A Bone to Pick (17 page)

~ A Bone to Pick ~
asked. I heard the permafrost under her words. I could feel my face begin to tighten. I had never known how much Mother knew or guessed about my relationship with Arthur, but I had a feeling she’d gotten a pretty accurate picture. I turned my face away a little under pretext of pushing up my glasses. “Yes. He’s such a solemn young man, and hand- some, too. Of course, not as handsome as the man Roe is dating.” Marcia actually winked. “You don’t think so?” my mother said agreeably. I bit my upper lip.
“Oh, no. That minister is so tall and dark. You can tell from my marrying Torrance, I like tall, dark men. And that mustache! It may not be nice to say this about a man in the ministry, but it’s just plain sexy.” My mother had been totting up this description. “Well, I’ll sure try to come, thanks so much for invit- ing me,” she said in a perfectly polite but unmistak- ably conclusive way.
“I’ll just go back to cleaning the house,” Marcia said brightly, and, after a chorus of good-byes, off she trotted.
“Dating Father Scott?” Mother asked when she was sure Marcia was out of earshot. “And you’re over that lousy policeman?”
“Yes to both.”
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Mother looked quite unsettled for a minute. “You turned down a date with Bubba Sewell, you’re over that Arthur Smith, and you’re dating a minister,” she said wonderingly. “There’s hope for your love life af- ter all.”
As I waved to her as she drove down the street, it was a positive satisfaction for me to think of the skull in her blanket bag.
~ 202 ~

Chapter Eleven
A
In a burst of morning energy, I was singing in the shower when the telephone rang. Blessing answer- ing machines, I barely paused in my rendition of “The Star-Spangled Banner.” The shower is probably the only place our national anthem should be sung, especially by people with a limited vocal range, a cat- egory that definitely includes me. As I rinsed the sham- poo out of my hair, I did a medley of my favorite ads. For my finale, as I toweled I warbled “Three Little Ducks.”
There is something to be said for living by oneself when one wants to sing unheard.
It would be hard to say why I was in such a festive mood. I had to go in to work for five hours, then come back to the town house to prepare for the party. ~ 203 ~

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I was pleased at the prospect of seeing Aubrey, but not goo-goo eyed. I was more or less getting used to being rich by now (though the word still gave me a thrill up my spine), and I was on standby regarding action on the skull. I squinted into my makeup mirror as I put on a little eye shadow.
“I’m going to quit my job,” I told my reflection, smiling.
The
pleasure
of being able to say that! To decide, just like that! Money was wonderful.
I remembered the phone message and pressed the play button, beaming at my reflection in the mirror like an idiot, my drying hair beginning to fly around my head in a dark, wavy nimbus.
“Roe?” began the voice, faint and uncertain. “This is Robin Crusoe, calling from Italy. I called in and got your message from Phil . . . the guy subletting my apartment. Are you all right? He said Arthur married someone else. Can I come see you when I get back from Europe? If that’s not a good idea, send a note to my old address. Well, write me either way, and I’ll get it when I get back. That should be in a few weeks, probably late next month. Or earlier. I’m running out of money. Good-bye.”
I had frozen when I first heard the voice begin. Now I sat breathing shallowly for a few seconds, my ~ 204 ~

