Ellery Queen. The Best of Suspense

Florence V. Mayberry Woman Trouble

I never did like living in Reno. I’m a desert woman, born and raised just outside Winnemucca, Nevada. Trees and buildings, and all those crowds milling around day and night on the streets get in my way. I like to see clear and far off. Horizons, mountains. Even people stand out better in the open desert. You can see them coming, all alone and separate instead of muffled up in all that town stuff.

Have you ever smelled, real good, the sage coming in off the desert after a rain? Clean, heady, sweet. Seems to scour out the lungs and makes your brain fresh. You can remember you’ve got a heart, even a soul. Well, that’s what I wanted for Paddy.

Paddy belongs to the desert. Wyoming country, he was born there. Up where buttes are swept by winds and you have to struggle a little to fill your lungs with oxygen, it’s so high in the sky, you know. Couple of years after we were married Paddy took me back to his old home ranch. Well, it wasn’t his any longer — he’d lost it fooling around in Nevada’s gambling clubs. But the people who bought it from the bank are nice folks, old friends of the family, and they pretended the ranch was still Paddy’s.

Paddy and I rode alongside the buttes, sometimes stopping the horses and edging them together so we could kiss. “Paddy,” I told him, “let’s save up and buy back your ranch. Town’s no good for us, we’re open-country people.” Especially town’s no good for Paddy, I was thinking, and he knew it.

He grinned and said, “You’re right, girl. No dice tables out here on the open range.” He patted my arm and added, “First big killing I make, and I sure ought to be due for one soon, we’ll buy us a spread. Build us a brand-new house on it with all the fixings, good as back in Reno.”

Good as! My God. A two-room-with-kitchenette apartment. A stove with an oven which baked lopsided. A dwarf-sized refrigerator. And all the gambling tables in the world, it seemed, just down the street.

“Paddy, I don’t need fine things, I’m not used to them. It would be fun to camp out in a cabin, cook on a woodstove — nothing bakes good like a wood range. It would be like when I was a kid. Home-baked bread — my mother always did her own baking and she taught me. And we could have a little garden, Paddy. You’d be outdoors a lot — indoors don’t suit you, Paddy, staying in that warehouse all the time, lifting those heavy loads.”

“Lifting loads, woman?” His face took on that remote expression he always got when he decided I had gone too far interfering in men’s ways. “You mean pushing so hard on those little levers that do all the lifting? With a hundred eighty pounds, six-one of a man to do the pushing? Well. Angie, I sure got a hard life.”

I wanted to say it was lifting the dice, shaking them, tossing them out that was too much for a hundred eighty pounds, six-one of a man. But when he got that look Paddy scared me. No, no, I don’t mean he ever hit me or roughed me up. He never did. Why, Paddy would just spit on the ground when he heard about men who hit women. Said only feisty little men did that who were too scared to tackle a man. But once, after that look, Paddy had walked out of our apartment and didn’t come back. It took me a week to find him. Down in Vegas. And another week to beg him back.

That time I wished he had hit me instead. All the money we had in our joint savings account, $715, went that time. To the last penny. It takes a lot of standing on your feet and waiting on customers in a department store to get that much put away above what it costs to live these days.

Paddy didn’t believe in savings accounts, even though I had his name on the bank book. Said it was for men who didn’t have the guts to take a chance, or for women. That’s why it didn’t bother him when he drew it out. Grinned, patted me on the back, and said he’d pay it back one of these days with interest.

Me, I didn’t care if he ever paid it back. All I wanted back was Paddy.

Like that evening later on when I was snuggling my face against his, whispering I wouldn’t trade him for the whole world tied in ribbons.

He kissed me and whispered back, “You’re a good kid.” Then he scooted me off his lap, stood up, gave me a little smack on the bottom, and said, “Think I’ll begin my first million tonight. So I can get you that little ranch you’re always talking about. Only it’ll be a big one. Maybe I’ll try for two million, so’s I can fence it in with those ribbons you’re always talking about.”

“Oh, Paddy, please! Don’t go, Paddy. I don’t want to be rich. I don’t even need the ranch. Paddy, you know it’s just you I need. And you’ve been away so much lately. Every night, Paddy, the last few weeks.”

