MR. JINGLES
Carly didn’t need to set an alarm to wake her; her internal clock did that each morning at 5:30. She would remain in bed, staring off into the elephant’s breath pre-dawn, thinking of the things she had to do that day. But without fail, her mind wandered to Alan.
She knew he wasn’t dead. She’d told everyone at the time but no one would listen. The police, her family, co-workers and friends. She knew Alan wouldn’t have driven off the bridge; he was too good a driver. And leaving her was just unthinkable. He loved her too much. He would have managed to survive the accident and swim to shore. Why didn’t the police believe her? Why did they talk of tides and currents? Of hypothermia. He could be wandering around with amnesia, Carly pleaded with them. They’d been sympathetic. She hated the way they’d looked at her. She knew they thought she was in denial. Even mad with grief.
Trying to cope with Alan’s death only a week after an intruder attempted to murder her was more than Carly could bear. The sedatives caused such difficulty in concentrating she’d had to resign from her high-paying, high-powered job as vice president of marketing for one of the national’s top 500. Her sister Benita had stayed by her side throughout the ordeal, trying to work something out with the bank so that Carly could keep the house. But the bank took the house and Carly moved in with Benita. Benita patiently explained everything that was going on with the bank and the police and private investigators, but Carly insisted they were wrong.
They thought she was so out of it they could speak freely in front of her. But she’d heard. Heard them whispering about a ‘faked suicide’. She’d wanted to laugh when she heard that. They didn’t know Alan at all. If they thought Alan would have driven his precious $65,000 Mercedes off a bridge, they were the ones in denial. Alan loved that car. Almost as much as he loved me, Carly thought.
And the insurance company. She had told Benita to send the check back, that they’d made a mistake. Her husband was not dead! But Benita wouldn’t listen. She never liked Alan, Carly thought. Oh, she put up a good front of seeming distraught, but Carly knew Benita was secretly relieved.
And that business about the intruder. How they’d tried to convince her that the two incidents were linked. Something about Alan and Mark Bridges being seen together the week before in a bar. That was just insane. Alan would never have gone to a bar in that dicey neighborhood. And even if he had, just because Alan spoke with someone in a bar, it didn’t mean he’d hired the man to kill his wife.
They were the ones who needed psychiatric care, not her. Hadn’t Alan been by her side that whole week? Sleeping on a cot in her hospital room the night of the attack? Checking her IV tubes constantly and repeatedly asking the police if they were sure Mark Bridges was really dead. He was so concerned for her. Wanting to make sure she was safe. He’d been so strong for her, never leaving her side for a moment. Saying over and over again how stunned he was that she’d been able to overpower Mark Bridges in their living room and kill him. Hadn’t Alan insisted they both get million dollar life insurance policies so she’d be provided for? Why couldn’t they see what a loving, caring man he was?
Carly’s face burst into a grin at the memories and she was surprised to feel tears slithering down the sides of her face. The familiar rubbing of Mr. Jingles’ white paws against the bedroom door interrupted her daydreaming. Though he was declawed, the insistent friction of his front paws made enough noise to disturb her. Carly glanced at the bedside clock beside the wedding photograph of her and Alan: 6:12 a.m. She tossed a small pillow at the door, startling Mr. Jingles and sending him scurrying down the hallway. She knew he’d return a few minutes later. The sun was rising, the birds had caught their worms and Mr. Jingles wanted his breakfast.
The muffled scratching sound penetrated Carly’s reverie. “No!” she called to the marigold-colored cat, disappointment overwhelming her. She shut her eyes tight in an attempt to recapture the image of Alan’s face beaming at her for just another moment. Mr. Jingles cried pitifully and rubbed at the door.
“Shit!” Carly tossed aside the bed covers, swinging her feet to the floor. She opened the bedroom door and in bounded Mr. Jingles. “Come on,” she said and walked groggily down the hallway to the kitchen. The cat darted in front of Carly, nearly tripping her.
Mr. Jingles dashed down the hallway and leaped to the kitchen windowsill to watch the gray cashmere dawn unfolding on the 3-acre parcel that had been his home for the past four years. The tea kettle mutely whistled, sending out mists of billowing zinc steam. Mr. Jingles jumped to the floor and brushed against her bare ankles. She bent to pet the cat and when she stood, she saw the man through the glass of the kitchen door. Despite his stubble and unkempt appearance, Carly knew it was Alan.
“Alan!” She ran for the door, yanked it open, and hurried barefoot out onto the front path. “Alan?” she called and ran around the house to the right. “Alan?” she circled the house and arrived back at the front door. She pushed a long lock of cobalt blue hair from her face and stood catching her breath, straining her eyes, looking off down the deserted road.
With a heavy heart Carly went back into the house. Mr. Jingles leaped up onto the countertop and paced. Carly laid her palms on the glass of the door, closed her eyes and pictured Alan’s face. “He was scruffy, but it was him,” she said wistfully. “You would have liked him.” She turned to the cat. He pawed at the cupboard door. She nudged him to the floor and got a can of cat food.
She poured the boiling water into a large silver bowl, and stirred in several drops of peppermint essential oil. Carly stood by the kitchen door plaiting her long blue hair into a single braid and looked out across the back screened-in porch toward the pond. “Wiley’s eating the lily pads again,” she told the cat. Mr. Jingles turned to her. “I think that’s what gives his mane such shine.” She glanced at Mr. Jingles. He’d turned his attention back to his breakfast. “Maybe I should start eating lily pads, huh?” She giggled at her silliness.
Mr. Jingles swept the floor around his bowl, ‘burying’ the remainder of his breakfast for later. Carly sat at the old chrome table and draped a towel over her head. Inhaling the steamy peppermint mist deeply; eyes closed, she pictured herself riding the chestnut-brown Wiley across the meadow that connected her property with the Millers’ ranch. She saw the frayed cuffs of her denim shirt as her hands gripped the reins, saw Wiley’s ebony mane blowing back at her as he raced through the grass and wild flowers; saw the sunlight glint off of the muscles of Wiley’s neck. Carly felt the thump of Mr. Jingles’ bulk as he jumped up onto the table.
“Stay away,” she warned him, firmly gripping the rim of the heated bowl. Mr. Jingles peered under the edge of the towel, instantly felt the hot moist air on his white whiskers and backed away. Carly’s fantasy of riding Wiley across the meadow was shattered by the cat’s interruption. She took another deep breath, the heat beginning to hurt her lungs a little, and pressed her eyes shut. Carly tried but could not envision herself with Wiley. Frustrated, she sighed, causing a cloud of hot steam to assault her face. Carly yanked the towel from her head and sat back. Mr. Jingles paused in licking himself and glanced at her. “You know, you’re really a pain in the ass sometimes,” she told him and dabbed at her damp, crimson cheeks. She dumped the water into the sink and refilled the kettle for tea.
By 7:30, Carly was showered and dressed in jeans and a coral sweatshirt, sipping tea and sitting at her easel in the screened-in porch. “Hey, Jing, there’s the Miller boy.” She pointed out the large screened window. “He’s come to take Wiley home.” The cat walked the length of the windowsill, tail twitching, as he watched the young Miller boy leading the horse up to the barn. Carly watched them until they disappeared over the rise of ploughed field.
The young Miller boy was the only person Carly saw for weeks at a time until she ventured into town five miles away for groceries, art supplies, and to collect her mail from the post office box. She had adopted the role of recluse four years ago. After having to surrender her job and losing her home, Carly changed her name and moved across the country to escape. She’d dyed her short blond hair blue and let it grow past her shoulders. But time and distance had not healed the heartache. She let the answering machine screen all calls. Didn’t even pick up when she saw it was Benita. Was tired of answering the same old questions: Are you alright? Are you eating? Are you getting out? Meeting people? Are you taking your medication? Carly knew what Benita meant: Are you still crazy?
Carly reached for a clean paintbrush. “How ‘bout some music?” She slid the paintbrush into her braid and went to the CD player across the room. Mr. Jingles stood on his hind legs, fore paws swatting futilely at a butterfly on the other side of the screen.
