The Probable Future
Page 50
“I thought you knew about Matt’s endless academic studies. History. The state college. He got his bachelor’s degree, which took about ten years. A master’s should take about twenty.”
“Really? Well, say what you will, he’s the only one among us who managed to get a degree.” Jenny thought history would suit Matt, or the Matt she used to know, always so cautious, so very serious. If she remembered correctly, he was a big fan of butterscotch sundaes. “A degree in history is nothing to sneer at.”
Of course Will would be jealous, having never finished his class-work. Why, he’d never even begun his senior thesis at Harvard.
“Well, knowing Matt, it’s probably the history of the lawn mower. He’s still cutting down trees and taking care of people’s lawns, so don’t give him the Nobel prize yet.”
As the days wore on, Jenny felt more and more ill at ease over the way Will had been settling in. He left toothpaste in the sink, he charged booze on her account at the liquor store, he watched TV wearing only a towel wrapped around his waist. Once, she came home from work and smelled some sort of perfume. Jasmine, she thought, definitely. A bottle of wine appeared to be missing from the pantry. And Coltrane had been on her CD player, perfect for seduction.
“Did you have someone up here?”
Will had taken to watching Oprah at four in the afternoon and was therefore always engaged when Jenny came home from the bank. “Up here?” Will said, puzzled.
Jenny’s feet were killing her. She’d stopped at the deli and bought all the ingredients for mushroom risotto, fool that she was.
“You bastard,” she said. “You did.”
“Am I not supposed to have friends in the apartment?” Will followed her into the kitchen, where she was proceeding to throw the groceries into the fridge. “Because you never mentioned that, Jenny. You never posted the frigging rules.”
“Friends, fine. A fuck while I’m out working, in my apartment, in my bed most probably, no!”
To hell with him, she thought. She’d be damned if she made him dinner. Let him eat Swiss cheese and crackers, rat that he was. Let him go hungry instead.
“I won’t do it again,” he said later, when he brought her a sandwich, a rather lousy attempt, but an attempt all the same, consisting of old bologna and a dab of relish on a hard roll. “I’m in your debt,” he admitted.
They had been together for so long, he was part of her family. So she let him stay, as she would an untrustworthy cousin she was doomed to assist, like it or not. They phoned Stella together every evening, and were properly cheerful, but more than ever, Jenny felt unmarried, and although Will spent a good deal of time sleeping, he was still the same dreamless creature he’d always been. Was it always this way: what attracted you most to someone was the trait that disappeared first? Only once did Jenny pick up a snippet of Will’s dream: a man was standing on the grass, weeping, lost and forgotten, his clothes stripped away, leaving him with nothing but the sound of his own cries. Afterward, Jenny knew she had to let Will stay for as long as need be, despite her misgivings and the nasty notes some of their neighbors had taken to stuffing under the door.
They went together to meetings at Henry Elliot’s office on Milk Street, and met with Fred Morrison, the detective, who had found out a great deal about the victim’s life. She’d been born in New Hampshire and had been fairly new to Boston. She’d been teaching third grade in a public school since the previous September. She’d had several boyfriends, past and present, but only a handful of women acquaintances in town. She was quiet and pretty and law-abiding and her landlord swore she always kept her window locked at night. Whoever had killed her had most likely been let in through the front door. Thankfully, none of the fingerprints matched Will’s. DNA testing was being done, but with no clear suspects emerging, Will had better pray.
Will, however, had never been one to leave well enough alone. He did more than pray, he did exactly what Henry Elliot had advised him against: he talked to a reporter. He didn’t bother to mention the encounter to Jenny, not any more than he’d ever explained the scent of perfume in the apartment, a favorite scent of Ellen Paxton, a fellow teacher at the music school who was surprisingly good in bed. In fact, Jenny found out about the interview with the reporter from one of the tellers at work, Mary Lou Harrington, who’d always resented Jenny for becoming a bank officer, and who was happy enough to show the article in the Boston Globe around. Eventually, the article made its way to Jenny’s desk. There, on the front page of the Metro section, was a photograph of Will Avery, a rather good one that showed off his handsome profile as he stood on the steps. Unfortunately, the photo also showed off the number of their building, which was clearly displayed.