“Maybe there’ll be a few more nights, too,” he said easily. “Stick with it, one of these nights I’ll strike it rich.”

“I’ll go with you, Paddy.”

His face set. “No. You bug me at the tables.”

No use arguing with Paddy. Unless I wanted to set out on another search all over Nevada.

I remember it rained that night in Reno. A good steady rain. Once I thought. I’ll just go along Virginia Street, down the alley by the clubs, find out which one Paddy’s in, say it was raining hard and that I’d brought him an umbrella. But it scared me to think of the way his face would look — I’m a man. Angie, don’t wet-nurse me. You hug me at the tables, Angie. Or maybe he wouldn’t say anything. Just never come home.

I’d rather he hit me every day, honest I would.

I woke up in the morning and felt for him next to me. The sheet was cool, untouched. All around me, all through the apartment, was the sweet sage smell that rises off the desert after a rain. But it wouldn’t make the ache in my head go away. I perked some coffee, waited a while to eat, and hoped he would show up before he had to go to work. And I said to myself. Damn the gambling and the gamblers, damn Reno to hell.

Reno could have been a nice place, you know. A sweet hometown with the Truckee River running through, willows all along it. Over to the west, Mount Rose with snow still on it in summer. Old brown fat Peavine Mountain squatting toward the north. And the clean lovely desert spread to the east. My God, it could have been nice to live in with the man you love. Only it wasn’t.

I left a place set at the table in case he showed up. Then I went down on Virginia Street, making like I was window shopping. At 6:30 in the morning, yet! Hoping I’d see him, but that he wouldn’t see me: Angie, you trying to make a woman out of me? I thought you married me because I was a man. At 6:30 he could be grabbing a bite to eat at one of the club lunch counters, because he had to be at work by seven.

Then I saw him. Coming out of a club with a tall red-blonde holding onto his arm, almost head-high with him. Laughing, throwing her head back, tossing her long shiny hair. She had on a long black dress and it fit her like she was the model on which all women ought to be patterned. I noticed that especially because I’m short and stocky-built. Not fat or anything, just short and stocky-built, the strong kind. I used to help my Dad chop wood — Mother and Dad never had any boys.

I wanted to walk over and sock the girl in the nose. But I always have a sense to be fair about things. It was Paddy who needed the sock in the nose. How would the girl know Paddy belonged to me if he didn’t tell her?

I speeded up and came even with them just as she leaned toward him and kissed his cheek. Paddy had his arm up hailing a taxi. I said, “Hi, Paddy, won’t you be late for work?”

Paddy was a gambler. His face stayed cool and easy, and it was like hoods dropped over his eyes so I couldn’t see into them. “Hi, Angie,” he said with his mouth. But I could feel the inside of him saying, Get the hell out of here. That wasn’t fair. He was the one on the spot, not me. Besides, this was woman trouble. I’d never had woman trouble with Paddy before. Far as I knew. A wife can’t buckle under when it’s woman trouble.

“I laid out your breakfast on the table — you shouldn’t go to work on an empty stomach. Paddy, I don’t think I’ve met your friend.”

I was talking to Paddy, but I was looking square at this woman. Woman she was, somewhere between twenty-five and thirty, not much younger than me. She had the skin and the looks of an eighteen-year-old, only young kids don’t get that confident look on them. This woman looked strong and sure of herself, like maybe she’d fought her way up.

She was beautiful, I’ll say that. Her eyes were so blue their color almost hurt you to look at. Big, too. Only thing, they stared at me bold as brass, shrewd too. Had me figured first look, and it was striking her funny. She took on a little half smile like she was holding back a laugh.

She knew how to put on makeup, just enough to turn her skin to honey and rose. Or maybe the Lord shot the works on her, maybe she was born that way. Makeup on her eyes, though, and lashes that almost brushed her cheeks. And like a halo, all that red-blonde hair.

“Is this your wife?” she asked Paddy.

He nodded and said, easy, “Sure is. Angie meet Molly.”

She looked him level in the eye, laughed, and said, “You’re a cool one, I’ll say that for you.” She turned to me. “Chin up, lady, so he can take a poke at it for good measure.” She laughed again, climbed in the taxi and drove off.

