Small Town

thirty-six

Creighton sat on the couch and thought of a cigarette. He didn’t necessarily want one, but the thought came to him, as it often did. With the day’s first cup of coffee, at the end of a good meal, after lovemaking, or when a conversation seemed to require a pause, that little break you got when you shook a Camel out of the pack and put a flame to it. He told himself, not for the first time, that a mind was a terrible thing to have, and turned his attention back to the television set.

America’s Most Wanted was on. They’d just dramatized the story of a West Virginia man who’d violated an order of protection his girlfriend had taken out against him, and in the process had violated his girlfriend and the girlfriend’s eleven-year-old daughter. The actor chosen to play the serial violator seemed an odd choice for the role, slim and blond and nerdy, until they showed a photo of the real miscreant and he looked as though he ought to be running Microsoft.

And now it was Carpenter time. John Walsh told how tips had led law enforcement officers to kick in a door at a motel in Waycross, Georgia, while others surrounded an RV parked at a KOA campground in Kalispell, Montana. In each case, an elderly gentleman who on close examination proved to look nothing like the photo of William Boyce Harbinger was arrested and released with apologies.

“But we’re getting closer,” Walsh assured his viewers, and went on to announce that another New York City murder, that of real estate agent Marilyn Fairchild, had been definitely credited to the Carpenter.

“He makes it sound as though the program’s responsible,” Susan said. “Not a word about James Galvin, PI, or the public-spirited author who hired him.”

“I talked about him this afternoon. Gave him credit.”

“By name?”

He nodded. “If they don’t cut it,” he said, “it’s a nice plug for him.”

He’d spent the afternoon at NBC’s Rockefeller Center studios, taping a show segment with Matt Lauer. They’d watch it tomorrow morning on CNBC, and it would air later throughout the week on both of the network’s cable channels. It was not the first national TV he’d done since Leona Fabrizzio’s press conference, nor would it be the last; Tracy had booked him on Dominick Dunne’s new show on Court TV, and was working on Larry King. He was, she’d told him, a dream to book. He was a writer, bright and articulate, and he’d been accused of a horrible crime with yummy sexual overtones, and not only was he as innocent as a newborn lamb, but through his efforts the crime had been added to the Carpenter’s lengthening list. It was early for publicity, but the opportunity was too good to pass up.

“Call me crazy,” she said, “but when the book comes out, I’m not ruling out Oprah. She’s done with the book club, but that doesn’t mean she’s not booking authors.”

The publicity was so hot, and making everyone at Crown so happy, that you could easily lose sight of the fact that there was a book in there, too. But there was, and Esther Blinkoff was reading it over the weekend. He had the feeling she’d love it whether she liked it or not, but he also expected her enthusiasm to be genuine.

Because he’d felt right about this one from the first day, and the three readings the book had had so far confirmed his feeling. He’d read it himself, of course, catching typos and overused words and redundancies and the occasional awkward phrase, and his was hardly an objective reading, but it was a relief to discover that he liked what he read. Susan was his ideal reader, the one he’d been writing Darker Than Water for before he knew she existed, the one for whom he’d been writing all his life. He’d expected her to love it, as indeed she had, and for all the right reasons; her reaction was reward enough for writing it.

But not the only reward he could expect, according to Roz, who could be counted on for an honest appraisal. Artistically, she assured him, it was at least as good as anything he’d written, and probably his best work. From a commercial standpoint, it was even more impressive. “The crime angle got you the contract,” she told him, “and the numbers plus the publicity angle had this book headed for the list before you wrote it. But Darker Than Water would be a candidate even if, God forbid, those cops had never come knocking at your door. What’s so funny?”

“ ‘God forbid’?”

“Well, face it, the way it turned out it was a blessing. But without all that, if you just walked in and laid this on my desk, I’d do the same thing, I’d run half a dozen copies and have an auction. And I wouldn’t get three million dollars, but I’d get something in the high six figures, I guarantee you that. You’re already rich and famous, sonny boy, and you’re gonna be richer and famouser. What do you think of that?”

