Stephen White - Blinded

I took a minute to call Alan on my cell to let him know that Carmen, and therefore the Boulder Police Department, knew about the woman in South Bend and that they seemed to have a conduit that ran straight into his office by way of the Crime Stoppers program.

He sounded dismayed at the news. I felt bad for him. The guy’s plate was pretty full.

Carmen and I had been assigned rooms right next to each other; they even had a pair of those odd connecting doors between them, as though the desk clerk thought it might be fun to tempt me with trespassing all night long.

She sang soulful songs as she prepared to sleep. Except for my shoes I was still fully dressed, and I lay on the bed as motionless as I could so that the bed wouldn’t squeal and I wouldn’t miss a muted note. I was almost certain that I’d never heard any of the songs she was singing before in my life.

That, I thought, was fitting. It seemed that all the melodies I’d heard since she sat down opposite me in the Marriott were composed of fresh notes.

Except for the disco.

She sang three songs, paused, I guessed, to brush her teeth, and then sang one more tune, something so full of lament that it brought tears to my eyes about Simon and Sherry and the holidays and my heart. I thought of Lauren and the fears that enveloped her, and even of Gibbs and what her life was going to be like when the dust settled, and I shed a tear for her as well.

I fell asleep right like that with my clothes on and woke at one-thirty, stripped in the dark, brushed my teeth, and fell back into bed. I listened for a while to the silence, pretended I could hear the soft percussion of Carmen’s breathing through the walls, and replayed the songs I’d heard only once a short while before, and they worked for me once again like lullabies. I was back to sleep before two and stayed that way until she pounded on my door at a quarter to eight.

When Carmen busted me awake, she’d torn me from a dream about the Wolf sisters and their mostly cooked turducken. The details of the dream evaporated instantly, but I woke thinking that if I inhaled deeply enough, I would be able to smell the intertwined birds roasting in an Ochlockonee, Georgia, oven. A deep breath and a quick look around the room brought me back to the reality that all I was smelling was the stale smoke of some inconsiderate fool’s Marlboros.

I chided myself for my juvenile romantic fantasies all through breakfast. What had I been thinking?

Whatever intimacies I had imagined the night before had disappeared with the darkness. If we’d been flirting at midnight, we weren’t flirting anymore. Carmen played nothing but business at breakfast, and I ran along next to her, trying hard just to keep up. I returned to the buffet line in the motel’s little breakfast room a couple of times, not just to get more food, but also to get a break from her intensity. The meal wasn’t bad; I ate yogurt and fruit and Cheerios with nonfat milk. After two cups of decaf I switched to regular coffee. If the morning was any indication what our day was going to be like, I was going to need some rocket fuel to match her pace.

My cardiologist would just have to understand.

“What do you know about Sterling and Holly? Their relationship?” Carmen asked me when I indicated I was done eating by pushing the plastic cereal bowl and the plastic spoon away from me. I thought that her saying “Sterling and Holly” was particularly ironic; it managed to make the two of them sound like they were the cute couple that’d been crowned king and queen at the Homecoming Dance.

But Carmen’s question caused me take a sharp breath, too. Or maybe it wasn’t the question; it was the answer I was about to give. “They were having an affair,” I said. Which was exactly what I’d been thinking about doing the night before. I tasted hypocrisy with my next sip of coffee.

I don’t like hypocrisy in others. I hate it in myself. Hate it.

“Yeah, but that’s not enough. When I talked to her yesterday, she was obviously upset that I knew about her and Sterling. If all the two of them did was mess around a couple of times, why would she be so upset? She’s not married, so what did she do that was so wrong, other than show some bad judgment by sleeping with a married guy? That particular sin is committed about a million times a day in this country.”

It couldn’t have been clearer if she’d been shouting at me. Carmen was announcing to me that she’d almost made the exact same mistake eight hours or so before and that she wasn’t feeling particularly good about how close she’d come to yielding to the temptation.

But I didn’t see the issue she was describing with Holly Malone. “I don’t know that it’s that confusing. She’s Catholic. She’s Irish. She has a young kid. She lives in a small town. Maybe she’s the guilty type, or maybe she’s just afraid of scandals. Most people don’t like to be reminded of their indiscretions. Or-wait, better-she met him through her work, right? Maybe there’s a Fighting Irish Sports Information Office prohibition against sleeping with people they’re doing business with. She’s scared of losing her job.”

“That’s possible. It sounds Catholic enough. But I think there’s something more than that going on.”

“Why does there have to be something more than that?”

“There doesn’t have to be, Sam. There just is. I feel it. Who did you call last night?”

“What?”

“The second you stepped into your room, you made a phone call. Why? What was so important? Who was it?”

I sat back and felt my man-boobs jiggle beneath my shirt. It was clear that I wasn’t making much progress on the man-boobs segment of my self-improvement program. I tried to look her in the eyes, but I couldn’t quite corral her gaze. “Are we on those kinds of terms, Carmen? Where you can ask me who I call on the phone?”

She sat back, and her boobs jiggled beneath her shirt a little bit, too-although it was an altogether different phenomenon. “You’re right, you’re right. I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m sorry.”

She had been asking me something, but she had been telling me something, too. What did I conclude? I concluded that she was telling me that her songs the night before had been a private concert just for me. I chewed on that. “The shrink who called you about the Storeys? The one you met in Boulder? He’s a friend of mine.”

“I know,” she said.

She knew a lot about me.

She hadn’t looked back at me since her intrusive question about the phone call. I said, “I called him. He has a… problem. I had an idea that I thought might help him with it. So how do you want to play this with Holly later this morning?”

She finally looked back up at me. She smiled. “If you’re up to it, I’d like you to talk to her. Yesterday didn’t go too well on the phone with me and her. You can start fresh. Is that okay?” My eyes were locked on her smile. There was nothing wrong with her teeth. They weren’t crooked. They weren’t yellow. They were just fine.

“That’s okay,” I said.

She was talking to herself more than she was talking to me.

“Twenty-two pounds. Dinner’s at four. I’d like the bird out of the oven by three, maybe a little after. Eighteen to twenty minutes a pound-that’s because it’s stuffed, otherwise it would be only fifteen. That means five hours, give or take, so I need to get this in the oven-oh my God!-in the next few minutes. Aaaagh.”

Holly Malone was kind of cute. She would be the darling kid in the sitcom-the one you really liked, the one with the charm. Pretty, but not the kind of drop-dead-beautiful that made me nervous. Like Gibbs.

I was enjoying watching her flit around her little linoleum-tiled kitchen searching for utensils and roasting pans and ingredients that it was apparent she hadn’t laid a hand on in months. Or longer. But she possessed enough enthusiasm for an entire cheerleading squad, and her positive energy was better for my heart than anything I’d run across recently.