Page 23

Charles has stopped trying to fix this formidable situation, yet he's still there, even if just in my mind, reminding me of what a fucking mess I've ended up in. He won’t dare ask to meet, of course, but he hasn’t completely disappeared.

He does call me and I pick up his calls sometimes, when I'm able to face it all. It’s happening less and less as he must have accepted things. It hurts, but it’s also a relief. I think, even if Laszlo Novak hadn’t happened, I had to admit we were growing apart in many ways. Perhaps this was for the best. I’ll cling to that because it's all I've got.

So here I am. Standing against a wall in the long room on the first floor with a glass I picked up just to have something to do, being congratulated by strangers. I've been parked here for the better part of ten minutes next to two of Laszlo's men who haven't seemed to notice me yet. The older one is sixtyish with a thick neck and a wedding ring that has his finger in a death grip. The younger one is broad-shouldered. He clearly works his muscles in some kind of way. Pity that his suit is not at all a good fit. They're both drinking Polish vodka on the rocks.

"They poured two days ago," the older one says. "So he's under the garage now."

"Which level?"

"How would I know which level? He's under it."

I don't move or look at them. I keep my eyes fixed on a painting of a horse that has probably been on that wall for a hundred years at least, while I listen to the two men discuss where they left a body with the same tone my colleagues use for conversations about parking and house chores.

They're standing close enough that I can smell them, peat and heat and whatever they had for lunch. Neither of them bothers to lower his voice. Neither of them gives me the least bit of attention. Not a glance, not the little half-second pause I have been watching men perform my entire life when I come into the room.

That's what I can't get past. My father's men did it in the kitchen when I was eight, went quiet as I came in to grab the cereal. They did it at my graduation, standing in a parking lot in their good suits. I've spent a lifetime being the reason a conversation ended. In my family's world, these two would have found something else to discuss. The weather. Football, basketball, or the like. Until two weeks ago, this was true.

I’m engaged to Novak now and apparently, that makes me furniture. This is how Laszlo's people do things, I suppose.

The younger one shifts his weight and clocks me over the older one's shoulder. A particular expression crosses his face. His eyes narrow as he sizes me up. Then, it seems as if he comes to a conclusion. Something like: she's his, so she's fine.

"Beautiful dress," the older one says warmly, finally turning. His tone comes across like an uncle's as he dotes on his niece. "Congratulations, Doctor."

"Thank you."

"You want another drink? There's a boy going round with a tray."

"I'm fine."

He pats my arm. Then he wanders off into the crowd, perfectly content, and stops by the fireplace to kiss a woman on both cheeks. A minute ago he couldn't remember which level of the garage they'd left the body on. Now he's asking if I want a drink off the tray. I'm still stuck on that, on how easily a conversation can shift from something horrific to mundane statements.

I don't hear him approach. It's more that the air on the back of my neck stops being ordinary air, and by the time I understand why, every muscle in my body has already locked, and I hate that my body knew before I did.

"Tomek," Laszlo says.

Just the name, quiet, and the young one straightens like a kid caught doing something he shouldn't. He nods, picks up his vodka, and is gone across the room without looking back. Laszlo is standing at my shoulder now, watching me.

"What are we talking about?"

I'm suddenly aware of the dress before I answer him. Twenty-two hooks up the back, and I can feel every one of them against my spine. It arrived this week in a plain box with no shop name. Dark green, high at the front, and an hour ago Dolores did the last six hooks for me in a room off the landing, because I couldn't reach them and there was no one else to ask. Afterward she pinched some color into my cheeks the way my grandmother used to, and then she told me, as calmly as if she were remarking on the weather, that he'd called her from a car and described the exact shade of green he wanted. Not just dark green. A specific one, and he'd made her listen until she had it right.

Actually, it was eleven minutes, she said. He talked for that long. She timed it. He went on and on, creating a vivid picture. Her job was to help him find this dress, and now it was on me, hooks and all.

He repeats the question.

"Concrete," I say.

"Ah."

"Apparently there's a man under a garage near Ludlow’s."

"Really?" He tilts his head, asking it lightly, with just a flicker of interest, like I've mentioned a new restaurant I want to try. He's watching me with those blue eyes that have no business being this distracting.

"That isn’t a denial."

"No," he says, "but it's a very solid answer and I'd like you to note that."

A boy with a tray passes on his left. Laszlo takes two glasses off it without breaking eye contact, and offers me one. I don't take it. I keep my hands where they are, one around the stem of the glass I already have, the other flat against the wall behind me like the wall might need holding up.