LITMIR.BIZ

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he usually did. Then she pushed her hood back from her face and he saw all over again how very brilliant red her hair was. She caught him looking, and blushed, an actual blush, her fair skin coloring pink beneath its dusting of powder. She looked away, then looked back at him and smiled. Her two front teeth were very slightly pushed in, and he found this—there was no denying it now—unaccountably sexy.

      Then she pushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear and he caught sight of the wedding band on her finger. Why hadn’t he noticed she was married? He didn’t want to pursue another man’s wife. He felt a twinge of unease at the idea that he had even started to do so, then told himself he was being childish; he hadn’t done anything, he was only walking her—where, actually? They were practically in Chinatown now. He mentioned this.

      “Oh,” she said, “I didn’t mean to take you so far out of your way. I can go on alone from here. I live just a few blocks further on.”

      She had misunderstood him. “I’m happy to walk you to your door,” he said. “I just wondered where—”

      She was uncomfortable. Perhaps she was afraid to tell him where she lived in case he turned out to be a stalker. But she didn’t look frightened; if anything, she seemed embarrassed. “I’m practically there,” she said. “It’s on Washington Street, just at Lagrange.”

      “Then I certainly should walk you the rest of the way. That’s a terrible neighborhood.”

      “It’s the neighborhood I live in.”

      “Oh, I didn’t mean it that way,” Ray said hurriedly. “I just meant I’ve probably made you late, ambling along talking, and now it’s dark: I’d hate for anything to happen to you.”

      “I walk home from work every night,” Evelyn said, “so one night of protection probably won’t make much difference.” She traced a crack on the sidewalk with her shoe. “Well, it was nice meeting you. Now I guess have one friend here.”

      “Not counting your husband, that is.” He blurted it.

      “My husband?”

      “I see you’re married.”

      She followed his gaze to her left hand and raised it, looked at the ring as if she were surprised to see it there, and then back at him.

      “We were separated,” she said, “and then three weeks ago he died. It was very sudden.” She crossed her arms and huddled inside her raincoat.

      “Evelyn, I’m so sorry.” He didn’t know what he was feeling; it wasn’t sorry at all. “How terrible for you.”

      “I came up here to give his ashes to his people,” she said, looking at the sidewalk. “And then I got kind of stuck here.” She looked up at him. “Why am I telling you this?”

      “It sounds like you’ve had an awful time,” Ray said.

      “Well—I should go.” She took a step away from him. “See you around.”

      It was extraordinary, the feeling he was having. This afternoon he had become a man who went to the circus, who ate cotton candy, who was trying to pick up a redhead who worked in a beauty salon in the Combat Zone. He had the sense that he had stepped outside his life, and he was astonished to find he could breathe better here. He did not want her to go. It was as if when she left, the sense of freedom the afternoon had turned out to contain would disappear with her.

      “Would you have dinner with me sometime?” He blurted it.

      “Me?”

      “You said you don’t know anyone here. I could show you the city a little, if you’d like.” His voice sounded unbearably foolish in his ears.

      “Yes, I’d like.” She was laughing, now, he didn’t know why. “When?”

      “Now,” he heard himself say.

      “Seriously?”

      What has come over me, he thought, but even as he wondered at himself, he took her arm. “The restaurant’s this way,” he said.

      It was dark, it was French, there was a menu of nothing but wine. Evelyn hid her acid-washed jeans beneath the enormous white napkin and pointed at random to one of the indecipherable menu items. At least my manicure’s French, she thought.

      Afterward, as they stood outside waiting for the taxi he’d called to take her home, he took her hand. His own hand was warm from the lined pocket of a good overcoat and she could not remember Joe Cullen ever taking her hand in this way, simply holding it as he stood beside her, in the whole twelve years of their marriage.

      “I had fun with you tonight—” Ray began, and stopped. Cleared his throat. “Perhaps you’d like—” Stopped, ahem’d again.

      He’s nervous, Evelyn realized. Because of me.

      “Perhaps you’d let me cook you dinner next Saturday?”

      At his house, that meant. He wanted to sleep with her, that meant. He had mistaken her for someone else, someone who hadn’t grown up in a circus, someone without a dead first husband whose death certificate said Broken Neck, someone whose body wasn’t covered in every known color of ink. But if she let him take off her clothes it would be all over because there was no way Ray would want a tattooed lady as a dinner guest. Never mind that she wasn’t a real tattooed lady—she had chickened out and refused to let Joe do anything below her knees and elbows or above her breastbone—it would be too much for Ray, this fancy architect who held the door open for her and ordered dinner in French.

      When he found out about the tattoos that would be the end of it, yes, but she would let him cook her dinner first. Soak up the way he looked at her like a dry plant soaks up water. His eyes on hers as if he thought she was actually interesting. Or beautiful. Or good.

      “Next Saturday—just consider it,” he said, opening the door of the taxi for her. “I’m an excellent cook.”

      As if she could have said no. As if the cab, speeding back to her crummy rented room, were taking her anyplace else worth going.

      Evelyn finished vacuuming the broken glass in the study and drew the curtains to hide the garbage bags taped over the broken window. The guest room, its almost-matching yellows bravely pretending to be the same shade, was ready for Ingrid’s arrival. Now there was the downstairs to tackle, dinner to think of. She was running the ElectroLux in the living room when Ray came home, early for once. She shut off the machine to greet him.

      “My God,” he said, “it’s even more sparkling in here than usual. I take it Liz Luce didn’t reach you.” He kissed her forehead and she realized how sweaty she was.

      “Did she call? I can’t hear anything when the vacuum’s running.”

      “She got me at work. She’s busy with commencement and whatnot, so she asked if we’d pick Ingrid up at her dorm at 4:00—which was five minutes ago.”

      Once again, Ingrid was arriving before she was prepared.

      “Would you get her yourself, Ray? I’m a sweaty mess, and I still haven’t cleaned the guest bathroom.”

      “You’re going to clean an already clean bathroom for a teenager who wears jeans held together with safety pins?”

      “I’m cleaning because a guest should be welcomed into a clean house.”

      “Okay, Emily Post,” Ray said, and then, lest she take the joke as a barb, bent to kiss her again.

      When he had gone, Evelyn spritzed the bathroom mirror, scrubbed the tub, folded and refolded the towels. She knew she should stop if she wanted time for a shower, but she checked the guest bedroom again, smoothed the chenille spread, pulled a dust bunny from under the radiator, noticed she had hung one of the curtains wrong side out, turned it around and there was Ray’s Saab pulling into the driveway. Evelyn leaned against the window, sweat running down between her breasts, and watched as Ray and Ingrid each

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