With an Extreme Burning

SEVEN

It was cool and shady on the cabin's enclosed sun porch. Cool and shady most of the day, a fact that had always amused Eileen. A sun porch was supposed to be sunny, right? Or else it would be called a shade porch. But the angle at which the cabin had been built, the thick growth of pine and redbud that flanked it down to the water's edge, kept the sun's rays from hitting the windows there until late afternoon. This was one of the things she'd always loved about the cabin, coming up to the lake. She could sit here most of the day in perfect lazy comfort if she felt like it—and she often did. She had no use for direct sunlight; she burned easily, she had a light sensitivity that affected her vision, and she began to sweat like a pig as soon as the temperature climbed above eighty. Early evening was her time to stir her stumps. And the hour before sundown was the best time of all. Cool then, with the night sounds just starting, the lake changing color under a sky that darkened slowly into a velvety black … oh, yes.

From where she was sitting in the big rattan easy chair next to the window, she had a clear view of the lake and the stubby pier directly below. Bobby and Kevin were in the water just off the forward edge of the pier, playing some kind of game with a beach ball. The noise they were making drifted up to her, brought a smile to her mouth. Teenagers. So damn much energy. She'd gone for a quick swim herself earlier, or, rather, a dunking because it had lasted for all of thirty seconds. The lake was just too cold in the morning. Maybe she'd go in again before her evening walk; the water would be warm then from the day's drippy heat. But probably she wouldn't. Swimming was too much like work. Let the boys exercise all they wanted. Ted, too. A leisurely sunset stroll—and a good-night screw if she and Ted were both in the mood—was more than enough physical exertion for her. Vacation days, as far as she was concerned, were for reading the new Danielle Steel, stuffing herself until she got sleepy, and then going in and taking a nap. With minor variations over seven glorious days.

She snagged the last of the English muffin with cream cheese from the plate beside her, popped it into her mouth. Her gaze fell on her thighs as she chewed. White and chubby; the fat cells rippled when she moved, like little winking eyes. I really ought to go on a diet, she thought. She knew she was only kidding herself. Diets were a torment, and she was not into self-abuse these days. Besides, she was forty-one and entitled to be middle-aged pudgy, and Ted liked her just the way she was. “Lying on you is like lying on a cloud,” he'd said a couple of months ago after they'd finished making love. She'd thought he was being smart-ass and smacked him one, but he'd been serious. Men. Alien creatures. Not that she'd trade her three, not for any amount of money.

She peered out over the flat surface of the lake. No sign of Ted yet. He'd gotten up at the crack of dawn and carted his fishing gear down to the skiff and rowed off happily to murder some poor catfish or lake bass or whatever. Fishing … now, there was a nasty sport for you. Not as nasty as slaughtering deer or elk for fun, but nasty just the same. Hauling those poor creatures out of the water at the end of a hook, watching them wiggle desperately to get free while they strangled on air, cutting or ripping the barb out of their mouths while they were still flopping … ugh! She'd gone with Ted once and that had been one time too many. Not only hadn't she been able to clean the fish he'd brought home since, she couldn't even bring herself to eat one. If he'd caught anything this morning, he and the boys would devour the remains at supper and welcome to it. She'd have a hamburger smothered in sauteed mushrooms.

The thought of a hamburger made her mouth water. Pig, she thought, and got up and went to see what the refrigerator had to offer. They'd stopped in Ukiah on the way yesterday and loaded up on groceries. Another bagel with cream cheese? No, something sweet … peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwich. Yum. Eat your heart out, Jenny Craig. Chuckling, she took out the jar of Jif, the jar of Smucker's, and went for the loaf of white bread.

The telephone rang.

If that's the hospital, she thought, I'm not going back, not for any emergency. This is my vacation, dammit. Even resident nurses are entitled to vacations.

But it wasn't the hospital. It was Cecca.

Eileen was surprised and pleased. “Make my day,” she said, “and tell me you can get away after all. Did you close the deal on the Morrison house?”

