Mr Peanut - Adam Ross [85]
“And then what?”
“I helped Chip fix his model airplane.”
“You let the boy stay up late.”
“No. He came downstairs in his pajamas. He loved airplanes, birds, anything that could fly. He came downstairs and asked me if I would fix it before he went to sleep. So we went to the basement and glued it, though I told him it probably wouldn’t fly well anymore.”
“Why?”
“The wing had broken. It was balsa wood. Very delicate.”
“How did Chip react?”
“He said that it was okay so long as we’d tried.”
“Then what?”
“Marilyn put Chip to bed.”
“What did you do next?”
“We all sat down to watch a movie.”
“What was it?”
“Strange Holiday.”
“Starring who?”
“That little man. Like you.”
“Claude Rains,” Mobius said. “What was it about?”
“A man who comes back from a vacation and finds America taken over by fascists.”
“Was it any good?”
“Terrible. I couldn’t watch it. Plus I hate movies.”
“What do you hate about them?”
“They’re overdetermined.”
“Meaning what?”
“In a movie, everything means something. If a man says, ‘That tank’s filled with compressed air. If you’re not careful, it will explode,’ then you know that at some point the tank will explode.”
“So?”
“So life’s nothing like that.”
“You don’t think?”
“I know.”
“I know I’m going to die in this cell.”
Sheppard refilled his pipe. “How’s that?”
Mobius smiled. “David’s novel is going to kill me.”
Sheppard lit up, puffed twice.
“Then what happened?” Mobius asked.
“I was exhausted,” Sheppard said. “So I snuck over to the daybed and fell asleep.”
“Where was that?”
“Just off the living room, by the stairs to the second floor.”
“What do you remember next?”
“I remember sitting up and seeing everyone watching the movie. Then Marilyn turned and said something to me.”
“What did she say?”
Sheppard puffed on his pipe. He could see Marilyn turn toward him from her chair, a rocking chair whose back partly hid her face. Her hair was down and she waved him over to sit with her, but he didn’t leave his spot. And something about not moving, about staying where he was, was so pleasant and comforting that he likened it to childhood, that moment when his parents would check in on him, saying his name once or twice while he pretended to be asleep. Marilyn was wearing white shorts and a short-sleeved shirt with little wing designs, and she waved for him to come over again. It is possible, Sheppard remembered thinking, to be completely happy in marriage.
“I didn’t hear you,” Mobius said.
“She said, ‘Come on, Sam, it’s going to improve.’” And for a moment, Sheppard couldn’t help but smile.
Mobius crossed his arms. “Then what?”
“I woke up.”
“Why?”
“I heard Marilyn crying my name.”
“Did you know there was someone else in the house?”
“No, I didn’t know what was happening. I thought she might be having uterine spasms.”
“And?”
“I ran upstairs to our bedroom and someone hit me.”
“Did you see him?”
“I’m not sure. I saw a form.”
“What do you mean?”
“I couldn’t make anything out very clearly. It was dark. Sometimes I remember him differently.”
“How?”
“Sometimes he’s bushy-haired. Sometimes he was bald like me.”
“But either way, somebody knocked you out.”
“Yes.”
“Then what?”
“I came to, lying on the floor. My police-surgeon badge was right next to my face. It was usually in my wallet, so I didn’t understand. Then I saw my wallet under the bed. I sat up.”
“And?”
“That’s when I saw the blood. There was blood on the door to my right. Droplets of every size all the way down to a fine mist. Then I stood up and saw Marilyn.”
“She was on the bed.”
“Her face was turned toward me.”
“She’d been bludgeoned.”
“Beyond recognition,” Sheppard said, though in his mind he realized the fallacy of this expression. It was just something you said. The truth was that Marilyn was completely recognizable, that as the years had passed he remembered the exact shade of her hair color more clearly as it flowered out from her face and clung to the blood around her head, the strands clumped thick in places like they’d been too long exposed