S is for Silence (Kinsey Millhone 19)

He read the comics- Nancy, Freckles, Gordo, and Alley Oop -which he never thought were funny but couldn’t bear to miss. Then he checked the baseball scores and farm news while Rudy ran the clippers up the back of his neck. He drove home smelling like talcum powder. Despite Rudy’s best efforts, his back and neck were already feeling itchy from the newly trimmed hairs that had slipped down his collar.

Once home, he stripped off his work boots, Sears shirt, and overalls, and ran water in the shower. While he waited for the hot water to come through, he put his clothes in the hamper, and as he passed the bathroom mirror, he glimpsed the scabbed-over claw marks Violet Sullivan had left on his back not four days before. He stepped into the shower, feeling both appalled and aroused. If anyone else saw the marks his goose would be cooked. He was always surprised by the damage she managed to inflict. She was small, no bigger than a girl, all energy and sass, red hair hanging halfway down her back, with a waviness that made a pattern when he lifted it from her neck. He liked to thread his fingers through its thickness, grab a fistful of hair, and pull her head back so hard her mouth would come open with surprise. He’d run a rough palm across her breasts and down the length of her spine while she shuddered with desire. He’d never known a woman like her, so savage and so insatiable. She wore a delicate violet perfume, her trademark she said. She dressed in purple and lavender, sometimes a dark vivid green that set her green eyes afire. The fabrics were soft and clung to the front of her legs, making a crackling sound when he pulled the skirt away from her thighs.

He’d never cared for violets himself. Weeds, to his way of thinking, taking over the lawn. Mary Hairl loved them, the white ones in particular, and she fussed at Jake every time he threatened to spray. He couldn’t see the point in letting something wild and uncontrollable encroach on the grass. That spring, which he knew now would be Mary Hairl’s last, he’d lain facedown among the violets, letting the light, sweet scent saturate his skin. He’d run his hand across the dark green leaves, snatching up the blossoms in the much same way he’d torn into Violet the last time they met. The motel carpeting had a strange metallic smell that he associated with their sex.

At the hospital the night before, he found himself ruminating on the differences between the two women. Of late, Mary Hairl’s eyes had begun to look sunken, hollow, smudged dark, and Jake felt as guilty as if he’d struck her. He’d been patient and tender, dogged in his attentions, but his brain had disconnected, returning to Violet in spite of his best intentions. While he’d dabbed Mary Hairl’s face with a damp cloth, he’d be thinking about Violet, the last time they been to bed, the ferocity with which she bit and sucked at him, clinging like a woman drowning among the bedsheets. She could tease, withhold, letting her red hair sweep over his thighs while he struggled for control, thrusting himself toward her. Violet would pull away, smiling, her eyes glittering. She’d lick the length of him, and he knew he’d never learn to stifle his groan when she finally took him in her mouth.

He looked down. Mary Hairl had asked for ice water, which Jake went to fetch for her, replenishing her glass. She was thirsty, as trusting as a child, sucking at the clear bent glass straw that he held to her lips. She murmured a thank you and lay back against the pillows. He knew he couldn’t go on with Violet. Every other day he’d decide he had to break it off, but each time the opportunity presented itself, he’d think Once more… just once more, and then he’d hope to find the strength necessary to sever the relationship.

There was a weight in his chest, a heaviness reminding him of all he’d betrayed. Sometimes the anxiety was so intense he felt sick. He was grateful to Violet. He’d always be grateful for what he’d learned. She’d brought him to life after years of ministering to Mary Hairl’s pain. If Mary Hairl would go-if she’d only get on with it-he knew the suffocating sense of desperation would pass. At the same time, though he could barely admit it to himself, he harbored the fantasy that with his wife gone, Violet might become a permanent part of his life, filling the void that Mary Hairl had left.

He turned off the shower knobs with a screech, stepped out, and then dried himself off. He dressed, pulling on the jeans he’d hung on a peg behind his closet door. He picked up the bundle of Mary Hairl’s soiled nightclothes and moved into the mud room, where he’d hooked up the washer and dryer. He opened the washer lid and found himself staring down at the tight coil of wet clothes he’d neglected to remove. He couldn’t remember running a load, but when he pulled out the first article, he realized it was Mary Hairl’s laundry from the week before. The clothes were still damp and now smelled of mildew because the garments had sat so long. How could he have done such a thing? Bringing Mary Hairl clean clothes was something he’d taken on to demonstrate his care and concern. She’d never mentioned the fact that he’d failed to return her nighties and her step-ins. What had she worn all week?