“Jing, leave it alone,” she scolded and looked through her CDs. The cat dropped to the floor and walked off to drink. He lapped at the water bowl and flicked a paw. Carly stopped, tilted her head and listened. “Did you hear that?” She looked around for the cat. “Jing?” Carly pursed her lips as she walked quietly through the kitchen, past the bathroom, bedroom and into the living room. Mr. Jingles sat on the windowsill in the living room, his tail swishing side to side.
“What is it, Jing?” Carly whispered and lightly stroked the cat’s orange head. She peered through the sheer white curtains, pressing downward on a slat of the vinyl blinds, bowing it to see. Eddies of sepia dust rose up from the dirt road out front where a car or pick up truck had just driven. “Just somebody who took a wrong turn, Jing,” she said unconvincingly. “It’s OK.” She pet the cat as she squinted down the dead-end road, a flicker of hope tickling her ribs. “You’ll see. In a few minutes somebody’ll come barrelling back this way.” Carly remained at the window waiting. She reached for the switch and turned on the fairy lights Benita had strung up across the top of the curtain rod Carly’s first Christmas here and had never taken down.
Mr. Jingles jumped down from the windowsill and walked off. Carly remained at the window, chewing her lower lip, feeling the pulse throbbing in her chest. “This is stupid,” she mumbled and moved her hand as though to dislodge wisps of images. “Just somebody who took a wrong turn is all. You know, I think some people dump their garbage back there so they don’t have to pay at the town dump.” She turned to look at the cat, not so much for corroboration, but to see if he was listening. Mr. Jingles was not there. Carly walked to the bedroom doorway and saw the cat curled up on her bed.
She returned to the screened-in porch, put on a new-age CD and sat at her easel. She picked up a paintbrush and dabbed at the blot of Viridine green and dab of virtuous toad, a brownish green, on her palette. Her jaw muscles worked as she concentrated on the canvas before her. She felt a slight burning sensation, a slow tightening, in her stomach. She held the paintbrush poised an inch from the canvas.
“Damn!” She set the brush and palette down, got up and strode back through the small house to the living room window. She looked out expecting to see the second dust wake. To see Alan’s car. But the road was clear and quiet. “I’m being ridiculous,” she said and shook her head. She went to the kitchen for a drink of water and stared at the phone on the wall. Carly chewed her lip. “What’s wrong with you? You think he’s going to call?” she chided herself and hung her head. “He doesn’t have this number. He couldn’t call if he wanted to,” she chided herself.
“Damn!” She put the water bottle back in the fridge and shut the door with more force than was necessary, the jars on the door tinkling their alarm. She stared at the photographs magnetized to the fridge door. “Why Alan? Why?” she whispered, her fingertips tracing his jawline. “He’s dead for God’s sake! Get a grip!” Carly grabbed up her lemon-colored canvas satchel, yanked a faded baseball cap over her head and stepped out onto the screened-in porch.
She shut the door and walked briskly to her battered Jeep. She checked her reflection in the rear-view mirror. “Look at yourself. I can see you’re falling apart! How do you think you look to other people?” She rummaged in her satchel until her fingers fell on a tube of long unused lip gloss. “There you go,” Carly said sarcastically to her reflection. “A little bit of Plumrose Gloss and everyone will think you’re normal.” She turned her eyes away in disgust and started the Jeep. The tape of her favorite band blared out at her. Carly lowered the volume and forced herself to sing along.
Once on the rutted dirt road Carly struggled to shove thoughts of the attack from her mind. “Mark Bridges is dead and buried and hopefully burning in Hell,” Carly said aloud. She’d been saying this as a mantra for four years now. And she believed it. “Alan is dead, too. You can’t keep on like this, Carly,” she told herself. “I know, I know.” She slowed the Jeep as she approached the entrance to the paved main road.
Carly parked in front of Ingram’s Grocery and saw the owner sweeping the sidewalk out front. She pretended to have a bit of difficulty with her shoulder harness, affording her a few extra moments to look around before getting out of the Jeep. It was difficult enough to have to speak with Mr. Ingram, she didn’t want to bump into anyone who wanted to start a conversation. “Why do you do this to yourself?” Carly mumbled. “He’s dead. He can’t hurt you. And what if he wasn’t? Do you expect poor old Mr. Ingram to beat him off with a broom?” Carly’s cheeks flushed.
“Morning.” Mr. Ingram nodded and touched the brim of his cap.
“Good Morning, Mr. Ingram,” Carly said softly. She’d never given her name in town. When she’d first arrived four years ago and come to Ingram’s Grocery to stock up, Mr. Ingram had offered to have her groceries delivered. She quietly declined and made two trips rather than having anyone know where she lived. She wanted the townspeople to pass her off as some kook living in the hills, hoped they’d find her too boring to warrant any interest. She never allowed herself to converse with anyone no matter how friendly they appeared. Living frugally afforded her the luxury of not having to work. Maybe someday, Carly thought. When Alan’s life insurance money runs out. But she didn’t dwell on these thoughts. They frightened her.
Carly saw his eyes looking beyond her to the Jeep.
“Chased by Injuns?” She could hear the good-natured teasing in his voice and thought he’d remarked upon her nervous appearance. Mr. Ingram pointed to her Jeep. Carly followed his gesture and gasped when she saw the arrow embedded in the spare tire on the rear hatch. Mr. Ingram leaned his broom against the storefront and walked to the Jeep. “Damn kids.” He shook his head and wiggled the arrow from side to side, to loosen and dislodge it. Carly darted inside Ingram’s Grocery, and ducked behind a shelf stacked tall with canned goods.
“Here you go.”
Carly spun round and faced him, eyes wide.
He handed her the arrow. “Jessup’s can plug that hole for you.”
Carly kept her hands firmly gripping her canvas satchel, refusing to touch the arrow.
“You alright, Miss? I was only kidding. There aren’t any wild Indians around here.”
Carly hoped it was the young Miller boy’s doing, missing a target. She forced a weak smile and filled her arms with canned goods. Mr. Ingram walked behind the counter, laying the arrow beside the cash register.
“Will I be seeing any of your work at the Center?” Mr. Ingram asked as he tallied up Carly’s items.
“Excuse me?”
“The Art Fair at the Community Center.” He indicated a flyer on the counter.
Carly stiffened. “I…I…”
“You are an artist, aren’t you? I mean I’ve seen you with paintbrushes stuck in your hair, and paint on your clothes. You have that… distracted air about you. You know, always thinking of something else.” He smiled warmly.
“Oh.” Carly felt her cheeks redden. She self-consciously touched her braid and felt the paintbrush. She dug in her canvas satchel for her wallet. “No.”
“No? You’re not an artist?”
“No. I paint but wouldn’t call myself an artist.” Carly took her change without glancing at it. “Thank you, Mr. Ingram.” She hefted the bags against her chest.
“Let me help you with that.” He walked around the counter and lifted a bag. They walked silently out of the store and onto the pavement. “You know most people will respect someone’s wish to keep to themselves but some other people will only be intrigued and nose around a little.”
Carly eyed Mr. Ingram as she shoved the bags onto the backseat.
“And if that curiosity isn’t satisfied, well…” He shrugged. “They can get a bit…aggressive.”
Carly squinted at him in the sunlight. “What are you saying?”
“I don’t mean to sound like a high falutin’ sage or anything, Miss,” he said with a warm smile, ‘but it’s been my experience that people tend to fear what they don’t understand. And then tend to grow to um…well, not liking what they fear. I’d hate to see anything happen to you.” He cocked his head toward the spare tire.
Carly refused to follow his gaze. “Are you threatening me?”
“No. No. Not at all, Miss. Just offering a bit of friendly advice.” He set the third bag onto the backseat. “Just that everybody around here knows everybody and we’d like to think it’s a friendly town. You’ve been coming into my grocery for what, four years? And I don’t even know your name.”
Carly chewed her lip.
“Well, the Art Fair’s a nice thing. Oh, sure they’ve got their fair share of crappy arts and crafts but it’s more of a social event, really. With refreshments.” He smiled. “I just thought you might like to meet some of your neighbors.” He stepped onto the sidewalk and touched his cap. “A woman like you would add a bit of class to the community.” He smiled. “Have a nice day, Miss.”
