P Is for Peril

know, the entire time I was married to Dow, she did everything she could to make life miserable for me. How much more shit am I supposed to take?"
    "She's not the only one who heard the rumor about Clint."
    "Who'd she get that from? Dana Glazer, no doubt. What an evil bitch she is."
    "People talk about these things. Sooner or later, it was bound to come out."
    "Oh, for pity's sake. You know what? There's no law that says I can't visit a friend, so why don't you go back and tell her to get fucked." She gestured dismissively, annoyed with herself. "Ship that," she said.
    "Why add fuel to the fire? Clint was my trainer. We did weights. End of sentence. There was never anything sexual between us. Ask him if you doubt me. I'll be happy to wait out here."
    "What would that prove? I'm sure he's too much of a gentleman to kiss and tell."
    "Don't you have any male friends? Does everything between a man and a woman have to be sexual?"
    "I didn't say you were guilty of anything. I'm telling you how it looks. Tongues have been wagging. Fiona saw your car here yesterday and here you are again today."
    She stared at me briefly and then seemed to make a decision. "Why don't you come in and I'll introduce you properly."
    "Why would I do that?"
    "Why not? As long as you've come this far. By the way, I found Dow's passport when I was going through his clothes. It was still in the breast pocket of the overcoat he wore when we went to Europe last fall."
    "Well, that's one question down. Are those his?" I said, pointing to the shirts.
    "Someone might as well get some use out of them." She unlocked the front door, using a key, I noticed, from her own key chain. She pushed open the door and stepped aside, allowing me to pass in front of her and into the house. I don't know why I should have felt embarrassed, but I did.
    The front room was done up as an old-fashioned parlor with a camelback sofa, occasional tables, and assorted Queen Anne chairs. Every item of furniture sported a hand-crocheted doily designed as protection from dirt and grease stains. There was a grandfather clock and lots of knickknacks; milk glass, cranberry glass, Steuben glass, Lladro, framed photographs of family members long since deceased. Crystal scarcely gave the room a glance as she proceeded down the hallway and through the kitchen to a glassed-in porch. Clint was seated in a La-Z-Boy looking out toward the yard. She put the stack of shirts on a small wooden table next to him. Crystal gave him a brief kiss on the top of his head. "I brought you some shirts and I also brought a friend. You remember Kinsey? She's a member of your gym."
    At first, I thought: not Clint, mistake, has to be someone else. But it was him. Whatever his disability, he was considerably diminished. He was suffering contractures of his hands and a muscle weakness so pronounced that he could hardly move his head. He'd lost an enormous amount of weight. His eye sockets were puffy, a reddish-purple color, as though he'd been punched out. I could see skin lesions on his forehead and his arms. I tuned the rest of it out. Through the window, I could see a burly old guy working in the yard, tying up some vines; probably Clint's father, the man who answered the phone.
    Crystal was saying, "We just ran into each other and she was asking about you."
    "How're you doing?" I said, feeling like a fool. Clearly, he wasn't doing well and might never do well again.
    "Clint has a systemic connective tissue disease called dermatomyositis. Severe in his case. It may be an autoimmune reaction, though nobody really knows. This has been going on since, what… the end of January, isn't it?" She addressed her remarks to him, as though for confirmation. "The doctors were hoping he'd go into remission so it seemed advisable for him to lay low."
    "Is that why he rented the Glazers' cottage?"
    "That's right. I wanted him close so I could keep an eye on him. After the lease ran out, it seemed best to have him move in with his parents for a while." She leaned closer to him. "Where'd your mom go, is she out?"
    Clint's response was garbled, but she seemed to understand him, probably because she'd tracked his degenerating speech patterns for the past ten months.
    "Why didn't you let people know what was going on?"
    "Clint asked me not to and I honored his request. As long as you're prying, will there be anything else?"
    "Of course," she said. "That's what she pays you for. I'm surprised you'd even mention it."
    "It might go