Barry Jones' Cold Dinner. John Schlarbaum
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- this world she’d created - she was in complete control.
As The Eagles began to play their Californian rock through the speakers, Linda turned and caught me staring at her. “I get that look a lot, Mr. Cassidy,” she said, holding my gaze. “But usually it’s from boys going through puberty. You’re not a late bloomer, are you?”
“Only in the manner’s department,” I apologized. “What I mean is I should have told you how beautiful you look tonight when you greeted me at the door.”
“So let me get this straight. When I just caught you staring at my butt, you were trying to telepathically compliment me on my looks, is that right?”
Suddenly the only scientific demonstration I could recall was from Grade 11 when Mr. Basker combined water and oil. It was not a harmonious union.
Before I could offer another feeble excuse for my actions, Linda surprised me yet again.
“Turn and face that wall,” she commanded and I quickly complied. “Now shake it.”
“Excuse me?”
“Shake your tush for me,” came the response.
“Is this my punishment or simply for your amusement?”
“I’ll tell you after dinner,” she said. “Now go on.”
Like a two year old asked to dance for visiting relatives, I closed my eyes in humiliating disbelief and began to move my hips from left to right. Linda let out a whoop and started to clap her hands, mocking my performance.
“Would you prefer The Village People to The Eagles?” she asked with a laugh.
“Are we almost through here?” I kiddingly protested.
I still have no idea how she does it, but like the two occasions in the library, Linda was unexpectedly very close to me.
“We haven’t even started yet,” she said in a low whisper. She then placed her hands on my hips, which resulted in another wave of pleasure bolting up my spine. “You can stop now.”
“What if I don’t want to?” I turned and we literally came face-to-face. As I looked into Linda’s eyes, I was suddenly transported back in time to the front porch of Maria’s house one hot July evening many years earlier. But when Linda and I kissed, (a short, yet wonderful moment in time), my thoughts were only of her and me.
We reluctantly broke from our embrace and stood awkwardly for a few seconds.
“Before we jump right to dessert,” she said, “why don’t we just slow things down a little and have some dinner?”
“Sounds good to me,” I agreed.
I soon found myself in the delightful company of a very well read and completely fascinating woman, whose life story thus far held me captivated. During the conversation - and between mouthfuls of homemade chicken tetrazini - I’d added a few details of my own experiences, trying to keep everything light and enjoyable. I told her about my time on the police force but failed to truthfully divulge the shady details of my departure. I admitted I was divorced and that in the past I may have drunk too much. At no time did I say my wife had left me due to my alcoholism. (Like I said, I was trying to keep things light and more importantly, to make that feeling generated by that one kiss last as long as I possibly could.)
“Did you know you are the talk of the town?” Linda asked as I poured us some more wine.
“Can’t say as I did,” I replied.
“You’re the biggest news here since . . .”
“Hold it - let me guess,” I interrupted. “Not since Cathy Jones misplaced her husband. Am I right?”
“Is that what you think happened?” Linda asked. “That Mrs. Jones murdered her husband for the insurance money?”
“Who said anything about insurance money?” I countered.
“Well why else would you kill your husband?”
“You tell me. Didn’t you and your ex ever have a fight where you yelled at each other, ‘I wish you were dead’?”
“I guess on occasion.”
“And at the time you said that, were you thinking about insurance money?” I didn’t wait for her reply as an understanding expression crossed her face. “Hey, I’ll admit it - there were many times I wanted my wife dead, but the thought of having a bunch of cash never entered my mind.”
“So you think she got rid of him for another reason?” Linda asked.
“What did your mother think happened?”
“What does it matter?”
“I like trying to figure out where and how people get their opinions,” I began. “You for example were fifteen when this went down, right? What’s that Grade 10? Your mother and Mrs. Jones are roughly the same age, so I’m sure she would have had a great deal to say regarding Mr. Jones’ disappearance. And you being the only girl in the house - notwithstanding the fact that your brother Keith threw a baseball like a girl - would I be wrong to think you and her had many conversations about Cathy and Barry Jones?”
“We had a few,” Linda admitted slowly.
“So I’ll ask you again. What did your mother think became of poor Mr. Jones?”
“If I answer your question, it won’t go into your report, will it?” Linda asked uneasily. “Because I don’t want to get my mother into any trouble.”
“I assure you, this is off the record.”
“And just because I agreed with her back then, doesn’t mean I do today, okay?”
“Of course. You were just an impressionable school girl, right?”
“Right,” she said with a whimsical smile. “And I don’t want you to hold it against me.”
“What I want to hold against you isn’t your opinion,” I responded, flirting shamelessly. “Just spit it out.”
Linda took a deep breath and then exhaled. “My mother thought Mrs. Jones had chopped her husband up with an axe, after he found out she was having an affair.” Again she inhaled and exhaled deeply. “There I said it out loud, are you happy now?”
“Happy? I’m speechless,” I said. “How did your mother know?”
“Know what?”
“About the axe. How did she know about the pick axe? The police never released that information to the public.”
Linda sat dumbfounded. “I don’t know. I just remember her saying that one time.”
“Is it possible that your mother was part of this thing?”
“What do you mean?” Linda looked worried suddenly.
“What if the affair Mr. Jones found about was between Mrs. Jones and your mother? Or maybe between Keith and Mrs. Jones? The scandal would be incredible.”
Linda watched as I took out a pen and began to write on my paper napkin.
“What are you doing?”
“Just a few notes about your mother’s affair with Mrs. Jones.”
“You said this was off the record!” she said angrily, as she grabbed the napkin away from me and began to read.
I LOVE THE WAY YOUR EYES SPARKLE WHEN YOU’RE MAD
It took her a few seconds to figure out I’d been kidding around, but from the look on her face she was game enough to admit she’d been had fair and square.
Without a word, she threw the napkin on the table and stood up. She then mouthed the words, “I think it’s time for dessert,” and led me by the hand to her bedroom.
“I