Twisted

fifth anniversary. Today, she had only a brief memory of that happier day; what sheconcentrated on now was her image; a large woman, though not fat. Quick green eyes. She was wearing an off-white dress imprinted with blue cornflowers. Sleeveless—this was Georgia in mid May—revealing sturdy upper arms. Her long hair was dark blond and was pulled back and fixed with a matter-of-fact tortoiseshell barrette. Just a touch of makeup. No perfume. She was thirty-eight but, funny thing, she’d come to realize, her weight made her look younger.
    By rights she should be feeling calm and self-assured. But she wasn’t. Her eyes went to the papers in front of her again.
    No, she wasn’t feeling that way at all.
    She needed help.
    From the sky.
    Or from anywhere.
    The intercom buzzed, startling her, though she was expecting the sound. It was an old-fashioned unit, brown plastic, with a dozen buttons. It had taken her some time to figure out how it worked. She pushed a button. “Yes?”
    “Mrs. DuMont, there’s a Mr. Ralston here.”
    “Good. Send him in, Loretta.”
    The door opened and a man stepped inside. He said. “Hi, there.”
    “Hey,” Sandra May responded as she stood automatically, recalling that in the rural South women rarely stood to greet men. And thinking too: How my life has changed in the last six months.
    She noticed, as she had when she’d met him last weekend, that Bill Ralston wasn’t really a handsome man. His face was angular, his black hair unruly,and though he was thin he didn’t seem to be in particularly good shape.
    And that accent! Last Sunday, as they’d stood on the deck of what passed for a country club in Pine Creek, he’d grinned and said, “How’s it going? I’m Bill Ralston. I’m from New York.”
    As if the nasal tone in his voice hadn’t told her already.
    And “how’s it going?” Well, that was hardly the sort of greeting you heard from the locals (the “Pine Creakers,” Sandra May called them—though only to herself).
    “Come on in,” she said to him now. She walked over to the couch, gestured with an upturned palm for him to sit across from her. As she walked, Sandra May kept her eyes in the mirror, focused on his, and she observed that he never once glanced at her body. That was good, she thought. He passed the first test. He sat down and examined the office and the pictures on the wall, most of them of Jim on hunting and fishing trips.
    She thought again of that day just before Halloween, the state trooper’s voice on the other end of the phone, echoing with a sorrowful hollowness.
    “Mrs. DuMont . . . I’m very sorry to tell you this. It’s about your husband. . . .”
    No, don’t think about that now. Concentrate. You’re in bad trouble, girl, and this might be the only person in the world who can help you.
    Sandra May’s first impulse was to get Ralston coffee or tea. But then she stopped herself. She was now president of the company and she had employeesfor that sort of thing. Old traditions die hard—more words from Sandra May’s mother, who was proof incarnate of the adage.
    “Would you like something? Sweet tea?”
    He laughed. “You folks sure drink a lot of iced tea down here.”
    “That’s the South for you.”
    “Sure. Love some.”
    She called Loretta, Jim’s longtime secretary and the office manager.
    The pretty woman—who must have spent two hours putting on her makeup every morning—stuck her head in the door. “Yes, Mrs. DuMont?”
    “Could you bring us some iced tea, please?”
    “Be happy to.” The woman disappeared, leaving a cloud of flowery perfume behind. Ralston nodded after her. “Everybody’s sure polite in Pine Creek. Takes a while for a New Yorker to get used to it.”
    “I’ll tell you, Mr. Ralston—”
    “Bill, please.”
    “Bill . . . It’s second nature down here. Being polite. My mother said a person should put on their manners every morning the way they put on their clothes.”
    He smiled at the homily.
    And speaking of clothes . . . Sandra May didn’t know what to think of his. Bill Ralston was dressed . . . well, Northern. That was the only way to describe it. Black suit and a dark shirt. No tie. Just the opposite of Jim—who wore brown slacks, a powder-blue shirt and a tan sports coat as if the outfit were a mandatory uniform.
    “That’s your husband?” he asked, looking at the pictures on the wall.
    “That’s Jim, yes,” she said softly.
    “Nice-looking man. Can I