What she said shook Paddy. He whipped his face away from the taxi like he’d been slapped, and he didn’t give me that goodbye look like he had just before he’d hopped off for Vegas. He said, “I’m sorry, Angie. But you shouldn’t have come looking for me. And I’m not going to lie to you, tell you I was just coming out to put her in the taxi. I was going with her.”

Well, I couldn’t hardly jump on him after that. I mean, he’d come square with me. So I said, “I’m sorry too, Paddy. See you tonight. I’ve fixed up a good roast for dinner.” Last night while you made up to this Molly with her bold, laughing, beautiful face, I was home cooking for you. I’m not ugly, Paddy. I got big brown eyes, nice features — you told me it’s brown eyes you like, not blue like yours. You said brown eyes always got you.

He let a deep breath sigh out and said, “Okay. See you tonight.”

“You’ve never hit me, Paddy. Not once. She shouldn’t have said that.”

Kind of like it hurt as the words came out he said, “She’s seen ’em hit.” Then he turned and walked off.

What do you do when you love a man and as far as you know he’s never two-timed you before, and then you find out he did — or was going to? And you begin thinking maybe all those gambling nights and the money gone, that $715 out of the savings account — maybe it wasn’t all for gambling?

You brood on it, if you’re like me.

All day long while I was selling girdles, pantyhose, and things, I couldn’t stop thinking about that tall bold Molly. The way she laughed and told off Paddy, and him standing there looking like he could eat her. And the contempt she’d had for his dumb wife.

Paddy was there when I got home. He didn’t say anything, just pulled me down on his lap and kissed my forehead and my eyes. “You got nice eyes, Angie,” he said. “They never did see nothing bad about me. You got nice lovin’ eyes.”

That’s all. What I wanted to say was such a big lump in me that I was afraid to let it out. So I just kissed him.

But after dinner I said, “Paddy, let’s pull out and go on up to Wyoming. We could save for our own place up there as well — maybe better — as here in Reno. I could find a job and maybe you could get us a little house on a ranch where you’d work. There’s an old cabin on your home place, maybe they’d rent it to us and we could fix it up. Get our roots in.”

“One of these days,” he said. “Maybe.”

He helped me with the dishes that night — usually he didn’t do that, said he felt silly lifting teacups with a rag in his hand. But that night he helped me. And he kissed me sweet. Tender, it was. Never once mentioned going to the clubs. It was wonderful.

But sometime in the night — well, it was two o’clock when I turned on the light — I found myself alone in the bed. Paddy was nowhere in the apartment.

Molly, her name was. Angie, meet Molly. That’s all, no last name. How do you find a Molly in a place as big as Reno?

You get up and dress and go down to the gambling clubs and start looking for Paddy. Or Molly.

But I didn’t go. Paddy needed some kind of honor, even if it was the kind I made up myself.

Around four o’clock I laid out some potatoes, ready to fry the way Paddy likes them. Set the table pretty. Listened for the creak of the elevator which meant somebody was coming up. Went to the bathroom to do what I could about my face. Bluish circles under my eyes smudged the upper part of my face. Face puffy from worry and lack of sleep — or like a puff adder getting mad, ready to strike. I was only in my early thirties, but this morning I looked forty or more. Little dumpy woman. Why wouldn’t Paddy, eyes blue as heaven, six-one of muscle, a sidewise grin, why wouldn’t—

“Stop it!” I told myself in the mirror. “Stop it!”

Paddy loved me. He told me so lots of times. And Paddy never lied, no matter what else he did.

I put the potatoes away in the refrigerator, drank a cup of coffee, and walked to work. It wasn’t far, and besides we didn’t have a car anymore. Used to, but Paddy hit a winning streak a year or so back and wanted to raise his bets. So I signed the car over — it was in my name — and Paddy sold it. Oh, well, it costs money for gas.

It’s tough to stand on your feet all day, straightening up counters that customers are always messing up the minute you’ve folded things. It’s tough smiling, when you ache all over from wondering where Paddy’s gone to. I thought once I’d call him at work. But if he was there he’d be mad. And if he wasn’t there his boss would be mad knowing Paddy’s wife was hunting for him again.

