Tight Lines (11 page)

I’d wait a week before I turned down Gloria’s offer, so that she’d think I had given it serious consideration.

I had started back to my office when I remembered that the Gone Fishin’ sign was hanging on the door. I stopped and glanced at my watch. Two o’clock. Too late to go home, change, and drive to a trout river. The sun would be setting around five-thirty. I thought of going back to the office anyway. I could get some paperwork done.

Bad idea.

So I descended into the underground at Kenmore and took the T to Park Square, where I changed to the Red Line outbound. I emerged in Central Square and began to walk along Mass Ave. toward Harvard Square. I had looked up Head Start Books in the Boston Yellow Pages. I had a general idea where I’d find it.

And it was there, more or less as I had imagined it—narrow in front, dirt-streaked windows, with a sign that read “Books, New and Used. Specializing in Occult and New Age.”

I went in. It was dimly lit. The aisles between the tables and shelves of books were narrow. I browsed among the volumes, moving toward the back of the store, hoping to find some old trout-fishing tomes. Fly fishing for trout, I always thought, qualified as occult, though bookstores generally put their fishing books among those on golf and aerobics.

“Help you?” came a deep voice from behind me.

I turned quickly. I hadn’t heard him approach me. “Jeez,” I said. “You startled me.”

“Sorry, man.”

Sid Raiford. It had to be. His hair was the color of slush, pulled back in a ponytail at the base of his neck. Deep furrows bracketed his mouth and eyes. He was about sixty. A superannuated hippie, just as Donald, the doorman in Mary Ellen’s building, had described him. He had gray teeth and gray eyes and a gold hoop in his left ear. A blue silk shirt was open to his bony sternum. A necklace of love beads showed across his chest. He was wearing bell-bottomed jeans with a red patch in the crotch and fringed moccasins on his feet.

“I was looking for trout fishing books,” I said to him.

“Trout fishing.” He grinned. “Far out.”

“You don’t have fishing books?”

He looked me up and down, taking in my lawyer’s costume. His eyes narrowed. “Sorry, guy. Try the Coop.”

I shrugged. “I was just on my way by, thought I’d take a look.”

“The Coop’s your best bet.”

I nodded. I looked at him and frowned. “Say,” I said. “I have a friend who I think used to work here. Maybe she still does.”

“Who’s that?”

“Mary Ellen Ames is her name.”

His eyes shifted, returned to mine. “Ames?”

I nodded.

He shrugged. “Don’t know any Ames chick.”

“Well, guess I was mistaken.”

“Guess so.”

“The Coop, you say?”

He nodded.

“Maybe I’ll try there, then.”

He made a V with his fingers. “Peace, brother.”

“Peace,” I said.

I didn’t go to the Coop. I went home. And all the time I was showering and changing and driving out to meet Terri in Acton, I tried to figure out why Raiford had lied to me. I came up with several scenarios.

I got to the restaurant before Terri. I waited outside the door, smoking a cigarette and looking up at the starry autumn sky and wondering if she would really show up.

When her Volkswagen putt-putted into the parking lot, I glanced at my watch. Seven-forty. She was only ten minutes late, and I had been, as is my unfortunate compulsion, precisely on time. I had only been waiting ten minutes. It seemed longer.

I went to where she parked and held the door for her. She was wearing a short dark skirt and a pale blouse and a bright red jacket. No jewelry, no makeup. She looked terrific.

I took one step back, clicked my heels, and snapped a salute. “Evening, General.”

She nodded once. “At ease, mister.”

She held her hand out to me. I took it. Then she grinned and tiptoed up and kissed my cheek. “Am I late?”

“Right on time.”

We went in. The outside door opened into a large lobby. An inside door was marked “Ciao.” The restaurant was small and dimly lit. A classical guitar played from hidden speakers. The windows, I noticed, were stained glass.

A silver-haired man greeted us and introduced us to the evening’s specials. They all sounded delicious. Just their melodic Italian names sounded delicious.

After we were seated, we ordered a bottle of burgundy and snails in garlic and butter. While we ate our appetizers and sipped the wine, we talked about Susan. Terri seemed to know everything about her. It was clear that she was very fond of her, and I suspected that Susan thought of Terri as more than a factotum.

