She was the product of a disastrous early marriage to a man whose idea of a good time turned out to be smoking crack and beating her. Later he branched out into infecting her with several intriguing diseases. But when he battered the kids one night Rita’s marvelous country-song loyalty ruptured, and she flung the swine out of her life and, happily, into prison.
As a result of all this turmoil, she had been looking for a gentleman who might be interested in companionship and conversation, someone who did not need to indulge the crude animal urges of base passion. A man, in other words, who would value her for her finer qualities and not her willingness to indulge in naked acrobatics. Ecce, Dexter. For almost two years she had been my ideal disguise, a key ingredient of Dexter as the world at large knew him. And in return I had not beaten her, had not infected her with anything, had not forced my animal lust on her, and she actually seemed to enjoy my company.
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And as a bonus, I had become quite fond of her children, Astor and Cody. Strange, perhaps, but nonetheless true, I assure you. If everyone else in the world were to mysteriously disappear, I would feel irritated about it only because there would be no one to make me doughnuts. But children are interesting to me and, in fact, I like them. Rita’s two kids had been through a traumatic early childhood, and maybe because I had, too, I felt a special attachment to them, an interest that went beyond maintaining my disguise with Rita.
Aside from the bonus of her children, Rita herself was quite presentable. She had short and neat blond hair, a trim and athletic body, and she seldom said things that were outright stupid. I could go in public with her and know that we looked like an appropriately matched human pair, which was really the whole point. People even said we were an attractive couple, although I was never sure what that meant. I suppose Rita found me attractive somehow, although her track record with men didn’t make that too flattering. Still, it’s always nice to be around somebody who thinks I am wonderful. It con-firms my low opinion of people.
I looked at the clock on my desk. Five thirty-two: within the next fifteen minutes Rita would be home from her job at Fairchild Title Agency, where she did something very complicated involving fractions of percentage points. By the time I got to her house, she should be there.
With a cheerful synthetic smile I headed out the door, waved to Doakes, and drove over to Rita’s modest South Miami house. The traffic wasn’t too bad, which is to say that there were no fatal accidents or shootings, and in just under twenty minutes I parked my car in front of Rita’s bungalow.
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Sergeant Doakes cruised past to the end of the street and, as I knocked on the front door, he parked across the way.
The door swung open and Rita peered out at me. “Oh!” she said. “Dexter.”
“In person,” I said. “I was in the neighborhood and wondered if you were home yet.”
“Well, I—I just walked in the door. I must look like a mess . . . Um—come on in. Would you like a beer?”
Beer; what a thought. I never touch the stuff—and yet, it was so amazingly normal, so perfectly visit-the-girlfriend-after-work, even Doakes had to be impressed. It was just the right touch. “I would love a beer,” I said, and I followed her into the relative cool of the living room.
“Have a seat,” she said. “I’m just going to freshen up a little.” She smiled at me. “The kids are out back, but I’m sure they’ll be all over you when they find out you’re here.” And she swished off down the hall, returning a moment later with a can of beer. “I’ll be right back,” she said, and went away to her bedroom at the back of the house.
I sat on the sofa and looked at the beer in my hand. I am not a drinker—really, drinking is not a recommended habit for predators. It slows the reflexes, dulls the perceptions, and knits up the raveled sleeve of care, which always sounded to me like a very bad thing. But here I was, a demon on vacation, attempting the ultimate sacrifice by giving up my powers and becoming human—and so a beer was just the thing for Dipso-phobic Dexter.
I took a sip. The taste was bitter and thin, just as I would be if I had to keep the Dark Passenger buckled into his seat belt for very long.
Still, I suppose beer is an acquired taste. I took another sip. I could feel it gurgle all the way down and splash 4 0
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into my stomach, and it occurred to me that with all the excitement and frustration of the day I hadn’t eaten lunch. But what the hell—it was just a light beer; or as the can proudly proclaimed: lite beer. I suppose we should be very grateful they hadn’t thought of a cuter way to spell beer.
I took a big sip. It wasn’t that bad when you got used to it.
By golly, it really WAS relaxing. I, at any rate, felt more relaxed with each swig. Another refreshing sip—I couldn’t remember that it had tasted this good when I’d tried it in college. Of course, I was just a boy then, not the manly mature hardworking upright citizen I was now. I tilted the can, but nothing came out.
Well—somehow the can was empty. And yet I was still thirsty. Could this unpleasant situation really be tolerated? I thought not. Absolutely intolerable. In fact, I did not plan to tolerate it. I stood up and proceeded to the kitchen in a firm and unyielding manner. There were several more cans of lite beer in the refrigerator and I took one back to the couch.
I sat. I opened the beer. I took a sip. Much better. Damn that Doakes anyway. Maybe I should take him a beer. It might relax him, get him to loosen up and call the whole thing off. After all, we were on the same side, weren’t we?
I sipped. Rita came back wearing a pair of denim shorts and a white tank top with a tiny satin bow at the neckline. I had to admit, she looked very nice. I could really pick a disguise. “Well,” she said as she slid onto the couch next to me,
“it’s nice to see you, out of the blue like this.”
“It certainly must be,” I said.
She cocked her head to one side and looked at me funny.
“Did you have a hard day at work?”