Bone Fire

Eighteen

HELEN PARKED by the office and the only person in the lobby was a stocky boy, maybe twenty-five, with a bad complexion. He was watching a Rockies game on the plasma TV in the breakfast nook and, when he noticed her, hurried around behind the counter.

“I’m Mrs. Johnson,” she said. “I think my husband already checked us in.”

The gold-colored nametag over his shirt pocket read Tyler.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “He said you’d be coming in separately.”

He coded a key card, slid it across the counter and smoothed out a map of the complex, bending over it with a red pen and drawing a line around to the back of the westernmost wing. “If you park around here, it’ll be hard to see your car from the highway.” He was smiling-leering, really-and staring unguardedly at her breasts.

She folded the map. “Is your manager on duty?”

The smile dropped away, along with the color from his face. “Yes, ma’am. She’s in the back.”

“You want me to have a talk with her about this attitude you’ve got going on?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Then try not being such a smutty little shithead. Okay?”

He lowered his voice. “Yes, ma’am.”

She drove around to the back of the Spring Hill Suites, spotted Crane’s pickup and parked beside it. When she let herself in, the drapes were drawn and she stood there blinking.

“What did you tell him?” He was sitting in a chair by the table in the little efficiency kitchen.

“I said I was going to spend the afternoon at the Sanctuary. It’s a spa up on Twenty-fourth. I said I was going to get a massage and something called a Vichy Shower Body Polish.”

“They have a pool here.”

“What did you tell Jean?”

“We needed a Costco run. I already went.”

There was the sharp bleating of a car alarm, then just the grind of traffic.

“Did you bring anything to drink?” she asked.

“There’s a bottle of wine in the refrigerator.”

She dropped her purse by the door and walked to the refrigerator, taking the bottle out. It was open.

“There’s some glasses in the cupboard right there, and some mugs.” He lifted up his juice glass.

She set a coffee mug down from the cupboard, pouring it half full. “I’m glad we’re doing this.”

“Me too.”

She snapped on the light in the hood over the stove and stepped out of her sandals and unbuttoned her blouse, taking her time, stopping to sip the wine. She dropped the blouse on the floor, then her shorts, her bra and panties on top. She smiled, taking up the mug, and turned toward the bedroom, the light from the stove glinting in the single gold chain around her neck.

He finished his wine and pulled his boots off and walked to the bedroom doorway. She was sitting with the covers folded to her waist, the lamp on beside the bed. He looked toward the window, but the curtains were drawn. He pulled his shirttails loose. “I’m not going to be a lot of good to you.” He shrugged. “I should’ve said something about it the other night.” He watched her set her wine on the night table.

“The ALS take this away from you too?”

“I guess that’s what it was.”

“Didn’t you go to a doctor? I mean, don’t you want to find out?”

“I didn’t see the point.”

“Jean might’ve.”

“I think she’s relieved.”

There was the rattling drone of the air conditioner, the cadence of the traffic beyond, constant as a dog chewing a bone.

“It’s going to be a long afternoon with you just standing there,” she said.

He nodded, snapping the front of his shirt open, stepping out of his jeans and underpants. He stood for a moment holding his clothes, and she laughed.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Tell me.”

“It’s kind of like going back to the house where you were raised.”

“You mean everything looks smaller than you remember?”

“I meant familiar.”

He set his jeans and underwear on the seat of a chair and pulled his shirt off.

“Your socks too,” she said.

She turned onto her side, and he pressed in against her, his knees bent against the backs of her thighs. She reached up and turned off the lamp.

“You upset?” he asked.

“I’ll get over it in a minute.”

He put an arm around her, across her breasts. “I guess I really didn’t think what this would be like. I thought I did, but I hadn’t.”

“You remember Sarah Meeks?”

“From high school?”

“Yeah.” She turned and lay facing him. “I saw her in Denver. At a gallery. She had three little girls with her.”

“I didn’t know her very well.”

“Neither did I, but I recognized her right away. Her husband was with her. I think he said he sold something, I don’t remember what, but I’ve been thinking about those kids.” He could smell the wine on her breath. “Do you regret not having any?”

“I’ve had Griff. Sort of. We’ve gotten along all right.”

“I regret it,” she said.

He pulled away, looking down at her. “You still could.”

“With Larry?”

“Yeah.”

She tucked her head, pressing her forehead against his chest. She’d always liked the sour-spicy scent of his body. “It’s too late for that.” She touched his chest lightly, with just the tips of her fingers, then looked up at him. “Did you ever think about what you’d be when you grew up?”

“I never thought I’d be a cop.”

“What about when you were a kid?”

“You’ll laugh.”

“I promise I won’t.”

He rolled onto his back. “I thought I was going to be special.”

“Like a movie star?”

“More like a heart surgeon, or an architect. I thought I’d be a man people would admire.”

“Women, you mean.”

“I mean both. I thought maybe I’d invent something useful. It really wasn’t so much about money.”

She got up on an elbow, looking down at him. “But you never had something you were crazy to do? Something you thought you might die if you never did?”

“There wasn’t anything like that.”

She lay down against him. “You’re lucky,” she said.

“You think so?”

“Yes, I do. I think it would be hard to die knowing you never took a shot at something you felt like you needed to do.”

“Is that how you feel?”

“I was wild to get married to you.” She held her hand flat against his chest. “I wasn’t worth a damn at it, but it’s what I used to dream about when I was a girl.”

“Shit.”

“I know. You should’ve married a woman with higher aspirations.”

He looked toward the window again. There still wasn’t anything to see. “Not much turns out like you think it might.”