By the time I get back to the office, Talbot’s getting on his bike to go home.
He invites me to dinner—Olive’s making baked chicken and sweet potatoes—but I beg off. Hungering after Rachel Gunner and consuming one of Olive’s feasts are not obviously compatible. But I’m too empty to face being full, if that makes any sense.
Probably not. I’m babbling…glub, glub. Like Talbot, I should forfeit words and manage with sounds.
I need to finish this case for Rachel.
I need to finish with Rachel. For my own good.
It must be obvious to her that she can have me if she wants me and have me for as long as she’s here; no one’s indicated how long that will be. It would be better to refuse her, but I’m honest enough with myself to know there’s no chance. She may refuse fried food and processed sugar, but I’ve no power to refuse her. She’s had me since the first day in the waiting room.
If I were like my detective heroes—Phillip Marlowe, say—I’d be more indifferent to how this plays out. But though I may be able to channel a little of Marlowe’s form, I can’t really channel his content. He’s a harder man than I know how to be—although he’s not as hard as his reputation among inattentive readers suggests.
Rachel’s harder than I know how to be too. I don’t mean she’s hard exactly, any more than Marlowe is. But that thing with her eyes—that look I struggle to describe—that’s beyond my ken or my reach, so it’s probably no surprise I can’t describe it. I can’t live it; I have no first-person access to it.
My POV can’t reach that level of objectivity. I see things in personal terms, and I can’t help it. Helen complains about it sometimes. As a doctor, she manages that dissector’s gaze occasionally.
Not me. I’m not exactly sorry about that or ashamed of it, but it may be a career killer for a PI.
Talbot pedals away, and I start to unlock the door, then reconsider. I go around the building to Miller’s office door. The sign says, “Closed,” so I go back to my door, but I don’t unlock it.
I get back in the car and go home.
Helen’s rocking on the porch, smiling to herself. Mondays are usually hard days for her; crowds of parents with over-the-weekend sick kids show up and overwhelm her. But she looks happy, unflustered.
She notices me as I walk up to the house, and she points to the other rocker. A pitcher of lemonade is on the small table between the rockers. An unused glass of melting ice is sweating beside the pitcher.
“Lemonade?”
She nods and grins. “With gin dumped in. Medicinally, you know.”
Laughing, I sit and pour some over the melting ice. I take a long swallow, puckering. I somehow always forget how sour Helen likes her lemonade to be. “You seem in a good mood for a Monday evening.”
She grins again. “I am. Dr. Nettles came by and took me to Ed’s for lunch. We were kind of hoping to see you there. I really want the two of you to talk. I know you saw each other at the party, but…”
“Right. Talbot and I had sandwiches from Ford’s BBQ.”
Helen frowns. “You need a meal that does not come between slices of bread.”
“I suppose.”
“How was your Monday?” Helen asks as she pours herself a little more from the pitcher.
“Surprisingly…surprising. I got a new case, and I believe I made some progress on it and my other case both today.”
“That’s good. I suppose you can’t tell me anything?”
I nod. “Not a thing.”
She frowns again. “It’s frustrating that neither of us can talk much about work.”
“Yeah,” I agree, “it’d be nice to know some details once in a while.”
“Were you in the office all day? Or were you actually out investigating?”
“Out investigating.”
“Say,” Helen says, “I talked to Ruth. She asked about you. You didn’t talk to her today?”
“No.” I kissed Rachel Gunner today, and I wanted to kiss her again and again. But I don’t say that. I rock.
Helen gives me a look: half mother, half sister. “How do you think it would feel, Ford, pining away for someone who can’t or won’t make up his damned mind?”
I give no answer, but I know how that feels—not for as long as Ruth has, but I know.
I take out my phone and text Father Halsey, asking if we can chat tomorrow morning. I could use some wise counsel, even if it comes packaged as abuse.
Jesus—even the Episcopal priest is harder than I am.
About the Author
Kelly Dean Jolley is the Goodwin Philpott Endowed Chair of
Religion and Professor of Philosophy at Auburn University. He lives in Auburn with his wife, Shanna, two dogs, two cats, too many books, and a collection of manual typewriters. Beyond his academic publications, he has also published a book of poetry, Stony Lonesome.
Connect with Kelly Dean Jolley
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