Susan heard him singing in the shower. She loved that, it was such a guy thing. Like karaoke, but without making a public spectacle of yourself.

She’d joined him in the shower the other day, effectively ending the concert but starting something even better. She loved soaping him, loved that he had all that hair on his body. It contrasted so nicely with her own.

Should she go in there now? No, she decided, it wasn’t the sort of thing you wanted to do too often. She’d think of something else, something special.

She picked up the little rabbit, touched the smooth stone to her cheek. Was she losing her mind or was the cornmeal disappearing from its bowl? There did seem to be less of it than the last time she’d looked.

She kissed the creature, informed it that it was a little pig, and put it back in front of its dish.

He’d bought a bunch of bananas the other day, and they looked ripe enough to eat. She peeled one, and it was just right, ripe but firm. She closed her lips over the end of it and savored the feel of it in her mouth, then got an idea. She ate that banana and peeled another one.

When he got out of the shower she was waiting for him in the bed. “I’ve got something for you,” she said.

“I’ll bet you do.”

“It’s a banana,” she said, “and I hid it.”

“My goodness,” he said. “Now where could you possibly hide something like that?”

“I think you should look for it,” she said, “and if you find it you get to eat it. But there’s a catch.”

“I was afraid of that. What is it?”

“You’re not allowed to use your hands.”

And what an inspiration that turned out to be. He didn’t stop when the banana was gone, didn’t stop after her first or second or third orgasm, and how could you count when one sort of rolled over into the next, and finally he was lying on top of her, his cock buried inside her, bigger than the banana, firmer than the banana, oh God sweeter than the banana, and he was kissing her, and his mouth tasted of pussy and banana, and if they could synthesize that combination everyone would want to pour it over ice cream, and he was fucking her with a lazy rhythmic roll of his hips, taking his time, taking his time, and she looked into his eyes and they were looking back into hers, and she couldn’t help herself, she couldn’t help herself, and she took his big hands and put them at the sides of her throat.

“Oh, yes,” she said softly, and pressed his hands tighter against her throat. “Oh, please, yes.”

He awakened to the smell of coffee brewing.

It was the perfect aroma to wake up to, and in fact you could use the coffeemaker as an olfactory alarm clock if you wanted, loading it up with coffee grounds and water, and setting it to start its brewing cycle when you wanted to get up. That had always struck him as too much trouble, but here was the perfect solution: have someone sleep over, and let her wake up before you.

And bring you coffee in bed, which she did a moment later.

She was dressed, and looked beautiful. “I went out for the Times,” she said. “It’s a holiday weekend, so it’s smaller than usual. It only weighs ten pounds.”

She’d been about to wake him, she said, if the smell of the coffee hadn’t done the job. His interview with Matt Lauer was due to air in ten minutes. Meanwhile here was the Book Review section.

They sat on the couch with separate sections of the newspaper. The TV was on and tuned to the right channel, with the sound muted until the show came on. He tried to read a review of the latest offering by a South American magic realist, then tried to read Marilyn Stasio’s crime fiction column. But his mind kept wandering away, imagining the reviews Darker Than Water might get. Would they like it? Would they hate it? Did it matter?

And there was Matt Lauer, wearing the same jacket he’d worn the day before. He put the sound on, set the paper aside. His interview would probably be later on in the show, but he wanted to watch the whole program.

Beside him, Susan leaned gently against him, and he put an arm around her, drew her close. Jesus, a new game, Hide the Banana. How’d he get so lucky?

And then he remembered how she’d taken his hands and put them on her throat, how she’d kept them there, pressing them to her. Please, she’d said, as if begging.

He sensed something unpleasant, some unthinkable thought, hovering just out of sight, just out of reach. He took a breath and willed it away and made himself pay attention to what Matt Lauer was saying.