“Thank you, Mr. Ingram. You, too.” Carly slid behind the wheel and started up the Jeep. The song on her tape resumed playing though Carly didn’t hear it. He sounds like he’s been talking to Benita, Carly thought. “You’ve got to start mingling, meeting people,” Benita had told her. “You can’t live like a hermit. You were always such a sociable person, Carly.” Carly’s knuckles whitened as she gripped the wheel.
“I can live however I like!” she said aloud. “I don’t want their pity!” She shifted into fourth gear and swerved onto the rutted dirt road. “Oh, look, there’s that poor woman who was attacked in her home,” Carly continued. “Whispering behind their hands as I pass, ‘I hear she killed the man’. Tongues clucking. Ugh!” The groceries jostled noisily as the Jeep bounced along the jutted road. “I don’t want to be considered the town weirdo.” She pursed her lips and sighed. “Maybe Mr. Ingram is right. Maybe I should make the effort to meet people. ‘Hi, I’m Carly. I killed a man. A week later my husband drove his car off a bridge and drowned. What do you do?’ Ugh!”
The phone was ringing as Carly stepped onto the screened-in porch. She set the two bags on the kitchen counter hearing Benita’s voice on the answering machine. ‘Hi, sweetie. It’s me. You there? Pick up, OK? Just wanted to know how you’re doing.” Carly sighed, crossed the porch and retrieved the last bag from the Jeep. She saw the arrow and stopped. Carly pressed her lips together. She grabbed up the arrow intending to walk to the Miller’s place and tell the young Miller boy to be more careful in future. Benita was still talking when she returned to the kitchen.
“Hi.” Carly examined the arrow, looking for initials scratched into the wood.
“Oh, hi! How are you?”
“Fine.”
“Yeah? Fine-fine or …just, you know?”
“I’m fine, Ben.” Carly forced herself to sound cheerful. “Survived an Indian attack.”
“What?”
Carly chuckled and tapped the arrow against her leg. “Nothing. Just kidding. Actually, I just got back from town.”
“Yeah?” She sounded pleased that Carly had gone out.
“Got some groceries. Chatted with Mr. Ingram.” She added, hoping it would make Benita happy. She placed the arrow on the table and began to put the canned goods away as she spoke.
“Oh? And who’s Mr. Ingram?”
“He’s like 65 years old, Ben. He owns the grocery store.”
“Oh.” Benita’s disappointment was audible.
“They’re having an Art Fair this weekend.”
“Yeah?” Benita asked casually.
“Mmm. Maybe I’ll go.” She shrugged. “You know, look at the popsicle stick glue gun arts and crafts. Maybe meet some of my neighbors.” Carly could hear the sharp intake of breath. She knew Benita was grinning.
“Well, that sounds like a…a good idea, Carly.”
“Don’t want to get the reputation as being a proper lunatic.”
“Carly! You’re not a lunatic! Jesus! You’re pretty…pretty sane for someone who’s gone through what you have. I don’t know how I’d be in your shoes. First of all, Mark Bridges would have killed me. I’m not as strong as you.”
“Ben-“
“No, really, Carly. I mean, Jesus. You were so brave and everything. To have fought him off and overpowered him-“
‘Ben-“
“Well, Christ, Carly, give yourself some credit. Stop beating yourself up over it.”
“Benita! I killed a man.”
“It was self-defense, Carly. I don’t understand why you feel guilty about it.”
Carly stared out the window.
“I mean, sure it’s awful but he was trying to kill you, Carly.”
“I’m well aware of that, Ben.”
“It’s the stupid bastard’s own fault, Carly. He could have ransacked the place and been gone long before you got home. But no. He decided to stick around. Probably to rape you.”
“He made no attempt to rape me, Ben. I told you that a million times.”
“Still.”
“Does this mean you’ve given up your ‘hired killer’ theory?” Carly raised an eyebrow.
“It doesn’t really matter what I think, Carly.”
A long pause followed.
“You taking your medication?”
“Uh huh.” Carly’d stopped taking the sedatives years ago.
“Yeah? Good. God, I hate us being so far apart. It was so much nicer when you lived here. You could move back, you know.”
“Ben-“
“Carly, I miss you. And I worry about you. Besides, if you’re right about Alan still being alive and wandering around with amnesia, you’d be more likely to find him here than there.”
“Benita,” Carly admonished, knowing full well her sister did not share her beliefs.
“Oh, sweetie. I’m sorry. I must seem like such a manipulative bitch and I don’t mean to.”
Carly knew Benita was twirling her long curly hair around her finger and making a sad face. Carly sighed.
“Did I tell you I bumped into Brian?”
“No,” Carly said softly.
“He asked about you.”
Carly closed her eyes and remained silent. She knew her sister was trying to lure her back, dangling an old boyfriend as bait. The very mention of Brian’s name made Carly smile.
“He asked me for your number and I was tempted to give it to him.”
“Benita!”
“Don’t worry. I didn’t.” Benita sighed. “He’d love to see you, Carly. You two always got along so well; made such a cute couple. You had so much in common-”
“Ben, I really don’t want to talk about this.” She’d thought of Brian often over the years, wondering how he was, hoping he was well; hoping he’d forgiven her for breaking their engagement when she’d met Alan.
“Oh, sweetie. You can’t just shrivel up and…Jesus, Carly, you could be happy again if you only tried. You have all that money. You could travel. You could come back here. See Brian. He’s not involved with anyone.”
“You asked him that?!”
“Yeah. Why? What’s wrong with that? Jesus, Carly, he was going to be my brother-in-law. It’s not too late, Carly.”
Carly remained silent.
“Oh, shit, I’m sorry, Carly, but it’s so damn frustrating!”
Carly laughed sardonically.
“I’m sorry. I know it’s been hell for you and my frustration doesn’t compare, but…” she lowered her voice. “Honey, you can’t keep holding out hope that Alan’s alive.”
“I wonder if you’d be saying that if I’d married Brian instead,” Carly said evenly, knowing her words would sting.
“The truth? I don’t know.”
“Well, thanks for your honesty.”
“Carly, I just want you to be happy. Listen, you want honesty? No. I never liked Alan. I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead but there was always something about him; something sneaky. And I couldn’t stand his smugness. He was never satisfied with anything. Always had to have the most expensive, top-of-the-line of everything. And watching you working so hard and such long hours to keep pace with him. And him pushing you - not encouraging you - to climb the corporate ladder – not to advance your career so much as just for you to bring home more money. It made me crazy!”
“Look out, she’s on a roll.”
“And if his father hadn’t stepped in after the funeral--“ Benita stopped.
“What?” Carly asked quietly.
“Nothing.”
“Don’t tell me, ‘Nothing’. What about his father?”
“You don’t wanna hear it,” Benita sighed.
“Tell me.”
“Alan had been under suspicion of embezzlement from his company. His father paid them off so they wouldn’t drag Alan’s name into the papers.”
“What?! Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You were in no condition to deal with that crap, Carly. The police asked you about it but you...”
Fragmented images assailed Carly’s brain. Sitting with detectives around Benita’s kitchen table, their voices buzzing as irritatingly as the fluorescent lights at the police station. She heard them talk of how Alan had gotten a second mortgage on the house without Carly’s knowledge. How he’d cleaned out their joint savings and checking accounts two days before his disappearance. How his passport was missing from his top drawer. They called it evidence, but none of it penetrated her pharmaceutically-enhanced grief.
“So, um, how’s Mr. Jingles?” Benita asked.
“Hmm?” Carly shook her head to return to the present. “Oh, he’s alright.” She looked around for the cat, surprised that he hadn’t come running to greet her when she arrived. Usually the crinkling sound of the paper bags got his attention. She walked with the portable phone to the bedroom. Mr. Jingles was not on the bed. Carly walked to the living room.
“Hey, how about I come out this weekend? Maybe we could go to the Art Fair together.”
“Hmm?” Carly looked around the room for Mr. Jingles.
“I said I was thinking of coming out this weekend. It’s been a while.”
“This weekend?”
“Yeah.”
Carly knelt and looked under the couch. “Um, yeah, sure. If you like.”
“What’s the matter? You sound distracted.”
“Um, I can’t find him.” Carly made the universal whistling sound to attract the cat. “Listen, Ben, I gotta go.”
“He’ll turn up, don’t worry.”
“He’s not an outside cat, Ben.”