Terri had the chicken special and I had the veal, and we didn’t talk much while we ate. We sampled from each other’s fork and proclaimed it all excellent. When the coffee came, she said, without prologue, “I want you to know, I don’t date, Brady.”

I smiled at her. “What’s this, then?”

She looked away. “I don’t know. An experiment.”

“Am I the guinea pig?”

“No. I am.”

“Want to talk about it?”

She nodded. “I guess I’m just a little gun-shy.”

“Something bad, huh?”

“I’ve got a ten-year-old daughter.”

“Nothing wrong with that. I’ve got two boys myself.”

She smiled. “I’m not married.”

“Me neither. Divorced about ten years.”

“I’m not divorced, either.”

I shrugged.

She sipped her coffee and gazed into her cup. “The two best things I’ve ever done in my life,” she said softly. She looked up at me. “Having Melissa, and not marrying Cliff.”

I nodded.

“He’s actually a nice guy,” she said. “He wanted to put me into a white clapboard house in the suburbs where I could play bridge and join the PTA and clip recipes from the newspaper. I tried to imagine it. I couldn’t make it work.” Her gaze wandered around the restaurant. “We lived together for a year. Practice, we called it. But I was working, and it was okay. Then I got pregnant. Just dumb carelessness. Anyhow, Cliff was thrilled. I’d been resisting marriage. Now, he said, we had to. It made me really visualize it, and it just scared the hell out of me. I told him I’d be willing to continue living together for a while. He wouldn’t buy it. Gave me the ultimatum. Marry him or we’d split. The choice was easy.”

“But actually doing it must be hard,” I said.

She shrugged. “Sure. It is hard. I like things that way.”

“What about him?”

She laughed softly. “He was married within a year. He’s got two little boys now. Melissa calls them her brothers. It’s all very modern. Cliff married a nice lady who has a magnificent recipe collection. She and I are on decent terms. She’s good to Melissa. Cliff and I are civil. He’s a good father. Probably a good husband, for that matter.”

“So you swore off men, huh?”

She nodded. “That was my firm decision, Brady. No men. No place in my life for a man. They either want to marry you and chain you to a house, or they just want to—you know. Either way, they steal your soul. I’ve got a daughter who needs me. I’ve got Susan, right now, and she needs me. I’m busy. My life is full.” She shrugged.

“What about this, then?”

“This? Our date?”

I nodded.

She smiled. “Would you believe, you’re so handsome I couldn’t resist?”

“I wouldn’t believe that. No.”

“That’s good.” She reached across the table and put her hand onto mine. “You
are
kinda handsome, though. But, no, that wasn’t it. When you asked me the first time, I said no. Reflex. Anyhow, it was my weekend with Melissa. Cliff and I swap every other weekend. I look forward to my time with her. With all the hours I’m putting in with Susan, I hardly see Melissa during the week. But I got to thinking. Want to know the truth?”

“Yes.”

“I was dreading this weekend. Without her. Being alone. Maybe after all these years I’m getting a little sick of being alone every other weekend, I don’t know. I used to love being alone. I called it solitude. Lately it seems more like loneliness. Anyway, the more I thought about seeing you, the more I liked the thought. It seemed like a risk. But maybe a risk worth taking. You don’t strike me as the kind of guy who wants to capture a woman’s soul.” She smiled quickly. “If I’m wrong, you better tell me now.”

“I’m still trying to get a line on my own soul,” I said. “That’s pretty much a full-time job.”

“Well,” she said, “so far I don’t regret it.”

“I’m glad,” I said. I squeezed her hand. She didn’t pull it away.

I paid the bill and we walked out into the night. The sky was clear and the air cool. Terri hooked her arm through mine as I walked her to her car. I squeezed her arm against my side.

She fumbled in her pocketbook, found her keys, and unlocked her car. Then she turned to me and put her arms around my neck. “Thank you,” she said softly.

“I enjoyed it,” I said.

Her kiss was hesitant at first, as if she had never done it before. Then her mouth yielded and her lips parted and it became a real kiss. Her arms tightened around my neck. In her throat she murmured a little two-tone noise that sounded like “Oh-oh,” and for an instant her body pressed against mine.

She pulled away from me abruptly. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled.

“Why?”

She shook her head. “I told you. I’m gun-shy.”

“Don’t worry about me,” I said. “I’m harmless.”

