Neil paced the length of the room, lecturing, “I asked myself aloud, ‘What would Mark like? What would
really
do the job for him?’ Numerous possibilities came to mind. Maybe a trip alone together, the classic second honeymoon. But that seemed too ‘planned’—the moment we arrived, the pressure would be on.”
With a grimace, I concurred, “Performance anxiety.”
“Right. Who needs it? So then I thought, What if I confront him with the prospect of sex—”
“Lovemaking,” I corrected him.
He rephrased, “What if I confront him with the prospect of lovemaking somewhere unexpected? Somewhere off-limits, even dangerous?”
I sat up again. Warily, I asked, “Like where?”
“Like…one of our offices.”
I shook my head. “Performance anxiety.”
“Right. I knew that wouldn’t fly. Besides, having already
told
you about it, I could never really
surprise
you with it.”
“Surprise, then, is a necessary element of the formula?” Our discussion was getting a tad academic. Facetiously, I wondered if I ought to take notes.
“Well,
yes
,” he explained, as if tutoring a naive pupil. “On Thursday morning, had you told me, ‘When you return from your run, Neil, meet me in the kitchen, and if no one interrupts us, I’ll pop your load with a gym towel’—well, I doubt if the whole experience would have had the same impact.”
I conceded, “You raise a valid point…”
“So, yes, the element of surprise is crucial.”
“Which means, you can tell me nothing?”
“I can tell you plenty.” He sat next to me. “But I can’t tell you everything.”
I ticked off, “No trips, no office sex, no performance anxiety. Hmm. Where does that leave us?”
He tapped his noggin. “Massage.”
My brows arched. “That’s intriguing.”
His brows arched. “I thought it might punch your buttons.”
“Okay, what
about
massage?”
He weighed his words. “It involves a fantasy experience with an erotic masseur.”
I couldn’t help smiling. “You certainly
have
punched my buttons.” From what he’d told me, I assumed he’d arranged something with a service, possibly from Milwaukee or even Chicago. Some beefy guy (or guys) had been screened, approved, and hired to travel north to pleasure me (or us) in inventive ways with highly trained manipulative skills. I was already aroused, just imagining the possibilities, the configurations, the logistics. “Are the plans made yet?”
He rose. “They are.” And he moved to the French doors.
Trying to stall his departure, I pleaded, “Tell me more.”
Before slipping back into the bedroom for his morning shower, he said, “Who, where, and when—those are the elements of surprise.”
He paused to smile, and then he was gone.
Showered, dressed, and at last ready for the day, Neil and I went downstairs together and entered the kitchen. It was around nine o’clock.
Barb and Roxanne were both slumped at the kitchen table. Barb gulped a Diet Coke; Roxanne sipped coffee. Barb chomped on a bagel; Roxanne was slabbing one with cream cheese. Neither woman was looking her best that morning, so I refrained from commenting on their breakfast.
“Morning, ladies,” I cheerioed from the doorway.
“Hi, Rox. Morning, Barb,” said Neil, his greetings overlapping mine.
They both turned to look at us, bleary-eyed. I could understand Barb’s fatigue—she was up late cleaning after the party had ended—but Roxanne’s lassitude had me stumped.
Stepping to the counter to pour coffee for Neil and me, I blabbed, “Wonderful job last night, Barb. I heard nothing but raves all evening.”
“Did you notice what disappeared first? My black-trumpet spread.” Barb winked at Roxanne, as if proving a point.
Roxanne obliged, “It was fabulous,” but her voice carried little enthusiasm. If I hadn’t known better, I’d assume she’d been drinking. I’d never seen her so haggard during her sober years, but then, I rarely saw her this early in the day.
Sitting at the table, Neil asked, “What’s wrong, Rox? I didn’t notice when you slipped away to bed. Was it late?”
“No, actually.” With the fingers of one hand, she tried to do something with her hair, but her efforts proved insufficient. “I was tired all day, so I went upstairs well before midnight. Then I couldn’t sleep.”
Carrying the two mugs of coffee to the table, I joined the others. “Sorry if we kept you up. I should have done something about the music.”
“No, Mark. It wasn’t that. I’ve had a lot on my mind.”
“And you’ve been
trying
to talk to us about it.” Again I apologized, “Sorry.”
Neil said, “If you’re in the mood, we’re all ears.”