“I don’t know why you got yourself a cat instead of a dog anyway. At least a dog--”
“I’m not a dog person, Ben. You know that.”
“You and Alan had a dog.”
“It was Alan’s dog and if you’ll remember, he found a new home for it right after we got married.”
“OK, OK. Let’s not argue. This weekend then? I’ll get a car at the airport.”
“Yeah. Bye.” Carly clicked the phone off and walked through the small house calling for Mr. Jingles. She searched under and behind everything before checking the screened-in porch. “Jing?” Carly called through the screen door. Carly stepped out onto the grass. “Jing?” She whistled for the cat and walked around the outside of the house. “Damn!” Carly looked off across the meadow towards the Miller’s barn. “Jing!”
“God, please let him be alright,” she said aloud. “He doesn’t have front claws. He won’t be able to defend himself.” She felt the tears coming and hurried inside the house. She snatched the arrow and marched across the ploughed field whistling for Jing. She paused at the top of the rise and scanned the area for Mr. Jingles.
Sounds of sporadic hammering rose up to her. She carried on down the slope. A man in jeans and denim jacket stood on a ladder propped against the barn. He turned his face to Carly as she approached.
“Hi. You Mr. Miller?” she called up to him, shielding her eyes from the sun.
The man nodded and climbed down the ladder. He held a hammer in his left hand and extended his right. “Matt,” he said.
“I’m Carly,” she said and shook his hand. “I live over there.” She pointed in the direction of her house.
“Hey, neighbor. Nice to meet you, Carly.” He eyed the arrow held at her side.
“Does this belong to your son?”
Matt Miller took the arrow. “I couldn’t say for sure. I’ll ask him when he gets home from school. Was this on your property?”
Carly nodded and glanced around, looking for Mr. Jingles. “I don’t want to get your boy in trouble or anything, but it punctured my tire and…” her voice faded.
“Well, if Dillon’s liable, he’ll take care of the damage,” Matt said grimly. “I’ve raised him to be responsible for his actions. I’m sorry about this.”
“It’s no big deal, really. I mean, it could have been worse.” She chuckled.
Matt nodded and his stern expression faded. “I was just about to take a break. Would you care for a cup of coffee or something?” He jerked a thumb toward the house.
Carly looked toward the house. “Um…actually…”
Sensing her hesitance, Matt smiled. “We could sit over there.” He pointed to a picnic bench under a tall maple tree.
A noise from the barn caught Carly’s attention.
“That’ll be one of my horses. He’s mad at me.” Matt gestured for Carly to follow him into the barn. “He caught a flank on a bit of barbed wire and I’m keeping him inside until I can repair the fence.”
“Oh, the poor thing,” Carly said. She paused inside the barn, her eyes adjusting to the dimness. She inhaled slowly, welcoming the smell of dry hay, horses and manure.
“It’s nothing major.” Matt placed his hand on the horse’s head. “You mad at me, fella?”
“Wiley?” Carly squinted and stepped closer.
“You know him?” he chuckled, surprised.
Carly blushed. “I’ve overheard your son talking to him at the pond near my house. May I?” She reached out a tentative hand.
Matt nodded.
Carly smoothed the shiny brown hair on Wiley’s face. “He’s beautiful,” she whispered. She felt the heat from the animal and thought of her fantasy of riding Wiley across the meadow. Wiley raised his head and made noises through his nose.
“You’ve got an admirer, Wiley. Lucky devil.”
Carly blushed and pushed back a stray lock of blue hair.
“I’ll go get that coffee.”
“Oh, I really can’t, thank you. I’ve got to find my cat.” Carly gave Wiley one last pet and followed Matt out into the sunlight.
“Need a hand?”
“Oh, no. That’s alright. I’m sure you’ve got plenty of work to do.”
“Hey, that’s what neighbors are for, Carly. I don’t punch a time clock. Besides, it’s a rarity to have a woman visit. Especially one so… blue-haired.”
She liked the way the corners of his eyes crinkled in the sun, liked his easy smile and the way his jeans fit. Carly looked down at her sneakers, hoping Matt could not read her mind.
Matt began walking up the rise toward Carly’s house. She fell in step beside him. “What’s his name?”
“Mr. Jingles. It’s the name he came with,” Carly explained, self-consciously. “I call him Jing. He’s not an outside cat. He’s got no claws on his front paws; that’s why I’m concerned.”
Matt nodded. “He the orange one?”
Carly turned to him. “Yes. How’d you know?”
“Oh, Dillon mentioned he’d seen him on your porch when he fetches Wiley down by the pond.”
Carly nodded, wondering what else Dillon Miller might have mentioned to his father. Had he told him about her? What had he said? That he’d seen a blue-haired woman painting? That he’d overheard her talking to herself? Carly’s cheeks turned the color of pale carnations. She nervously smoothed back the stray hairs from her braid, felt the paintbrush haphazardly woven into the plait.
After a futile two hour-long search for Mr. Jingles, Carly ran to her bedroom and fell on the bed sobbing. She was exhausted emotionally and physically, and confused. Bone weary of having held out the desire for Alan to be alive for four years; fervently denying all that the police and Benita had told her; punishing herself for having hurt Brian; for not being a good enough wife to Alan; subconsciously closing herself off from all of life’s little joys; of friendships, even love. Except for Mr. Jingles. He had given Carly comfort and unconditional love. And now he was gone.
Carly fell into a dreamless slumber.
She woke to a darkened room and glanced at the bedside clock: 5:17 p.m. Carly turned the wedding picture face down. She heard a floorboard creak in the hallway and sat up quickly, her pulse throbbing in her ears. The familiar ‘swish, swish, swish’ of Mr. Jingles’ paws on the bedroom door made her smile.
“Jing!” She climbed off the bed and ran to the door, yanking it open to look down and see her marigold-colored cat. Instead, Carly saw a tanned man with sun-bleached hair squatting there, his hands extended toward the base of the door. She gasped and leaped back into her room.
“Hello, Carly.” He smiled as he stood and entered the room.
Carly stammered her silent disbelief. Her hands fluttered at her sides futilely searching for a weapon.
“Miss me?” He smirked, his teeth so white against his oak bark skin.
The murder-for-hire?She blinked rapidly, trying to organize the multitude of impulses that were jabbing her brain, warning her, urging her to flee, not waiting for her to calmly work it out.
“Surprised?” He leered and stepped closer. He reeked of sweat, mussels and beers.
The embezzlement? Mortgage fraud?
“No,” Alan chuckled. “Not my Carly. Nothing surprises you.”
Ran off with another woman. She knew she had to get out of this room but was afraid to try to squeeze past him.
“You were always so practical. What’s with this stupid blue hair?” He reached for her.
Carly’s nostrils flared but she didn’t flinch. “Where’s my cat?” she demanded flatly.
“What?” Alan chuckled. “Your husband’s back from the grave and you ask about a stupid cat.”
Carly imagined him having lived on some lesser-known Caribbean island for the past four years. Lounging on pristine beaches, surfing daily, having dark-skinned beauties catering to his every whim while her life had crumbled to ash and dust. Why was he here now, she wondered. He must be desperate to risk exposure. Probably squandered the second mortgage and embezzlement money and was after the insurance money. Her mind struggled to digest all the information, to discern fact from fiction. “Did you hurt him?” she choked back tears.
Alan laughed.
“Did you?” She felt the fury building, her hands in fists at her sides.
“And if I did? What are you gonna do? Kill me, like you killed Mark Bridges?”
Carly’s rage erupted. She withdrew the paintbrush from her braid and jabbed it into the center of Alan’s chest so swiftly he didn’t have a chance to react. She ran past him and out of the room.
“You stupid bitch!” Alan shouted and slumped onto the foot of the bed staring down at his shirtfront.
Carly ran to the kitchen and out through the screened-in porch.
“I’ll kill you! I’ll do it myself this time!” Alan shouted as he staggered down the wooden porch steps.
Barefoot, Carly ran past the pond and across the ploughed field, her legs pumping and her lungs beginning to burn. She stopped halfway up the rise, hands on her knees, gasping for air. She turned toward the house and saw Alan staggering, faltering. His shirtfront bathed in a crimson stain. She stood and began to run up the rise. As she neared the summit she saw Matt Miller approaching, beaming, carrying a squirming Mr. Jingles.
