Charlaine Harris - Shakespeare’s Counselor

“But it is,” he said. “It is. You should have told me.”

I lost my temper. “Why? Were you going to marry me?”

“No! But a married woman, you shouldn’t even think about her!”

“So, if I’m married, I’m sacred to you, you can’t lust after me.”

“That’s right! That’s exactly right!”

“Then end this, right here and now. I am married.”

“Can you give up thinking of me? Has being married made any difference to you? Because I know you. I know you think of me.”

“Bobo, this is too weird. Neither of us has any business thinking of the other. This is all wrong.”

“And now you’re married.”

“Yes.”

“You love him?”

“Of course. More than anything.”

“But-”

“But nothing. This-we have to seal this off. This is over.”

“We’ve said this before. Or you have.”

“Are you saying I’m encouraging you in this idea you have, that we should go to bed together?”

“No, I’m not saying that. What I’m saying is, I can tell in your eyes that you know that if we did it would be great, that you want to fuck me as much as I want to fuck you.”

“But we can’t do that, because there are trails leading up to and away from any act of sex.”

He took a deep breath. “That’s right.”

“So we won’t talk about this again.”

“No,” he agreed, more slowly, with less conviction.

“I don’t want to answer this door when my hair has gone gray, to find you still talking about it.”

He laughed a little. “No,” he said. “I have to get on with my life.”

“And Jack and I have to get on with ours.”

“Lily,” he said. He reached out and brushed his knuckle down my cheek. “Do you love me just a little?”

“Yes,” I said. I owed him that. “Just a little.”

I closed the door.

My unremembered dreams must have caused me to toss and turn in the night, because I woke up tired the next day. I took a cup of coffee out onto the tiny back porch and sat listening to the birds. My rosebush, growing up a cheap plastic trellis to one side of the porch, was in bloom. The rose had been chosen for smell, not appearance, and I closed my eyes to enjoy it to the fullest. My neighbor, Carlton Cockroft, waved at me from his back porch, and I raised my hand. We knew it was too early to talk to each other. The slope up to the railroad tracks was covered with flowering weeds that were full of bugs of all sizes and dispositions. I didn’t know much about bugs, but I could appreciate their industry and appearance when they weren’t in the house. I watched a butterfly, and a small bee, as each made the rounds of the flowers. When I’d had enough of that, I unrolled the small local paper that I’d gotten from the end of the sidewalk.

MAN STABBED BY STRANGER read the lead headline. I began to read what I assumed was going to be an account of Gerry McClanahan’s murder, which had occurred too late to be featured in yesterday’s paper. Stabbing is rare in Shakespeare, and stabbing by a stranger almost unheard of. Most killings in Shakespeare are male-on-male violence, of the Saturday-night-drinking-binge variety. I was actually shaking my head, anticipating the national news stories about Gerry’s double life, when my eyes caught the name in the story.

Cliff Eggers of 1410 Compton was taken to the hospital late yesterday evening after he said he was stabbed by a stranger, local police stated. Eggers, who has been a resident of Shakespeare for about a year, said he was walking out to his car after dark when an assailant rushed from the hedge to the side of his property. The assailant struck Eggers in the back and ran away. Hampered by a bandaged leg, Eggers did not pursue. At first, Eggers said, he didn’t realize he’d been stabbed. “It just felt like he hit me,” Eggers said. “I called my wife, and she called the police.” A city policeman, Gerry B. McClanahan, was stabbed to death almost to the rear of Eggers’s house two nights before. (See related article, page 2) “We may have a deranged person in the neighborhood, or we may have someone who’s targeted the Eggers household,” said Claude Friedrich, chief of police. “We have every available officer assigned to the case.” Asked if he had any leads in the case, Friedrich responded, “New information is coming in constantly.” Eggers was treated and discharged from Shakespeare Regional Hospital.

I assumed Claude’s comment meant that he didn’t have a clue. Carrie had called me the night before to thank me for cleaning her office. “I knew it was you,” she’d said, “because you always make the magazine stacks so neat.” She’d confessed her regular cleaner had gotten held up, and she was up a creek. But she hadn’t said anything about Cliff Eggers.

Of course, she couldn’t. I could see that now. She couldn’t blab any more about her husband’s business than I could about Jack’s. I was glad, just the same, to see Carrie’s old car parked behind her office. She often came in on Saturday mornings to catch up on paperwork.

“No one in the hospital?” I called as I went in the back door.

“Not a soul, can you believe it?” She came out of her office with a mug in her hand. She was wearing her weekend outfit of cutoffs and T-shirt.

“Not even Cliff Eggers,” I said.

“No, he bled like a stuck pig, but it wasn’t that deep.”

“Where was he cut?” I asked, since Carrie seemed to be in a chatty mood.

“In the back, oddly enough,” Carrie said. “It was a funny kind of wound. Started here,” and she touched a point just above my waist slightly left of my spine, “and ended here,” which turned out to be a spot about midway down my right hip. “It was deeper toward the end.”

“Kind of low for a blow from another man,” I said, after I’d considered it.

“Yes, isn’t it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a knife wound quite like that.”

“Maybe…” I thought for a minute. “Okay, what if Cliff was walking away, and the knifer was swooshing down.” I raised my arm with an imaginary knife in it, and brought the arm down in an arc. “So if Cliff stepped away just then, the end of the knife would slice through the hip, rather than penetrating him higher up by the spine, as it was intended to.”

“Could be. Could be,” Carrie said, looking at my back doubtfully. “Of course, Cliff’s at least six inches taller than you. But still, I would say his assailant had to be shorter than Cliff. Or kneeling, but I can’t quite visualize that.”

I couldn’t either, but it was an interesting idea. “What was Tamsin doing while all this was going on?” I asked, trying to sound casual. I assumed that since Tamsin and Carrie were both in some sense medical professionals, they would know each other, and I was right.

“In the kitchen cooking, she told me,” Carrie said, still staring at my back as if it would tell her the answer.

“I guess she came to the hospital with Cliff.”

“Oh, yeah, as upset as she could possibly be. I don’t know how much longer she’s going to be able to do her job, if things like this keep happening around her. She said something about moving again.”

I looked at Carrie. “What was she wearing?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Ah, a pair of old jeans and an Arkansas Razorbacks T-shirt, seems like.”

“No apron?”

“No. Either she’s one of these women who cooks without, or she pulled it off before she came. Why?” Carrie seemed to realize that this was an odd question.

“Just wondered.” I was relieved when the phone rang, because Carrie once more immersed herself in work. I didn’t want to have to explain to Carrie what I didn’t even want to admit to myself, that I’d been infected with Alicia Stokes’s suspicions. I was wondering if it was my mental health counselor who had stabbed her husband in the back.