The Axeman's Jazz

skip the preliminaries.
    Missy hadn’t even called first, had driven to Di’s without even thinking about it. She had to talk to her; of course Di would be there for her.
    And Di was. Of course she was.
    She greeted Missy from her balcony, fresh in a pair of pink shorts, holding a glass of something that looked like lemonade. Missy felt a twinge of jealousy.
All she needs is a picture hat.
    Di would probably look as if she’d just come back from a pedicure and facial if bombs were falling on the city. Missy was suddenly aware that she hadn’t washed her hair since yesterday, and she was getting a pimple on her chin. She had chosen Di to be her sponsor in Coda because she admired her so much it was like hero worship—and she felt concomitantly intimidated. Like she couldn’t measure up in a million years.
    Even with all that was on her mind, she said almost involuntarily, “You look terrific, Di! How do you do it?”
    “Really? I’ve spent the whole day down in the dumps about feeling so ugly.” Absently, she poured Missy a lemonade and handed it to her, not offering first, behaving like a mother whose kid has come in hot and sweaty. “You remember that new guy who came to the meeting Thursday? Steve? He was at the meeting I went to last night, but I just couldn’t get him interested. I feel about a million years old.”
    “He must be crazy. You look like a million dollars.” But even as she spoke, she felt a twinge of resentment.
What about me?
    “Really?” said Di. “Do you honestly think that?”
    “You’re gorgeous. Everybody says so.”
    “Yes, but you. Right now. Do you really think so?” She held up a hand. “Look closely before you speak. Look at my neck and under my eyes.”
    What the hell’s wrong with her?
Missy thought. And then it dawned on her that something was. Di wasn’t herself. Without thinking, she went into helper mode; this was what she did best and often she did it unconsciously. “What’s the matter, Di? You seem really down.”
    “I don’t know what’s wrong. I eat nothing but live food. I never cook anything. I don’t know why it’s not working.”
    “You’re on a diet? You haven’t lost as much weight as you wanted?” She looked doubtfully at Di’s perfect proportions.
    “Oh, Missy. Oh, Missy.” They hadn’t left the kitchen—had been standing companionably, lemonades in hand—so there wasn’t a box of tissues handy and Di had to grab for a paper towel. Before she applied it to her features, Missy saw them twist in misery. Di turned away and sobbed, probably, Missy realized, so she couldn’t see her looking ugly. “Missy, I’m getting old.”
    “Old?” Missy didn’t get it.
    “I found this guy really attractive, but when I talked to him, I gave him my best smile, flirted and everything, I realized he was just being polite. I might as well have been his mother.”
    Missy couldn’t suppress a giggle. “His mother? Oh, Di, I don’t think so.”
    “I have something to say to you, Missy. It’s the sort of thing I don’t say because I don’t talk about age, I don’t think it’s important. But today I think it’s important.”
    “What is it, Di?”
    “I have a feeling that young man is twenty years younger than I am.”
    Twenty years! What was with Di? She couldn’t possibly be twenty years older than anyone, that was ridiculous. And Missy guessed the new guy was quite a bit older than she herself was—he could be thirty, maybe.
    She laughed. “Di, you must have found the Fountain of Youth.”
    “Missy.” She looked terrified. “Missy. What if there isn’t one?”

THIRTY
    SKIP KNEW THAT if she had too many Diet Cokes, she’d have to go to the bathroom and maybe miss Di if she came out. But it was hard to pace yourself when you had all day. And she had to face the fact that the day was quickly dwindling. So far she had had exactly one glimpse of her quarry—when Di had come out on the balcony to speak to Missy. Now Missy had gone, and she was Di’s only visitor of the day. It made for a boring Sunday.
    And the thing that happened when you were bored was that you thought about things. You couldn’t stop thinking about things. You couldn’t make your mind stop because your butt was sore and you didn’t want to think about that. As long as your suspect stayed inside, there wasn’t anything to watch, so you couldn’t think about what was actually happening. You’d already thought about sex until the subject had all the