“No, not yet. That isn't why I called.”

“Well, it can't be just to chat.”

“No. I saw Dix last night.”

“Took my advice and invited him to dinner? Good!”

“He called and said he wanted to see me.”

“Even better. How'd it go?”

“Eileen, it wasn't social.”

The way Cecca said that put Eileen on alert. When you'd been a person's close friend for more than half your lives, you developed antennae. “There's something wrong,” she said. “Tell mama.”

“Those crank calls I've been getting? Well, Dix has been getting them, too—from the same man.”

“Dix? Heavy breathing calls from a man?”

“They're not sexual. Not the way you mean.”

“What are they, then?”

“Something a lot sicker.”

Eileen listened breathlessly as Cecca explained about the calls she and Dix had received on Saturday. Hers was bad enough, but the one to Dix … good God!

“He claimed he was the one Katy was having an affair with?” she said. “But why in heaven's name would he tell Dix about it? What does he want?”

“To gloat, maybe. I don't know.”

“Well, he's got to be a head case, no matter what. You and Dix believe it's true?”

“It could be,” Cecca said. “All the details … it could be.”

“Lord. I've thought all along Katy had a lover, you know that, but a man with a bunch of his wires loose … brrr. That's not her fault, though. You can't always tell a book by its cover.” She shivered despite the day's gathering heat. “You think he's dangerous?”

“We don't know. He could be.”

“Well, have you gone to the police?”

“Last night. We went together and made a report.”

“Who did you see? Chief Rennick?”

“No, a lieutenant named St. John. He's been on the force here only about a year and a half. He was sympathetic enough, but he said what we expected to hear: There's nothing the police can do without some idea of who the man is and what he's after.”

Eileen began slathering a piece of bread with peanut butter. When she was upset she craved food. Some people wrapped themselves in their security blankets; she ate hers.

“What're you going to do?” she asked.

“Try to find out who he is.”

“How? A stranger, a disguised voice on the phone—”

“He may not be a stranger,” Cecca said.

“Someone you know? But then … if you know him, so do I. Oh, brother!”

“I hate the idea, too. But it could be.”

“I guess it could. Damn, I wish Katy hadn't been so secretive! If she'd dropped just a hint of who she was seeing …”

“But she didn't.”

“No. Not that night I told you about, in June, and not afterward. Every time I tried to bring it up, she changed the subject.”

“What exactly did she say that made you suspect she was having an affair?”

“It wasn't so much what she said, it was how she said it and how she acted.”

“Tell me again. In detail.”

“All right,” Eileen said. Strawberry jam on top of the peanut butter, big gooey globs of it that reminded her of clotted blood. She took a bite of it anyway. Another bite before she spoke again, with her mouth half full and peanut butter sticking to the roof. “It was a Friday night. The first Friday in the month, I think. Ted's bowling night, and the boys were off somewhere.” She finally managed to swallow. “You were having dinner with Jerry at River House. That Friday.”

“I remember.”

“Well, I was feeling lonesome, so I called Katy and she came over. We got into the wine. A chardonnay that Owen recommended to Ted. At first we just talked, I don't remember what about. Talked and drank. Then we started reminiscing, you know how you do on about four glasses of wine. The trip the three of us took up the Oregon coast after you and Chet split up, what a good time we had. Well, except for Pelican Bay.”

Eileen stuffed the rest of the bread and Jif and Smucker's into her mouth. Cecca said her name twice before she could get the mass—mess—chewed and swallowed. “I'm here,” she said, and wiped a smear of jam off her chin before she went on. “I said we should do something like that again. Take a trip together, just the three of us, let our hair down the way we did in Oregon. Put some excitement back in our lives. Katy agreed it was a good idea, but not right away—next year sometime. Why wait? I said. All three of us had been bitching about how bored we were, hadn't we? She said, well, she didn't feel bored anymore, she was really getting into her painting. I said painting isn't exactly exciting and she said she had enough excitement in her life right now, more than she had any right to have. There was something about the way she said it … I don't know, but I said, Oh really? Don't tell me you've gone and taken a lover behind my back?”

