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were standing up and yodeling with frustration? I did not care what Rita
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wanted to yell at me about. It would not really bother me, whatever sharp
observations she had to make on my character defects, but it was irritating to
be forced to spend time listening when I had other, far more important things
to think about. Most particularly, I wanted to wonder what I should have done
that I had not done with dear departedJaworski . Up to the cruelly interrupted
and unfinished climax so many new things had happened that needed my very best
mental efforts; I needed to reflect, to consider, and to understand where it
had all been leading me. And how did it relate to that other artist out there,
shadowing me and challenging me with his work?
With all this to think about, why did I need Rita right now?
But of course I would go. And of course, it would actually serve some humble
purpose if I should need an alibi for my adventure with the little janitor.
Why, Detective, how could you possibly think that I ? Besides, I was having a
fight with my girlfriend at the time.Ah ex-girlfriend, actually. Because
there was absolutely no doubt in my mind that Rita merely wanted to what was
the word we were all using lately? Vent? Yes, Rita wanted me to come over so
she could vent on me. I had certain major character flaws that she needed to
point out with an accompanying burst of emotion, and my presence was
necessary.
Since this was the case, I took an extra minute to clean up. I circled back
toward Coconut Grove and parked on the far side of the bridge over the
waterway. A good deep channel ran underneath. I rolled a couple of large coral
rocks out of the trees at the edge of the waterway, stuffed them into my tote
bag, which was loaded with the plastic, gloves, and knife, and flung the thing
into the center of the channel.
I stopped once more, at a small, dark park almost to Rita's house, and washed
off carefully. I had to be neat and presentable; getting yelled at by a
furious woman should be treated as a semiformal occasion.
But imagine my surprise when I rang her doorbell a few minutes later. She did
not fling wide the door and begin to hurl furniture and abuse at me. In fact,
she opened the door very slowly and carefully, half hiding behind it, as if
badly frightened of what might be waiting for her on the other side. And
considering that it was me waiting, this showed rare common sense.
Dexter? she said, softly, shyly, sounding like she wasn't sure whether she
wanted me to answer yes or no. I . . . didn't think you were coming.
And yet here I am, I said helpfully.
She didn't answer for a much longer time than seemed right. Finally, she
nudged the door slightly more open and said, Would you . . . come in?
Please?
And if her uncertain, limping tone of voice, unlike any I had ever heard her
use before, was a surprise, imagine how astonished I was by her costume. I
believe the thing was called a peignoir; or possibly it was a negligee, since
it certainly was negligible as far as the amount of fabric used in its
construction was concerned. Whatever the correct name, she was certainly
wearing it. And as bizarre as the idea was, I believe the costume was aimed at
me.
Please? she repeated.
It was all a little much. I mean, really, what was I supposed to do here? I
was bubbling over with unsatisfied experimentation on the janitor; there were
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still unhappy murmurings filtering through from the backseat. And a quick
check of the situation at large revealed that I was being whipsawed between
dear Deb and the dark artist, and now I was expected to do some sort of human
thing here, like well, what, after all? She surely couldn't want I mean,
wasn't she MAD at me? What was going on here? And why was it going on with me?
I sent the kids next door, Rita said. She bumped the door with her hip.
I went in.
I can think of a great many ways to describe what happened next, but none of
them seem adequate. She went to the couch. I followed. She sat down. So didI .
She looked uncomfortable and squeezed her left hand with her right. She seemed
to be waiting for something, and since I was not quite sure what, I found
myself thinking about my unfinished work withJaworski . If only I'd had a
little more time! The things I might have done!
And as I thought of some of those things, I became aware that Rita had
quietly started to cry. I stared at her for a moment, trying to suppress the
images of a flayed and bloodless janitor. For the life of me I could not
understand why she was crying, but since I had practiced long and hard at
imitating human beings, I knew that I was supposed to comfort her. I leaned
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