David Gates: Preston Falls

She closes the door behind them and leans her back against it. "So what is this about?"

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"Okay, fine, I deserve this," he says. He sits down on the Cosco stool. Rathbone jumps up and puts paws on Willis's thigh. Willis pats his head.

"Do you realize the police are looking for you?"

"Shit, you said you didn't call them."

"I didn't call them now," she says. "I called them Monday. Where have you been? Do you know Melanie ran away to Vermont to look for you?

"What? Where is she? Get down." He pushes at Rathbone's throat; Rathbone sits, tongue out in admiration.

"Well, she's back now. I had to drive to Preston Falls to get her. The police picked her up in Burlington."

"Jesus."

"That was my second trip up there this week. The first time I went up because I thought you might be dead up there. I find you gone, the house deserted, I finally go to the police, who tell me that your truck was found on Hous —"

"Right," he says.

"Well. So that's my story. Short version." She takes a breath, lets it out. "Your turn — no, I take it back, there is more. According to the police, your friend the wood man and your new friend, the lawyer, are big into the drug scene up there. So I got to answer lots of questions about that."

"So what did you say?"

"What did I say? I told them the truth. That I don't know you anymore." She notices she's got her forearms X'd across her breasts, each hand clutching the opposite shoulder. "Okay, now you get to talk."

"I don't have really all that much to say."

"You incredible bastard," she says, and grips her shoulders harder. Her nails dig in.

"No, go lie down." Willis points under the table; Rathbone goes and curls up. "Good dog."

"What were you doing just now?" she says.

"Outside? Looking for the key."

"So you intended to come in."

"I honestly don't know," he says.

"Okay, I don't have time for this." She goes over to the phone. Rathbone gets up, ready for action.

PRESTON FALLS

"What are you doing?" he says.

"Calling a nice man in the Vermont State Police." She jabs One. Eight. Oh. Two. Then checks the yellow Post-it stuck to the phone for the rest. "So he can call off the manhunt.''

"You actually did that," he says.

"'^Iiat did you expect? What would you have done? Captain Petrosky, please."

"Shit," says Willis. "And the kids know about all this?"

"Sorry," says the man on the phone. "He won't be in till Monday. If you'd like to leave a message."

"Yes, if you could tell him that Jean Karnes called. K-a-r-n-e-s. Or actually Jean Willis, you'd better tell him. W-i-1-l-i-s. Would you just tell him that my husband has turned up safely? He'll know what this is about."

"WiUdo."

"Thanks. He has the number." She hangs up. "Sorry," she says to Willis. "You were saying something about the kids?"

"Do they know about all this?"

"All what}'' she says. "They did notice you were missing, yes. Let's see, they've already seen you taken away in handcuffs. . Yeah, I'd say there's not much they don't know. But of course I don't know how much else there is." He's looking at the floor. "I want to know: have you been with somebody? Is that what this is about?"

"GoJ no." The implication being, she gathers, that she's such a bitch it's put him off women for good. "I've just been sort of on the road."

"But they found your truck in the city."

"Right," he says. "Rathbone. Lie? Downnn." Rathbone goes back under the table and flops down. Sighs.

"I don't get it."

"Well," he says, "I took a room."

"A room? But — oh God. Okay, fine. You took a room." She digs the heels of her hands into her eye sockets and rubs. "They itch," she says.

"Are Mel and Roger asleep?"

"Yes. Don't you have any idea what time it is?" She looks at him: he's lost some weight, which he needed to do, and has these bruise-colored pouches under his eyes. He looks exhausted. But otherwise he doesn't seem uncared for. He's let his beard grow in — a little gray, not much — and it looks like he even trims it. Under his jacket he's got these

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garage clothes on, or like janitor clothes, the matching blue shirt and pants. So this must be his new thing: Willis the Working Man. Except wasn't that also his old thing? You can see a little of that look he had, in the cheekbones, the night he said This is very cool. The mouth and eyebrows have never changed.

"Are you okay?" she says. "You're not, are you?"

She comes around behind him — Rathbone jumps up to join in — and kneads his shoulders, digging thumbs into the back of his neck. His head ratchets forward and down as if it's relaxing him, but she can tell he's acting. He doesn't want even this simple service from her hands. She stops and says, "Is there anything I can do?"

"Not at the moment." He pats Rathbone's head. "Go lie down."

"Then what if I do this}'' She makes a claw of her left hand, digs the nails into the back of her right wrist, and claws forward to the knuckles, digging four white furrows with red dots of blood welling.

"Do what?" He hasn't turned around.

"Nothing," she says. Hand doesn't hurt. But it will. "I have to go up and get some socks on."

She goes upstairs to the bathroom, washes the hand off, pats it dry with a towel, smears on triple antibiotic, wraps gauze around and tears off an inch of adhesive tape to hold it. She takes two Advils, which she hopes will be kicking in when the pain starts. She goes into the bedroom, sits down on the bed and just breathes. Slows her breathing.

When she feels steady — steady enough — she gets up, opens her underwear drawer and takes out a pair of white cotton socks and a pair of thick gray wool socks. She looks away (too late) from the black lace teddy she bought at Victoria's Secret one afternoon when she felt like a bad girl at the Galleria, and then never wore for Willis. Right, like that would've made all the difference. She sits on the bed again and pulls on first the cotton socks, then the wool. She puts on her blue cable-knit cardigan over the sweatshirt, and goes back down to the kitchen. Rath-bone gets up to greet her, tail wagging.

"Do you want coffee?" she says. "A drink? Actually, I'm not sure there is anything."

"No, nothing, thanks."

"I'm going to have some tea." She pours the old water out of the kettle and fills it with fresh. "You just missed Carol. She left this morning. Or I guess yesterday, now."

PRESTON FALLS

"Must be synchronicity," he says. She says nothing. "I didn't mean that as a dig." The first outright He — he thinks. "And things are okay at work?"

"Actually," she says, "I may start looking for something else."

He raises his eyebrows. "Really."

"They seem to be cutting back our department," she says. Damned if she's going to spell it out; she hates herself for telling him this much. "They let Jerry go this week."

"Hmm. That's not a good sign," he says.

"No," she says.

"But they haven't come after you."

"Not really," she says. "You know, Marty Katz has been trying to get hold of you."

"Did you speak to him?"

"No. He just left messages."

"Well," he says. "To be expected. I don't know that I can bring myself to go back there. God, what happened to your hand?"

"Nothing," she says. "Scratch." The hand's starting to hurt. "So what would you do? If you didn't go back."

"Yeah, well, that's the thing."

"Shouldn't you touch base with them at least?"

"Probably."

"What happens to us if you don't go back?" she says.

"Yeah, well…" He chews at his lower lip.

"Or is that not something you worry about anymore? Because if it's—"

"Well, you know, yes, I worry.''

"I was going to sayj' she says, "if it's not something that enters your thinking, that's something I should know about."