she carried a cold beer for him. When she came back she was wearing a bathing suit. It was a strange bathing suit, Morton decided, a bathing suit with openings in unexpected places – a bathing suit that seemed to be held together by shoelaces. He accepted the beer and turned back to the lawn mower.
"You mean you'll be able to put all those pieces back again?" she asked.
"Oh, it's not too complicated, actually," Morton said.
"But I can't seem to isolate the trouble."
"But that's wonderful," Gillian said. "When something goes wrong we always have to call in a man."
Morton Earbrow returned home for his wrenches and screwdrivers. When he came back, Gillian was in the pool. She swam nicely, especially when one considered the slimness of her arms, which was precisely what Morton was considering. He returned his attention to the machine slowly, regretfully and, for once in his life, to a machine that seemed to be getting the better of him. Of course, Morton Earbrow had no way of knowing that Gillian had emptied a shaker of salt into the gas tank earlier in the day.
His wife appeared but once. Precisely at noon, wearing Bermuda shorts and sweatshirt, she came over and handed him a liverwurst sandwich. No mustard. She disappeared again into the bowels of the house.
Gillian spent the afternoon stretched out on the striped chaise lounge. She thought briefly about Ernie Miklos and felt a twinge of sorrow. She hadn't wanted it to end that way, nothing quite so violent as that. It was sorrow tempered with relief, though; she might not have gotten him home. And how would she have explained that? The sun was striking her full force now, and she shifted from her stomach to her back. She was aware also of the heat of Morton Earbrow's gaze every time she twitched a muscle. At that moment she inhaled – just for effect, just to see what would be the reaction of her little home handyman. Before exhaling, she had the satisfaction of hearing a wrench drop.
The sense of challenge was already waning. And Gillian Blake, warm and rested, allowed her mind to speculate on the next candidate. Someone a trifle harder, she mused, someone who would put up more of a… struggle.
Melvin Corby – he was so frightened by his wife; he would surely be a challenge. Or maybe Paddy Madigan, the retired prize fighter, but there was something missing there, something about him she didn't quite understand. Marvin Goodman, the skinflint…. Willoughby Martin, if he even cared about girls. The possibilities seemed endless. But a challenge, who would be a challenge? There was Mario Vella; everyone said he was a member of the Cosa Nostra. No, not him, not yet.
Rabbi Joshua Turnbull, a man of God. That would surely be a challenge. Well, why not?
"You must be so tired," she said to Morton Earbrow.
"Wouldn't you like to take time for a drink?"
"I think I've found the problem," Morton said.
"Something seems to be dogging the fuel line."
Gillian reached down and let her uncalloused, satiny hand stroke the back of his neck. He jumped to his feet immediately.
"Come on in and have a drink," she said. "Come on, you deserve it."
"A little break wouldn't hurt, I suppose," he said.
From the garage to the den, darker and cooler. He sat on the couch and let the air conditioning unit strike him directly.
"I'm going to get your slipcovers all…," he started and stopped.
"A Tom Collins this time?" she said. "Change your luck?"
"It wouldn't hurt," he said.
She carried the drinks to him, sat down beside him. That bathing suit; he couldn't imagine how it was held together. The stresses….
"What's next?" Gillian said.
"Excuse me?"
"On the house," she said. "What's your next project?"
"Who knows? Gloria makes lists. She doesn't let me see them until the weekend. But there's lots to do. Lots of work on an old house. Never ends. Sometimes I wish we hadn't bought it."
"What does your wife think about it all?"
"She likes it," he said. "She says it keeps her busy. That's what I can't understand… you must hear this kind of thing all the time. I guess you know almost everything about marriage."
"Everything," she said. It sounded cynical. It was cynical.
Her eyes were amber in the dark. "Everyone has problems. People don't seem able to reach out to each other any more."
"l know what you mean," he said. "I know exactly what you mean. But what do you do when that happens?"
"I could tell you