I tried to cat a sandwich at lunch, but it just wouldn’t go down. So I asked my boss could I go home, I didn’t feel good. He was real nice, told me not to come back till I felt completely okay. They like me at work. Steady, always on time. Just a dumb, steady, day-after-day salesclerk that redheaded Molly wouldn’t be caught dead being.

I went home and took a couple of aspirins. Tried to lie down and relax. Got up and mopped the kitchen and bathroom. Took a shower. Put on my new coral pants suit. Took it off. Broad as a barn door from the rear. Put on a long straight jersey dress. Looked like a Japanese wrestler in a nightgown. Finally put back on the dark dress I had worn to work. And it was past five o’clock and no Paddy.

Well, Reno’s free and open — anybody can go in the clubs and play a few nickels and dimes in the slot machines. That’s what I’d tell Paddy if I saw him. But maybe he wouldn’t see me. I could hide behind the machines, leave once I knew where — no. Not if he was with Molly.

I walked my legs off that night. Tried to eat a hamburger. Couldn’t make it. Got to bed around three in the morning. Alone.

Next morning I called at work and said I was still sick. It was no lie. I was sick. The boss was nice, said to take care of myself. So I was ashamed to walk the streets, running in and out of clubs. I stayed in the apartment. Which was good because Paddy’s boss telephoned and asked what happened to him the last two days. “We’re sick,” I said. What kind of sick? “We must have eaten something funny. Sick to our stomachs.”

“Yeah,” his boss said. “Not down in Vegas again, is he, Angie, and you packing to go find him?”

“Listen, Pete, can’t a man have a stomachache without—”

“Okay, okay, Angie, cool it. Take care of yourselves. Tell Paddy to forget about tomorrow, it’s Saturday, he might as well get a good start on Monday.”

“Thanks, Pete, I’ll tell him.”

If Paddy was in the clubs he was like a ghost slipping in and out, because I hit them all. And that wasn’t Paddy’s style. Even losing, he’d stick at one table, waiting for the odds to break his way. And Paddy hadn’t left for Vegas, he was still in Reno. My insides told me so.

They kept telling me something else. Paddy was with Molly.

So I concentrated on how I could find Molly.

You ever looked over the list of attorneys in the phone-book yellow pages? In Reno? You wonder how they all eat, except Reno’s built on divorce as well as gambling — some fine recommendation for your hometown, huh? I started calling attorneys’ offices and ran smack into, “Molly? The last name, please? You say you saw this lady drop her purse in one of the clubs and there’s no identification in it, so how do you know the name is Molly? Oh. One of the dealers. Well, my suggestion would be to ask that dealer about her, or turn over the purse to the cashier or the police.” A long pause. “May I ask why you didn’t just give it to the lady?” Or, “I’m sorry but we never give out clients’ names. Why don’t you try the police?”

Well, it was a dumb try anyway.

I thought, why not go down to that club where I first saw Paddy with her and ask around.

Down to the club. Jangling, brassy sound of slot machines, busy, busy. Everybody pulling handles like it was a job doing some good, like cleaning up the world or something every time a coin dropped in. Most of the time nothing was coming out, no loaf of bread or can of beans, nothing. Once in a while a little money to be stuffed back into the machine.

“Say, do you know a pretty redhead named Molly? Tall girl, dressed good. She was here the other night. I–I’ve got something I think may belong to her. I got to find her.”

The dealer at the blackjack table grinned sidewise and said, “Honey, I hope it’s something nice you got for her. If it is, you might try the office. Something different, you better take it home. No, I don’t know any tall redhead named Molly.”

I tried a couple of other dealers. Then the lunch counter. A waitress there said, “Say, aren’t you Paddy Finley’s wife?”

I nodded and she said, “I thought so. See, I used to live in your same apartment house, couple of floors below, but I used to see you come in together.”

“I’ve got something may be this Molly’s,” I said again. “The other day down here I saw her with — something like it. But I don’t know where to find her. I just thought someone here might know her.”

