look back, Norman saw she was terrified.
What, exactly, had he been doing?
He looked down at his finger and saw deep, bleeding crescents on either side of it. One of these days he was apt to bite the damned thing right off, bite it off and swallow it. Not that it would be the first time he’d bitten something off. Or swallowed it, either.
That was a bad street to go down, though. He took the handkerchief out of his back pocket and wrapped it around his bleeding finger. Then he raised his head and looked around. He was surprised to see it was well on the way to being dark; there were lights on in some of the houses. How far had he come? Where, exactly, was he?
He squinted at the street-sign on the corner of the next intersection and read the words Dearborn Avenue. On his right was a little mom-and-pop store with a bike rack in front and a sign reading OVEN-FRESH ROLLS in the window. Norman’s stomach growled. He realized that he was really hungry for the first time since getting off the Continental Express bus and eating cold cereal in the terminal cafeteria, eating it because it was what she would have eaten.
A few rolls were suddenly just what he wanted, the only thing in the world he wanted ... but not just rolls. He wanted oven-fresh rolls, like the kind his mother used to make. She was a fat slob who never stopped yelling, but she could cook, all right. No doubt about that. And she had been her own best customer.
They better be fresh, Norman thought as he mounted the steps. Inside, he could see an old man pottering around behind the counter. They better be fresh, pal, or God help you.
He was reaching for the doorhandle when one of the posters in the window caught his eye. It was bright yellow, and although he had no way of knowing that Rosie had placed this particular flier herself, he felt something stir inside him even before he saw the words Daughters and Sisters.
He bent forward to read it, eyes suddenly very small and very intent, his heart picking up speed in his chest.
COME OUT AND PLAY WITH US
AT BEAUTIFUL TETTINGER’S PIER
AS WE CELEBRATE
CLEAR SKIES AND WARM DAYS WITH
THE 9TH ANNUAL DAUGHTERS AND SISTERS
“SWING INTO SUMMER” PICNIC AND CONCERT
SATURDAY, JUNE 4TH
BOOTHS * CRAFTS * GAMES OF CHANCE *
GAMES OF SKILL * RAP DJ FOR THE KIDDIES
! ! ! PLUS! ! !
THE INDIGO GIRLS, LIVE AND IN CONCERT, 8 P.M.
SINGLE PARENTS, THERE WILL BE CHILD-MINDING!
“COME ONE, COME ALL!”
ALL PROCEEDS BENEFIT DAUGHTERS AND SISTERS,
WHO REMIND YOU THAT
VIOLENCE AGAINST ONE WOMAN
IS A CRIME AGAINST ALL WOMEN
Saturday the fourth. This Saturday. And would she be there, his rambling Rose? Of course she would be, she and all her new lesbo friends. Cunts of a feather flocked together.
Norman traced the fifth line up from the bottom of the poster with the finger he had bitten. Bright poppies of blood were already soaking through the handkerchief wrapped around it.
Come one, come all.
That was what it said, and Norman thought he just might take them up on it.
8
Thursday morning, almost eleven-thirty. Rosie took a sip of Evian, rolled it around in her mouth, swallowed, and picked up the sides again.
“She was coming, all right; this time his ears weren’t just playing tricks on him. Peterson could hear the staccato rap of her high heels moving up the hallway. He could imagine her with her purse already open, rummaging in there for her key, worrying about the devil who might be coming along behind when she should have been worried about the one lying in wait. He checked quickly to make sure he still had his knife, then pulled the nylon stroking down over his head. As her key rattled in the lock, Peterson pulled the knife out and—”
“Cut-cut-cut!” Rhoda cried impatiently through the speakers.
Rosie looked up and through the glass wall. She didn’t like the way Curt Hamilton was just sitting there by his DAT deck and looking at her with his earphones resting on his collarbones, but what alarmed her was the fact that Rhoda was smoking one of her slim cigarettes right in the control room, ignoring the NO PUFFIN sign on the wall. Rhoda looked like she was having a terrible morning, but she wasn’t the only one.
“Rhoda? Did I do something wrong?”
“Not if you wear nylon stockings, I guess,” Rhoda said, and tapped ash into a styrofoam cup sitting