6
Marino headed off to find a shower somewhere and I felt lighter of spirit, as if a terrible spasm had gone into remission for a while. When I pulled into my driveway, I collected the bag of scene clothes out of the trunk and began the same disinfectant ritual I had gone through most of my working life.
Inside the garage, I tore open the garbage bags and, dropped them and the shoes into a sink of scalding water, detergent and bleach. I tossed the jumpsuit into the washing machine, stirred the shoes and bags around with a long wooden spoon and rinsed them. I enclosed the disinfected bags in two clean bags that went into a Supercan, and I parked my soaked shoes on a shelf to dry.
Everything I had on from jeans to lingerie went into the washing machine, too. More detergent and bleach, and I hurried naked through my house and into the shower, where I scrubbed hard with Phisoderm, not an inch spared, not the inside of my ears and nose, or under my nails, fingers and toes, and I brushed my teeth in there.
I sat on a ledge and let water pound the back of my neck and head and remembered Benton’s fingers kneading my tendons and muscles. Untangling them was what he always said. Missing him was a phantom pain. I could feel what I remembered as if I were feeling it now, and I wondered what it would take for me to live where I was instead of back then. Grief held on. It would not let go of loss, because to do that was to accept it. I told that to grieving families and friends all the time.
I dressed in khakis, loafers and a blue-striped shirt, and played Mozart on the CD player. I watered plants and pinched off dead leaves. I polished or rearranged whatever needed it, and tucked reminders of work out of sight. I called my mother in Miami because I knew Monday was bingo night and she wouldn’t be home and I could just leave a message. I did not turn on the news because I didn’t want to be reminded of what I had just worked so hard to wash away.
I poured a double Scotch, walked into my study and turned on a light. i scanned shelves crowded with medical and science books, and astronomy texts, and Britannica encyclopedias, and all sorts of aids to gardening, flora and fauna, insects, rocks and minerals, and even tools. I found a French dictionary and carried it over to my desk. A loup was a wolf, but I had no luck with garou. I tried to think my way out of this problem and seized upon a simple plan.
La Petite France was one of tire city’s finest restaurants, and although it was closed Monday nights, I knew the chef and his wife very well. I called them at home. He answered the phone and was as warm as always.
“You don’t come see us anymore,” he said. “We say this too often.”
“I haven’t been out much,” I replied.
“You work too much, Miss Kay”
“I need a translation,” I said. “And I also need you to keep-this between us. Not a word to anyone:’
“But of course.”
“What is a loup-garou?”
“Miss Kay, you must be dreaming bad things!” he exclaimed, amused. “I’m so glad it’s not a full moon! Le loup-garou is a werewolf!”
The doorbell rang.
“In France, hundreds of years ago, if you were believed to be a loup-gamu you were hanged. There were many reports of them, you see.”
I looked at the clock. It was six-fifteen. Marino was early and I was unprepared.
“Thank you,” I told my friend the chef. “I’11 come see you soon, I promise.”
The doorbell sounded again.
“Coming,” I said to Marino through the intercom.
I turned off the alarm and let him in. His uniform was clean, his hair was neatly combed and he had splashed on too much aftershave.
“You look a little better than when I saw you last,” I commented as we headed toward the kitchen. –
“Looks like you cleaned up this joint,” he said as we passed through the great room.