Roxanne and Barb glanced at each other, giving the clear impression that they’d just covered the topic that was still a point of speculation to Neil and me. Awkwardly, Barb rose from the table, saying, “I have some things to do upstairs. Need to set up my music room.”
“Oh?” said Neil. “Sounds as if you had a productive conversation with Whitney Greer last night.”
“Very.” Barb threw her Coke can into the trash, placed her glass in the sink. “He gave me the names of two fine clarinetists who might be willing to take me on as a student. I want to brush up a bit, though, before auditioning for either of them.” She ducked into her quarters adjacent to the kitchen, still talking, loudly. “It’s time to set up for practice and get to work.” She emerged from her room with her clarinet case, a music stand, and an armload of sheet music. “So if you’ll excuse me, I’ll just…” And she sidled out through the hall, headed for the stairs.
Neil and I looked at each other. I said, “That was abrupt.”
Neil turned to Roxanne, telling her, “I got the impression she was anxious to leave.” He grinned. “Have the ladies already discussed a certain hot topic?”
“Duh.” Roxanne rolled her eyes. “Yes.”
Both Neil and I scraped our chairs an inch closer to the table. I paused, looking at Roxanne with a warm smile. “Come on now. What’s the problem?”
She gripped her coffee with both hands. “It’s not exactly a problem. It’s…It’s…”
Neil asked, “It’s Carl?”
She nodded.
Neil and I exchanged a knowing glance. I told her, “Look, Roxanne, I know you haven’t been seeing Carl as much as you’d like lately—we’d
all
like to see more of him. But his office has responsibilities, and if he needs to spend time in Springfield, well, that’s part of the package. He’s not
ignoring
you; he’s just doing his job. I’m sure he’d prefer to spend much more time with you, but—”
“Of
course
he would,” she interrupted. “That’s the whole point.” She looked at me as if to ask, What are you driving at?
I was now a bit confused myself. Tentatively, I suggested, “If his Springfield duties are keeping you apart, and if you both recognize the problem, there must be some sort of solution—”
“Oh, there is.”
Neil laughed uncertainly. “Then you’re not talking about…splitting?”
“God
no
,” said Roxanne, also laughing. “I must’ve been sending the wrong signals. Carl and I aren’t talking about splitting—we’re talking about
moving in
together.” She nodded, once, as if putting a period on her statement, then lifted her cup and sipped some coffee.
This was not at all what Neil and I had expected. Further, this failed to explain why Roxanne had seemed so stressed. I said, “That’s terrific news, Roxanne. Are there any definite plans yet?”
“I gave notice on my lease last week. Come September, the moving vans roll, and my life will be transported in boxes to Carl’s home on the North Shore.” As an afterthought, she explained, “His place is far bigger than mine.”
“Fabulous!” we told her. “Wonderful!” Our words served as verbal pats on the back, and she responded with a smug, proud little grin.
Neil frowned. “What am I missing, Rox? You came up here in a tizzy, needing to discuss ‘issues,’ but everything sounds ducky. What’s the problem?”
She paused, pushed her coffee aside, and leaned forward on her elbows. “The
problem
is that I know Carl too well. This moving-in business didn’t happen quickly—it took us two years. It was debated and calculated, but ultimately inevitable. It was a big step.”
I shrugged. “Great. So?”
Neil touched my arm. “I think I get it. Rox has an uneasy feeling that the
next
step may be inevitable as well.” He turned to her. “Am I right?”
She slowly wobbled her head—neither an affirmative nod nor a negative shake. She repeated, “I know Carl too well.”
Growing exasperated, I said, “All right, I’ll say it: we’re talking about the M-word.” No one missed the irony in my reluctance to say the actual word.
Roxanne breathed a tiny sigh—it sounded like a whimper. She scraped some cream cheese from her partially eaten bagel and licked it from her fingernail.
From upstairs, I heard a few experimental notes tootled on Barb’s clarinet.
Neil said, “Pardon the cliché, Rox, but it takes two to tango. If there’s a wedding in the works, it won’t be entirely Carl’s doing.”
“I
know
that.” She flicked a ratted lock of hair from her forehead, leaving a trace of cream cheese on her eyebrow. “What scares me is this: I think I want it as badly, as deeply, as he does. If he…‘pops the question,’ I doubt that I’ll be able to say no.”
“Then just say yes,” I told her, suggesting the obvious.
