“So, you wanna read me my rights?” I sighed.
“Why bother?” she said tightly, turning away. “You’re still in a coma.”
“I suppose we’ll be discussing this in couples counseling.”
She said nothing.
I decided to change the topic, hoping for a softer reaction. “So who was the guy who came as Patrick Bateman last night?” I asked. “The guy in the Armani suit with all the fake blood on it?”
“I have no idea. A student of yours? One of your legions of fans? Why do you care?”
“I . . . didn’t recognize him,” I murmured. “I thought—”
“You thought what? That I knew him?”
“Never mind.” I shut up and thought about things for a moment or two. “And did you ever figure out what happened in Sarah’s room?” I asked gently. “Because, Jayne, I think maybe she did it.” I paused for emphasis. “But she told me her doll did it—that bird thing, you know, the Terby I bought last summer—and, y’know, that’s pretty worrisome. And by the way, where was Marta when this so-called attack happened? I think that’s pretty—”
Jayne whirled toward me. “Why are you avoiding the fact that maybe one of your drunk, f**ked-up students did it?”
“My students had better things to do last night than ransack our daughter’s—”
“Yeah, like f**k in our shower—I have no idea who they were—and snort coke off the countertop in the kitchen.” She was still glaring at me, hands on her hips.
A long pause in which I built to an outraged “People were in the kitchen last night?!?”
“Yeah. People were doing drugs in the kitchen, Bret.” She recited this line in her hip-wary mode.
“Honey, look, drugs may have been done, but I’m sure they were consumed quietly and with discretion.” I paused helplessly.
“And I know you were doing them too.” Something caught in her throat, the sarcasm evaporated and she turned away from me again. She bowed her head. I noticed one hand was curled tightly into a fist. I could hear the erratic breathing that comes before tears.
“You mean I used to be doing them,” I said softly. “That sentence should be in the past tense.” I paused. “I’m up, aren’t I?”
“Barely,” she muttered. “You’re a wreck.”
“Look.” I made a useless gesture. “I’m sipping juice and scanning the papers.”
She suddenly composed herself. “Oh, forget it, forget it, forget it.”
“And why are you calling up Jay’s wife and asking—”
“I wouldn’t have to call Helen if you weren’t using again,” she said in a loud, anguished voice. She stopped and took a series of deep breaths to calm herself down. “I can’t do this now. Let’s just forget it.”
“That sounds reasonable,” I murmured gently, turning back to the papers. I attempted a long gulp from my glass but juice sloshed over the rim so I gave up and put it down on the table with a shaking hand.
Outraged by my casual tone, Jayne whirled around again. “It is illegal, Bret. Just because it was consumed in our house—”
“A private residence!” I shouted back.
“—doesn’t make it any more legal.”
“Well, it isn’t technically legal, but . . .”
She waited for me to finish the sentence. I chose not to.
“I didn’t do drugs last night, Jayne.”
“That’s a lie.” She broke down. “You’re lying to me, and I don’t know what to do about it.”
With great effort the ghost stood up and shuffled over to her. The ghost wrapped itself around her, and she let him. She was shaking, and between sobs was the trembling intake of uneven breaths.
“How about you believe me . . . and . . .”—I turned her around so we were facing each other and I stared at her pleadingly, my eyes sad and wistful—“just love me?”
There was a new silence in the kitchen. I glanced over at the dog as Jayne collapsed into me, hugging so tightly that I started to wheeze. Victor was staring at me. You bore me, it was thinking. You are a jerk, it was thinking. I glared until he lost interest, licked a paw and then turned away. He couldn’t stand the sight of me, and he knew that I knew it. And he liked that I knew. That’s what drove me crazy: the dog knew that I knew it hated me and liked it. When I looked back at Jayne, she was staring at me so hopefully that her expression almost bordered on madness and I wanted to let go first.