Carly didn’t need to set an alarm to wake her; her internal clock did that each morning at 5:30. She would remain in bed, staring off into the elephant’s breath pre-dawn, thinking of the things she had to do that day. But without fail, her mind wandered to Alan.
She knew he wasn’t dead. She’d told everyone at the time but no one would listen. The police, her family, co-workers and friends. She knew Alan wouldn’t have driven off the bridge; he was too good a driver. And leaving her was just unthinkable. He loved her too much. He would have managed to survive the accident and swim to shore. Why didn’t the police believe her? Why did they talk of tides and currents? Of hypothermia. He could be wandering around with amnesia, Carly pleaded with them. They’d been sympathetic. She hated the way they’d looked at her. She knew they thought she was in denial. Even mad with grief.
Trying to cope with Alan’s death only a week after an intruder attempted to murder her was more than Carly could bear. The sedatives caused such difficulty in concentrating she’d had to resign from her high-paying, high-powered job as vice president of marketing for one of the national’s top 500. Her sister Benita had stayed by her side throughout the ordeal, trying to work something out with the bank so that Carly could keep the house. But the bank took the house and Carly moved in with Benita. Benita patiently explained everything that was going on with the bank and the police and private investigators, but Carly insisted they were wrong.
They thought she was so out of it they could speak freely in front of her. But she’d heard. Heard them whispering about a ‘faked suicide’. She’d wanted to laugh when she heard that. They didn’t know Alan at all. If they thought Alan would have driven his precious $65,000 Mercedes off a bridge, they were the ones in denial. Alan loved that car. Almost as much as he loved me, Carly thought.
And the insurance company. She had told Benita to send the check back, that they’d made a mistake. Her husband was not dead! But Benita wouldn’t listen. She never liked Alan, Carly thought. Oh, she put up a good front of seeming distraught, but Carly knew Benita was secretly relieved.
And that business about the intruder. How they’d tried to convince her that the two incidents were linked. Something about Alan and Mark Bridges being seen together the week before in a bar. That was just insane. Alan would never have gone to a bar in that dicey neighborhood. And even if he had, just because Alan spoke with someone in a bar, it didn’t mean he’d hired the man to kill his wife.
They were the ones who needed psychiatric care, not her. Hadn’t Alan been by her side that whole week? Sleeping on a cot in her hospital room the night of the attack? Checking her IV tubes constantly and repeatedly asking the police if they were sure Mark Bridges was really dead. He was so concerned for her. Wanting to make sure she was safe. He’d been so strong for her, never leaving her side for a moment. Saying over and over again how stunned he was that she’d been able to overpower Mark Bridges in their living room and kill him. Hadn’t Alan insisted they both get million dollar life insurance policies so she’d be provided for? Why couldn’t they see what a loving, caring man he was?
Carly’s face burst into a grin at the memories and she was surprised to feel tears slithering down the sides of her face. The familiar rubbing of Mr. Jingles’ white paws against the bedroom door interrupted her daydreaming. Though he was declawed, the insistent friction of his front paws made enough noise to disturb her. Carly glanced at the bedside clock beside the wedding photograph of her and Alan: 6:12 a.m. She tossed a small pillow at the door, startling Mr. Jingles and sending him scurrying down the hallway. She knew he’d return a few minutes later. The sun was rising, the birds had caught their worms and Mr. Jingles wanted his breakfast.
The muffled scratching sound penetrated Carly’s reverie. “No!” she called to the marigold-colored cat, disappointment overwhelming her. She shut her eyes tight in an attempt to recapture the image of Alan’s face beaming at her for just another moment. Mr. Jingles cried pitifully and rubbed at the door.
“Shit!” Carly tossed aside the bed covers, swinging her feet to the floor. She opened the bedroom door and in bounded Mr. Jingles. “Come on,” she said and walked groggily down the hallway to the kitchen. The cat darted in front of Carly, nearly tripping her.
Mr. Jingles dashed down the hallway and leaped to the kitchen windowsill to watch the gray cashmere dawn unfolding on the 3-acre parcel that had been his home for the past four years. The tea kettle mutely whistled, sending out mists of billowing zinc steam. Mr. Jingles jumped to the floor and brushed against her bare ankles. She bent to pet the cat and when she stood, she saw the man through the glass of the kitchen door. Despite his stubble and unkempt appearance, Carly knew it was Alan.
“Alan!” She ran for the door, yanked it open, and hurried barefoot out onto the front path. “Alan?” she called and ran around the house to the right. “Alan?” she circled the house and arrived back at the front door. She pushed a long lock of cobalt blue hair from her face and stood catching her breath, straining her eyes, looking off down the deserted road.
With a heavy heart Carly went back into the house. Mr. Jingles leaped up onto the countertop and paced. Carly laid her palms on the glass of the door, closed her eyes and pictured Alan’s face. “He was scruffy, but it was him,” she said wistfully. “You would have liked him.” She turned to the cat. He pawed at the cupboard door. She nudged him to the floor and got a can of cat food.
She poured the boiling water into a large silver bowl, and stirred in several drops of peppermint essential oil. Carly stood by the kitchen door plaiting her long blue hair into a single braid and looked out across the back screened-in porch toward the pond. “Wiley’s eating the lily pads again,” she told the cat. Mr. Jingles turned to her. “I think that’s what gives his mane such shine.” She glanced at Mr. Jingles. He’d turned his attention back to his breakfast. “Maybe I should start eating lily pads, huh?” She giggled at her silliness.
Mr. Jingles swept the floor around his bowl, ‘burying’ the remainder of his breakfast for later. Carly sat at the old chrome table and draped a towel over her head. Inhaling the steamy peppermint mist deeply; eyes closed, she pictured herself riding the chestnut-brown Wiley across the meadow that connected her property with the Millers’ ranch. She saw the frayed cuffs of her denim shirt as her hands gripped the reins, saw Wiley’s ebony mane blowing back at her as he raced through the grass and wild flowers; saw the sunlight glint off of the muscles of Wiley’s neck. Carly felt the thump of Mr. Jingles’ bulk as he jumped up onto the table.
“Stay away,” she warned him, firmly gripping the rim of the heated bowl. Mr. Jingles peered under the edge of the towel, instantly felt the hot moist air on his white whiskers and backed away. Carly’s fantasy of riding Wiley across the meadow was shattered by the cat’s interruption. She took another deep breath, the heat beginning to hurt her lungs a little, and pressed her eyes shut. Carly tried but could not envision herself with Wiley. Frustrated, she sighed, causing a cloud of hot steam to assault her face. Carly yanked the towel from her head and sat back. Mr. Jingles paused in licking himself and glanced at her. “You know, you’re really a pain in the ass sometimes,” she told him and dabbed at her damp, crimson cheeks. She dumped the water into the sink and refilled the kettle for tea.
By 7:30, Carly was showered and dressed in jeans and a coral sweatshirt, sipping tea and sitting at her easel in the screened-in porch. “Hey, Jing, there’s the Miller boy.” She pointed out the large screened window. “He’s come to take Wiley home.” The cat walked the length of the windowsill, tail twitching, as he watched the young Miller boy leading the horse up to the barn. Carly watched them until they disappeared over the rise of ploughed field.
The young Miller boy was the only person Carly saw for weeks at a time until she ventured into town five miles away for groceries, art supplies, and to collect her mail from the post office box. She had adopted the role of recluse four years ago. After having to surrender her job and losing her home, Carly changed her name and moved across the country to escape. She’d dyed her short blond hair blue and let it grow past her shoulders. But time and distance had not healed the heartache. She let the answering machine screen all calls. Didn’t even pick up when she saw it was Benita. Was tired of answering the same old questions: Are you alright? Are you eating? Are you getting out? Meeting people? Are you taking your medication? Carly knew what Benita meant: Are you still crazy?
Carly reached for a clean paintbrush. “How ‘bout some music?” She slid the paintbrush into her braid and went to the CD player across the room. Mr. Jingles stood on his hind legs, fore paws swatting futilely at a butterfly on the other side of the screen.
