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Adrian and I rotate through our remaining six sets. I don’t know what was in that clay, but there is hardly a chip on them. We have a strong preference towards the yellow set with the fat, purple flying saucers. The leafy jungle ones are a very close second.
The way Adrian loves my crazy dishes makes me feel like part of a real couple, instead of just one of the accessories in his life. Lately I often feel removed from him and our life, and somehow even myself. But remembering things like this brings me back. Calms me down. Gives me some proof that what we have is strong and real. Reassures me that I have something unique to give him, and that he truly wants it.
When we got engaged we registered for lovely square white china, and received every single piece down to the oblong gravy boat. We have barely used any of it. Thanks to Adrian’s coaching, our guests insist on the monkey plates.
Chapter 41
So here were Jeb and I, seated at the Golden Dragon again. I ordered a whole meal and some potstickers to make up for being a cheapskate the other times.
“I need some more money,” said Jeb.
“How much?” I asked.
“Another fifteen hundred.”
“I don’t have fifteen hundred dollars with me today, obviously.”
“No, I know you’re good for it, I’m just setting you straight on where I’m at. I’ve got some good news: I got a guy who was arrested in Minneapolis in 1989 for raping women. He liked to put duct tape over their mouths, and he wrapped their hands up like your sister’s looked. He just got out about six months back or so and he looks like a good bet. But I need to do some more research. Got to get something with his writing on it for one thing. Follow him around a little. So fifteen hundred should cover the trip to Minneapolis, and I’m going to need that soon, and then I’ll let you know where we’re at after that.”
Fifteen hundred dollars to go to Minneapolis and track down a murdering rapist, including meals and hotels? Seemed fair to me.
“Okay,” I said.
“Mind if I have a couple of those, if you aren’t going to eat them?” asked Jeb, nodding to the plate between us.
“Go ahead.”
I rummaged in my purse for a pen. As I was about to give up I saw a small velvet case poking out from a tear in the lining and I discovered a really nice fountain pen Adrian had given me a year or two earlier. I thought I had lost it, and finding it again gave me a small rush similar to buying something new. I removed it from its case and briefly admired the delicate engraved scrolls on it.
$1500 Jeb I wrote on the back of a receipt I found in my purse. After all this time the pen still wrote perfectly. I admired my handwriting, which is practically calligraphic.
Psychic I wrote beneath it.
Jeb was dipping my potstickers in a dish of hot mustard. I waited silently while he chewed on them.
Through the dirty window by our table I watched our waitress walking in circles in the parking lot, smoking and talking on her phone. I had a sick, fleeting feeling that perhaps I was enjoying this experience. That the real me, that insecure weirdo buried deep inside, might be living vicariously through the fancy woman with the fancy pen.
“What are you shaking your head about?” asked Jeb.
“I wasn’t shaking my head. How should I get the money to you?” I asked.
“Well, I got some work to do this afternoon. Meet me back here at seven tonight in the parking lot. And be careful. The guy who killed your sister knows where you live and is playing games with you. Think about that.”
“So, you don’t think my husband is involved in this in any way, right?”
“It wouldn’t make no sense to me if he was. Now take care of yourself, I gotta go.”
“Okay, thanks Jeb. See you later.”
He left but I stayed a little longer, sipping tea by myself, feeling invisible in the tall booth. There was something really unnerving about a private investigator warning you that a murderer was after you. Those Minneapolis postmarks had given me a false sense of security.
I finished my pot of tea and pulled some cash from my wallet. It occurred to me that Adrian could be in danger even in that moment as I sat there. He was most likely back from the dog training class, sitting at home in his studio painting with the music so loud he wouldn’t even hear anyone approaching. Frisky would be barricaded on the back porch and the cast iron fence going halfway around our yard (the workmen had run out of materials and could not finish it for a week) would provide little protection.
I paid my bill at the cash register and returned home to find Adrian outside teaching Frisky to sit, using tiny sausage snacks for a reward.
“How was class?” I asked, surveying our surroundings for anyone who seemed out of place.
“Good,” he said. “The instructor thinks Frisky will make a good dog someday, with a little work.” On cue, Frisky growled at me and showed his long, white teeth. Adrian immediately squirted him with the garden hose and Frisky slinked away, whimpering.
