Mr Peanut - Adam Ross [22]
“When was this?”
“Months ago. Three, maybe. Four. I can’t be sure.”
“What else?”
“The night before Alice died, I saw David on the street, talking on his cell phone.”
“Why was that strange?”
“Because he was pacing in circles and really going berserk.”
“Did you hear what he said?”
“He said something like, ‘What do I need to do to end this?’ I couldn’t make everything out. But he sounded like he was at the end of his rope.”
The most highly anticipated moment of Hastroll’s day came right before he put the key into his front door, wondering what Hannah would say to him when he entered their apartment. He was as sensitive to her voice as a dog to a high-pitched whistle.
“I’m home,” Hastroll would say, and Hannah might say nothing. And his spirit, soaring with hope, would come crashing down. Perhaps the television was on. He’d walk into their bedroom and she’d look away from the screen for a moment and say, “Oh, I didn’t hear you come in,” and then go back to watching. He would wait to see if she had anything else to say—she never did—and then he would go into the living room to fix himself a drink.
“I’m home,” Hastroll would say, and Hannah might say, “I’m in here,” which meant come in if you want to, but nothing has changed.
“I’m home,” Hastroll would say, and Hannah might say, “Ward, is that you?” And in that emphasis was a scintilla of enthusiasm. Of love. His soul quickened every time. “It’s me,” he’d say, and hurry in to see her. Perhaps she might get up now and embrace him. Perhaps she might let him kiss her lips. Perhaps she might say, “Darling, I feel so much better today!” and stand up and stretch, then lasso his neck with her arms. If she did, Hastroll honestly believed he’d weep. He would rush into the bedroom and say, “Of course it’s me.” And Hannah, disappointed, might say, “Oh. I thought so.” And that was all.
“I’m home,” Hastroll would say, and every so often—this evening, in fact—Hannah might reply, “Could you come in here, please?” There was a distinct vulnerability in her voice. There was desire. She was on the edge of something; she had something more to tell him. Carefully, gingerly, he entered her room. She wore the same slip she was wearing the day she first lay down. He wondered how it stayed clean. Did she secretly wash it? Soak it in Woolite in the sink? But how did it dry in time? During the day, while he was gone, did she go out to the Laundromat? She did her hair and makeup, that much was clear, ate the food he left her—she wasn’t starving, after all—but whenever he came home, there she was in bed, not a dirty dish to be found, the milk the same level in the fridge, wearing the same damn thing every time.
“Yes, love,” he said, and stood by her bed.
“Ward,” she said. She held out her hand to him.
He took it. Her palm was clammy.
She rocked his hand from side to side, then closed her eyes and put it to her lips, teeth and wet gums rubbing against his skin as if she were a cat.
He kneeled down, never letting go of her hand, taking it in both of his. She looked at him carefully, her own hazel eyes darting back and forth across his own.
“What is it, Hannah? Tell me. Please.”
“No,” she said, and covered her mouth. “No, just go away.”
Pepin’s other neighbor was an elderly man whose doorbell read BAGDASARIAN. He greeted Hastroll distractedly, wearing nothing but a pair of briefs. “If you don’t mind,” Hastroll said, showing him his badge, “I’d like to ask you some questions.” But Bagdasarian had already turned to leave him standing in the hallway. Hastroll stuck his foot in the jamb and followed him inside. The living room was taken up by a large piano, the instrument so ship-in-a-bottle big that Hastroll was tempted to ask how he got it in here. Bagdasarian stood with his back to him, facing a mirror and a mantel lined with pictures. When Hastroll tapped him on the shoulder, Bagdasarian turned and looked at him like he’d never seen him before. Then