“Jing, leave it alone,” she scolded and looked through her CDs. The cat dropped to the floor and walked off to drink. He lapped at the water bowl and flicked a paw. Carly stopped, tilted her head and listened. “Did you hear that?” She looked around for the cat. “Jing?” Carly pursed her lips as she walked quietly through the kitchen, past the bathroom, bedroom and into the living room. Mr. Jingles sat on the windowsill in the living room, his tail swishing side to side.
“What is it, Jing?” Carly whispered and lightly stroked the cat’s orange head. She peered through the sheer white curtains, pressing downward on a slat of the vinyl blinds, bowing it to see. Eddies of sepia dust rose up from the dirt road out front where a car or pick up truck had just driven. “Just somebody who took a wrong turn, Jing,” she said unconvincingly. “It’s OK.” She pet the cat as she squinted down the dead-end road, a flicker of hope tickling her ribs. “You’ll see. In a few minutes somebody’ll come barrelling back this way.” Carly remained at the window waiting. She reached for the switch and turned on the fairy lights Benita had strung up across the top of the curtain rod Carly’s first Christmas here and had never taken down.
Mr. Jingles jumped down from the windowsill and walked off. Carly remained at the window, chewing her lower lip, feeling the pulse throbbing in her chest. “This is stupid,” she mumbled and moved her hand as though to dislodge wisps of images. “Just somebody who took a wrong turn is all. You know, I think some people dump their garbage back there so they don’t have to pay at the town dump.” She turned to look at the cat, not so much for corroboration, but to see if he was listening. Mr. Jingles was not there. Carly walked to the bedroom doorway and saw the cat curled up on her bed.
She returned to the screened-in porch, put on a new-age CD and sat at her easel. She picked up a paintbrush and dabbed at the blot of Viridine green and dab of virtuous toad, a brownish green, on her palette. Her jaw muscles worked as she concentrated on the canvas before her. She felt a slight burning sensation, a slow tightening, in her stomach. She held the paintbrush poised an inch from the canvas.
“Damn!” She set the brush and palette down, got up and strode back through the small house to the living room window. She looked out expecting to see the second dust wake. To see Alan’s car. But the road was clear and quiet. “I’m being ridiculous,” she said and shook her head. She went to the kitchen for a drink of water and stared at the phone on the wall. Carly chewed her lip. “What’s wrong with you? You think he’s going to call?” she chided herself and hung her head. “He doesn’t have this number. He couldn’t call if he wanted to,” she chided herself.
“Damn!” She put the water bottle back in the fridge and shut the door with more force than was necessary, the jars on the door tinkling their alarm. She stared at the photographs magnetized to the fridge door. “Why Alan? Why?” she whispered, her fingertips tracing his jawline. “He’s dead for God’s sake! Get a grip!” Carly grabbed up her lemon-colored canvas satchel, yanked a faded baseball cap over her head and stepped out onto the screened-in porch.
She shut the door and walked briskly to her battered Jeep. She checked her reflection in the rear-view mirror. “Look at yourself. I can see you’re falling apart! How do you think you look to other people?” She rummaged in her satchel until her fingers fell on a tube of long unused lip gloss. “There you go,” Carly said sarcastically to her reflection. “A little bit of Plumrose Gloss and everyone will think you’re normal.” She turned her eyes away in disgust and started the Jeep. The tape of her favorite band blared out at her. Carly lowered the volume and forced herself to sing along.
Once on the rutted dirt road Carly struggled to shove thoughts of the attack from her mind. “Mark Bridges is dead and buried and hopefully burning in Hell,” Carly said aloud. She’d been saying this as a mantra for four years now. And she believed it. “Alan is dead, too. You can’t keep on like this, Carly,” she told herself. “I know, I know.” She slowed the Jeep as she approached the entrance to the paved main road.
Carly parked in front of Ingram’s Grocery and saw the owner sweeping the sidewalk out front. She pretended to have a bit of difficulty with her shoulder harness, affording her a few extra moments to look around before getting out of the Jeep. It was difficult enough to have to speak with Mr. Ingram, she didn’t want to bump into anyone who wanted to start a conversation. “Why do you do this to yourself?” Carly mumbled. “He’s dead. He can’t hurt you. And what if he wasn’t? Do you expect poor old Mr. Ingram to beat him off with a broom?” Carly’s cheeks flushed.
“Morning.” Mr. Ingram nodded and touched the brim of his cap.
“Good Morning, Mr. Ingram,” Carly said softly. She’d never given her name in town. When she’d first arrived four years ago and come to Ingram’s Grocery to stock up, Mr. Ingram had offered to have her groceries delivered. She quietly declined and made two trips rather than having anyone know where she lived. She wanted the townspeople to pass her off as some kook living in the hills, hoped they’d find her too boring to warrant any interest. She never allowed herself to converse with anyone no matter how friendly they appeared. Living frugally afforded her the luxury of not having to work. Maybe someday, Carly thought. When Alan’s life insurance money runs out. But she didn’t dwell on these thoughts. They frightened her.
Carly saw his eyes looking beyond her to the Jeep.
“Chased by Injuns?” She could hear the good-natured teasing in his voice and thought he’d remarked upon her nervous appearance. Mr. Ingram pointed to her Jeep. Carly followed his gesture and gasped when she saw the arrow embedded in the spare tire on the rear hatch. Mr. Ingram leaned his broom against the storefront and walked to the Jeep. “Damn kids.” He shook his head and wiggled the arrow from side to side, to loosen and dislodge it. Carly darted inside Ingram’s Grocery, and ducked behind a shelf stacked tall with canned goods.
“Here you go.”
Carly spun round and faced him, eyes wide.
He handed her the arrow. “Jessup’s can plug that hole for you.”
Carly kept her hands firmly gripping her canvas satchel, refusing to touch the arrow.
“You alright, Miss? I was only kidding. There aren’t any wild Indians around here.”
Carly hoped it was the young Miller boy’s doing, missing a target. She forced a weak smile and filled her arms with canned goods. Mr. Ingram walked behind the counter, laying the arrow beside the cash register.
“Will I be seeing any of your work at the Center?” Mr. Ingram asked as he tallied up Carly’s items.
“Excuse me?”
“The Art Fair at the Community Center.” He indicated a flyer on the counter.
Carly stiffened. “I…I…”
“You are an artist, aren’t you? I mean I’ve seen you with paintbrushes stuck in your hair, and paint on your clothes. You have that… distracted air about you. You know, always thinking of something else.” He smiled warmly.
“Oh.” Carly felt her cheeks redden. She self-consciously touched her braid and felt the paintbrush. She dug in her canvas satchel for her wallet. “No.”
“No? You’re not an artist?”
“No. I paint but wouldn’t call myself an artist.” Carly took her change without glancing at it. “Thank you, Mr. Ingram.” She hefted the bags against her chest.
“Let me help you with that.” He walked around the counter and lifted a bag. They walked silently out of the store and onto the pavement. “You know most people will respect someone’s wish to keep to themselves but some other people will only be intrigued and nose around a little.”
Carly eyed Mr. Ingram as she shoved the bags onto the backseat.
“And if that curiosity isn’t satisfied, well…” He shrugged. “They can get a bit…aggressive.”
Carly squinted at him in the sunlight. “What are you saying?”
“I don’t mean to sound like a high falutin’ sage or anything, Miss,” he said with a warm smile, ‘but it’s been my experience that people tend to fear what they don’t understand. And then tend to grow to um…well, not liking what they fear. I’d hate to see anything happen to you.” He cocked his head toward the spare tire.
Carly refused to follow his gaze. “Are you threatening me?”
“No. No. Not at all, Miss. Just offering a bit of friendly advice.” He set the third bag onto the backseat. “Just that everybody around here knows everybody and we’d like to think it’s a friendly town. You’ve been coming into my grocery for what, four years? And I don’t even know your name.”
Carly chewed her lip.
“Well, the Art Fair’s a nice thing. Oh, sure they’ve got their fair share of crappy arts and crafts but it’s more of a social event, really. With refreshments.” He smiled. “I just thought you might like to meet some of your neighbors.” He stepped onto the sidewalk and touched his cap. “A woman like you would add a bit of class to the community.” He smiled. “Have a nice day, Miss.”
