The Axeman's Jazz

Gerards were smart, smart like a scientist, but his brother was the clever one, the only Gerard who was different. Before now, he’d no more thought he could make up a line of poetry than wrestle an alligator.
    He said, “No. Just a student.” He’d meant to leave it at that, not mention the suddenly mundane thing he actually did, but he realized that “student” alone sounded absurdly young. “A medical student,” he added.
    “In that case, be Jean-Paul.”
    “Excuse me?”
    “I checked on those names for you. Jean-Paul is an eight—philosophical and mature; intense, determined. That could work for a doctor.”
    “You checked on those names for me?” He was so immensely flattered he had hardly heard what she said.
    “In either case, Arthur or Jean-Paul, your cornerstone would be one. Very creative and original. A visionary, really.”
    Now he was embarrassed. Surely he didn’t deserve this much attention. And he was no visionary. More like a plodder. He wanted to get the spotlight off him before it revealed unpleasant truths. He said, “What do you do, Di?”
    “Me? You mean my job?”
    He nodded.
    “I’m going to meetings right now. I go to three most days—I’m playing hooky today, but I’ll go tonight. I think I can go to two—two really good ones.”
    “I see.”
    “I guess I’d have to say my job right now is healing myself.”
    Absently, Abe wrapped the last crusts of his dreary sandwich in aluminum foil, not thinking about the task, looking miserably out his office window.
    Shit, I hate this place
, he thought.
    He wouldn’t have to be here at all if it weren’t for goddamn Cynthia. Cynthia controlled the universe.
    Mine, anyway. And there’s not a goddamn thing I can do about it.
    He had eaten staring glumly at the facade of the building across the street, possibly the only ugly building in the entire town, its architecture being possibly the only thing in town he could stand.
    Now he walked to the window and looked down on the street, wanting to take a walk but knowing the heat was killing.
    A lovely woman walked by—a lithe, very young one in a blue cotton dress. A blonde. He felt an unreasonable hunger rise up in his loins, a scary, uncontrollable tidal wave of a thing. He sat down again, dizzy, overwhelmed by the wave.
    He knew her number—Missy’s, not that girl’s. He had gotten it from the list. But she wouldn’t be home. What was the point?
    Automatically, he dialed it, the act performed by the robot that had taken over his body, that was being run by that tidal wave, that wouldn’t be stopped. Her machine answered—and then there was a click and she said, “Hello?”
    “I didn’t think you’d be home.”
    “It’s my lunch hour,” she said. “I forgot something.”
    “Missy, this is Abe. Abe from the program.”
    “Abe.” He could hear her taking a breath, searching her memory banks. “I think I know you.”
    “I was at Al-Anon Monday. I just wanted to tell you I was really inspired by what you said.”
    “Thank you.” She was hesitant, sounded properly flattered.
    “I thought … Well, I’m going through something too. I’d like to talk to you.”
    “I remember you now. You’re the one with the bald spot.”
    Oh, Jesus.
    Catching herself in mid-faux pas, she kept talking. “Oh, I didn’t mean… It’s really cute, I mean. My uncle has a bald spot. It’s sexy. Really. It’s nice.”
    “You really think so?”
    “I really do.”
    “Well, listen, would you indulge an ancient, ancient old man and—”
    “You’re not old.”
    “You wouldn’t be ashamed to be seen with me?”
    Silence.
    “I mean, would you like to have lunch Monday?”

SEVEN
    “EXCUSE ME?”
    Since no one else was in the office, Skip was taking advantage of the solitude to check her teeth for bits of spinach, and re-apply lipstick. She planned to spend the afternoon re-interviewing Strickland’s and Mabus’s neighbors, catching any she might have missed.
    She was staring at her own reflection, not too much caring for it, probing teeth with tongue, when she heard the timid inquiry.
    “Yow!” She almost dropped the mirror. Looking up, she saw that the intruder was a tired-looking woman, a little overweight, with hair frizzed on the ends by an inferior perm now about six months old. She wore walking shorts and running shoes. “You startled me.”
    “I guess I should have said something before I got so close—I’m Mary Shoemaker.”
    Skip stood and offered her