The Animals After Midnight by Jeff Johnson

Author:Jeff Johnson
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781628729795
Publisher: Arcade
Published: 2018-02-25T16:00:00+00:00

It was dark by the time we got to Delia’s house. A year or two ago she’d moved from her longtime art studio with a futon and she never talked about the new place. It was odd, considering that she talked all the time. I’d never given it much thought. When we hung out outside the shop, it was always at my place so she could spoil the cats, or at a bar. Where I bought the drinks.

So I’d never been there, but as we rolled in I began to suspect that we weren’t going to her place after all. It was Beaverton, for one thing, in an area of the suburb where her red vintage Falcon stood out like a boil among the family sedans and newer BMWs. When we pulled into her driveway, I looked around and was about to ask if we were stopping off to perform an impromptu robbery, but a dark look from her, particularly piercing, stopped me. Silent, I followed her in without a word. At least I was silent until we got inside.

“Question.” I didn’t have one. Not exactly. It was all I could think to say.

“Of course I have beer,” she said, answering what would have been my last question first. “Hank is a Blue Ribbon kind of fella.” Delia hung her jacket on the coat rack by the door and left me frozen in place on the doormat. “Wipe your feet, please,” she called over her shoulder. “The real estate agent is showing it again tomorrow and I don’t want to mop again.”

Delia’s condo was entirely out of keeping with her character. It was in a good neighborhood, for one thing. White, too, with a tidy little yard. The living room before me had beige furniture, high-end hotel stuff, with matching walnut end tables shining with polish. There was a coffee table that came in the same set. Freestanding lamps with pale blue shades. Two big oil paintings, sunflowers on one side and sea grass on windswept dunes on the other. Hardwood floors. I heard a refrigerator door open and close.

“Has . . .” I stopped before I stuttered. She poked her head out of the kitchen and waited. Nothing further came to mind.

She rolled her eyes and disappeared.

I wiped my feet and walked into the kitchen doorway. Delia was staring into the sink.

She glanced over at me, back at the drain. The kitchen was spotless. New stainless steel juicer and a matching blender. A single magnetic hook on the refrigerator with a single pot holder, unadorned black. A lone miniature wooden barrel with cooking implements fanning from it in a careful bloom. And a wad of plaid that could only be Hank’s briefs sitting next to a can of Pabst.

“I’m a bitch, Darby.”

“No you aren’t,” I said instantly. We were in a show condo, I realized. No one lived here. But then there was Hank’s underwear to prove otherwise. “I give you strange, as in weirdo, but—”

“I’m not in control,” Delia said flatly.

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