Boston Noir by Dennis Lehane Page B

She woke to the life that she had imprisoned herself in. It wasn't Fred this time or her marriage. It was of her own doing.
    She lit a cigarette. This was one of the things he hated, that she smoked; she drank to the point of drunkenness, she cursed, she loved sex, she read pulp, she liked violent movies, and she didn't always give a damn about his sermon when he was a preacher at a big evangelical church and had an image to uphold.
    It was Thursday. On Thursdays she visited her mother who had Alzheimer's and lived in a nursing home three hours away. Usually she got there by noon, so they could have lunch. Her mother used to love oxtails and she had found a little Cuban place that braised them tenderly in tomato sauce and served them with small yellow-eyed pigeon peas mixed with saffron rice. Sometimes she'd read to her mother, recently they'd been working on a book about Sidney Poitier's life, and she'd sing show tunes and spirituals with her. Whatever she remembered. Her mother had taught piano and singing lessons for years. After that they would go for a walk in the botanical gardens nearby, then she would return her mother to her room and make the three-hour drive home. She looked forward to these outings with her mother dearly.
    Downstairs on the counter he had scrambled eggs and the coffee was dripping steadily into the pot. She looked out the window at the wind-strewn grass that needed weeding; all the plants she had bought at Home Depot last week, intending to repot, were now blown to shreds or drowned. There was still no electricity and the room was quiet, no humming coming from the refrigerator or newscaster's voice buzzing from the television in the living room. Birds were busy at the feeder, noisy old jays and a few starlings. Is he even hygienic? she wondered, glancing at the plate of yellow eggs and then at his long and shapely fingers, the nails neatly cut and clean.
    You might want to add salt, he said. I don't touch the stuff, high blood pressure.
    He closed his eyes over his food, and then started to eat. The flashlight had left big angry welts on his face. This did not make her feel bad. He ate slowly, meditatively; he cut his bread into neat little squares with his knife, he chewed a long time as his dark bristled jaw, strong and square, moved up and down. He was wearing the pin-striped suit and the wrinkled shirt underneath was white and clean. He must've washed it last night. And the burgundy wingtips with his toes bunched up at the front were definitely not his size. He must've bludgeoned someone and taken his clothes and car. The felt hat sat proudly on the counter.
    These are good eggs, he said to no one, must be organic. He looked at her and showed his teeth, which were big and bright and yellow. They don't have these where I'm coming from.
    After they took Russell, her father had a break down, then a heart attack. After they took Russell, her father was no damn good.
    She had no appetite whatsoever, and her food lay untouched, though after a while she played with the mushy eggs on her plate, using the fork to push them aside and then draw them toward her again. She had a CD she could cash and give to him. It had several more months still before maturity; they would charge her a penalty. Didn't matter, she would give it to him and then maybe he would go, he would drop off the face of the earth. That was her predicament: now that she had let him in, how to get him the hell out of her life.
    Thank you for last night, he said softly, and she looked at him quickly, his eyes big and blue and full of light. She turned away. She wanted to tell him he must leave at once, but something was stopping her.

    A minute later she went back upstairs and got dressed. Inside the bathroom mirror, her face was a mess, it had broken out, and a thousand boils had taken up residence. She got out her lotions, her rinses, and her special dermatology soaps, and after about half an hour she emerged with a new face and