“You and your husband?” said Milo.
“Jerry wanted to get away for a couple days.” She spoke slowly, slurred, worked hard at forming words. I’d guessed tranquilizers, then I smelled her breath. Lots of wintergreen but not enough to mask the alcohol.
The three of us were standing in her dining room. The space felt heavy, smothering. Where light hit the furniture it exposed a coating of dust.
“Your husband wanted to get away,” said Milo.
“From the stress.” Sheila Quick’s lips curled in distaste.
I said, “You didn’t want to go?”
“Eileen,” she said. “She thinks her house is the greatest . . . that paddle tennis court of hers. As far as she’s concerned why wouldn’t I want to go?”
She looked to me for confirmation. I nodded.
“Jerry,” she said. “Whatever Jerry wants, Jerry gets. You know what I think?”
“What?”
“I think Jerry wanted to stick me there. So he stuck me there. And went on his merry way.”
“He didn’t stay at Eileen’s.”
“I was supposed to be happy because Eileen has a pool and that paddle tennis court. It’s not even a full tennis court, it’s half of that.” She took hold of my sleeve. “We were going to build a pool, Gavin liked to swim.”
She threw up her hands. “I hate chlorine. It makes me itch. Why would I be happy just ’cause there’s a pool? I wanted Jerry to bring me back. Finally, he called, and I told him to bring me back.” Woozy smile. “So, here I am.”
“Where’s Jerry?” I said.
“Working. Somewhere.”
“Out of town?”
She nodded. “As usul—usuizul . . . it’s funny.”
“What is?”
“Jerry hates Eileen. But wanted to stick me in her house so he could Godknowswhat . . . It wasn’t right.”
She ticked her fingers, talked in a singsong. “Eileen has her house, I have my house.”
“You like your privacy,” I said.
“I don’t like her pool. It itches. I don’t play paddle tennis. She and her husband go to work, I’m left there with all the . . . all the quiet. What am I supposed to do all day? But Jerry . . . Eileen asked me last week to come over, and Jerry told her forget it. Then he changed his mind. What’s that all about? I’ll tell you what it’s about.”
But she didn’t.
Milo said, “Where’s Mr. Quick currently traveling?”
“Who knows? Who knows where he goes? He’s like a bird.” She waved her hands. “Bye-bye birdie, flew the coop. I stay here. I never leave here, this is my house. Jerry doesn’t call. He doesn’t want to hear from me.”
She squeezed my arm. “It’s in . . . consistenant. One day, she’s a stuck-up bitch who thinks her shit is perfume. Unquote. Next day he’s driving me there and going back to clean up Gavin’s room, then he’s off. Doing his thing. His thingamjig.”
“He cleaned Gavin’s room,” said Milo.
“He sure did! You know what I think? I think that was it.”
“What was?”
“He knew I’d get mad if he cleaned up Gavin’s room, so he snuck around me.”
“He cleaned the room while you were at Eileen’s.”
“It was a mess,” said Sheila Quick. “We have no disagreement on that, no question about it being a mess. A big. Fat. Mess. Gavin used to be neater, then he had an accident.” She let go of my sleeve, swayed, held on to a chair for balance. “Did I tell you about that?”
I said, “Why do you think Jerry decided to clean up the mess?”
“Ask him.” Smile. “Except you can’t. ’Cause he’s not here. He’s never here. I’m always here.”
The cords of her neck tightened. “I didn’t want him to clean Gav’s room. I would’ve gotten mad, I loved the mess. It was Gav’s mess, what was the rush?”
She buried her face in her hands and began sobbing. I guided her to a sofa.
Milo went up the stairs.
*
He came down ten minutes later. I’d gone into the kitchen, found a coffeemaker half-filled with lukewarm coffee, warmed it in the microwave, and brought it to Sheila Quick, guessing on nondairy creamer and one packet of artificial sweetener. Dirty dishes filled the sink. The counters were grimy. Not far from the machine was a nearly empty bottle of Tanqueray gin and a tube of Binaca breath spray.