Women Drinking Benedictine by Sharon Dilworth Page A

pinches Carol’s skin and she pulls away.
    â€œListen. You tell her that I have to pay rent on this booth. You tell her I want my money. I can’t afford to have people bounce checks on me.”
    â€œShe’s dead,” Carol says. “That’s what I came here to tell you. Evelyn Rice killed herself last October.”
    Pamela looks at her in surprise. “Dead?”
    Carol nods. A strong chemical smell stings her nostrils, and Carol lifts her hand from the soapy dishwater and rubs her nose.
    â€œPerming solution,” Pamela explains, then asks. “Are you related?”
    â€œI’m his reading teacher,” Carol explains. “I volunteer at the local library.”
    â€œThen why’d he send you in to do his dirty work? Why can’t he just call me and tell me what happened? He could have told me his wife was dead. I’ve talked to him on the phone almost every week. I’m a person. I’ve got sympathy.”
    â€œI think he was afraid,” Carol says. “He was afraid to tell you the truth.” Though they are talking about Donald, she can’t help but think of Mitch. She wishes he were here to help explain the situation.
    Pamela spreads yellow lotion on Carol’s hands and massages it the length of her arm to her elbows. She circles her fingers around Carol’s wrists until the moisturizer disappears. It smells of cucumbers. The room is air-conditioned, and Carol feels comfortable with this woman massaging her arms. She is so relaxed that she closes her eyes.
    â€œAll I was trying to do was collect my money,” Pamela says. “I didn’t mean to call a dead woman’s house.” She shivers as if superstitious. “That poor, poor man. And here’s me calling him about some manicure payment.”
    Carol gets home just as Mitch pulls into his driveway. They get out of their cars simultaneously. Carol waves and walks over, full of the story of Ann Arbor and the beauty shop. The sun is bright, and she does not see the passenger door open until she is just up to the car. Carol gets flustered immediately. She starts to retreat, but then feels foolish, as if she has done something wrong.
    â€œI wanted to tell you about Pamela,” Carol speaks directly to Mitch, ignoring the woman as best she can.
    â€œWhat?” Mitch closes the car door and stands in the street waiting for her to explain.
    â€œDonald’s favor,” Carol holds her fingers stiff, though by now the polish must surely be dry. “It was a little more than I expected.”
    â€œEverything okay?” Mitch asks.
    â€œYeah. I guess so.” She hesitates, then decides that this is not a good time. It occurs to her that there might never be a good time, that maybe the only choice she has is to give up on Mitch. “I’ll give you the details later.”
    â€œRemember you’re only the guy’s reading teacher,” Mitch warns. He smiles and looks concerned. “Don’t get too involved.”
    â€œOh, no,” Carol says. She flips her hands around and holds them so Mitch can see the color. Dark mauve. Her nails have never looked so good. Although it does not seem to matter too much right now.
    As they had agreed, Carol meets Donald at the restaurant around the corner from her house. She picked a place that would be bright, loud, full of people. The afternoon is hot, the heat has returned as forcefully as it has all summer. It is not quite two o’clock when Carol pushes open the glass door of Costanzo’s and sees Donald sitting in the second booth from the window with a pitcher of beer and two mugs. He stands and shakes her hand and thanks her for being on time.
    â€œYou’re a very caring person.” He pours her mug full of foamy beer.
    Carol does not usually drink during the day, but she is thirsty and warm from the walk over.
    â€œDid you talk with the girl?” Donald asks as soon as she’s had a