She gave me a quirky smile. “I don’t know her, honey, but I do know Paddy, he’s here a lot. Hard to miss Paddy, looks like kids used to think cowboy heroes ought to look. Eastern divorcees still think that. You know what I’d do, Mrs. Finley — I’d go home, take two-three aspirins, and have yourself a nice rest. Then when Paddy came home you’d be in shape to flatten him. Wanta cup of coffee, I’ll throw in the aspirin?”

It’s peculiar, how when your mind’s upset it’s the middle of your stomach that hurts. Like a knot tied in it. But all the time the real hurt is in your mind where you can’t touch it.

Out on the street, up a way, I got this queer feeling. Like I wanted to shake all over but was too frozen to do it. I felt something either pulling on me or breathing on me. I mean, it was screwy, like I was a Geiger Counter and had run into what I was looking for. I turned.

Across Second Street, headed towards the alley that leads into the clubs, was Molly. Wearing a long bright-green skirt and a white turtleneck sweater. With all that pretty reddish hair in a big topknot, like she was deliberately making herself taller than she already was. Conspicuous, you know?

Paddy wasn’t with her.

I was so relieved I felt like I ought to walk over and apologize to her. Instead I went close to the store windows, turned, and watched her swing along the street. Like she’d owned Reno so long she’d even forgotten it belonged to her.

Then I saw him, Paddy. Walking fast behind her, his long legs giving at the knee in that little bend that cow-punchers never quite lose. He came up to her, grabbed her arm, flung her face to face with him. She wasn’t surprised. Just took on a strong bold look. Said something. Laughed. He grabbed her throat and shook her back and forth. Her long legs kicked at him, her fingers raked his cheeks. Her knee came up hard. Paddy staggered back, bent over. Even from across the street I could see he was pale, sick.

Molly turned away, cool as you please, not even touching her throat though it was bound to be hurting. Bold as brass. Still owning the town, she was.

I cut across the traffic to Paddy. He was leaning against a building, while people clustered around staring, eyes thrilled like they were watching a movie being shot.

“Paddy, let’s go home.”

Somebody snickered.

Flames shot through me. Like a chimney long unused and then too much paper is put in the firepot and the soot blazes and sets the house on fire. I plunged into the ring of gawkers, punching, slapping, screaming for them to mind their own business, to leave my Paddy alone.

I felt hands on my shoulders. Paddy’s hands. “Angie, that’s enough. Let’s get out of here.”

The crowd parted and we walked through it, turned towards the river. Paddy hailed a taxi and we got in it. Paddy wasn’t walking too good.

“That Molly — that Molly, why did you—” I began after we shut the door of our apartment.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Paddy said, his face white and drawn. He went in the bathroom and closed the door.

I made some coffee, then stood by the stove wondering whether he’d rather have steak or soup. Or if either of us ever wanted to eat again.

It’s hard for a wife of twelve years not to ask her man why he chokes a girl he’s just met. If he just met her. Especially with Paddy always spitting on the ground at the mention of men who hit women. Said they ought to take out their mad on wrangling horses or find a man their size or bigger. Now he was choking Molly. Like she had set him crazy.

And then she bested him, right in the middle of Reno with his wife and a crowd watching. Damn you, Paddy, how’d that look in the papers if a cop had been around and taken you both to the station and me, too? The papers saying your girl friend beat you up and your wife beat up the crowd for snickering. Like you were some ragdoll for women to toss around. Damn you, Paddy, how’d you like that?

Paddy was a long time in the bathroom. I heard the bath water running. When he came out he was shaved and had on clean underthings I kept in a bureau for him in the bathroom. “I got soup hot and steak ready to broil,” I said as he went through the living room to the bedroom, that’s the screwy way our apartment was.

“I don’t want anything.”

I heard him moving around the bedroom. Pretty soon he came out, dressed up, and his suitcase in his hand. “So long, Angie,” he said.

“You can’t go like this, Paddy. It’s not right, it’s not fair to me. We got to talk. Listen, Paddy, I can overlook what happened. Just tell me why, then we won’t talk about it anymore.”

“This time don’t come looking for me,” he said, staring straight ahead at the outside door.

“Paddy, you don’t want her after what she done — she don’t want you, you don’t want a woman don’t want you. But I want you.”

