It couldn’t be because she’d met him. She’d met any number of writers, and the fact of acquaintance was no reason to read their books. She’d not only met Jay McGann, she’d fucked him walleyed, and she was in no great hurry to read anything he’d written.
It had to be because he’d been charged with murder, but that by itself could only take her to the first book. After that, she kept reading because of something in the work itself, and she’d already established it wasn’t the writing or the plot or the characters, so what was left?
The sense that came through of the author. Wasn’t that what made any work of art effective? You got little sidelong glimpses of a soul, and, if it resonated in a certain way with your own, you wanted more.
He was going to be important to her. She knew that much, and, when she thought about it, she had to admit that it was a little scary.
I mean, what if he actually did kill that woman?
What if he’d done it?
He woke up Saturday morning, and it wasn’t until he was standing at the toilet, halfway through an endless pee, that he remembered the glimpse of blue in his sock drawer, the second look, the stunning reality of the turquoise rabbit. But had it happened? Or was it, please God and all the angels, a dream?
He brushed his teeth, showered, dried himself, then looked in the mirror and decided he ought to shave. Wielding the razor, he marveled at his own transparent foolishness. He’d shaved for the first time in years what, fifteen hours ago? And he wasn’t going anywhere today, wouldn’t be seeing anyone, and what was wrong with having a day’s stubble on his face?
Anything to put off opening the sock drawer.
He further delayed the moment of truth by making the coffee, and it wasn’t until he’d poured the first cup and had the first sip that he went over to the dresser and opened the drawer.
And of course the rabbit was there, in the same spot he’d left it the night before. It hadn’t hopped around, nor had it disappeared as mysteriously as it had arrived. He picked it up and held it in both hands and wondered what the hell he was going to do now.
How had they missed it? Those two clowns, Slaughter and Reade — except they weren’t clowns, they’d struck him as disturbingly competent, and not without some imagination. Still, they’d come to his apartment with one mission, to search for a missing turquoise rabbit formerly in the possession of one Marilyn Fairchild. They’d looked everywhere, certainly in the drawers of his dresser, and specifically in his sock drawer, because didn’t he remember one of them — Slaughter? Reade? — picking up and squeezing each rolled-up pair of socks in turn, just in case he’d thought to hide the thing that way.
But did he actually remember that? Or did he in fact remember Chris Noth squeezing socks on an A&E rerun of
The best day of his life, better than any night of sexual passion (and he’d had a few, and some of them, let’s not kid ourselves, were pretty great). Better than either wedding, even better (har har) than either divorce. Substantially better, if the truth be told, than the days his children were born.
Which reminded him. He had to call Karin and the kids, had to give them the good news. It would be in the papers, Roz had told him the Crown publicists would see to that, but they ought to hear it from him first. The kids would be excited, and Karin would be relieved, and not just because it meant they weren’t going to take her house away from her. She’d be relieved because she cared about him, even as he cared about her; that didn’t necessarily stop when a marriage ended. And, pragmatically, she’d be happy to know that the kids’ college educations were assured.
But did it?
It meant he’d been to her apartment, but they knew it, and he knew it, he’d even admitted it. They could prove he’d been there, and the most the little blue rabbit could possibly do was confirm something he’d never troubled to deny.
Still, he’d exulted when they’d failed to find it, and he’d been devastated when it turned up after all. So what did it mean?
