Saint Peter’s Wolf by Michael Cadnum Read Free Book Online

and England, and now kept a string of houses, as she would put it, “well sorted out.”
    â€œI’m off,” she announced. She put the vacuum into the hall closet. “Shall I be back next Tuesday, then?”
    It was always good to see Mrs. Meridian. She was one of those people who understand at a glance. What she meant was: will I continue to work here? The way she smiled told me that she would not miss Cherry very much.
    â€œWhatever your regular schedule has been.…”
    â€œTuesday’s never been the easiest for me to work out, tell you the truth. It’s my busiest day. I don’t mind the Fridays so much, and you would think that Friday would be my hardest day, wouldn’t you?”
    â€œIf you want to pick some other day, or two or three other days.…” It was painful to even remotely approach the subject of my collapsing household.
    â€œThat’s right. I’ll let you know then. Maybe a flexible schedule of some sort.”
    â€œFlexible,” I said, realizing that she was trying, cheerfully, to take advantage of my confusion.
    â€œDon’t worry,” she said, with what I was surprised to see was the slightest wink. “These things pass, Mr. Byrd.”
    Cherry was in the kitchen, making a list. She was on the list’s second page. She glanced up, and said, as lightly as though she were preparing a trip to Safeway, “The moving men won’t come this week. Not enough advance notice.”
    This meant that there was hope. I could win her back. “I’m going to keep my promise to Carliss. I’m going to pay for his visits to Dr. Beecher.”
    She studied me, toying with the pen. “It won’t work, Ben.”
    â€œBeecher’s a good man.”
    â€œSo are you. But paying for Carliss’s therapy won’t win me back.” Cherry was in her more-mature-than-thou mode. She even smiled.
    â€œI’m extremely fond of Carliss.”
    â€œI wouldn’t blame you for wringing his neck.”
    â€œI also have some professional interest in him, as a therapist. I want to see him grow up to be a whole—”
    â€œFor God’s sake, Ben, all right. Pay for Beecher. You’re just so goddamned good I want to puke.” She did not say this nicely at all.
    She added, “I just have to stay here a few more days until things get settled. Please try to put up with us.”
    So it was only a temporary stay of execution. I would be alone here in this house again. There had never been a chance. Orr had defeated me.
    I sat in my study, my feet on a scatter of journals. I had considered myself a reasonably well-organized person, but things had changed. I sorted through the magazines, creating what I sensed was futile tidiness. The encyclopedia was sealed in plastic and locked in the safe. It needed my attention, but so did everything else. If I felt anything other than desolation it was because of my afternoon appointment.
    I found Johanna’s address in the Twin Peaks district without trouble, as though I had driven there many times before. She was dressed in blue, a soft blue cashmere sweater and a pleated blue skirt, vaguely Scottish, and she offered me a chair and suggested tea. I had remembered her as attractive but stricken, and now that I saw her calm, pouring tea, I could do little else but admire her, how she nudged the cup and saucer toward me as though to reassure it, how she tucked her hair back with a slim hand, and how she—I remembered this gesture—touched the hollow of her throat just once. She was comfortable with the world of men, I sensed, but still shy.
    â€œIt was a miracle,” she said.
    I did not have to ask what she referred to, but she assumed that my expression meant that I was not following her.
    â€œBelinda’s recovery. We thought—we really did—that she might have to be put down.”
    Her eyes darkened with the last words. A euphemism can be ugly.