The rumor the Dwellers had shared about the National Guard was true. Soldiers in uniform arrived the day after the insurance men and posted at the major entry points to downtown. Barton crossed the Post Street Bridge and at the end of it found himself waiting in a line with other men. When he got to the front, a corporal who looked about sixteen and dreadfully sweaty in his wool uniform asked him his purpose for entering the downtown area. Barton explained who he was. The boy soldier nodded and filled out a pass with Barton’s name and occupation. He was instructed to show it from then on at any of the checkpoints and he’d be let through. Barton thanked him and didn’t notice until he looked at the pass a few blocks later that all the information on it was misspelled. It read “Barron Hayhell. Barker.”
At the bank, the Dwellers were already there, laughing and comparing their own pass cards. They’d come through a checkpoint on First Street, where the line was short—likely, Barton thought, because the guard was even more inept than the child he’d encountered at the bridge. Del’s card identified him as Daniel. His occupation, vaguely, but not incorrectly: “Assistant.” Jim’s, however, was merely a scribble, a symbol of some sort that the brothers speculated about, but that Barton saw right away as a lopsided dollar sign. Jim then wondered if this was to indicate that he worked at the bank (obviously), or that he was a wealthy man who should be allowed to go where he pleased in the city. Normally, Barton would have put an end to such stupid talk, but on this morning he chuckled alongside them. He was energized by his new work, and it made him generous with his kindness and good feelings.
He worked again at the teller’s desk cashing insurance checks. He grew confident, his explanation for the banknotes swift. He said it with a smile and most people smiled back because that’s how smiles work. Though some seemed confused, no one complained.
Barton did wonder, though, what was happening to his notes once they left the bank. Were merchants accepting them? He wanted to see for himself. He took a midmorning break and walked to a newsstand to buy a paper. The stand used to be made of wood, but it had burned and was now a small tent. Almost all downtown businesses were operating out of such tents, even ones that had not suffered from the fire. Tents, it seemed, were fashionable.
The news tent had two young women wedged inside. An assortment of other goods Barton could not remember the old stand selling were laid out on a desk before them: hairbrushes, belt buckles, three taxidermic mice. He took a copy of the daily paper and gave the woman nearest a note for one dollar. She looked at it, then turned to the other woman. “It’s another of these things,” she said. The other woman just nodded, then the first made change and Barton left smiling.
His good mood didn’t last. On his walk back to work, he saw someone who made him very uncomfortable. She was two blocks away and with her back to him, but there was no mistake. She was as familiar to him as if she were his own mother.
It was Roslyn, not dead at all.
His first instinct was to hide. But of course she wasn’t looking for him, probably wasn’t thinking anything of him. That is, unless someone had asked her about him. The police, say.
Barton felt it was best to get out ahead of the problem. He ran as fast as his body would allow, overtaking Roslyn while she waited to cross the street at the corner of Second Avenue. He tapped her on the shoulder to get her attention, but then the strain of his exertion forced him to bend over, holding his knees for support until his breath returned.
“I thought maybe you died,” he said, by way of a greeting.
She gave him a squinty look. He knew what he’d said was rude, or at the very least strange. But now was not a time for niceties.
“Is your hair different from the last time I saw you?” she asked.
“No. It was like this already.”
“I think I would have remembered something like that,” she said, then, “Why did you think I died?”
“In the fire. I heard a person died. I thought it might be you.”
Here, her expression changed, her eyes wide, almost pleading.
“Who? Who died? Do you know who it was?”
“No. I thought it was you, like I said.”
“But it wasn’t me.” She was crying a little now. Barton hadn’t anticipated this. He felt he was losing control of the situation.
“Have you spoken to anyone since the fire?” he asked. “Anyone official?”
“What do you mean, official?”
“The police? The firemen? The National Guard? Just for example.”
“No. Why would I speak to any of them?”
Barton had to scramble for a lie. He repeated what he had heard from the policeman who’d addressed the crowd at Wolfe’s: that shelter was being made available for those who’d lost their homes to the fire. Was she in need of such shelter?