“So long, Angie.”

“Paddy, let’s pack up and head for Wyoming, get out of this damn state with its no-good life, gambling, and loose women like—”

He wheeled on me, his eyes blue fire. “Don’t say her name!”

He opened the door and went out. I just followed him, like a puppy dog that’s been kicked but won’t stay home. Down the hall after him. He took the stairs instead of the elevator, his long legs going fast. I kept up. Outside on the sidewalk, down to the corner, me with no purse or anything.

He turned and said, “Angie, I don’t want you no more.” He started walking again, with me right behind.

He began running. I’m stubby-built, but I’ve got lasting power. I ran behind him, down almost to Virginia Street. Paddy stopped and I stood beside him.

“You want to go along and hear me tell her I love her before I kill her?”

“You’re not going to kill anybody.”

“Okay, just keep hanging onto my tail.” He started walking, and I did too. We crossed the Truckee Bridge, over by the old Post Office, past the Holiday Hotel. Turned back again, the opposite direction, with him trying to lose me, up the hill above the river, then we turned again.

“You got no pride, Angie,” he said over his shoulder.

What’s pride? It don’t fill emptiness. I kept walking.

Finally he stopped in front of a fine old house above the river, not far from downtown, that was split into apartments. “She lives here,” Paddy said, “I’m going in. And if she’s not there I’ll wait for her. Because she’s mine, she’s not going to change her mind just because she’s got her divorce and is tired of playing around. Angie, you go get you a divorce. I’m taking Molly. One way or another.”

He went up the porch steps, through the entrance, up the stairs. Me back of him. At the top of the stairs he turned and said, “You’re asking for it, Angie,” and hauled back his arm. I stood, waiting for it. If he hit me, maybe he’d think of me the way he did Molly. But his hand dropped.

He knocked on a door, with a number 3 on it. Inside were footsteps and a woman asked, “Who is it?” Molly.

“You know who,” Paddy said.

She laughed. “You want to get messed up again?” She slid a bolt fast on the other side and walked away.

Paddy stepped back and kicked the door. Ordinarily a kick that hard would have gone on through. But this was an old-fashioned house with heavy oak doors. Nothing happened except a big deep scar on the finish.

Paddy kicked again. Then he went crazy. Kept kicking that door like a bronco with a cactus under its saddle, his face a sick-gray and his eyes blazing. I pulled at him. He shook me off and kept kicking. Nobody came out of the apartment across the hall — the folks must have been gone. Downstairs a woman was yelling. The landlady, it turned out, who went back inside and called the police.

Suddenly the cops were there, no sirens or anything, and they were manhandling Paddy. It took the two of them to handcuff him and drag him downstairs. I stood there, frozen. One cop came back, knocked on Molly’s door, asked her to open up and tell him what the trouble was. “No trouble of mine,” she said through the door. “I didn’t call you. Nobody came in my apartment. Just some stupid idiot kicking my door. Go talk to the one who called you.”

“It’s the police. We need information.”

She didn’t answer. He turned to me, “You in on this, lady? You trying to get inside, too?”

I shook my head. “I’m his wife. I never touched the door. He just wanted to talk to her. She wouldn’t talk to him and he got mad. There wasn’t any more to it than that, he just lost his temper.”

“Some temper the way the door’s beat up. You better come down to the station and tell the Chief about it.”

“I’m his wife. I’ve got no complaint. And if I did, you can’t make me say anything against Paddy, I’m his wife. I’ve got no complaint.”

“Well, I have!” the landlady yelled behind us. “Breaking up my door, disturbing my tenants, you bet I’ll complain, I’ll follow you down to the station in my car.”

“I’ll pay for all the damage,” I said. “You tell the Chief that.”

The policeman and the landlady left and I sat down on the top stairstep, shaking like a Washoe Zephyr had struck me. After a bit the bolt slid on Molly’s door and the door slowly opened.

She saw me. “Oh,” she said.

I didn’t say anything.

“You’re his wife, aren’t you?” I nodded.

