Raveling by Peter Moore Smith Page B

she’dgrow that extra inch or two that would make her taller than Michele, her sister younger by nearly two years. It never happened,
     of course. Nothing wished for that hard ever happens, it seemed. Michele had grown taller and more beautiful, her body more
     lithe and slender, like the stalk of a daffodil, her hair yellow-blond like the flower itself. Michele’s eyes, unlike Katherine’s,
     were permanently soft, like she’d been half drunk, half sad all her life. Michele had never had control of her eyes the way
     Katherine did.
    Trevor Davidson, John Taborre, Jimmy Schindler.
    These were the names of the boyfriends Michele had managed to steal from Katherine when they were growing up.
    And then, of course, Mark.
    How could Michele have done it? What was she thinking?
    Katherine’s skin was pale but had an olive cast just beneath the surface that made her overall tone like a sheet of fine writing
     paper. The bridge of her nose was decorated with light freckles from too many unprotected summers at the beach—like flecks
     of rag inside the linen.
    There were too many imperfections to count.
    One of Katherine’s breasts was slightly larger than the other. None of the men she’d ever been with had ever mentioned it,
     of course. No one, in fact—not even Michele or her mother—had ever said anything about it. But when she stood in front of
     the full-length mirror with no clothes on, it was all Katherine could see, the right breast fuller, heavier, almost a C cup,
     hanging lower, its nipple larger too; the left breast lighter, the skin tighter, it seemed, pulling it closer to her chest.
     This breast—the left one—had a single, dark, curling hair sprouting from the light brown areola. Katherine cut it close to
     the skin every couple of months, but before she knew it, it was there again. Naked, she crossed into the living room, where
     her mattress lay on the floor. She thoughtmaybe she’d take a bath, stare at the tiles on the ceiling, sip a cup of tea. She stepped into the efficiency kitchen and
     put the glass kettle she’d bought at the Safeway on the stove top. When did she realize the phone was ringing? The answering
     machine was already speaking to someone, it seemed. “Hello,” it said. “You’ve reached Katherine DeQuincey-Joy. Please leave
     a message at the beep.”
    “Katherine,” a voice told the room. “It’s me, Eric. Are you home?”
    She hesitated, then picked up. “Eric?” It was a cheap cordless she’d bought at the local Radio Shack. It had the strangest
     signal, a high-pitched squeal somewhere inside it.
    “Hi.”
    “Hi.” She walked across the length of the apartment, in front of the window, hoping the squeal would go away if she moved.
    “I just wanted to make sure you got home all right.”
    The wine. He’d known about the wine. “Yes, of course. Are you still—”
    “I’m in the car.”
    “Where do you live, anyway?”
    “I live up the road a bit. In the country.”
    Could she hear the road he was on? “I see.” The tires on the asphalt?
    “I had a nice time.”
    She didn’t say anything.
    “Did you?”
    Katherine smiled. “Yes,” she said. “Thank you, I really did.”
    “Anyway, that’s all I wanted to say.”
    Katherine looked out the window, at the parking lot and the highway beyond it. She had the same view from her office, more
     or less. This must be what it looks like out there, she thought. Parking lots and highways, a smattering of trees in the distance.
     “It was nice of you to call.” She would haveto do something about this. She would have to avoid Eric in the future.
    “I’m not always such a gentleman.” He laughed a little.
    “I’m sure you are.”
    “You bring it out in me.”
    “Ordinarily I’m sure you’re a terrific bastard.” Could he hear her smiling?
    “Terrible.”
    “Scum of the earth.”
    “You’d be surprised,” he said. “Doctors aren’t known for being such nice guys.”
    She couldn’t let this go any