Night Night, Sleep Tight by Hallie Ephron Read Free Book Online Page B

plain and geeky character who lusted after television’s Dobie Gillis, was code for Deirdre; Thalia, the gorgeous, moneygrubbing blonde whom Dobie lusted after, was Joelen.
    Deirdre reached for the phone but Henry stopped her as Joelen’s voice continued. “Sy called and told us what happened. Gosh, I don’t know where to begin. I just hate saying this to a machine.” A pause. “I’m so sorry. I really can’t believe it.” There was a longer pause, then: “Listen, I don’t know how long you’ll be in town, and I know it’s been ages since we were friends. But we were. Really good friends. If there’s anything I can do to help, all you have to do is name it. You know where I am. Same place. Call me . ” Joelen recited the number. Deirdre still knew it by heart. “Mom sends condolences.”
    Click.
    “Joelen?” Henry said.
    Deirdre nodded.
    “Now what does she want?”
    “I don’t think she wants anything. I told you, she rang the bell this morning right before the police. She’s a Realtor. She had a meeting with Dad.”
    “So why is she calling now?”
    “She’s being nice?” Deirdre yawned and stretched. The room had long ago stopped spinning and she felt drained and far too tired to try explaining to Henry the concept of nice . “I’m going to bed,” she announced. She hoped there were clean sheets.
    “I’ve got to take these guys out. Then I’ll turn in, too.” Henry pulled his leather jacket off the back of a chair. The dogs perked up and started yipping and circling him.
    “And you’ll take care of that?” Deirdre pointed to the deflated garbage bag that Henry had left on the floor. “And the things that Dad wanted you to throw away?”
    “Oh yeah.” Henry crouched and snapped a leash to each dog’s collar. “Don’t worry, it will all be gone by morning.”

 
    Chapter 8
    T he wind had died down and the house settled into an uneasy silence as Deirdre ferried beer bottles and leftovers to the kitchen. She carried her duffel bag into the room that was once her bedroom. The stuffy space had been taken over by Henry’s bench press, weights, and an exercise bicycle. Judging from the layer of dust on them, they didn’t see much use.
    She opened the windows, but the air barely moved. On hot nights like this her father used to hose down the roof.
    Her sliding closet door was sticky, but she managed to work it open. There, on the rack, hung some straight skirts and pleated skirts from high school, all of them much too long, with a few matching cardigan sweaters. A much shorter, swingy, navy blue tent dress that she’d worn in college hung there, too. She’d bought it because she thought it made her look like That Girl, Marlo Thomas. There was the cream-colored linen suit she’d worn to her college interviews, along with a brown trench coat that she used to wear with its broad collar turned up, its belt tied at the waist in the style of Catherine Deneuve.
    Way on the end was the white two-piece dress she’d worn to her high school graduation and to the dance after. She fingered the silk brocade that had gone brittle with age. The shoes that were supposed to have been her first high heels were still in their box on the closet floor. When she’d bought them she’d been optimistic that she’d be able to take a few steps, maybe even dance. Just one more thing that was supposed to happen that never did.
    Deirdre tossed her duffel bag on top of some cardboard boxes stacked in the closet. Her name was written in block letters on the sides—certainly her writing—though she had no memory of boxing anything up.
    She turned. On the adjacent wall hung a large framed pencil sketch of a waif with enormous, honey-dripping eyes. The little girl held a gray kitten with its own wide teary eyes. Preadolescent Deirdre had selected this awesomely awful artist-signed (Keane) piece of ’60s kitsch herself. After the accident, she’d identified with that girl and begged her parents to get her a cat.