“Oh,” Hannah said again. “Yes.”
“I’ve even started working out with weights. I’m not bodybuilding, you understand. At my age, that wouldn’t be appropriate, and it probably wouldn’t be healthy. But I’ve started strength training. You ought to try it. It does wonders for me.”
“Weights?” Hannah was worse than bewildered. “I thought women couldn’t—I mean—”
“Nonsense,” Paul Hazzard said. “There are lots of women in the class I take. Young ones and old ones and middle-aged ones. It’s a myth that women aren’t suited for exercise.”
Hannah brightened. “That’s right. You’re a doctor. Mrs. Handley told me.”
“I’m not that kind of doctor. I’m a clinical psychologist. A Ph.D.”
“Oh.”
“But I do know a lot about health and nutrition. I have to. It’s a myth that medicine can treat parts instead of the whole. Even psychologists have to concern themselves with the whole person. Especially psychologists.”
“Oh.” How many times had she said “oh”? Hannah couldn’t remember. She looked around a little wildly and remembered she had promised to get some mineral water. She fixed her attention on the kitchen and headed in that direction. She had to do something, she really did, because she just couldn’t think.
“Mineral water,” she said under her breath. “I do have mineral water. I just don’t have Perrier.”
Paul Hazzard was following her. “Of course, all that about the whole person is very nice—and it’s absolutely essential that you get in touch with your inner child, I insist on that with all my clients—but the fact is, there isn’t any whole person to concern ourselves about if there isn’t a person at all. If you see what I mean.”
“No,” Hannah said breathlessly. “I’m sorry. I’m not very well-read in this kind of thing—”
“The lights in your foyer,” Paul Hazzard said.
“The—?”
“They ought to be on.”
“Well, I suppose they should, but—”
“It’s not sensible to say that there’s never any crime on this street. There’s crime everywhere. It’s a sign of the times. It’s a wholly dysfunctional society.”
Hannah had reached the kitchen. The door was shut. She pushed it open and looked in on the usual spotlessness. It amazed her how much time she spent cleaning. What did she do it for?
“The mineral water will be in the refrigerator,” she said. “Would you like it in a glass with ice?”
“In a glass will be fine. No ice. I wish you’d pay attention to me about the lights.”
“I am paying attention to you about the lights.”
Paul Hazzard propped himself up against the kitchen table. His legs looked impossibly long. His body looked impossibly lean. His gray hair was as fine and smooth as spun silver. Hannah had a hard time believing that he was real.
“I am paying attention to you about the lights,” she said again, “it’s just that—I don’t think you realize—well, Cavanaugh Street isn’t like other places. It really isn’t.”
“We all think our own neighborhoods aren’t like other places. We all feel safe for a while. And then something happens.”
“Did something happen to you?”
“Oh, yes. At least, I was the secondary victim. Who it really happened to was my wife.”
“Your wife?”
Hannah felt a spurt of panic go through her, but it subsided. Paul was a widower. He had said so back at the meeting. She remembered that now. There was a small bottle of Colorado Sunshine Naturally Carbonated Water on the top shelf of the refrigerator door. Hannah got it out and looked around for a bottle opener. She used to keep bottle openers all the time. They were a necessity. Then flip-tops had come in and she’d got out of the habit. She opened her miscellaneous utensil drawer and stared into it.
“Just a minute,” she said. “I’ll find something to open this with in no time at all.”
“Let’s get back to my wife,” Paul Hazzard said. “Don’t you know what happened to her?”
“No. No, of course I don’t. Should I?”
“Oh, yes.” Paul Hazzard was nodding. “You really should. It wasn’t that long ago. And it was in all the papers.”
“What was?”
“My wife’s murder,” Paul Hazzard said simply. “A man broke into our town house one night to rob the place, and stabbed her through the heart.”
3
EVERY ONCE IN A while, Caroline Hazzard was required to remember that she had once had a stepmother. When that happened, she became extremely agitated and had to go immediately to Group. Caroline had several Groups, and a psychotherapist, too, but when the subject was Jacqueline Isherwood, Caroline stuck to her Healing the Inner Child Workshop. After all, Caroline had been a child when her father had married Jacqueline—Caroline had been five. She remembered with perfect clarity the day Jacqueline had moved into the town house on Society Hill. This tall woman with the heavy perfume and the immense fur coat. This cawing female with her Miss Porter’s School accent and her field-hockey legs. This—stranger, really—whom she was now supposed to love. Hadn’t they realized that love couldn’t be commanded like that? Hadn’t they considered the effect it might all have on her? If it had been only one incident in an otherwise adequate life, it would have been different. Caroline’s life had not been otherwise adequate. Caroline’s life had been an epic of emotional neglect and dysfunctional conditioning. That was why, now, at the age of forty-two—