BARBARAANNETTE SAID, PULLING THE sweater sleeve over Hilde’s arm, “Do you ever think you’re a bad person?”
Toagie reached in through the cuff, grasped her mother’s hand, and pulled it through. Hilde, sitting on the edge of the bed, had fallen into one of her slack-faced reveries.
“I’m not bad,” Toagie said, a slight whine entering her voice. She pulled the body of the sweater up and over Hilde’s head, worked it down her torso. “Do you think I’m bad?”
“That’s not what I meant.” Barbaraannette looked into her mother’s face. “Hilde? You there?”
Hilde smiled dreamily.
Barbaraannette said, “What I mean is, do you ever think you’re a bad person?”
“I’m not a bad person,” Toagie said.
“But if you were? What if you were, say, a rapist. Do you think you would think that you were bad? Or would you think that you were a good person who just happens to be a rapist?”
“I would think I was the scum of the earth and I’d kill myself.”
“But they don’t.”
“Barbaraannette, I’m a little worried about you.” She grasped her mother’s arm. “Come on, Hilde, let’s stand you up.”
Hilde rose unsteadily. “Are we going back to the hotel?”
“Mary Beth is picking you up.”
Brittany, who had once again removed her doll’s head, crawled out from beneath the bed. “I’m bad,” she said, grinding the headless torso into the carpet. “I’m scum of the earth.”
The doorbell rang.
“Are you all right?” Art heard the shaking in his voice.
“I’m fine.” Barbaraannette looked past him. “I thought you were Mary Beth.”
“No. I’m not.”
“That’s good.”
They regarded one another, standing on either side of the open doorway. Why are the moments of my life so damned awkward, Art wondered. He said, “I just wanted to be sure you were okay. I heard Dale Gordon got hurt.”
“He’ll be all right. Do you want to come in?” She tipped her head to the side and stepped back, making room.
Art stepped inside. The house smelled of baking bread. He said, “Now that the police are involved, I suppose you won’t need that loan.”
Barbaraannette’s mouth tightened. “Nothing has changed. The man will still want his money.”
“Yes, but—”
“Listen to me, Art. I appreciate your advice, but I’m on the edge here. I just need you to do your job. Do you understand?”
Art felt a streak of ill-advised stubbornness assert itself. “No I don’t,” he said. “Barbaraannette, I am not going to let you do this. I’m sorry. It’s wrong, and you could be hurt, and I won’t be a party to it. And that’s that.” Art looked down, half expecting to see his words lying shattered on the floor.
“You’re not going to let me?” Barbaraannette said.
Art heard Toagie Carlson’s voice. “Who is it, Barbaraannette?”
Barbaraannette turned her head slightly and raised her voice. “It’s the banker.”
Toagie appeared in the hall doorway with Hilde Grabo in tow and her daughter—Art couldn’t remember the child’s name—wrapped around her legs. “Art the forecloser,” Toagie said.
“We’re not foreclosing,” Art said.
Barbaraannette said, “What do you mean, you won’t ‘let me’?”
“I won’t do it. The police are involved now. Let them handle it.”
“The police don’t know anything, and neither do you. There was blood on the floor.”
“There…what?”
“There was blood in the basement of that house. Bobby could be hurt. Or worse.”
Art hesitated, then shook his head. “All the more reason to let the police handle it.”
“It’s my money.”
“I won’t help you buy back your marriage.”
“My marriage is none of your business.”
“Damn it, Barbaraannette, I want to help you!” His hands moved toward her.
Barbaraannette stepped back out of his reach; her face morphed, each feature realigning itself, searching for a new position. Art’s heart lifted for a moment, seeing the change as a softening, but once the transformation was complete he knew he was in trouble. Her eyebrows dropped and came together, her nostrils flared.
“Then do as I ask.”
Art raised his chin. “I won’t help you hurt yourself.”
Barbaraannette’s voice went thick and low. “Then go away. Go back to your little desk. I’ll call Nate and I’ll get the money anyway.”
