“Nice costume,” she said admiringly, looking me up and down. “Where’s Rafe?”
“He’s coming,” I said, grinning to myself. If she liked my getup, wait until she saw Rafe. I yanked off my wig and fluffed out my hair. I tossed the wig onto a coffee table, knowing my mother would pick it up later. I slipped out of my shoes as well as was the custom in an Asian household. I never understood the reason for wearing shoes in a house, but I did it when I visited an American friend’s place if she or he insisted. In my home, however, they were asked to remove their shoes. My house, my rules.
“Your father is worried sick about you,” my mother scolded, leading me into the living room. Of course, the television was on, and she was looking for more news on Lydia’s murder. “Bob, say hello to your daughter.” Dad looked up from the television and silently gave me the once-over.
“You all right?” He asked, not commenting on my costume. When I nodded, he returned to the television. He wasn’t much of a talker unless you got him drunk and talking about the Vietnam war, but he always managed to convey that he cared without saying it in actual words.
“Ramona, Howie, and Henry called,” my mother reported, sinking into the couch next to dad. “They wanted to know that you were ok. I told them to call later so they could talk to you themselves.”
I sighed, trying not to feel put upon. I loved my siblings, but I always felt more like their mother than their sister. My mom is great, but she’s short on practicality. I was the one who made sure my siblings were clothed and fed on a daily basis. They were probably rattled about this murder thing which meant that I would have to spend a great deal of time placating them—the last thing I wanted to do. I was tempted to tell my mother that she could talk to them, damn it, but I knew that that wouldn’t go over well with her. Family was family. Just as Beezus always had to take care of Ramona, I was responsible for my younger siblings. I usually didn’t resent it, but I did tonight. I excused myself for a minute and went to the bathroom so I could unbind my breasts. I heaved a relieved sigh before returning to the living room.
The day after Ellen gave me the envelope, I returned to my apartment to find a single rose on the front step, and a window broken. Being the smart gal that I was, I pulled out my cell and phoned the cops. I waited for them outside my apartment building. By the time they got there, I was freaking out. They found a picture of her, signed, along with lipstick prints all over my walls, my mirrors, my bedspread. My underwear was strewn around the room and several panties were missing. To top it off, she was taking a damn bath in my tub. Her bag, which was stuffed with my panties, was resting on the floor by the bathtub. Not only was she a nut, she was stupid as well. The cops arrested her; her shrink came forward and said she wasn’t dangerous, just hallucinatory, and they locked her away somewhere.
“What the fuck?” Rafe jumped up from his chair and stared down at me. “She was wearing your costume?” He started pacing, keeping his eyes pinned to me. “You sit there so calmly telling me about your coworker being murdered and don’t bother telling me until now that it could have been you? What are you, out of your fucking mind?” His voice had risen appreciably as he ranted. I said nothing, knowing from experience that I had to let his machismo cool down a bit before attempting to have a rational dialogue. I slipped on my inscrutable Asian face, folded my hands on top of the table and waited.
“Rather strange coincidence, isn’t it?” Antoinette interjected, cutting her eyes to me. “The day you two switch costumes, Lydia is murdered.” Although she was purportedly speaking only to me, her voice carries clearly across the crowd. I flushed, but didn’t answer. I figured it was better to save my words for the police than to waste them trying to defend myself.
“God, did I tie one on last night,” Lydia groaned, holding her head in her hands. “It was Brian’s birthday, and boy, did we celebrate. He loved the painting I did for him.” Lydia dabbled in painting and could be really good at it if she put more effort into it.
“Hey, girls!” Delia Booth bounced over, and I do mean bounced. She wasn’t wearing a bra as usual, and her thirty-eight double-Ds were very happy to see us. She’s the newest edition to our happy animal family, and she’s still perky after working at this shit-hole for two weeks. She must either be lobotomized or strung out on Valium. Her dark brown hair was perfectly in place as was her makeup, even though she had just finished the same shift as Lydia and me. She smiled a thousand-watt smile while covertly studying herself in the mirror.
“Bea, get your ass out there,” Lydia (formerly Linda before she changed her name) Wilkerson barked at me, poking her head in the tiny dressing room. “You know your shift started at eight.” She’s a friend of sorts who has higher aspirations. I didn’t feel very friendly towards her when she pulled her mother superior act on me, I’ll tell you that much. Fortunately, she usually mellowed after a good dressing down, otherwise I wouldn’t be able to even tolerate her.
“Tell us everything,” Lyle says eagerly as he leans forward to catch every detail. It is three days after my ordeal, and Jimmy is in jail pending his bail hearing. My mother, Lyle, and I are perched in Paris’s new hospital room as he’s been moved from the ICU to a regular room. He is making tremendous progress, and can now speak in complete, full sentences. This is the first opportunity we’ve all had to be together. The Jensons have thoughtfully allowed us time alone and are in the cafeteria presumably converting some poor heathen soul. I am elated that I have only the rope burns on my wrists to contend with, a few stitches in my forehead and a bruise from when Jimmy backhanded me—no hospital stay for me this time. My back didn’t even bruise from all his prodding, so I consider myself in tip-top shape.
“I’m glad the bitch is dead,” Mr. Jenson shouts, spraying spit on Lyle’s face.