So tonight she’d splurged on a bottle of Mondavi.
“To the late Robbie Raccoon,” Carrie said, raising her glass.
“No one did him better,” said Joe Winder.
He put on a tape of Dire Straits and they both agreed that it sounded pretty darn good, even with only one speaker. The wine was tolerable, as well.
Carrie said, “I told them I want a new costume.”
“Something in beads and grass would be authentic.”
“Also, no lip-synching,” she said. “I don’t care if the music’s canned, but I want to do my own singing.”
“What about the lion?” Joe Winder asked.
“They swear she’s harmless.”
“Tranked out of her mind is more like it. I’d be concerned, if I were you.”
“If she didn’t maul Annette, I can’t imagine why she’d go after me.”
A police siren penetrated the aluminum husk of the trailer; Joe Winder could hear it even over the guitar music and the tubercular groan of the ancient air conditioner. Parting the drapes, he watched one Metro squad car, and then another, enter the trailer park at high speed. Throwing dust, they sped past the turnoff to Carrie’s place.
“Another domestic,” Winder surmised.
“We average about four a week.” Carrie refilled the wineglasses. “People who take love too damn seriously.”
“Which reminds me.” He opened his wallet and removed twelve dollars and placed it on a wicker table. “I was a very bad boy. I called her three times.”
“You shmuck.”
The Nina Situation. Every time he picked up the phone, it added four bucks to Carrie Lanier’s bill. Worse, Nina pretended not to recognize his voice—stuck to the script to the bitter end, no matter how much he pleaded for her to shut up and listen.
“It is pathetic,” Winder conceded.
“No other word for it.”
“Haven’t you ever been like this?” Obsessed is what he meant.
“Nope.” Carrie shrugged. “I’ve got to be honest.”
“So what’s the matter with me?”
“You’re just having a bad week.”
She went to the bedroom and changed to a lavender nightshirt that came down to the knees—actually, a good four inches above the knees. Her hair was pulled back in a loose, sandy-colored ponytail.
Winder said, “You look sixteen years old.” Only about three dozen other guys must have told her the same thing. His heart was pounding a little harder than he expected. “Tomorrow I’ll get a motel room,” he said.
“No, you’re staying here.”
“I appreciate it but—”
“Please,” Carrie said. “Please stay.”
“I’ve got serious plans. You won’t approve.”
“How do you know? Besides, I’m a little nervous about this new job. It’s nice to have someone here at the end of the day, someone to talk with.”
Gazing at her, Winder thought: God, don’t do this to me. Don’t make me say it.
But he did: “You just want to keep an eye on me. You’re afraid I’ll screw everything up.”
“You’re off to a pretty good start.”
“It’s only fair to warn you: I’m going after Kingsbury.”
“That’s what I figured, Joe. Call it a wild hunch.” She took his hand and led him toward the bedroom.
I’m not ready for this, Winder thought. Sweat broke out in a linear pattern on the nape of his neck. He felt as if he were back in high school, the day the prettiest cheerleader winked at him in biology class; at the time, he’d been examining frog sperm under a microscope, and the wink from Pamela Shaughnessy had fractured his concentration. It had taken a month or two for Joe Winder to recover, and by then Pamela was knocked up by the co-captain of the junior wrestling squad. The teacher said that’s what she got for not paying attention in class.
The sheets in Carrie Lanier’s bedroom were rose, the blanket was plum. A novel by Anne Tyler was open on the bedstand, next to a bottle of nose drops.
A fuzzy stuffed animal sat propped on the pillow: shoe-button eyes, round ears and short whiskers. Protruding slightly from its upturned, bucktoothed mouth was a patch of turquoise cotton that could only be a tongue.
“Violet the Vole,” Carrie explained. “Note the sexy eyelashes.”
“For Christ’s sake,” Joe Winder said.