WELL, THE DEAD AROSE AND APPEARED TO MANY,” Gerry said when he saw her. He looked even smaller and older than he had the last time she’d clapped eyes on him. He looked thinner too; he was almost see-through.
Gerry was surprised to see her. Her work attendance had been nothing if not erratic. But there had never been much of a job to her job, and nothing for her to do there all day long. She’d just sit, all by herself, surrounded by useless strips of film that were trapped in dusty plastic canisters waiting for borrowers who never came—unless, of course, George came in and managed to get right up on her last nerve by going through the incredibly lengthy exercise of telling her every single solitary detail of the 1946 version of The Big Sleep, or all about Orson Welles in Touch of Evil, or about The Big Heat, and on and on and on and on, each telling of the film taking as long as it would to watch the actual movie. George would talk about “frails” and “stacks of wheats” and “throwing a Joe” and “spondulix” until Maureen thought her head would explode from the toxic mix of confusion and boredom.
But this time, of course, there was no George to be seen, only Gerry. Maureen had never understood why, but for some reason, Gerry liked her—not like that, not her parts, but her altogether—something about the her-ness of her Gerry liked, and that’s why the whole job charade had been allowed to go on as long as it had and why every week Maureen got a small pay packet from the provincial Department of Education. It was all thanks to Gerry.
“Gerry, I just came in to tell you that I’m quittin’.”
“Oh yes, I was wondering when the stress of your high-powered position was going to catch up with you.”
Maureen didn’t laugh. “Don’t be mocking me, Gerry. I know I haven’t been showing up that much lately and I’m still drawing down a salary, and it’s wrong, I think. It’s not right anyway, and I’m here to officially quit my job . . . Really, to tell you the truth, I just came in because I had nowhere else to go.”
Gerry looked at her with real concern.
“And I’m trying to put things right in my life before I get—” Maureen almost said “arrested.” She hadn’t known before she came down but she realized now that she was longing to get some stuff in her life straightened out. She wanted to get right with whatever part of her world she could get right with, although she couldn’t really do anything about Carleen, and she was no closer to finding out what really happened to Bo, and the baby . . . well . . . and the cops thought she was a suspect because of all the domestic abuse calls they’d received—but Maureen knew that the cops weren’t retarded and must know that she couldn’t truss up someone the size of Bo and get him into the trunk of his car, but maybe they thought she’d had help or something, and let’s face it, the chlordane—
“Before you get what?” Gerry said.
“Before I go away for a while, maybe. It could be a long while, I don’t know. I’m just trying to tie up some loose ends. Well, this is the only loose end really, other than saying goodbye to Kathleen.”
“Goodbye?” Gerry asked, looking really concerned now.
“Not goodbye ‘forever’ goodbye. Just like, you know, goodbye for now.”
Gerry, somewhat mollified by that answer, asked, “How are you planning to get by without even the job?” He paused. “I know it’s none of my business, but if you are going to put things right in your life, you’re going to have to get rid of Brutus . . . Are you listening to me, Olive Oyl?” Gerry always called Maureen Olive Oyl because of her skinny legs and said Bo was a real Brutus—and not just the comic book one either.
“I already did get rid of him,” Maureen said. Oh God, what was she saying? “No, I, I, I didn’t, but somebody did . . . Did you hear about that buddy that they found up on The Brow in the trunk of his car? That was Bo.”
Maureen tried to look as she imagined someone might look if they’d lost someone they lived with, lost them in a sudden and violent way. She wasn’t sure about a lot of the looks she was putting on lately; she didn’t have much to base them on. Mostly, she copied her more tragic, heartbroken, shattered expressions from TV, but really there wasn’t a whole wealth of looks on TV for a young woman to copy. You couldn’t very well stand around wailing and bawling clownishly like Lucille Ball all day, not that much happened to Kitten on Father Knows Best, and Mrs. Cleaver’s expression on Leave It to Beaver never changed anyway and who else was there? Most of the faces she put on lately were based loosely on Miss Kitty, the barmaid/working girl from Gunsmoke.
“Well, it couldn’t happen to a nicer guy,” said Gerry, and then he caught himself and quickly made the sign of the cross. “God forgive me. He was somebody’s son. But the way he brutalized you, my dear. Now, now, no crocodile tears, you are well out of that.”
“I’m just crying ’cause I’ll miss you, Gerry.”
“Oh, my dear,” Gerry said, putting his arm around her, “you didn’t see that much of me at the best of times. With your work attendance the way it was, I doubt if you’ll even notice a difference now that you’re officially quit. Maybe we’ll actually see more of you. I’m always here if you need something.”
Maureen turned to go, feeling like she was leaving her last safe place, maybe her only safe place.
“Have you seen George?” Gerry asked her.
“What? He’s not here?” Maureen said innocently.
“No, he didn’t come in today. Taking a page out of your book, seems like.”