Stephen White - Blinded

I was also enjoying being in a kitchen on Thanksgiving morning, getting the opportunity to be a spectator at an event that I’d been privileged to witness almost every year of my life since I was old enough to remember. I was surrounded by tradition; the countertops in Holly’s kitchen were upholstered with celery and onions and broth and butter and parsley and dried bread crumbs and a big fat naked turkey, and for a moment all was right in my world.

I looked at the clock that hung on the wall by the door that led from the kitchen to the living room, which was where Carmen Reynoso was waiting while I was doing my best to bond with Holly. The clock read ten-fifty. I did some arithmetic, considered for a moment the consequences of keeping my mouth shut, and said, “Relax, Holly. Dinner won’t be until six-thirty or seven. Maybe later. You have all day.”

“What are you talking about?” she said playfully. She thought I was teasing. “Everyone’s coming shortly after two. Dinner’s at four, promptly. My sister’s husband Artie would have a fit if he thought his meal would be even a minute tardy.” Holly had a trace of an accent of some kind that caused her to elevate the last syllables of her words as though she really, really liked them. The accent was cute, too.

I was having a very good time.

Reluctantly, I explained the turkey dilemma. “Twenty-two pounds at twenty minutes a pound is exactly seven hours and twenty minutes of cooking time, not five hours give or take. That sounds like a long time to me, but what do I know about turkeys? If you stick it in the oven right this second-and you and I know that’s not going to happen-then that bird won’t be coming back out of the oven until almost six o’clock this evening.”

She froze and stared at me as though I had screamed at her not to move, she had a tarantula on her nose. I could tell she was using the interlude to check my facility with numbers.

“Oh my God,” she whispered. “Oh my God!”

“What can I do to help, Holly?” I asked. “Chop something?”

Her shoulders dropped. She put a devilish look on her face and said, “Can you go and arrest Artie for something or other? Throw him in the slammer for a while? That’d slow him down.”

Half an hour later the bird was finally in the oven, and Holly and I were sipping fresh coffee at her linoleum-topped, chrome-framed kitchen table.

“This is going to be the kids’ table later on,” she told me. “This and an old card table from the basement.”

“I like the kids’ table,” I said. “Conversation’s usually better.”

She sighed and looked at the clock. “I was a math major at Williams. I swear I was,” she said.

I assumed that Williams was one of those eastern colleges that I was supposed to recognize by reputation. I didn’t. I’d gone to St. Cloud State and didn’t hang a whole lot with kids who didn’t.

I said, “Thanksgiving meals never happen on time. It’s part of the whole tradition. Don’t worry. If Artie gives you any trouble about it, he’s a jerk. Dinner will be wonderful.”

“Artie is a jerk. I don’t know what the heck my sister was thinking. She has this thing for anal men.”

I saw my opening. “Don’t be so hard on her. We all make decisions in relationships that we’d like to do over. I know I’ve made a few. I bet you have, too.”

She was staring into her mug. “Yeah,” she said, “I have.” She stood, walked over to the oven, and peered in on the bird. She and I both knew it was just as pale as it had been ten minutes before. And she and I both knew that she was getting some distance from me. We were getting a little too close for Holly’s comfort.

I pulled the photo of Brian Miles from my pocket. “You know this guy?”

She took a serious look at it before she said no.

My first reaction was that I believed her. I reminded myself that that didn’t mean she was telling the truth.

“Sure? He hasn’t been around?”

“I’m sure. Who is he?”

“Not important.”

She moved some things around on the counter. Finally, she said, “This is where we talk about Sterling, isn’t it?”

“Stuffing’s made, turkey’s in the oven, the first round of dishes is done. Coffee’s hot. Guests won’t be here for hours. It’s probably as good a time as any.”

“I should check on my son.”

“He’s fine. Detective Reynoso loves kids.” Or she hates kids. Or she can take or leave kids. I didn’t know. All I knew was that she’d managed to keep one alive until the kid was in college.

“You’re sure?”

“I am.”

“Is Sterling dead? The papers say he’s dead.”

“I was down in Georgia a couple of days ago. They think he’s dead. Me? I’m not convinced.” I went into a long explanation about the Reverend Prior and the Wolf sisters, the precise order they all arrived at the bridge over the Ochlockonee during that terrible storm, and I even slid into a little digression about the turducken that had already been in the Wolf sisters’ oven for over half a day.

I could almost taste it right that second.

Holly was much more curious about the construction of the turducken than she was in the logistics involved in Sterling’s fall into the Ochlockonee River. At her behest I did my best to explain the precise way a creative butcher nested the birds together like a set of those weird little Russian dolls that fit inside one another.

“Artie wouldn’t like it,” she said. “All those meats in the same meal? He likes to keep his foods completely separate on his plate.” The thought of disappointing Artie made her smile.

“Do you know about the other women?” I asked. Enough about poultry, enough about Artie. If I was still around when Artie showed up, he and I were going to have a chat.

She gestured at the morning newspaper. “I don’t believe it. I don’t believe what I’ve been reading. It’s just-it just can’t be true. Not Sterling.” She’d been waiting for me to ask the question about Sterling and didn’t spare a second in answering it.

“You don’t believe it?”

She looked at me, which was good. Her eyes were tight with something; I wasn’t sure what. She said, “Sterling is… pretty, I mean-God, who am I kidding-he’s really gorgeous and… he’s… smooth. You know, he’s not the Sylvester Stallone macho-type guy, he’s more like a short-God, I probably shouldn’t say that. Oh, what the hell-he’s like a short version of George Clooney. Sterling’s really charming, not the kind of guy I usually meet through the-” She stopped herself.

“Yeah?”

She went on firmly. “He wouldn’t kill anybody. No, no. Sterling is just not that type of guy. I know men. I do.”

I whispered a prayer of gratitude for the opening. “So what type of guy is he, Holly?”

I’d been traveling for four days plus through I’d-lost-count-of-how-many-states hoping to get the answer to that question. And now here it was. I was about to hear what kind of guy Sterling Storey was, what kind of guy could cheat on a woman like Gibbs over and over again.

Holly’s phone rang. It was her sister, Artie’s wife.

“You got my message?” Holly said, stepping away from me across the kitchen. “Is Artie going crazy with the delay?” She raised a finger to warn me that she was going to need a minute.

I stood and poked my head into the living room. Carmen had Holly’s son in her lap. She was reading him Christmas stories. I recognized a funny little book that I always read to Simon over the holidays called Bialosky’s Christmas . Simon thought Bialosky was one terrific bear, which was something I never really understood.

Carmen’s storytelling style was full of melody, and she imbued each character with a distinct voice. She was making it sound as if one of Bialosky’s friends was from the barrio. Carmen was good. I listened for half a minute, but only with the periphery of my awareness. Front and center? I was replaying the last few moments with Holly.