She didn’t smile. “You better be.”

“We’ll play by your rules.”

“You’ll have to be patient with me.”

“I can do that.”

“I swore off men a long time ago.”

“I know.”

“I don’t know if I can handle it.”

“I don’t know if I can, either,” I said.

She tilted her head back and peered at me. After a moment she nodded. “Okay,” she said. I realized she was talking to herself. “Okay, then.”

“How about next weekend?”

She frowned. “I told you. I’ve got Melissa.”

“Good. Bring her.”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

I shrugged. “Your rules.”

“Melissa’s never seen me with a man.”

I thought of Billy’s reaction to seeing Gloria with her lawyer dweeb. “Sure. I understand.”

“You’d want to go to dinner with me and my daughter?”

“Sure. I like kids.”

“Let me think about it.”

“Okay.”

She got into her Volkswagen and started it up. She needed a new muffler. She cranked down the window. “Hey, Brady?”

“Yes, General?”

She put her face to the open window. “Kiss me?”

“Sure.”

I did. It was a good long one.

“I don’t know what I’m getting myself into here,” she said.

“Me neither,” I said.

S
ATURDAY NIGHT. NO LONELIER
than any other night. I was alone, but not lonely. I had my fly-tying table and my books and a briefcase full of paperwork and my little black-and-white television for company.

I wondered what Terri was doing. It was her weekend without Melissa. I thought of calling her. My instincts told me that it wouldn’t be a good idea.

I was working on a bowl of Ben and Jerry’s New York Super Fudge Chunk, the best ice cream ever made, and watching a PBS documentary on the strange and wonderful fauna of Australia, when the phone rang. I glanced at my watch as I got up to answer it. It was a little after ten.

“Hello?” I said.

“Brady? Mr. Coyne?” A woman’s voice, hesitant and shaky.

“Yes?”

“It’s Jill. Jill Costello.”

I had to think for a minute. “Oh. Hi.”

“I couldn’t think of anybody else to call.”

“It’s nice to hear from you.”

“He’s—I don’t think I can take much more,” she said. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Your husband?”

“Yes. Johnny.”

“What’s happening?”

“It’s been all night. Since suppertime. He started with the phone calls. First I just let it ring. So my machine came on, and he talked into it until the tape ran out. Just saying crazy things. Then he kept calling back and I’d just disconnect each time. Finally I left it off the hook. So then he came banging on my door. I just—”

“You didn’t tell the guy at the desk not to let him in?”

“Oh, sure. But I’ve got a private entrance. He knows where it is. He was out there for about an hour, banging and yelling. I feel—I feel like a prisoner. I wish the hell he’d just divorce me and get it over with.”

“He’s gone now?”

“I think so. I haven’t heard him for a while. That’s why I called. I couldn’t have called before. I was crying too much. You know, if I had a gun I think I would’ve just blasted away through my door at him. I really wanted to kill him. I’m afraid he wants to kill me. I can’t…”

I heard her gasp and sob. “Hey,” I said.

She snuffled into the telephone. “I’m sorry. I’m probably overreacting. I hate being a hysterical female. I just didn’t know what to do.”

“You called a friend. That was fine.”

“I feel dumb. I don’t have anybody else to talk to.”

“It’s not dumb to be frightened. It sounds like a reasonable way to feel under the circumstances.”

“I want to get out of here. But I don’t dare.”

“Keep your door locked. There’s nothing he can do.”

“That’s what I mean. I’m a prisoner. Damn him!”

“It sounds like you could get a restraining order, Jill.”

“Yeah, well I thought of that. This started as soon as he found out where I was living. I talked to a lady at one of those women’s support groups about it. She said she doubted a judge would grant a restraining order. He’s never actually hurt me, and he is my husband. That’s what they go by. You’ve got to get hurt first, I guess. And the way it works, if you’ve slept with a guy it seems like he’s got the right to harass you all he wants. Like that means he owns you and anything he does is okay. A woman judge might understand. Most of them are men. This woman I talked to, this counselor, she did some role playing with me. Her the judge, me being me. Shit, she made me cry. I mean, I know how rape victims feel. Like it’s their fault. She made me feel like I was wrong here, like he was the victim and it was me who was antagonizing him. Like I should go back to him and tell him I was sorry, it was all my fault, and just be happy I got a man.”