“Really? Well, say what you will, he’s the only one among us who managed to get a degree.” Jenny thought history would suit Matt, or the Matt she used to know, always so cautious, so very serious. If she remembered correctly, he was a big fan of butterscotch sundaes. “A degree in history is nothing to sneer at.”
Of course Will would be jealous, having never finished his class-work. Why, he’d never even begun his senior thesis at Harvard.
“Well, knowing Matt, it’s probably the history of the lawn mower. He’s still cutting down trees and taking care of people’s lawns, so don’t give him the Nobel prize yet.”
As the days wore on, Jenny felt more and more ill at ease over the way Will had been settling in. He left toothpaste in the sink, he charged booze on her account at the liquor store, he watched TV wearing only a towel wrapped around his waist. Once, she came home from work and smelled some sort of perfume. Jasmine, she thought, definitely. A bottle of wine appeared to be missing from the pantry. And Coltrane had been on her CD player, perfect for seduction.
“Did you have someone up here?”
Will had taken to watching Oprah at four in the afternoon and was therefore always engaged when Jenny came home from the bank. “Up here?” Will said, puzzled.
Jenny’s feet were killing her. She’d stopped at the deli and bought all the ingredients for mushroom risotto, fool that she was.
“You bastard,” she said. “You did.”
“Am I not supposed to have friends in the apartment?” Will followed her into the kitchen, where she was proceeding to throw the groceries into the fridge. “Because you never mentioned that, Jenny. You never posted the frigging rules.”
“Friends, fine. A fuck while I’m out working, in my apartment, in my bed most probably, no!”
To hell with him, she thought. She’d be damned if she made him dinner. Let him eat Swiss cheese and crackers, rat that he was. Let him go hungry instead.
“I won’t do it again,” he said later, when he brought her a sandwich, a rather lousy attempt, but an attempt all the same, consisting of old bologna and a dab of relish on a hard roll. “I’m in your debt,” he admitted.
They had been together for so long, he was part of her family. So she let him stay, as she would an untrustworthy cousin she was doomed to assist, like it or not. They phoned Stella together every evening, and were properly cheerful, but more than ever, Jenny felt unmarried, and although Will spent a good deal of time sleeping, he was still the same dreamless creature he’d always been. Was it always this way: what attracted you most to someone was the trait that disappeared first? Only once did Jenny pick up a snippet of Will’s dream: a man was standing on the grass, weeping, lost and forgotten, his clothes stripped away, leaving him with nothing but the sound of his own cries. Afterward, Jenny knew she had to let Will stay for as long as need be, despite her misgivings and the nasty notes some of their neighbors had taken to stuffing under the door.
They went together to meetings at Henry Elliot’s office on Milk Street, and met with Fred Morrison, the detective, who had found out a great deal about the victim’s life. She’d been born in New Hampshire and had been fairly new to Boston. She’d been teaching third grade in a public school since the previous September. She’d had several boyfriends, past and present, but only a handful of women acquaintances in town. She was quiet and pretty and law-abiding and her landlord swore she always kept her window locked at night. Whoever had killed her had most likely been let in through the front door. Thankfully, none of the fingerprints matched Will’s. DNA testing was being done, but with no clear suspects emerging, Will had better pray.
Will, however, had never been one to leave well enough alone. He did more than pray, he did exactly what Henry Elliot had advised him against: he talked to a reporter. He didn’t bother to mention the encounter to Jenny, not any more than he’d ever explained the scent of perfume in the apartment, a favorite scent of Ellen Paxton, a fellow teacher at the music school who was surprisingly good in bed. In fact, Jenny found out about the interview with the reporter from one of the tellers at work, Mary Lou Harrington, who’d always resented Jenny for becoming a bank officer, and who was happy enough to show the article in the Boston Globe around. Eventually, the article made its way to Jenny’s desk. There, on the front page of the Metro section, was a photograph of Will Avery, a rather good one that showed off his handsome profile as he stood on the steps. Unfortunately, the photo also showed off the number of their building, which was clearly displayed.
