Glass Houses(84)

“He was having trouble dialing the phone himself,” the police officer said. “He is drug and alcohol free at the moment, but he seems to be having a little trouble adjusting to sobriety.”

A light went on inside Margaret’s head. It was Henry the man was talking about. Henry was trying to make this phone call. Margaret said, “Excuse me just a moment” and went out into the hall. Somebody had to be around. Elizabeth. The maid. Anyone. When she was growing up, this house was always full of people. There were always servants coming out of the woodwork. And there was a lawyer, Margaret was sure of it. There was this new lawyer they had hired to do the work now that Henry had been arrested for something serious. Where was the lawyer?

She went back into the living room. Obviously, the lawyer was not here. The lawyer wouldn’t be here. Nobody was here. She didn’t like the idea of it, herself in this house all alone. She wondered where everybody had gone.

“All right,” she said, picking up the phone. “I’m here. Is it me Henry wants to talk to?”

“I think he wants to talk to anybody,” the police officer said, “except his lawyer. I suggested his lawyer. He wasn’t having any.”

Margaret sat on the couch, waiting patiently. The phone seemed to be handed around and banged on things. There was noise in the background: metal clanging, people talking, someone shouting in the distance. Margaret tried to imagine what it was like, but she couldn’t. She’d never had the least interest in what a jail would be like. She didn’t even watch detective shows on television.

“Margaret?” Henry said. “Isn’t Liz there? Are you really all by yourself?”

“If you want to talk to Elizabeth, you’ll have to call back later,” Margaret said. “She’s gone out. People do go out, Henry. They can’t just wait around here until you get it into your head to call.”

“Don’t hang up,” Henry said.

Margaret looked down at her free hand. In spite of what the policeman had said, Henry sounded very alert and aware, more alert and aware than she remembered him being for years. She bit her lip. There was something wrong with this.

“Don’t hang up,” Henry said again. “I’ve been watching television. Have you been watching television?”

“You know I don’t watch television,” Margaret said. “I don’t know why you do, Henry. It can’t be helping your brain function. The doctor said—”

“They found bodies in a cellar last night,” Henry said, and now Margaret was sure of it. He was like an entirely different person. He was showing not the least sign of years of alcohol abuse. “Lots of bodies. There were pictures on the news this morning. They took out bag after bag after bag.”

“So? It’s not the kind of thing that’s pleasant to think about, is it? And especially not this early in the day. Why should I care that they found a lot of bodies in a basement? Except it wasn’t bodies, actually. Elizabeth talked to somebody this morning. It was only one body. And I still don’t see why I should care.”

“You should care about the house. It was on Curzon Street.”

Margaret felt her forehead. It was a little hot. She was sure of it. She was coming down with something. She was starting menopause all over again. Henry never made any sense. Even when he was clean and sober and talking like a human being, he never made any sense.

“I don’t understand,” she said. “Is this Curtain Street somewhere near here? Is it someone we know?”

“Curzon Street,” Henry said, “and you make an even less convincing mental defective than I do. Give it up, Margaret. Then come down here and get me. I have to get out of here.”

Margaret took a deep breath. “You can’t just get out of there, can you? You have to be released on bond, or something. We tried to get you out of there, and you wouldn’t come. Or you behaved like an idiot and—”

“Come down here. Bring me something. A book. Something that will pass muster at the desk. Then say you have to talk to me.”

“I can’t talk to you any time at all,” Margaret said. “There are visiting hours.”

“This is a jail, not a prison,” Henry said patiently. “I’m being held; I haven’t been convicted. Come down here. I need to get out of my cell and into the visitor’s room. Come down. Say you have to see me. Do it now.”

“I don’t see,” Margaret started.

“Now, Margaret,” Henry said.

The phone went to dial tone. Margaret looked at it. It hadn’t been hung up in the way people usually meant when they said that a caller had “hung up on them.” It hadn’t been slammed. Henry had just stopped speaking to her. Margaret put the receiver back in the cradle and tried to think. She was so angry with Elizabeth, she could barely stand it. Elizabeth was always like this. She got you into something, and then when it had to be taken care of, she disappeared. Margaret hated going down to the jail to see Henry. She hated it even more than she hated going to court, and that had damned near killed her.