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brush in my hand, my teeth biting my lower lip gen- tly. My heart was beating fast, I’ll admit. Robin had been my tenant and my friend and almost my lover. I really wanted to see him again. Now I would have the pleasure of composing a note that would say very del- icately that I
definitely
wanted him to come calling when he got back. I didn’t want him to get the im- pression I was sitting in Lawrenceton with my tongue hanging out while I panted, but I did want him to come, if he was of the same mind in a few weeks. And if I was. I could take my time composing that note. I brushed my hair, which began to crackle and fly around even more wildly. I gathered it all together and put a band on it about halfway down its length, not as stodgy as a “real” ponytail. And I tied a frivolous bow around the band. However, I did wear one of my old “librarian” outfits that so disgusted Amina: a solid navy skirt of neutral length with a navy-and- white-striped blouse, plain support hose, and unat- tractive but very comfortable shoes. I cleaned my glasses, pushed them up on my nose, nodded at my reflection in the full-length mirror, and went down- stairs.
If I’d known how to cha-cha, I think I would have done it going up the ramp from the employees’ park- ing lot into the library.
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~ Charlaine Harris ~
“Aren’t we happy today?” Lillian said sourly, sip- ping from her cup of coffee at the worktable in the book-mending room.
“Yes, ma’am, we are,” I said, depositing my purse in my little locker and snapping the padlock shut. My only claim to fame in my history as a librarian in Lawrenceton was that I had never once lost my pad- lock key. I kept it on a safety pin and pinned it to my skirt or my slip or my blouse. Today I pinned it to my collar and marched off to Mr. Clerrick’s office, humming a military tune. Or what I imagined was a military tune.
I tapped on the half-open door and stuck my head in. Mr. Clerrick was already at work on a heap of pa- pers, a steaming cup of coffee at his elbow and a smoldering cigarette in the ashtray.
“Good morning, Roe,” he said, looking up from his desk. Sam Clerrick was married with four daugh- ters, and, since he worked in a library, that meant he was surrounded by women from the moment he got up to the moment he went to bed. You would think he would have learned how to treat them. But his great- est and most conspicuous failure was in people man- agement. No one would ever accuse Sam Clerrick of coddling anyone, or of favoritism; he didn’t care for any of us, had no idea what our home lives were like, ~ 206 ~

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and made no allowances for any individual’s person- ality or work preferences. No one would ever like him; he would never be accused of being unfair. I had always been a little nervous around someone who played his emotional cards as close to his chest as Sam Clerrick. Suddenly leaving did not seem so simple.
“I’m going to quit my job,” I said quietly, while I still had some nerve. As he stared, that little bit of nerve began to trickle away. “I’m on part-time any- way, I don’t feel like you really need me anymore.” He kept peering at me over his half-glasses. “Are you giving me notice, or quitting, no more work as of today?” he asked finally.
“I don’t know,” I said foolishly. After I considered a moment, I said, “Since you have at least three sub- stitute librarians on your call list, and I know at least two of them would love to go regular part-time, I’m quitting, no more work as of five hours from now.” “Is there something wrong that we can talk about?” I came all the way into the room. “Working here is okay,” I told him. “I just don’t have to anymore, fi- nancially, and I feel like a change.”
“You don’t need the money,” he said in amaze- ment.
He was probably the only person working at the ~ 207 ~

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library, or perhaps the only person in Lawrenceton, who didn’t know by now about the money. “I inherited.”
“My goodness, your mother didn’t die, I hope?” He actually put his pencil down, so great was his con- cern.
“No, no relative.”
“Oh—good. Well. I’m sorry to see you go, even though you were certainly our most notorious em- ployee for a while last year. Well, it’s been longer than that now, I suppose.”
“Did you think about firing me then?”
“Actually, I was holding off until you killed Lillian.” I stared at him blankly until I accepted the amaz- ing fact that Sam Clerrick had made a joke. I began laughing, and he began laughing, and suddenly he looked like a human being.
“It’s been a pleasure,” I said, meaning it for the first time, and turned and left his office. “Your insurance will last for thirty days,” he called after me, running a little truer to form. As luck would have it, that morning at the library business was excruciatingly slow. I didn’t want to tell anyone I’d quit until I was actually leaving, so I hid among the books all morning, reading the shelves, dusting, and piddling along. I didn’t get a lunch ~ 208 ~

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break, since I was just working five hours; I was sup- posed to bring it with me or get one of the librarians going out to bring back something from a fast-food place, and eat it very quickly. But that would mean eat- ing in the break room, and there was sure to be some- one else in there, and having a conversation without revealing my intention would be seen as fraudulent, in a way. So I dodged from here to there, making myself scarce, and by two o’clock I was very hungry. Then I had to go through the ritual of saying good-bye, I en- joyed working with you, I’ll be in often to get books so we’ll be seeing each other.
It made me sadder than I thought it would. Even saying good-bye to Lillian was not the unmitigated pleasure I had expected. I would miss having her around because she made me feel so virtuous and smart by contrast, I realized with shame. (
I
didn’t moan and groan about every little change in work routine,
I
didn’t bore people to tears with detailed accounts of boring events,
I
knew who Benvenuto Cellini was.) And I remembered Lillian finally standing by me when things had been so bad during the murders months before.
“Maybe you can hunt for a husband full-time now,” Lillian said in parting, and my shame vanished completely. Then I read in Lillian’s face the knowl- ~ 209 ~