In the pause that followed, Barb began practicing scales—slowly, but with measured precision. The distant notes wafted down the stairs and through the hall with rich sonority and glasslike purity.
“It’s the commitment,” Roxanne told us, trying to remain calm and analytical. “Living with the guy is one thing, but giving him
my life
is another.”
Neil reminded her, “You don’t
have
to do it at all.”
Barb’s scales became more fluid and agile, picking up speed.
“Arrghh.”
Roxanne stood. “I know. The decisions are mine. I’m not being forced. And in fact, Carl has been remarkably patient, not the least bit pushy, no pressure at all.”
Smiling, I told her, “You want this so bad, you don’t even recognize yourself.”
“I
know.
” She dropped into her chair again. Through a pout, she said, “This isn’t
me.
What happened to strong-willed, independent me? I’m turning into this…
mate
or something, and I don’t like it.”
“You love it,” Neil told her.
She muttered, “Maybe I do.” From her tone, you’d have thought she’d been sentenced to death.
The sounds from Barb’s clarinet began to take the shape of a melody, played quietly at first, hesitantly, with a misblown note here and there. Slowly, the sweet phrases began to connect in longer and longer lines, suggesting the structure of a longer work that was familiar but forgotten. In a word, Barb’s music was haunting. Though still in its fumbling, nascent stages of practice, it already displayed both its player’s control and its own primitive beauty.
Neil and Roxanne’s conversation had taken a new turn. Roxanne answered him, “I don’t think so. Why?”
“Well, as long as Carl doesn’t have to be in Springfield next weekend, why don’t you bring him up here? Use Thad’s play as an excuse—Carl should see it. Not that Carl needs an excuse to visit, but maybe, if the mood struck, we could all have a heart-to-heart about your plans.”
“Group therapy?”
Neil laughed. “Something like that.”
She nodded. “Let me think about it.”
The phone rang—a startling sound on that still Sunday morning, an odd time, really, for anyone to call. Perhaps it was Pierce or Lucy, with news. Or even Carl, checking on Roxanne. I didn’t want the noise to disturb Barb’s practice or Thad’s sleep, so I quickly pushed my chair from the table, rose, stepped to the counter, and picked up the receiver before the second ring. “Hello?”
There was a pause. Sensing trouble, I asked, “Yes…?”
“Let me talk to boy toy,” said a girlish falsetto, a vocal disguise at once ridiculous and effective. The voice added, “Killer boy toy!” Then, with an eerie laugh, the line went dead.
Gingerly, I replaced the receiver, as if handling something foul.
It was apparent from their cautious expressions that both Neil and Roxanne, watching from the table, could guess the gist of what had happened. Neil muttered, “Uh-oh.”
I repeated what had been said, mimicking the voice, then told them, “It could have been anyone—man, woman, or child—anyone who was at the theater last Wednesday night. Or anyone who heard about it.”
Rox observed, “Sounds typically adolescent to me.”
Neil said, “I don’t suppose the caller ID solves this little mystery.”
Shaking my head, I tapped the gizmo. “Pay phone.”
“Naturally.”
The fun and games had now truly begun.
By unspoken consensus, it would be a quiet day. The party—to say nothing of Jason’s death and now an ugly, anonymous phone call—had sapped all of us. Thad had a twelve-thirty call for his two-o’clock matinee, so the shank of his Sunday was shot, and he slept all morning. Roxanne had no plans for that afternoon, as she would not be driving back to Chicago till the next morning, so she offered (to our amazement) to help Barb in the preparation of an early supper for the household. Both Neil and I planned to spend a bit of time at our offices that afternoon; he wanted to put some finishing touches on Cynthia Dunne-Gelden’s building plans, while I just wanted to keep an eye on things at the paper.
I offered to drive Thad to the theater on my way downtown to the
Register
, so around twelve-twenty, we got into the car together and pulled away from the house. He didn’t exhibit the high energy that typically animated his speech and manner prior to a performance. In fact, he was quiet.
“Tired?”
“Yeah. Guess so.” He didn’t even look at me.
“Expecting a good crowd today?”
He turned. “Sundays can really be dead, but I bet we’ll sell out again.”
With a soft laugh, I told him, “I’m sure you’ll give it your best, regardless.”
He paused before asking, “Regardless of what?”
“The size of the audience, that’s all.” He must have thought that I had meant “regardless of their hostility,” and I probably had.