“Thank you, Mr. Ingram. You, too.” Carly slid behind the wheel and started up the Jeep. The song on her tape resumed playing though Carly didn’t hear it. He sounds like he’s been talking to Benita, Carly thought. “You’ve got to start mingling, meeting people,” Benita had told her. “You can’t live like a hermit. You were always such a sociable person, Carly.” Carly’s knuckles whitened as she gripped the wheel.
“I can live however I like!” she said aloud. “I don’t want their pity!” She shifted into fourth gear and swerved onto the rutted dirt road. “Oh, look, there’s that poor woman who was attacked in her home,” Carly continued. “Whispering behind their hands as I pass, ‘I hear she killed the man’. Tongues clucking. Ugh!” The groceries jostled noisily as the Jeep bounced along the jutted road. “I don’t want to be considered the town weirdo.” She pursed her lips and sighed. “Maybe Mr. Ingram is right. Maybe I should make the effort to meet people. ‘Hi, I’m Carly. I killed a man. A week later my husband drove his car off a bridge and drowned. What do you do?’ Ugh!”
The phone was ringing as Carly stepped onto the screened-in porch. She set the two bags on the kitchen counter hearing Benita’s voice on the answering machine. ‘Hi, sweetie. It’s me. You there? Pick up, OK? Just wanted to know how you’re doing.” Carly sighed, crossed the porch and retrieved the last bag from the Jeep. She saw the arrow and stopped. Carly pressed her lips together. She grabbed up the arrow intending to walk to the Miller’s place and tell the young Miller boy to be more careful in future. Benita was still talking when she returned to the kitchen.
“Hi.” Carly examined the arrow, looking for initials scratched into the wood.
“Oh, hi! How are you?”
“Fine.”
“Yeah? Fine-fine or …just, you know?”
“I’m fine, Ben.” Carly forced herself to sound cheerful. “Survived an Indian attack.”
“What?”
Carly chuckled and tapped the arrow against her leg. “Nothing. Just kidding. Actually, I just got back from town.”
“Yeah?” She sounded pleased that Carly had gone out.
“Got some groceries. Chatted with Mr. Ingram.” She added, hoping it would make Benita happy. She placed the arrow on the table and began to put the canned goods away as she spoke.
“Oh? And who’s Mr. Ingram?”
“He’s like 65 years old, Ben. He owns the grocery store.”
“Oh.” Benita’s disappointment was audible.
“They’re having an Art Fair this weekend.”
“Yeah?” Benita asked casually.
“Mmm. Maybe I’ll go.” She shrugged. “You know, look at the popsicle stick glue gun arts and crafts. Maybe meet some of my neighbors.” Carly could hear the sharp intake of breath. She knew Benita was grinning.
“Well, that sounds like a…a good idea, Carly.”
“Don’t want to get the reputation as being a proper lunatic.”
“Carly! You’re not a lunatic! Jesus! You’re pretty…pretty sane for someone who’s gone through what you have. I don’t know how I’d be in your shoes. First of all, Mark Bridges would have killed me. I’m not as strong as you.”
“Ben-“
“No, really, Carly. I mean, Jesus. You were so brave and everything. To have fought him off and overpowered him-“
‘Ben-“
“Well, Christ, Carly, give yourself some credit. Stop beating yourself up over it.”
“Benita! I killed a man.”
“It was self-defense, Carly. I don’t understand why you feel guilty about it.”
Carly stared out the window.
“I mean, sure it’s awful but he was trying to kill you, Carly.”
“I’m well aware of that, Ben.”
“It’s the stupid bastard’s own fault, Carly. He could have ransacked the place and been gone long before you got home. But no. He decided to stick around. Probably to rape you.”
“He made no attempt to rape me, Ben. I told you that a million times.”
“Still.”
“Does this mean you’ve given up your ‘hired killer’ theory?” Carly raised an eyebrow.
“It doesn’t really matter what I think, Carly.”
A long pause followed.
“You taking your medication?”
“Uh huh.” Carly’d stopped taking the sedatives years ago.
“Yeah? Good. God, I hate us being so far apart. It was so much nicer when you lived here. You could move back, you know.”
“Ben-“
“Carly, I miss you. And I worry about you. Besides, if you’re right about Alan still being alive and wandering around with amnesia, you’d be more likely to find him here than there.”
“Benita,” Carly admonished, knowing full well her sister did not share her beliefs.
“Oh, sweetie. I’m sorry. I must seem like such a manipulative bitch and I don’t mean to.”
Carly knew Benita was twirling her long curly hair around her finger and making a sad face. Carly sighed.
“Did I tell you I bumped into Brian?”
“No,” Carly said softly.
“He asked about you.”
Carly closed her eyes and remained silent. She knew her sister was trying to lure her back, dangling an old boyfriend as bait. The very mention of Brian’s name made Carly smile.
“He asked me for your number and I was tempted to give it to him.”
“Benita!”
“Don’t worry. I didn’t.” Benita sighed. “He’d love to see you, Carly. You two always got along so well; made such a cute couple. You had so much in common-”
“Ben, I really don’t want to talk about this.” She’d thought of Brian often over the years, wondering how he was, hoping he was well; hoping he’d forgiven her for breaking their engagement when she’d met Alan.
“Oh, sweetie. You can’t just shrivel up and…Jesus, Carly, you could be happy again if you only tried. You have all that money. You could travel. You could come back here. See Brian. He’s not involved with anyone.”
“You asked him that?!”
“Yeah. Why? What’s wrong with that? Jesus, Carly, he was going to be my brother-in-law. It’s not too late, Carly.”
Carly remained silent.
“Oh, shit, I’m sorry, Carly, but it’s so damn frustrating!”
Carly laughed sardonically.
“I’m sorry. I know it’s been hell for you and my frustration doesn’t compare, but…” she lowered her voice. “Honey, you can’t keep holding out hope that Alan’s alive.”
“I wonder if you’d be saying that if I’d married Brian instead,” Carly said evenly, knowing her words would sting.
“The truth? I don’t know.”
“Well, thanks for your honesty.”
“Carly, I just want you to be happy. Listen, you want honesty? No. I never liked Alan. I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead but there was always something about him; something sneaky. And I couldn’t stand his smugness. He was never satisfied with anything. Always had to have the most expensive, top-of-the-line of everything. And watching you working so hard and such long hours to keep pace with him. And him pushing you - not encouraging you - to climb the corporate ladder – not to advance your career so much as just for you to bring home more money. It made me crazy!”
“Look out, she’s on a roll.”
“And if his father hadn’t stepped in after the funeral--“ Benita stopped.
“What?” Carly asked quietly.
“Nothing.”
“Don’t tell me, ‘Nothing’. What about his father?”
“You don’t wanna hear it,” Benita sighed.
“Tell me.”
“Alan had been under suspicion of embezzlement from his company. His father paid them off so they wouldn’t drag Alan’s name into the papers.”
“What?! Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You were in no condition to deal with that crap, Carly. The police asked you about it but you...”
Fragmented images assailed Carly’s brain. Sitting with detectives around Benita’s kitchen table, their voices buzzing as irritatingly as the fluorescent lights at the police station. She heard them talk of how Alan had gotten a second mortgage on the house without Carly’s knowledge. How he’d cleaned out their joint savings and checking accounts two days before his disappearance. How his passport was missing from his top drawer. They called it evidence, but none of it penetrated her pharmaceutically-enhanced grief.
“So, um, how’s Mr. Jingles?” Benita asked.
“Hmm?” Carly shook her head to return to the present. “Oh, he’s alright.” She looked around for the cat, surprised that he hadn’t come running to greet her when she arrived. Usually the crinkling sound of the paper bags got his attention. She walked with the portable phone to the bedroom. Mr. Jingles was not on the bed. Carly walked to the living room.
“Hey, how about I come out this weekend? Maybe we could go to the Art Fair together.”
“Hmm?” Carly looked around the room for Mr. Jingles.
“I said I was thinking of coming out this weekend. It’s been a while.”
“This weekend?”
“Yeah.”
Carly knelt and looked under the couch. “Um, yeah, sure. If you like.”
“What’s the matter? You sound distracted.”
“Um, I can’t find him.” Carly made the universal whistling sound to attract the cat. “Listen, Ben, I gotta go.”
“He’ll turn up, don’t worry.”
“He’s not an outside cat, Ben.”
“I don’t know why you got yourself a cat instead of a dog anyway. At least a dog--”
“I’m not a dog person, Ben. You know that.”