“I’ll call the police,” Art said, having no other cards to play.
Barbaraannette’s lip curled. “Go on, get out of my house. I don’t need your kind of help. I don’t even like you. And if you call the police I’ll put a reward out on you, too, you self-righteous marathon-running son of a bitch!”
Toagie clapped her hands over her. daughter’s ears. Art brought his arms across his belly as if he’d been punched. He’d never seen Barbaraannette like this. He’d never seen the vein that popped out on her forehead, or the way her eyes became hard rectangles. Backing toward the door he said, or heard himself say, “Barbaraannette, when this is all over, whatever happens, I’d like to take you out to dinner.”
“Why? So you can order for me? So you can help me eat?”
Art turned and walked out. Just before the door slammed he heard Hilde call out, “Good night, Arthur.”
I am a good person, Barbaraannette thought. It’s just this one little thing I have, this Bobby thing.
Toagie, still gripping Britty’s head between her hands, said, “Jeez Louise. What happened?”
Barbaraannette, still shaking, sat down on the sofa.
Toagie said, “I always thought he was one of the quiet ones.” Britty squirmed free.
Barbaraannette shook her head. “He’s as bad as the rest of them.”
“Arthur’s a good boy,” said Hilde.
“I hate him. Give me a cigarette.”
“Uh-uh.” Toagie released Britty and clamped her hand protectively over her purse. “You’re not gonna start smoking again, not on me.”
Barbaraannette struck her thighs with her fists and began to pace, her shoes making hissing sounds on the carpet. “I’m going to do something. I swear to God, Toag, I’m going to have to do something.” She stopped, took her lower lip between her teeth and bit until she tasted blood. “Damn that Dale Gordon. Damn Mary Beth. Why is this happening to me? Why me? This is all that Art Dobbleman’s fault.”
Toagie, Britty, and Hilde were all staring at her as if she’d turned purple.
“What are you looking at?” Barbaraannette snapped.
Hilde whispered something to Toagie, then turned her V-shaped little-old-lady smile on Barbaraannette.
“What did she say,” Barbaraannette demanded to know.
Toagie essayed a nervous laugh. “She wants to know if you’re going to go out with him.”
Barbaraannette turned an incredulous look upon her mother, then felt something give way and began to laugh. Toagie and Hilde both started laughing, too, with Brittany not far behind. When Mary Beth walked in a minute later they were still giggling, wiping their eyes.
“Well?” she asked.
Barbaraannette said, “Nothing M.B. We were just talking about boys.”
Mary Beth said, “I swear, Barbaraannette, winning that lottery has made you soft in the head.”
This sent Toagie and Hilde into a second fit of laughter. Mary Beth pushed her chin forward. She said, “Come along, Mother. I’m taking you back to Crestview.”
Complete thoughts refused to form. Images, snatches of conversation barked at him, pestered him like biting flies. Art walked past his car, knowing it was there but unable to make his legs slow their chopping walk, hearing the sound of his wingtips on the sidewalk wet with melting snow—thick thick thick—and wind rasping the rough fabric of his coat. He leaned forward, let his knees flex. Walking melted into running. He should not be doing this now, not with his long wool coat and his dress shoes, not with Barbaraannette hating him and his job in jeopardy. I don’t even like you, she had said. Hard composite heels, thin socks. Each step sent a shock wave up his spine, tiny explosions at the base of his skull. Why not just get her the money? Go back and apologize and then get back on the phone and get the cash up here and let her pay off the kidnapper or whatever he was and wait for Bobby to leave her again then move in. But now she hated him and nothing he did would matter, so why should he help? And who was he refusing to help? Barbaraannette or Bobby? Did she really not like him?
He let the thoughts go for a few seconds and sank into the rhythm of the run, coattails flapping. Had he really asked her out to dinner? A wry smile came, lasted for two strides, fell away. Desperate people do strange things. He sped up to what felt like an eight-minute pace. For the next half mile he forced himself to consider the fact that she had not, technically, said no.