“And she reacted to that?”

“Reacted is right. Jerked as if I'd slapped her, spilled her wine.”

“Then what?” Cecca asked.

“She covered up fast. You know how good Katy was at covering even when she was flustered.”

“What did she say? What did you say?”

Eileen's memory had flowered; she'd always had the capacity for near-total recall. The conversation with Katy was already replaying in her mind, as clearly as if she were listening to a tape of it.

“Katy, my God, you are having an affair!”

“I am not! What makes you think that?”

“Well, the look on your face …”

“Oh, crap. You surprised me, that's all.”

“Oh come on, honey. You are, aren't you.”

“I just told you I'm not.”

“You can tell me. I'm your best friend.”

“And you can't keep a secret for ten minutes.”

“I'd keep this one.”

“Sure you would. You'd be on the phone to Cecca as soon as I walked out the door. You'd probably have her paged at River House.”

“You're really not?”

“I'm really not.”

“But you would if the right man came along? The right man, the right circumstances, spice up your life a little?”

“I don't know. Would you?”

“I've thought about it. He'd have to have a big dick.”

“That doesn't matter, and you know it.”

“It does when you're married to Theodore J. Harrell. Ted's not exactly hung like a horse. Or a Shetland pony, for that matter.”

“Count your blessings. If he was, you'd be walking funny.”

“Katy, let's suppose you are having an affair—”

“I'm not. How many times do I have to say it?”

“But suppose you were. Because you were bored and looking for some excitement … whatever reason. Who would you be having it with?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“A man you've known for a long time—a friend? Like Tom Birnam or Jerry Whittington or George Flores—”

“Sweetie, you're being ridiculous. Don't start jumping to wild conclusions.”

“I'm not, I'm only asking.”

“Well, the answer is no.”

“Too close to home?”

“Yes. Too close to home.”

“But it wouldn't be somebody you just picked up, in a bar or someplace. I mean, the AIDS thing—”

“No. Can we just drop this?”

“I don't want to drop it. I find it fascinating.”

“Well, I don't.”

“It couldn't be a stranger, could it? It couldn't for me. I'd have to have some feelings for the guy before I could go to bed with him. Be able to talk to him about things that mattered, before and after. Feel comfortable with him.”

“… Okay, yes, for me, too.”

“So it wouldn't be just sex, the big O. There'd have to be some real emotion, too.”

“If you're talking about love …”

“I don't mean love. I mean feelings.”

“Feelings.”

“You'd have to like him. Not love but like.”

“I suppose so. Is there any more wine in that bottle?”

“Help yourself. What if it grew into more, though—got really intense?”

“Intense? What're you talking about now?”

“Same subject. Your affair.”

“Eileen, if you don't stop …”

“All right, your hypothetical affair. What if it turned into something more than sex, deeper than just liking?”

“That wouldn't happen.”

“Are you sure it couldn't?”

“I wouldn't let it.”

“Suppose it was heading that way. What would you do?”

“Break it off.”

“Just like that? Sorry, it's been nice, good-bye?”

“Not quite that coldly, but … yes.”

“So you'd never leave Dix? No matter what?”

“I don't think I could, no.”

“That doesn't sound very definite.”

“Bad phrasing. No, I wouldn't leave Dix. Never, no matter what.”

“You love him that much?”

“That much. Always have, always will.”

“Suppose he finds out about the affair?”

“There's nothing for him to find out, Eileen.”

“If there was. Would he leave you?”

“No. Never.”

“He might. Men are unpredictable sometimes.”

“Not Dix.”

“He'd just forgive you and go on as if nothing happened?”

“Sooner or later. But it would never come to that.”

“No? Why not?”

“Because he'd never find out. I wouldn't let him find out.”