“Listen, I’ll be straight with you. When I first hit this town I bumped into Paddy. In one of the clubs. I was just getting my bearings, had no place to go or anyone to see. And Paddy — well, he has a way with him. Anyway, I didn’t know he was married, so we played around. Then you showed up, talking about breakfast. So I split. But he looked me up after that and said he’d left you. Kept hanging around. But frankly, lady, I run on a different track than Paddy. With bosses, not hired help. So I said bye-bye and he wouldn’t listen. So he tried muscling me around.” She laughed, high and hard. “Shows how stupid a good-looking guy can be. I was trained by pros, and he’s an amateur.”

“Paddy never once raised his hand to me.”

She looked at me wise, and a little sad. “Maybe it would have worked out better if he had. Honest to God. Women!” She went back inside and closed the door.

I’d been trying to hate her. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t even hate Paddy. I felt nothing but sick, sitting there in a strange place like a cast-off ragdoll with its stuffing out.

I got up and went outdoors.

Like I said, it was an old-fashioned house turned into apartments. Whoever had changed it had made kind of a thing out of it being old-fashioned. They’d kept the old veranda, shaped like an L, and put up an old-time hanging porch swing around the corner from the house front. I felt so done in that I went and rested in the swing.

After a while a car drove up. It was the landlady looking like she’d bit into a chunk of iron. She stomped inside, never saw me. It got dark, but I just kept sitting there.

Maybe I had a hunch what would happen.

Molly came out of the house. She went down the steps to the sidewalk, her hair shimmering under the porch light and her long black dress swirled with embroidery that matched the color of her hair. When she reached the sidewalk, she turned towards town.

I heard footsteps, running from a clump of trees across the street. I stood up, my heart feeling like it filled my whole chest. Molly stopped, tall and defiant, turning towards the man who rushed at her. Paddy. I knew it would be Paddy. She laughed, never a flinch out of her. “Did that poor fool woman bail you out?”

“They didn’t hold me. I paid for the door.”

“Well, scram! You can’t pay for me. The price is too high.”

He called her a name. Then pleading like, his hands reaching out almost as if he was trying to climb up some slick and muddy riverbank, “Please, Molly. Please! I’m begging, Molly. I never felt this way before about anybody. I’ve got to have you, Molly!”

“Go to hell,” she said. “I’m no horse you can break. So lay off the big he-man Wild West stuff with me.”

Paddy swung. She dodged but the blow glanced her head. She staggered back. He came at her again, both his hands grabbing.

She must have reached in her purse. I couldn’t see. I only heard a sharp crack, the sound reverberating in my cars until it made me dizzy. Paddy was on the ground, crawling around like he was trying to find something.

I floated down the steps, no feet, out to the sidewalk. Then Molly was down and I was pounding her head onto the concrete.

See Paddy out there? Gentlest man in the world. Sweet and quiet, just rocking on the porch. Hums to himself and rocks. Oh, now and again he walks out to the little corral I built and pets the mare I bought after I moved us up here to Wyoming. But Paddy just stays gentle and quiet, that’s his real nature. That Molly had no right to stir him up, make fun of him. Then try to kill him. She turned him crazy, her face and her bigtime ways.

Right alter the trial I brought Paddy back to Wyoming.

Yes, the trial scared me. Not so much for myself as for Paddy. Because if I got sent to the penitentiary, who’d look after him? That shot of Molly’s addled him. Struck his head. Made him like a child. Sometimes he cries at night, gets on the floor and crawls around. Just like he did that night. Like he’s looking for something he’ll never find.

Molly didn’t die right away. Not for almost two weeks after that night. But that didn’t get me off. Manslaughter it was. In the heat of passion. And my lawyer brought out that I was protecting my husband. So they gave me a suspended sentence. On probation for three years. I have to check in every month.

So I rent this little house on Paddy’s old home place from the folks who own it now. Family friends. They keep an eye on Paddy while I’m at work. Except for some nights Paddy’s happy. Thinks the mare is a whole string of horses, calls her a lot of different names.

Me?

Well, I’m kind of happy, too. Kind of. No more worry about Paddy running off to the clubs. And by now I’m used to it.

Used to what?

Oh, like with the mare, Paddy calls me by a different name. Just one. Molly. So it hurts a little, but I just figure it’s me who answers. Me, Angie.