S is for Silence (Kinsey Millhone 19)

Face burning, he started the load again, adding this week’s clothing to the one before, hoping that a strong dose of soap powder would eliminate the rank odor of wet cotton gone sour. He went into the bedroom and opened Mary Hairl’s dresser drawer, relieved to see she had plenty of other nighties. Everything was neatly folded, a plain virginal white. He pulled out four nightgowns and piled six pairs of step-ins on top. He hesitated and then laid the pile on top of the dresser.

He went through the remaining drawers, searching her belongings, something he’d never dreamed of doing before this moment. He wasn’t sure what compelled him to forage among her things. Perhaps some morbid curiosity about the personal effects it would soon be his job to pack up and give away. What did he hope to find? A dildo, evidence of some hidden vice-drink, kleptomania, pornography? He knew, without having to look, that the dresses hanging in her closet were washed colorless, starched and fastidiously ironed. Why did this generate such anger in him? Why was his life filled with degradation while hers was so barren and apologetic?

In the second drawer from the bottom, hidden under her cotton slips, he saw the corner of a bright yellow box. He moved the slips aside. The drawer was lined with unopened gift sets of Jean Naté After Bath Splash and Cologne. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d thought of giving her anything else. Why would he? Birthdays, she always asked for Jean Naté. He thought she loved it. Opening his gift, which he inevitably prevailed on the clerk to wrap, she’d seemed pleased and surprised, her appreciation sounding so heartfelt that he hadn’t thought to question her sincerity. Christmas meant nothing to him. They gave gifts to the children, but the exchanging of gifts between the two of them felt awkward so now they skipped the practice on mutual agreement. Or so he’d assumed.

Seeing the Jean Naté, he was deeply ashamed. He’d been complacent about her, so oblivious that it hadn’t occurred to him to give her anything more personal, lavish, or spontaneous. He was embarrassed that she hadn’t felt comfortable telling him the truth, that she’d thought so little of herself she hadn’t been able to ask for what she wanted. She probably didn’t even know what that was. By her birthday, which would fall on September 12, she’d be gone, and in a flash it occurred to him that if he’d betrayed the marriage, so had she. The difference was that she’d die being thought of as saintly and good, and he’d be forced to live on without her, burdened by rage, corruption, and guilt. He might be a man without character, but she was a woman without courage. Of the two, which was worse?

Once the laundry was done, he left the house and drove to Serena Station. It was only 10:35 in the morning, but BW opened the Blue Moon at 9:00. There was no explanation for the absurdity of the hour. The place sat empty most of the day, half dark, door open, as cool and welcoming as a church. He parked and went in. At a table to one side, Winston Smith sat by himself, his back to the bar, his expression withdrawn. He had a Miller beer in front of him, though Jake knew for a fact he wasn’t legally of age. Given his dark mood, maybe BW had taken pity on the boy, figuring he’d take his chances with the ABC agent, who’d been in the week before.

Jake took a seat at the bar and BW set a Blatz in front of him. Jake knew Violet stopped by two and three times a week after Foley left for work. He hadn’t seen her since Sunday, but he needed to talk to her before he lost his resolve. Sure enough, she walked in twenty minutes later. Winston, in the process of ordering another beer, turned and stared at her sullenly. “I need to talk to you.”

Violet paused by his table. “So talk.”

“Please join me,” he said. He was speaking with care, but Jake noticed that his consonants had turned soft around the edges. Violet sat down. Whatever Winston had to say to her, he kept his voice low, and Violet’s expression never registered more than bemusement. Finally, she leaned forward. Her reply was inaudible, but whatever she’d said, Winston seemed taken aback. She got up and moved to the far end of the bar.

Winston said, “Bitch,” to himself.

Jake looked from the boy to BW. “What’s his deal?”

BW glanced at Winston. “Kid lost his job.”

BW moved to Violet’s end of the bar. She ordered and Jake watched while BW poured her a glass of red wine. Jake picked up his beer, walked the length of the bar, and took the stool next to hers. He waited until BW put the wineglass in front of her.

“I’ll take care of it,” Jake said. BW went to the cash register and punched in the charge, adding it to his tab, then disappeared into the back room to leave the two of them alone. Jake had thought he’d feel anxious about what he had to do, but he found himself regarding her with fondness. “I thought I’d see you yesterday afternoon.”