At this, Roslyn nodded. She wiped at her eyes and drew a deep breath. She said she’d spent the past couple of nights with an acquaintance on the South Hill, but didn’t know the woman well and wasn’t sure how long she’d be welcome. She told Barton if there was a place set up for people to stay, she’d likely go there instead.
“Is it just a matter of visiting the police station?” she asked.
Barton felt his throat tighten. How to now get out of the trap he’d sprung on himself? By continuing to pretend it was her he was worried about, not himself.
He shook his head and told her he didn’t think she should stay at such a place. That it was, in fact, the very situation he was trying to warn her against.
“The police are saying the fire might be arson or an accident of negligence and that there is an investigation to determine who’s responsible,” Barton said. “Aren’t you worried you might be a suspect?”
This nearly doubled the poor woman over once more. “A suspect? I hadn’t thought . . . but, oh. Maybe I should go to the police, then. If there’s any information I could provide.”
Barton noticed her speech was quicker than usual. He was used to waiting a long time for her to answer questions, and then only sometimes getting the answer he actually asked for. He wondered if she had not yet been able to drink that morning.
“They won’t believe you,” he said. “Whatever you tell them, they’ll assume it’s a lie.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because of your profession,” Barton said. “People always assume the worst.”
“It’s true,” Roslyn said. “I’ve been blamed for things before. People think poorly of women like me. What should I do?” She was crying a little again.
“I don’t know,” he said. “But you ought to make other plans about where to stay. Someplace where you can lay low for a while.”
“Where?” she asked. “I don’t have any real friends.”
“You can stay at my house,” he said.
Roslyn nodded a frantic yes. She dabbed her eyes with her sleeve and gave a little smile. This eagerness made Barton feel sad for her. Her desperation and lonesomeness were so acute. But he also felt pleased. And just a little horny. Like he held some bit of power over her—the power to invoke fear, and then, magically, to relieve it.
“Okay, let’s go,” he said.
They didn’t speak again until they reached the house. Barton opened the door and ushered Roslyn into his parlor.
“It’s nice and cool in here,” she said.
Barton agreed it was.
“I think you’ll find the house is always a very pleasant temperature,” he added. But after that, he didn’t know what to say. It was the first time he had ever had another person inside his home.
“Would it be all right if I sit?” Roslyn asked, and Barton realized the thing to do when a woman comes to your house is to escort her to a chair and offer her something to drink, especially if she’s just endured a long hot walk. But she said, “No, thank you, I’ve got my own,” and pulled a flask from the recesses of her boot.
“Would you like some?” she asked.
Barton had never drunk with Roslyn before. He was always in the middle of his workday when he saw her and thought it imprudent to return to the bank smelling of alcohol. But now he accepted. He went and got two glasses from the kitchen and held them out while Roslyn poured. The liquid that emerged from the flask was a milky gray color.
“What is it?” he asked, seating himself in a chair opposite her.
Roslyn only smiled, then drank. Barton drank too. It smelled chemical, but the taste was musky, like an animal. It was very strong and he could feel the effect right away. He understood why she spent all her time sleeping if this was what she drank.
“I have to go to work,” he said, standing up for fear that if he didn’t, he would sink into the chair and never leave it. “You’re free to do as you like here until I get back.” Then, he looked around for ideas of how a woman in his home might entertain herself. “There are some books,” he offered, pointing to the shelf behind him. That was all he could think of.
Roslyn nodded, but in a way that suggested she had no intention of reading. Her eyes had already drifted from Barton to other parts of the room, sizing things up, perhaps. What would she do in his absence, he wondered. Still, he’d said he should go and that was true, so he left. But once outside, he found his sense of unease did not diminish.
This woman he’d invited into his home, Barton thought, was someone he’d known for six years, but really hardly knew at all. What had he done, bringing her there? She was a prostitute. She was in his house, alone. She could do damage. Rob him. Then run to the police and tell the whole sordid story—that she knew a man who’d been at the hotel the day of the fire, and for some reason he’d tried to shut her up about it.
But no, Roslyn would not do this. She wasn’t cunning or quick enough to see through to his true intentions. He was certain he’d spooked her so badly, she would not leave the house on her own. And who else would ever come to his home to find her? Roslyn could stay safely kept away there as long as he wanted. Forever, if need be.