Dismember

NINETEEN

Marshall wore a three-piece suit too warm for the season and too dressy for what he claimed was a casual visit. Libby wondered if he’d been at a meeting or a party and hadn’t bothered changing before stopping by, or if he’d put on the suit specifically for her. To impress her. Normally her thoughts didn’t tend toward such vanity, but in Marshall’s case, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d done such a thing. She couldn’t help but pity him.

Libby searched the kitchen for a vase despite an urge to run the daisies he’d brought down the garbage disposal. She peeked occasionally back at Marshall, who was wandering through the living room staring at the pictures on the walls and the knickknacks on the shelves. He’d visited the house once before, but for only a minute, not long enough to do much snooping. “I hope this wasn’t a bad time,” he said, moving from his investigation of the mantle to the bookshelf where Libby kept her paperbacks.

Libby let an uncomfortable silence draw out before saying, “Well, actually, I wish you’d called. I…this wasn’t the best day. I think I’d rather be alone tonight.”

She peeked again, saw Marshall pull a book from the shelf, skim the back cover, and return it.

She wiped her hands on a dishtowel and waited for him to say What happened? or Tell me about it, but instead he answered, “Oh, come on. You’ve got time for a little visit, don’t you? I drove all the way over.”

Libby rolled her eyes and brought the vase of flowers out from the kitchen. Marshall turned and smiled at her while she set them down on an end table. He shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked a little on his feet. The gesture reminded Libby of the security guard at the Mountain View, who had done the same damn thing. Except Marshall looked nothing like that hulk of a man. He was small, maybe an inch taller than Libby and certainly no heavier than a hundred and fifty pounds. Although a relatively young man, thirty-two if Libby remembered correctly, his hair had already thinned and made him look middle-aged. He had thin lips, not so thin glasses, and a red, Irish complexion, though he’d told her on their first and last date that he didn’t think any of his ancestors had ever been to the land of ire, wording it just that way and laughing as if he’d said something witty.

“You want a beer?” she asked.

Marshall seemed to consider before replying, “No thanks. I don’t suppose you’ve got any coffee perking.”

Perking, Libby thought, what century does he think this is?

“I guess I could brew a pot,” she said, trying not to overemphasize the brew. “But then you’ve really gotta go, okay?”

Marshall didn’t respond. He followed her into the kitchen and eyed the shopping bags on the counter while she searched for a filter. He poked his finger into the open end of one of the bags and peeked inside.

“Uh oh,” he said, withdrawing the two paperbacks Libby had left when she’d picked out her reading material for the bath. “You’ve been cheating on me.” He held out the books and smiled.

Libby thought, Jesus, but forced a smile. “I was at the mall.” It was as much of an excuse as she would give. Marshall was a clerk at Dog-Ears, a downtown bookshop she frequented. She’d seen him in the store many times, exchanged a few polite conversations, every one of which had ended with some sort of advance on his part. He’d never been rude about it, never pushy, but he had been persistent. So much so that she’d finally agreed to dinner just to get him off her back. She hadn’t been interested romantically, of course, but she’d thought maybe they could talk books, have a few laughs, that it might be fun in an entirely platonic kind of way.

It wasn’t.

Marshall had spent most of the date ogling her. And although she had her back to him, she could sense him doing the same thing now.

“Listen,” she said suddenly, turning away from the cupboard and crossing her arms over her chest. “I’m not finding any filters.”

“Oh, that’s okay.” Marshall waved his hand. “Maybe I’ll have that beer after all.”

“No, I think I’d rather you left. No offense, but I’m just not in the mood for company tonight.” Especially your company, she wanted to add.

Marshall’s smile dropped away. “You’re kidding me.”

Libby said, “No,” and shook her head definitively.

Marshall looked at the books in his hand and then tossed them on the counter. The cover of one bent in half, and the other dropped into the sink, where it soaked up some of the water Libby had splattered while filling her vase.

Libby gaped, more outraged by the battering of the books than by Marshall’s sudden show of anger. She wasn’t a book collector, did not consider novels investments the way some people did, but she’d always tried to keep her paperbacks in decent shape. Mostly so she could read them again later if she wanted and not have to worry about them falling apart.

“What did you do that for?” She hurried over to the sink and pulled the second book from the basin before it could become completely waterlogged.

Marshall huffed. “They’re just books.”

“And you’re just an asshole,” Libby said, wiping the water from the cover of the book with the hem of her shirt. “I want you to leave right now.”

“Jesus,” Marshall said, looking nonplussed. “I’m sorry.”

Libby softened only a little. “Just please go. I’ll see you at the store sometime.”

“Wait,” he said and took a step toward her.

Libby stood her ground. Marshall wasn’t exactly a muscle-bound intimidator.

“Let’s have that beer. Then I’ll go. I promise.” He reached out to take her hand. “I drove all the way here. I brought you flowers.”

Libby jerked her hand from his grasp and shook her head. “So what? I guess you think that means I owe you something.”

Marshall didn’t respond.

Oh my God, she thought, that is what he thinks.

She tried to move out from between him and the sink, but it was too late. Before she knew it, he had his hands around her waist and his lips all over her face.