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edge that the only thing she had that I could possibly want was a husband.
“We’ll see,” I told her, and held my hands behind my back so I wouldn’t choke her.
I retrieved my purse and turned in my locker key, and I walked out the back door for the last time. I went straight to the grocery store. I wanted something for lunch, I wanted something to put in the refrigerator at the house on Honor for snacks while I was there. I zoomed through the grocery store tossing boxes and produce bags in my cart with abandon. I celebrated quitting my job by get- ting one of the really expensive microwave meals, the kind with a neat reusable plate. This was getting fancy for me, for lunch anyway. Maybe now I would have time to cook. Did I want to learn to cook in any more detail? I could make spaghetti, and I could make pecan pie. Did I need to know anything else? I debated it as I stood in front of the microwave at the town house.
I could decide at my leisure. I was now a woman of leisure.
I liked the sound of it.
The woman of leisure decided to celebrate by buy- ing a new outfit to wear to the Rideouts’ party. I would not go to Great Day, I decided; I’d share the ~ 210 ~

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wealth and go to Marcus Hatfield instead. Usually Marcus Hatfield made me nervous; though it was a mere satellite of the big Atlanta store, the selection was just too great, the saleswomen too aggressively groomed. Maybe my contact with Marcia was inur- ing me to immaculate grooming; I felt I could face even the cosmetics-counter woman without flinching. I pulled my skirt straight and stiffened my spine before I entered. I can buy anything in this store, I re- minded myself. I marched through the doors in my hopeless librarian’s outfit. I was almost immediately confronted by a curvy vision in bright flowers, perfect nails, and subtle makeup.
“Hey, neighbor,” exclaimed the vision. It was Carey Osland in her working getup. I could see why she pre- ferred loafers and housedresses. She looked marvelous, almost edible, but definitely not comfortable. “I’m glad to see you,” Carey was saying warmly while I was de- coding her identity.
“Good to see you, too,” I managed.
“Can I help you today?”
“I need something new to wear tonight.” “To the sun-deck party.”
“Yes. It’s so nice of the Rideouts to be giving it.” “Marcia loves to entertain. There’s nothing she likes better than to have a bunch of people over.” ~ 211 ~

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“She said she didn’t like it when her husband had to be away overnight.”
“No. I expect you noticed she drinks a little then. She’s been like that as long as I’ve known her, I guess . . . though I don’t know her very well. She knows a lot of people around town, but she never seems to be close friends with anyone. Were you think- ing of a sports outfit or did you want a sundress, some- thing like that?”
“What?”
“For the party.”
“Oh, sorry, I was off in the clouds somewhere. Um . . . what are you going to wear?”
“Oh, I’m too fat to wear a sundress,” Carey said cheerfully. “But you’d look real pretty in one; and, so it wouldn’t be too dressy, you could wear flat sandals and go real plain on your jewelry.”
I looked dubiously at the dress Carey had pulled out. Mrs. Day would never have suggested it for me. But, then, Mrs. Day didn’t carry too much like this at her shop. It was white and orange, very pretty but very casual, and there wasn’t a back to it. “I couldn’t wear a bra with that,” I pointed out. “Oh, no,” Carey agreed calmly.
“I would jiggle,” I said doubtfully.
“Go try it on,” Carey said with a wink. “If you ~ 212 ~

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don’t like it, we have all kinds of cute shorts sets and lightweight pants, and any of them would be just fine, but just put this dress on.”
I had never had to almost completely undress to try on clothes before. I pulled on the dress and bounced up and down on the balls of my feet, my eyes on the dressing-room mirror. I was trying to gauge the amount of jiggle. I am chesty for such a small person, and there was enough jiggle to give me pause.
“How is it?” Carey called from outside my cubicle. “Oh . . . I don’t know,” I said doubtfully. I bounced again. “After all, I’m going with a minister.” “He’s human,” Carey observed. “God made bos- oms, too.”
“True.” I turned around and observed my back. It looked very bare. “I can’t carry this off, Carey,” I told her.
“Let me see.”
I reluctantly opened the door of the cubicle. “Wow,” said Carey. “You really look
good,
” she said with squinted eyes. “Very sexy,” she added in a conspiratorial whisper.
“I just feel too conspicuous. My back feels cold.” “He’d love it.”
“I don’t know about that.”
I looked in a bigger mirror at the end of the row of ~ 213 ~