“You and Alan had a dog.”
“It was Alan’s dog and if you’ll remember, he found a new home for it right after we got married.”
“OK, OK. Let’s not argue. This weekend then? I’ll get a car at the airport.”
“Yeah. Bye.” Carly clicked the phone off and walked through the small house calling for Mr. Jingles. She searched under and behind everything before checking the screened-in porch. “Jing?” Carly called through the screen door. Carly stepped out onto the grass. “Jing?” She whistled for the cat and walked around the outside of the house. “Damn!” Carly looked off across the meadow towards the Miller’s barn. “Jing!”
“God, please let him be alright,” she said aloud. “He doesn’t have front claws. He won’t be able to defend himself.” She felt the tears coming and hurried inside the house. She snatched the arrow and marched across the ploughed field whistling for Jing. She paused at the top of the rise and scanned the area for Mr. Jingles.
Sounds of sporadic hammering rose up to her. She carried on down the slope. A man in jeans and denim jacket stood on a ladder propped against the barn. He turned his face to Carly as she approached.
“Hi. You Mr. Miller?” she called up to him, shielding her eyes from the sun.
The man nodded and climbed down the ladder. He held a hammer in his left hand and extended his right. “Matt,” he said.
“I’m Carly,” she said and shook his hand. “I live over there.” She pointed in the direction of her house.
“Hey, neighbor. Nice to meet you, Carly.” He eyed the arrow held at her side.
“Does this belong to your son?”
Matt Miller took the arrow. “I couldn’t say for sure. I’ll ask him when he gets home from school. Was this on your property?”
Carly nodded and glanced around, looking for Mr. Jingles. “I don’t want to get your boy in trouble or anything, but it punctured my tire and…” her voice faded.
“Well, if Dillon’s liable, he’ll take care of the damage,” Matt said grimly. “I’ve raised him to be responsible for his actions. I’m sorry about this.”
“It’s no big deal, really. I mean, it could have been worse.” She chuckled.
Matt nodded and his stern expression faded. “I was just about to take a break. Would you care for a cup of coffee or something?” He jerked a thumb toward the house.
Carly looked toward the house. “Um…actually…”
Sensing her hesitance, Matt smiled. “We could sit over there.” He pointed to a picnic bench under a tall maple tree.
A noise from the barn caught Carly’s attention.
“That’ll be one of my horses. He’s mad at me.” Matt gestured for Carly to follow him into the barn. “He caught a flank on a bit of barbed wire and I’m keeping him inside until I can repair the fence.”
“Oh, the poor thing,” Carly said. She paused inside the barn, her eyes adjusting to the dimness. She inhaled slowly, welcoming the smell of dry hay, horses and manure.
“It’s nothing major.” Matt placed his hand on the horse’s head. “You mad at me, fella?”
“Wiley?” Carly squinted and stepped closer.
“You know him?” he chuckled, surprised.
Carly blushed. “I’ve overheard your son talking to him at the pond near my house. May I?” She reached out a tentative hand.
Matt nodded.
Carly smoothed the shiny brown hair on Wiley’s face. “He’s beautiful,” she whispered. She felt the heat from the animal and thought of her fantasy of riding Wiley across the meadow. Wiley raised his head and made noises through his nose.
“You’ve got an admirer, Wiley. Lucky devil.”
Carly blushed and pushed back a stray lock of blue hair.
“I’ll go get that coffee.”
“Oh, I really can’t, thank you. I’ve got to find my cat.” Carly gave Wiley one last pet and followed Matt out into the sunlight.
“Need a hand?”
“Oh, no. That’s alright. I’m sure you’ve got plenty of work to do.”
“Hey, that’s what neighbors are for, Carly. I don’t punch a time clock. Besides, it’s a rarity to have a woman visit. Especially one so… blue-haired.”
She liked the way the corners of his eyes crinkled in the sun, liked his easy smile and the way his jeans fit. Carly looked down at her sneakers, hoping Matt could not read her mind.
Matt began walking up the rise toward Carly’s house. She fell in step beside him. “What’s his name?”
“Mr. Jingles. It’s the name he came with,” Carly explained, self-consciously. “I call him Jing. He’s not an outside cat. He’s got no claws on his front paws; that’s why I’m concerned.”
Matt nodded. “He the orange one?”
Carly turned to him. “Yes. How’d you know?”
“Oh, Dillon mentioned he’d seen him on your porch when he fetches Wiley down by the pond.”
Carly nodded, wondering what else Dillon Miller might have mentioned to his father. Had he told him about her? What had he said? That he’d seen a blue-haired woman painting? That he’d overheard her talking to herself? Carly’s cheeks turned the color of pale carnations. She nervously smoothed back the stray hairs from her braid, felt the paintbrush haphazardly woven into the plait.
After a futile two hour-long search for Mr. Jingles, Carly ran to her bedroom and fell on the bed sobbing. She was exhausted emotionally and physically, and confused. Bone weary of having held out the desire for Alan to be alive for four years; fervently denying all that the police and Benita had told her; punishing herself for having hurt Brian; for not being a good enough wife to Alan; subconsciously closing herself off from all of life’s little joys; of friendships, even love. Except for Mr. Jingles. He had given Carly comfort and unconditional love. And now he was gone.
Carly fell into a dreamless slumber.
She woke to a darkened room and glanced at the bedside clock: 5:17 p.m. Carly turned the wedding picture face down. She heard a floorboard creak in the hallway and sat up quickly, her pulse throbbing in her ears. The familiar ‘swish, swish, swish’ of Mr. Jingles’ paws on the bedroom door made her smile.
“Jing!” She climbed off the bed and ran to the door, yanking it open to look down and see her marigold-colored cat. Instead, Carly saw a tanned man with sun-bleached hair squatting there, his hands extended toward the base of the door. She gasped and leaped back into her room.
“Hello, Carly.” He smiled as he stood and entered the room.
Carly stammered her silent disbelief. Her hands fluttered at her sides futilely searching for a weapon.
“Miss me?” He smirked, his teeth so white against his oak bark skin.
The murder-for-hire?She blinked rapidly, trying to organize the multitude of impulses that were jabbing her brain, warning her, urging her to flee, not waiting for her to calmly work it out.
“Surprised?” He leered and stepped closer. He reeked of sweat, mussels and beers.
The embezzlement? Mortgage fraud?
“No,” Alan chuckled. “Not my Carly. Nothing surprises you.”
Ran off with another woman. She knew she had to get out of this room but was afraid to try to squeeze past him.
“You were always so practical. What’s with this stupid blue hair?” He reached for her.
Carly’s nostrils flared but she didn’t flinch. “Where’s my cat?” she demanded flatly.
“What?” Alan chuckled. “Your husband’s back from the grave and you ask about a stupid cat.”
Carly imagined him having lived on some lesser-known Caribbean island for the past four years. Lounging on pristine beaches, surfing daily, having dark-skinned beauties catering to his every whim while her life had crumbled to ash and dust. Why was he here now, she wondered. He must be desperate to risk exposure. Probably squandered the second mortgage and embezzlement money and was after the insurance money. Her mind struggled to digest all the information, to discern fact from fiction. “Did you hurt him?” she choked back tears.
Alan laughed.
“Did you?” She felt the fury building, her hands in fists at her sides.
“And if I did? What are you gonna do? Kill me, like you killed Mark Bridges?”
Carly’s rage erupted. She withdrew the paintbrush from her braid and jabbed it into the center of Alan’s chest so swiftly he didn’t have a chance to react. She ran past him and out of the room.
“You stupid bitch!” Alan shouted and slumped onto the foot of the bed staring down at his shirtfront.
Carly ran to the kitchen and out through the screened-in porch.
“I’ll kill you! I’ll do it myself this time!” Alan shouted as he staggered down the wooden porch steps.
Barefoot, Carly ran past the pond and across the ploughed field, her legs pumping and her lungs beginning to burn. She stopped halfway up the rise, hands on her knees, gasping for air. She turned toward the house and saw Alan staggering, faltering. His shirtfront bathed in a crimson stain. She stood and began to run up the rise. As she neared the summit she saw Matt Miller approaching, beaming, carrying a squirming Mr. Jingles.