The remains

Chapter 31

“Why didn’t you tell him about the texts?”

Michael was speaking to me out the side of his mouth as he pulled out of the police station onto South Pearl Street.

I turned to him, watched his profile while he drove. “Why didn’t you tell him?”

He was quiet for a minute, pretending to concentrate on the road when in fact he was filled with thought.

“It’s your call,” he said after a while. “I know how you feel about the texts; about them coming from…” Instead of finishing his thought he allowed it to dangle, as if it were too strange for him to say it.

“Coming from Molly,” I uttered for him. “From heaven above… You don’t have to be afraid to say it.”

“That the tangible proof you need that heaven exists? That God exists? That Molly lives? A cell phone?”

I couldn’t help but smile.

“I still think you should have told the dick,” he added.

“I will tell him. As soon as I can convince myself that Molly has nothing to do with it.”

We let the subject drop. But our silence didn’t lighten things up for even a moment. By the time we approached my apartment complex I was so nervous, so pent up with anxiety, I felt like jumping out of my skin.

Michael couldn’t help but notice my apprehension. He thought it would be a good idea for us to simply head into the apartment, lock ourselves behind closed doors and do something we hadn’t done together in ages: cook.

It felt like a good idea; a comforting idea. It’s exactly what we did, even though I wasn’t particularly hungry. It had been a long time since I’d shared a dinner with another man. It’d been a long time since I cooked for myself. Anything other than Stouffers. My kitchen shelves were not exactly stocked with food. I was just one person after all.

But Michael wasn’t the least bit fazed. Crossing his arms over his chest, he staunchly replied that he would make do with whatever I had. Which pretty much consisted of three boxes of wheat pasta and some tomato sauce.

“Minimalism,” Michael smiled. “Simply perfect. Like a Ray Carver short story.”

“A rose is a rose is a rose,” I recited.

“Gertrude Stein,” he stated proudly.

He filled a large pot with cold tap water then set it onto the gas stove to boil. He uncorked a bottle of red, poured us each a glass and took them with him into the living room. While I slipped the new Belarus disk into the CD player, he sat down on the couch, exhaling a long sigh.

“Feel better?” he said, taking a small sip of wine. “I know I do. In a proactive sort of way.”

I listened for the music to begin. Slowly strummed guitar, smoothly exhaled harmonica, deep bass, steady drums. Voices followed. Harmonious and touching me in the spot that made tears press up against the backs of my eyeballs.

I shuffled around the coffee table, sat myself down on the couch beside my ex-husband. Reaching out I picked up my wine, took a small sip.

“I’m not entirely sure what I feel.”

“Harris is looking out for you now. That’s gotta mean something, afford you just a semblance of peace. Even if you did avoid the issue of the texts.”

“I got the distinct feeling he thought I was out of my head.” Turning to Michael, I continued, “In fact, I’m starting to feel the same way. That maybe I’m just a little nutty; that maybe much of what’s happened over the past few days is in my head.” I laughed. “Heaven sent text messages for God sakes. I’m not even sure I believe in God anymore!”

“Oh ye of little faith,” Michael said, taking a large swallow of wine.

“I don’t know what to believe sometimes,” I said.

“You can’t deny Franny’s paintings,” he pointed out. “You can’t deny seeing the words in them.”

“Why is it so much more difficult for other people to see the words?”

“It’s just easier for you to see them. Or maybe you want to see them.”

“Okay, so what else can’t I deny?”

“You mean what else proves you’re not a nutcase?”

“Sure.”

“You can’t deny that the images Franny paints are similar to your dreams.”

“No, I can’t. But not even Franny is gifted enough to be inside my head.” I paused. “Or is he?”

Cocking his head, Michael exhaled. “Maybe he’s in tune with you. Your thoughts and fears. I think that he somehow sees your dreams; paints them. He has no choice but to paint them for you. He wants you to see your dreams through your conscious eyes.”

As much as I couldn’t deny any of what Michael was telling me, I could just as easily look at it all as a remarkable coincidence. But then how could I deny the painting of me and Molly that was presently stored inside Franny’s basement storage room? How could I deny the identical black and white snapshot I found on my parents’ porch? How could I deny Whalen’s release from prison?

Maybe I wasn’t nuts after all. Maybe everything was somehow fitting into place. Maybe Whalen truly was a threat. Maybe Franny knew this and was doing everything in his power to warn me.

I rested my head back against the couch.

“I’m thinking about taking the next couple of days off,” I said. “Stay close to home until this thing blows over and Harris can assure my safety.”

“Good idea,” Michael agreed. “You can sleep in while I bite the nail.” He smiled. “Like we used to do in the old days.”

I thought about the old days. Back when the Hounds of Heaven was first published. Michael and I would spend a lot of time in New York City back then. We’d stay at the Gramercy Park Hotel on Lexington Avenue. In the mornings Michael would run the paved path that ran parallel to the East River. I’d sleep in until he came back, body damp from the jog, a paper bag in one hand filled with hot croissants, a second bag in the other holding two large coffees with milk. He’d tiptoe around the room while he undressed and showered, and if I was still sleeping he’d write at the hotel desk dressed in nothing but his bath towel, until I woke up. That’s when he’d slip back into bed with me and we’d have our breakfast and plan out our day while we ate fresh croissants with jam and drank coffee, our bare feet touching under the covers. Back then it had never been the things that Michael said to me that made me feel secure with him. It was the things he did for me.

Without thinking about it, I slipped my hand in his. He turned to me, set his wine glass gently onto the coffee table, moved into me and started kissing me.

I kissed him back but then pulled away.

“We should eat.” I smiled.

From where we were sitting I could hear the water boiling on the stove in the kitchen.

“Do you want me to spend the night?” Michael softly spoke.

I turned to him, looked into his brown eyes. I could see his desire to protect me. “If you’re going to stay, I suggest you call your mother first.”

“She doesn’t wait up anymore. I’m forty-three years old, don’t forget.”

I shook my head, rolled my eyes. Maybe this was a bad idea. Or maybe not. But just the mere suggestion of Michael staying with me proved a comfort.

“I’ll go put in the pasta,” he said. “You relax.”

He got up, went into the kitchen. As much as I wanted to take his advice and just relax, I knew I should be giving Robyn a call. It was important that I tell her about my plan to take the next couple of days off. After all, the school of art studio classes had to go on, not to mention the mid-month meeting with the board of directors, not a single one of whom was an artist.

I got up from the couch.

Locating my phone in my jean jacket pocket, I speed-dialed her cell. It was little surprising to get her message service. Robyn always picked up my calls. I left a message anyway, telling her about the days I would be taking off. Before I hung up, I decided to tell her that I would be having some company tonight in the form of my ex-husband.

“Please don’t call past nine,” I said.

Unlike Robyn, I didn’t get a thrill out of answering the phone while snuggling up with a date.