Lillian’s condo was burglarized the other day. When I got home from work the light on my answering machine was flashing like the Mars light on a squad car.
“A neighbor in the next building saw them.” Beep.
Right, I thought. And maybe they’ll send out Hercule Poirot. I poked my head in. The ancient air conditioner had been shoved in and lay like a fallen dinosaur on the curtains and rod that came down with it. Clothes were torn out of closets and strewn all over the bed and floor. A picture of Jesus, smiling benignly and pointing to his exposed, flaming heart, hung over her bed. Jewelry boxes lay open and empty. Poor Lillian.
I slipped the key in, and the box opened easily. She looked at me contemptuously and strode off, mail in hand.
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It was a while before I saw her again. And that encounter was every bit as odd as the first. My bell rang, and I opened the door to see her standing with a suitcase at her side, her waxy black eyebrows painted on in a look of perpetual astonishment, her mouth a red gash.
“Why not?”
You do that, I thought, closing the door. And God help Edna and Helen.
