When I got home Lynette wasn’t there, and I was happy to have the house to myself. I walked into my room, thinking I might keep reading American Psycho. I didn’t really have the stomach for it anymore: the violence just seemed like violence, with no hidden, deeper meaning. Still, I picked the book up anyway, not knowing what to do with myself, and determined that life should get back to normal. I held the book in my hands, but only skimmed the page. I glanced around my room, once again struck by its barrenness. It still pretty much looked like a guest room, with its bare walls and sparse decor.
It really was time for me to start making the space my own. Perhaps I would still be there in a few years time, now that moving in with Benji was most likely off the cards. I could extend my artefacts collection into a space larger than a single shelf, maybe a glass cabinet similar to Benji’s, and I could put framed posters from my favourite movies on the walls: Harold & Maude, Mulholland Drive, Animal House.
I thought of Jake, his tidy apartment, and wondered what he was doing now. I found myself thinking about all the years I had lived without knowing him, and wondered what he had been doing all that time.
It was then that I saw the photograph pinned to my corkboard, a photograph that hadn’t been there when I left for the cemetery early that morning, a photograph I had never seen before. It was an old-fashioned Polaroid of a young woman with long, auburn hair parted down the middle, a baby in her arms. My first reaction was that it was my mother. The baby, wrapped in a soft blue blanket, looked up at the woman in wonder, a hint of a smile on its tiny face. I knew who the baby was. The baby was me. I had that blanket until I was at least eight, had it in the backseat with me when our car ran into that truck, carried it all the way to the hospital and wouldn’t let the nurse take it from me no matter how gently she pulled on it.
That’s when I realised who the woman was. It was Lynette, of course. The woman who had told my mother off for letting me watch Porky’s when I was six, who had walked past me nearly every day for the last ten years and barely brushed against me. Here she was, staring down at me with a large smile on her face, teeth showing, hand wrapped tightly around the blanket, keeping me safe. I wished that I had been shown this photo before, wondered why it should make such a difference. But it did. The fact that Lynette had pinned it there herself told me all I needed to know. Lynette and I would be okay, perhaps better than okay. I took the photo off the board and placed it on my desk. I would buy a frame for it in the morning. It would be the first picture on my wall. It was small, but it was a good start.
I heard something at my bedroom window, the sound of branches snapping. I pulled up the blinds, expecting to find a possum or the neighbour’s cat, and jumped back when I saw someone standing outside in the dark, peering in.
‘Jesus!’ I screamed.
‘It’s just me!’ Jake yelled through the glass, tapping on it. ‘Can I come in?
‘Use the front door, you moron!’ I yelled, my heart pounding in my ears. ‘What the hell is wrong with you?’
‘I thought this would be romantic.’
‘It’s not romantic,’ I said, opening the window. ‘It makes you a stalker. It gets you shot by the cops. What are you doing here?’
‘Can I talk to you?’ he said, producing a piece of paper. ‘I wrote something down—’
‘Oh God, what is wrong with you? I’m not interested in hearing another one of your stupid little monologues.’
‘Come on Hilda,’ he pleaded, struggling to push the branches out of the way and losing his balance. He had stubble on his face and his eyes were red as if he hadn’t slept, or worse.
‘Around the front,’ I said, closing the window. He tripped and I heard him fall and curse.
I stormed out the front door, turned the porch light on. A few moments later Jake appeared from the side of the house, a leaf sticking out of his hair.
‘What do you want?’
Again he pulled the piece of paper from his pocket, started to unfold it.
‘No paper!’ I said. ‘Just talk.’
‘But I don’t know how!’ he whined like a kid.
‘You’re gonna have to learn, Jake. Normal people have conversations.’
‘I don’t know what to say to you. Listen, I’m sorry. I wish I could make you understand, this is just what I do. I do it in cafés, on the street. I hear people talk and I write it down and I make stories out of it. And Hank’s story was just so amazing, I was working on it before you even came along. One day he was struggling to get his groceries up the stairs, and I went to help him, and I saw the tattoo on his wrist and immediately I knew I had a great story, a story that had to be written. Then you came along, and you made the story better. It got better when you got there.’
‘Hank was right about you. You were spying on him. Asking him questions. That why he’s been so scared. Because of you. You and all your questions, making him think someone was out to get him. He’s just an old man! Why can’t you leave him alone?’
‘That has nothing to do with me. He was crazy a long time before I came into the picture. The neighbours told me.’
‘Oh great, so you’re asking other people about him? No wonder he’s so paranoid.’
‘Do you ever think that perhaps there’s another explanation, Hilda? Do you ever think that maybe there are some things that Hank isn’t being entirely truthful about?’
‘Like what?’
‘Don’t be coy. There’re more holes in his story than Swiss cheese. And you know what? I think he tries to tell you. I think he wants to tell you, but you don’t want to hear.’
I wrapped my cardigan tight around my shoulders, started to push Jake in the stomach as I enunciated each word.
‘Don’t tell me about what I know.’
‘Hilda, stop it. Stop pushing me.’
‘You stop pushing me!’ I said, shoving him so hard he nearly fell onto the grass. ‘I don’t even know what you want!’
‘I want you to feel about me the way you do about him!’ he said, and I stopped. ‘Why the hell do you care so much about a crusty old fart anyway?’
‘Because he gave me a tile!’ I yelled. ‘And, it made me feel like he really understood me, more than anyone else ever had. Until I met you.’
I started to cry. Jake stepped towards me, wrapped his arms around me, and for a moment I fell into him.
‘I just can’t live like this,’ I cried into his shoulder.
‘Like what?’ he whispered, his hand on my hair.
‘With all this death.’
‘I’m alive Hilda. I’m alive.’
I pushed him away. ‘No you’re not. You’re dead. You’re all dead.’
‘Hilda—’
‘Hey!’ A voice yelled from the sidewalk: Lynette, home from work, her arms filled with casebooks. ‘What’s going on?’
She looked at me, saw my tears, and a hard look settled into her features.
‘Okay buddy,’ she said to Jake. ‘Take a hike.’
‘Look, I’m just trying to—’
‘I said take a hike!’
I’m not sure at what point Lynette pulled her DA badge from her bag but all of a sudden she was flashing it in front of Jake’s face.
‘You know what this is son?’ she said.
Jake sighed. ‘No, what is it?’
‘It’s a DA’s badge.’
‘Really?’
‘Well, assistant DA. Point is, I could arrest you on the spot. Now, I told you to take a hike. She doesn’t want you here.’
‘Hilda—’
‘No you don’t,’ Lynette said. ‘She doesn’t want you here. Not now anyway. If you’ve got something to sort out, now is not the time. Do you understand?’
‘Okay, I’ll go.’
Jake held out his hand to Lynette as I stood silently on the front of the porch, the tears drying on my face.
‘I’m Jake by the way,’ he said. ‘Nice to meet you.’
Lynette hesitated for a moment then shook his hand. ‘Assistant DA Lynette Hannigan. Good to meet you too. Now move along.’
‘Okay.’
Jake slunk back to his convertible. Lynette came and put her arm around me, and together we watched him drive away. I put my head on her shoulder.
‘Who was that?’ she asked, stroking my hair.
‘That was Jake.’
‘Cute.’
I laughed, wiped my nose with my sleeve.
‘Well, you gotta admit, he’s a hell of a lot better looking than Benji.’
‘That’s mean,’ I said, but couldn’t help grinning.
‘You want some ice-cream?’
I sniffled. ‘Okay.’
We walked back inside.
‘You know what? That thing you did with your badge? That was actually pretty cool.’
‘Next time I’ll pull a gun,’ she said. ‘But only if you want me to.’