Rough Trade

has a lot on his mind,” I replied. “You and I both need to be careful not to read too much into things. Let’s just try and take it one step at a time.”
    “I don’t know if I can do that,” replied Chrissy. “I mean, sometimes I can force myself. Like when I’m taking care of Katharine or physically doing something. I actually tell myself, ‘Now I’m doing the dishes,’ ‘Now I’m changing a diaper.’ It’s almost as if I’m trying to convince myself that even though my entire life has been turned upside down, there are some things that are still normal. And then there are other times when I just go off the emotional deep end, when I want to scream or tear my hair or just run away. I couldn’t sleep last night. I just lay there in bed looking at Jeff and wondering whether I was lying next to a murderer.”
    The sound of breaking glass kept me from responding. For a second, maybe two, I wondered whether a picture had fallen from the wall or dishes had shifted in the rack, but I immediately dismissed it. I’d lived in the city long enough to distinguish between broken crockery and a broken windowpane.
    “Quick,” I whispered. “You run upstairs and call the police, then lock yourself in the baby’s room. Go!”
     

CHAPTER 16
     
     
    I stood in the living room, listening to the sounds of breaking glass punctuated by garbled shouts of what sounded like profanity coming from the kitchen. I wondered what kind of burglar cared so little about getting caught that he would make that much noise. Then I realized that it wasn’t a burglar. It was a fan.
    The Jester, looking worse for the wear since yesterday’s brief appearance on the hood of the funeral limousine, staggered into Chrissy’s living room. He was dressed in tom purple tights and a grimy harlequin vest that looked like it had once been purple and gold, before it had been dragged through the dirt and smeared with what looked like ketchup.
    I couldn’t tell how old he was, but I could tell that he was drunk. I also knew that he was dangerous. His eyes were red-rimmed from lack of sleep and had the unsteady gaze of a man who’d stared into the bottom of too many bottles and seen only his own sense of grievance. His face was pitted and disfigured by old acne scars, and for a minute I thought that he was wearing makeup, but then I realized that it wasn’t eyeliner, but the shadow of an incipient shiner. Apparently this member of the Monarchs’ court, instead of spreading merriment and good cheer, had been fighting. Judging from the length of lead pipe he clutched in one hand, my guess was that so far he’d managed to come out on top.
    “Where the fuck is he?” he shouted, running the words together. It was hard to understand him over the steam-engine gasps of my own panicked breathing. »
    “Who?” I demanded, startled by the sound of my own voice, which was thin and tremulous with fear.
    “Who the fuck do you think I came here to see, you dumb cunt, King Kong? Your husband!” He started looking under the couches and behind the furniture, singing, “Come out, come out, wherever you are so I can smash your face in—” He staggered suddenly, as if the floor had lurched unexpectedly beneath him, then regained his balance and straightened up with elaborate care. Under other circumstances the whole thing might have been comical— for example if I happened to have an Uzi in my purse. But today there was nothing harmless about his inebriation.
    “Jeff’s not here right now,” I said like some demented secretary. “He’s just stepped out. Perhaps you’d like to have a seat and wait for him?”
    “Where the fuck did he go?” he demanded belligerently, turning around to take in the room. “Did he have to stop at the bank and count his money? Did he run out to pick up some more fucking caviar?”
    “I expect him back soon. May I get you a drink while { you’re waiting?” I inquired in my new role as lady of the ' house.
    “Sure, whadyagot?” he asked, wandering the room un- \ steadily, picking up objects and setting them back down at random. I wished desperately that he’d just put down the pipe. I also wished the police would hurry. Fear had robbed me of my sense of time. I had no idea whether it had been ten seconds or ten minutes since we’d first heard the sound of breaking glass.
    “What would you like? We have beer, wine, or perhaps you’d prefer something harder?” I asked, trying frantically to remember where