Mean Woman Blues

people.
    She kept shoes in boxes on a shelf in her closet piled three deep, and in one of the boxes, in one of the shoes, was the cell phone. She hadn’t thought about it since she put it there.
    When she got to the guest room of her uncle’s house, she turned it on and plugged the charger in. And then, unhappily, she called her parents, fortunately getting only the machine.
    She was all alone in her uncle and aunt’s house and feeling odd. Not sad, not angry, but strangely excited. And kind of coolly distant, like she couldn’t really
feel
what was going on in her life, like she was watching a movie or something. If she had to put a name to the way she felt, “curious” might be as close as she could get. Curious and on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop. She was dying for a cigarette, though she hadn’t had one since she first started to work for the station. She’d started smoking when the thing happened with Charlie and hadn’t stopped until it was over.
    She was about to go get a pack when the call from the cop came. Skip Langdon was one woman she wanted to talk to. She asked her to bring the damn cigarettes. She showered and changed clothes, to give herself something to do, taking the cell phone into the bathroom with her. She didn’t know if David would even remember it.
    Having dressed in jeans and a tank top and little slide sandals, she tidied the pillows in the living room and in so doing, noticed something odd: a car on the street that shouldn’t be there.
    Her heart jumped into her throat.
Okay
, she thought,
if they want me, why don’t they just come get me?
And who was “they”? It sure wasn’t her husband out there.
    She phoned her uncle (who was being exceptionally nice to her), but he couldn’t help because she didn’t have the plate number. And he said whatever she did, don’t go outside to get it; he’d call the Dallas cops to come check it out.
    Skip Langdon got there while she was making iced tea, carrying a plastic Walgreen’s bag. Karen was all hopped up. “Check out that car. Somebody’s watching me.”
    Karen watched the cop make a show of studying the car, finally saying, “I wouldn’t worry about it,” and that was how she found out the feds had her under surveillance. Why the hell else would the cop tell her not to worry?
    “Are you alone here?” the cop said.
    Karen nodded. “Want some iced tea?”
    Skip said, “Thanks. Are you scared?”
    Karen considered.
Probably not
, she thought,
if that car was only feds
. “No,” she said finally. “I’m just… discombobulated. Did you bring the cigarettes?”
    “Sure.” The cop handed over the pack. She followed her into the kitchen and took a glass of tea, saving Karen the trouble of fixing a tray. They went back and sat on the newly tidied sofa in the living room, Karen bringing an ashtray she’d found in the pantry.
    She lit up, feeling guilty.
    “It must be an awful thing,” the cop said, “having your world come apart like this.”
    Karen shrugged. “I guess I’m in denial. I don’t feel like my world’s come apart. I guess I won’t really understand anything until I talk to my husband.”
    “You sure are in denial, girlfriend.” The cop spoke harshly and then she settled down. “Look. Tell me about your life together. And I’ll tell you what I know about him.”
    Karen didn’t want to talk at all, just wanted all the information this woman could give her. She felt light-headed from the cigarette and wanted to blame what happened next on that. But maybe she needed to talk more than she thought she did. In the end she told the cop all about the show, and David’s slow courtship of her, and their happy life together, and her new work, her fledgling foundation, Right Woman.
    When the cop said, “You said something about a baby. Are you pregnant?” Karen was shocked. She’d forgotten for a minute. Forgotten in the rush of love she felt for her husband now that he wasn’t there. Her eyes filled. “I had a miscarriage.”
    “Oh?” The cop let the silence fill the room.
    “It was two days ago,” Karen said. And then, “I don’t want to talk about it.”
    “All right, then. Are you okay with talking about Rosemarie Owens?”
    “Sure. Why not?”
    Skip frowned then, but whatever that was about, she put it aside. “Does she live with a man? Maybe a houseboy or…”
    In spite of herself, Karen laughed. “You mean her very much younger ‘husband,’ Billy Bob Bubba? Oh, excuse me,