Karen Olson - Driven to Ink

“Where were you?” he asked as I approached, my bag and Sylvia’s bag in hand.

Bernie grabbed Sylvia’s bag. “I’ll take that,” he said. As if he wanted to be the one to hand her the bag, since it had been his mission to go get it. I had no problem with that, even though I doubted it would make any difference to Sylvia.

Bernie led the way into the foyer, which was painted gray with a mauve trim. A wreath of dried flowers hung on the wall over a white table with three fat candles of varying heights that smelled like vanilla. A little precious for my taste.

“Where have you been?” Sylvia stepped out of the kitchen on our left, a dish towel wrapped around her waist, doubling as an apron. She wielded a wooden spoon.

I smelled it then, the distinct scent of tomato sauce. Homemade tomato sauce, not that stuff you get in a jar. My stomach growled. Loudly.

Jeff laughed. Sylvia merely patted my arm, then pulled me into the kitchen with her, the spoon leading the way.

“I’ve got a nice pot of sauce going. You make a salad.”

It was an order. But I wasn’t going to argue. I opened the refrigerator and started taking out lettuce, cucumbers, and carrots.

Sylvia had already put a bowl on the granite-top island for me. I dumped the salad makings next to it and began washing the lettuce while she stirred the sauce. I glanced around at the country kitchen, with its white French cabinets and sleek stainless steel appliances. Lou Marino must have done pretty well as an impersonator, or else Rosalie was making more money than I thought over at the university.

“So where did you find Bernie?” Sylvia asked as she produced a can of chickpeas and handed it to me.

I glanced around but didn’t see Bernie or Jeff. Or Rosalie, either.

“He was at Murder Ink,” I said.

“Why on earth was he over there?”

She had her back to me, so I couldn’t see her face.

“He went to pick up your bag for you.”

Sylvia didn’t say anything for a second, then, “Oh, oh, that’s right.”

Something was off. Either she really didn’t know why Bernie was at Murder Ink or she was having one of her all-too-frequent senior moments. I couldn’t tell.

Sylvia came over next to me, wiping her hands on a towel, and peered into the bowl, where I’d already assembled a pretty decent looking salad.

“You’ll find, dear, that men sometimes do the damndest things.” And then she was back to the stove, emptying a box of spaghetti into a pot of boiling water.

I rinsed the chickpeas in the sink before putting them in the salad. Sylvia was nodding, watching me.

I couldn’t help myself. No one else was in here with us, so it seemed as good a time as any.

“Do you know that Ray left a duffel bag with ten thousand dollars in his locker at That’s Amore?” I asked as casually as I could.

“Where did he get that kind of money?” she asked.

I studied her face for any sign of recognition that she knew about the money, but nothing. I took a stab in the dark.

“You didn’t give it to him, did you?”

Sylvia chuckled. “Do you think I did?”

“You withdrew ten grand from your bank account the day before your wedding,” I said. “I saw the receipt.”

No flicker in her eyes, no twitch of her cheek. She continued to smile at me.

“I think that’s my business, don’t you, dear?” And Sylvia went out into the living room to tell everyone dinner was on.

I nearly bumped into Bernie as I brought plates to the dining room.

“Don’t harass her,” he said softly.

“I’m not,” I assured him, although I really wanted to press the issue. I’d have to find another way around it.

Rosalie came to the table, her black eye now faded to yellow. Soon it would be gone, like the man who’d given it to her. She was laughing at something Jeff said, her mannerisms less stiff and awkward than they’d been the other couple of times I’d seen her. Jeff was right: She was better off without Lou.

I started to say something about Dan Franklin, but Jeff kicked me under the table. I glared at him, but he was shaking his head and frowning. This wasn’t the time.

I caught Rosalie looking at me thoughtfully a couple of times, and then she’d quickly look over at Jeff. I didn’t want to know what she was thinking.

Bernie patted his daughter’s hand all through dinner. Jeff caught my eye a couple of times and winked as his mother told stories about the old people on the bus to Sedona. It was a family dinner that seemed perfectly normal. Except for the fact that two people were dead.

I didn’t want coffee. It would keep me up. It had been a long day, and after we’d cleaned up I asked Jeff whether he could take me home.

Sylvia offered her cheek, and I gave her a kiss.

“Don’t worry about anything,” she whispered as she kissed me back.

I wasn’t quite sure what she meant, but she’d already moved on to Jeff and was saying good-bye to him now.

Bernie had already taken Rosalie back into the living room, and Jeff and I stepped out into the night. It had grown cold, and I shivered in my T-shirt.

“You okay?” he asked as he opened the car door for me.

“Just turn the heat on,” I said, settling back and closing my eyes.

He didn’t say anything else as he climbed in his seat and turned over the engine. I felt the car moving, and it lulled me into one of those half-awake, half-asleep states.

I was so out of it that I thought the sound was in a dream. I opened my eyes and saw the bright lights straight ahead. They blinded me, and suddenly my body was jerked back against the seat as Jeff spun the wheel, the car skidding sideways across the pavement.

But he hadn’t been fast enough. The impact of the crash caused the air bag to explode, and it slammed into my face so hard I thought my nose was broken.

Suddenly it was quiet. Too quiet.

A streetlight a few feet away cast a dim yellow beam across the road, but everything around it was black. Like being inside with the lights on and not being able to see anything but your own reflection in the windows.

Then I heard something-couldn’t put my finger on it-but the air bag began to slowly deflate.

“You okay, Kavanaugh?” Jeff’s voice pierced the silence.

I turned my head slowly-everything hurt-and saw a glint of something in Jeff’s hand. A pocket knife.

“What happened?” I asked, surprised that my voice sounded normal, even though it was too loud in my ears.

“Car was coming straight at us. I swerved right into a pole or something. That’s why the air bags inflated.”

But that wasn’t what I’d meant.

A rustling outside the car caused me to tense up, pain tearing through my muscles. My eyes had begun to adjust to the darkness, but I still couldn’t see anything outside the car.

“What is it?” I whispered.

Jeff put a finger to his lips, the streetlight illuminating his silhouette. He shifted down in his seat and indicated I should do the same. Pain shot through my back and up to my neck, but I moved past it as I heard more rustling. It sounded as if someone or something was walking through the shrubs along the side of the road, just beyond the car.

We were facing the desert. I glanced in the side-view mirror. Behind us, on the other side of the street, town houses stood in line like toy soldiers, but it was a development that was only half finished. No lights in any windows.

No cars on the road, either.

Nothing except that blasted streetlight, which was more of a hindrance than a help. I saw now that the pole we crashed into was another streetlight, but it wasn’t working.

Jeff put his fingers to his ear, pantomiming a phone. I wondered where his was as I stretched my arm to reach my bag on the floor. As my fingers touched the fabric, an explosion rocked the air.