said.
"I needed it," she said. "We owed almost three hundred thousand. My husband's business went bankrupt."
"It wasn't yours," he said.
"Half of it should have been mine," she said moving closer, but not close enough so he could come off the bed.
"Half of it should have been yours," he agreed. "You got one million two hundred and fifty thousand. You give me six hundred and twenty-five thousand and we'll be even. Law says it's all mine, but I figure half is yours."
"It's gone," she said, removing one hand from the gun to brush back her short hair, which needed no brushing back. "It's spent. We paid off the debt, bought a new house, invested. There's only a little more than than two hundred thousand in the bank."
Ringerman put his hands behind his head and looked at the barred window. She could see the tattooed scale on his bicep quivering, undecided about which way to tip. She remembered that the painting in the other room had the scorpion on the right side of the scale. She watched, sobbing without hearing herself sob, unable to take her eyes from the scale which moved first one way than the other.
"I have to kill you," she said. "I knew you'd get out, that you'd find out what I'd done, that you'd come for your money, put me in jail, humiliate me. I deserved something."
"Half," he said. "You deserved half. I'll take the two hundred thousand. I'll forget the rest, forgive the rest."
"No," she said. "I can't trust you. I've got a life that… I can't trust you."
"Don't pull the trigger, Charlotte," he said still looking out the window.
"I have to. I have to. Oh, God, I have to."
He heard the click of the trigger as she pulled it back. He heard the tripping sound. Nothing happened. She was crying now, crying and firing.
When Ringerman turned his head toward her, she was crying and moaning, the gun at her side, her shoulders sagging. Ringerman got off the bed slowly and went to his closet. He took out a white terrycloth robe and moved toward her. She saw him coming, let out a whimper like a dog expecting a beating, and backed away. He handed her the robe and took the gun from her hand.
"Put it on," he said quietly.
She obeyed.
"You've had your man watching me," he said. "I had my friend Alan watching you. I came to Chicago to serve out my parole so you'd be able to find me. Alan said you'd try to have me killed. I didn't want to believe it, but I've been wrong lots of times. You can see some of the scars. I knew you were watching me at the supermarket. I dropped the wallet so you'd pick it up."