“Famous last words. Skeletons have a way of falling out of closets, honey, you know that.”

“I'd do anything to keep that from happening. Anything. And if you start spreading this nonsense around town, start a lot of nasty rumors, our friendship is kaput. I mean that. I'll never speak to you again.”

“Oh, lighten up, will you? We're just playing a game here.”

“Some game.”

“How long would you let it go on?”

“… What?”

“The affair. A few weeks, a few months, a year or more?”

“Oh, God. No, not that long.”

“Six months?”

“No.”

“How long, then? Maximum?”

“Three months, okay? Are you satisfied now?”

“Three months. I guess you could get a lot of screwing in in three months. How many times a week would you do it with him, anyway? Two, three, four?”

“Shit, Eileen—!”

“How often do you and Dix do it? Three or four times a month? That seems to be the general marital frequency for people our age. Sometimes I think that's the real reason we have affairs, men and women both—not so much because we want to try out another body, but because we want more nookie than we're getting from our spouses. What do you think?”

“I think you're a motor-mouth when you drink too much. I think you're driving me to distraction with all this talk. I think I'm going home.”

And she'd done just that. Stood up and put on her coat and walked out without even saying good-bye.

Eileen related the gist of this to Cecca, who said, “I still don't see anything to make you so certain she was lying.”

“You weren't there, honey. You would if you'd been there.”

“And she wouldn't talk about it after that?”

“Froze me out completely. Closed issue, she said.”

“That's it, then,” Cecca said. “If you think of anything else, anything at all, call me. Okay?”

“Maybe I'd better just come home.”

“Oh, Eileen, no. You've been there only one day.”

“There might be something I can do.…”

“There isn't. What could you do that Dix and I can't? You stay right where you are.”

“How can I relax with this going on?”

“You'll find a way. I'll let you know if there's anything to report. Just do me one favor—don't tell anyone else about this.”

“Not even Ted?”

“Ted, yes, if you swear him to secrecy. But not Laura, Beth, any of our friends.”

“Honey, one of them might know something …”

“Then Dix and I will find it out. Please, Eileen? The worst thing right now is for too many people to know, rumors to start flying.”

Motor-mouth Eileen. Can't keep a secret for ten minutes. Well, it was true, wasn't it? Biggest gossip-monger in Los Alegres … no wonder Katy hadn't confided in her. She sighed. “Ted and nobody else. I swear. But you have to promise me you'll call the minute you find out anything or anything else happens.”

“I promise.”

As soon as she put the receiver down, her eye fell on the jars and the loaf of bread on the table. I don't want any more of that, she thought, and immediately made herself another sandwich, thicker than the last one, so that some of the jam squeezed out when she bit into it and plopped on the floor. She left it there, the hell with it. She was too upset for housekeeping chores.

There was something Cecca hadn't told her, she was sure of it. Some even more startling piece of information. Didn't trust her with it, which meant that it must be really explosive stuff. She couldn't imagine what it was. Her fault for being the way she was—though she had every intention of keeping her promise not to blab to anyone but Ted. But still she felt left out. Of all times to be away on vacation! Maybe she should go home, Ted and the boys could fend for themselves … no, that was silly and selfish. Cecca was right, there wasn't anything she could do. Except fret, and she could do that right here at Blue Lake.

She finished the sandwich and went into the bathroom to wash her hands. She felt bloated and a little sick to her stomach from all the food. But her mind was active, and as she dried her hands something began to scratch at her memory like a cat trying to get through a door. Something about Katy … something she'd done or said. Not that half-drunk June Friday; later, quite a bit later. It hadn't had anything to do with a lover, but … what the devil was it?

There was a banging out in the kitchen. Footsteps. Ted's voice: “Eileen, where are you? Come take a look at what the old man caught this morning.”

She'd remember it sooner or later. That was the good thing about a memory like hers—she always remembered what she wanted to sooner or later. She put the towel down and hurried out to tell Ted about the awful phone calls and Katy's affair with a maniac.