Monday Mourning Part 14

The finger went to my lips.

"Think about it. What was taken? What was left behind? Why the slick entry, then all the smashed gla.s.s?"

Ryan squeezed my hands in his, a gesture intended to calm. Instead, it increased my agitation.

"I really would like to stay, Tempe."

I searched his face, hoping for words that would comfort. Instead Ryan released me and slipped into his jacket. Grabbing the tape, he reached out, touched my cheek, and was gone.

I stood a moment, pondering his comment.

Stay what, Andrew Ryan? The course? The night? Cool? Free?

Not a sound from the bathroom. Not a sound from the study. Anne's light was off.

After cranking up the heat, I checked the lock on every door and window, set the alarm, and tested the phone. Then I headed toward my room.

I hadn't noticed earlier. As I crossed the threshold, it drew my attention like some malignant phantom.

My legs gridlocked in shock at the macabre outrage above my bed.

11.

"NO!"

Rus.h.i.+ng forward, I jumped onto the bed, yanked a long, jagged shard from the painting above the headboard, and hurled it to the far side of the room.

Gla.s.s shattered. Fragments bounced from the wall and dropped onto others swept to the baseboard during our hasty cleanup.

"You low-life son of a b.i.t.c.h!"

My heart hammered. Tears burned the backs of my lids.

Stripping off my clothes, I flung them one by one after the shard. Then I threw myself under the covers, naked and trembling.

As an entering freshman at UVA, Katy chose a studio arts major. Her interest was short-lived, but during that brief blossoming, my daughter was as pa.s.sionate about les beaux arts les beaux arts as any Montmartre aspirant. In one semester she produced four prints, fourteen drawings, and six oils, her style a lyrical blend of fauvist gaudiness and Barbizon realism. as any Montmartre aspirant. In one semester she produced four prints, fourteen drawings, and six oils, her style a lyrical blend of fauvist gaudiness and Barbizon realism.

On my fortieth, my only-born presented me with a Katy Petersons oil original, a raucous Matisse-meets-Rousseau interpretation of a Charlottesville hillside. I treasure that canvas. It is one of the few possessions I have transported from Carolina to Quebec to make a home out of my condo. Katy's landscape is my last sight as I pull back the covers each night, and regularly catches my eye whenever I move through the room.

Why couldn't you just take whatever it was you wanted? Why ruin Katy's painting? Why ruin my daughter's beautiful G.o.dd.a.m.ned painting?

I squeezed my eyelids, too angry to cry, too angry not to. My fingers bunched and rebunched the blanket.

Minutes clicked by.

One.

Two.

Tears trickled to my temples.

Three.

Four.

Eventually, my breathing steadied and my death grip on the blanket relaxed.

I opened my eyes to blackness, and the soft orange glow of the clock radio. I stared at the digits, willing back rational thought.

Eventually, the anger abated. I began picking apart the mosaic of the last three hours.

What had gone on here? Had Anne and I merely interrupted a burglary in progress, or had we climbed into something more sinister? B and E didn't figure.

Again, my fingers grip-locked. A stranger had violated my personal s.p.a.ce.

Who? A very selective thief looking for particular items of value? A junkie looking for anything that could be fenced to fund a buy? Thrill-seeking kids?

Why? Most important, why the gratuitous violence?

I remembered Ryan's words.

What was stolen?

Anne's laptop and camera.

What was wrong there?

The jewelry case had been in full view. It contained items of value and was portable. Why not take that? The TV? The DVD player? Less portable. My laptop? In the excitement of Anne's arrival, I'd left it in the trunk of my car.

Had the intruder been spooked before scoring the good stuff? Not likely. He had taken the time to break things. a.s.suming it was a he. Gratuitous damage is more characteristic of the male of the species.

The main door was open when we arrived. The courtyard doors were locked from the inside. Escape through the French doors would have necessitated scaling the backyard fence.

So? That's how he'd come in. Had the front door been opened simply for the effect when I returned? Had Bird been thrown out or had he bolted through the French door when things were being smashed?

I rolled over. Punched the pillow. Rolled back.

Why so much damage? Where were my neighbors? Had no one heard the noise?

Was Ryan right? Was the episode more than a simple B and E? Burglars work in silence.

Why cut cleanly through the French door then smash mirrors and pictures?

Why mutilate the painting?

Another blast of anger.

Was the act a threat? A warning?

If so, to whom? Me? Anne?

From whom? One of my schizoid crazies? A random schizoid crazy? Anne's buddy from the plane?

Thoughts winged and collided in my head.

I heard soft crunching, like whispered footsteps in sand. A weight hit the bed, then Birdie curled by my knee.

I reached down and stroked him.

"I love you, Bird boy."

Birdie stretched full length against my leg.

"As for you, you loathsome son of a b.i.t.c.h. Yes, you've gotten to me, but one day we may have a reckoning."

I was talking aloud over the gentle purring.

I awoke with a sense that something was wrong. Not full memory, just a nagging from the lower centers.

Then recollection.

I opened my eyes. Sunlight sparkled from flecks on the carpet and dresser top.

Birdie was gone. Through my partially open door I could hear a radio.

I found Anne drinking coffee in the kitchen, working a crossword and humming David Bowie.

Hearing me, she sang out aloud.

"Ch- ch- ch-changes!"

"Is that a suggestion?" I asked.

Anne glanced at my hair over the pink and green floral frames of her reading gla.s.ses, one of a dozen pairs she purchases each year at Steinmart.

"That do's gotta go."

"You're not exactly the Suave girl, yourself."

Anne's hair was twisted upward and clipped with a barrette. A spray winged from her head like the crown on Katy's c.o.c.katiel.

"I considered more tidying, but wasn't sure how much I should touch." Anne stood, dug a mug from a cabinet, filled, and handed it to me.

"Thanks."

"What's on the rail for the lizard?"

Anne had many expressions deriving from her Mississippi childhood. This was one I hadn't heard before.

"Translation?"

"What are your plans for today?"

"I have a date with the last of those pizza bas.e.m.e.nt skeletons. Yours?"

"Contemporary Art Museum. That's the Place-des-Arts metro stop, right?"

"Correct."

I poured cream into my coffee, then dropped two halves of an English m.u.f.fin into the toaster.

"Did you know that twenty-five hundred morons bared their fat a.s.ses in the rain for a Spencer Tunick photo in that plaza?"

"How do you know they were all rump heavy?"

"Ever been to a nude beach?"

Anne had a point. Those who shouldn't are often those who most willingly flaunt it.

"Then St-Denise for lunch and shopping," she went on.

"Alone?" I asked, remembering the hunk in 3C.

"Yes, Mom. Alone."

"Annie, do you suppose that man could have broken in here?"

"Why in the world would he do that? He probably doesn't know you, and that is no way to impress me. Why would he do something so totally crazy?"

"Someone did."

"I don't think it could be him, really I don't. The guy looked perfectly normal. But..." Her voice trailed off. "I'm sorry, Tempe. It was stupid."

I was spreading blackberry jam when Anne spoke again.

"What's a seven-letter word for 'insensitive'?"

"Hurtful."