The Suspect Seems Restless.

 

Normally, the suspect arrives in the middle of the afternoon, about three-ish, if you like. My wife, bless her heart, will try to break off both ends to, in effect, placate him. The rosarie is placed in a blind trust so that no one is tempted. Now we decide to have lunch in the car, which means the suspect removes his boots, sits behind us in the dressing room and begins to retroactively 'groom' us, in the hopes that rapport will be instantaneous and heartfelt. I find myself talking to no one at all while the three of them go about their business as if my concerns were of no moment whatever. This won't make for a kindly racketball session later in the week.

Once it's been established that at least one of us feels a bit fettered, the other complains about an increase in restlessness. I could say that I've heard it all before, but what good would that do? Is anyone aching to withdraw a complaint? Not that I know of. I go into the den and busy myself with overdue proxy statements. Meanwhile, a clearly audible voice starts to recite a series of artificial numbers. They seem to have significance only because the pattern they form alerts my ever cautious sense of bemused hindsight. I recall a photograph which was shown to me. It's hard to say exactly what was depicted, since in those days I was known to be less than reliable, to put it mildly. When my wife re-enters the den, this time carrying a saw-tooth nail along with the key to a book of hide-out stories, I worry that the suspect could be helping himself by boning up on little-used terms. This may permit him to get a leg up. And then we could all be ruined for the rest of the afternoon.

When my wife, against all prudent advice, exposes her area to a mildly scented breeze, the suspect takes that as a cue to feign a sense of deep misgiving. I hold his coat while he paces a little known hallway in the hope of attracting the kind of attention which money alone can't begin to account for. Meanwhile, I receive word that our former gardener has shattered his tooth in a display of adolescent bravado. I'd known all along not to trust his instincts. The suspect, though, can't help but find this to be not just 'amusing', but 'food for thought'. I'd always assumed that he was playing by our rules. To have this happen in the middle of the night, when the closest neighbor was away on dockets, is more than I'm prepared to rationalize as just another curveball that life throws at you. The problem is, we'd only moved here the year before due to my step brother's mental illness. And also, no one is itching to transfer one of the special panels from the dry creekbed into a safe-keeping arrangement which was keeping us glued to our sets. What could you possibly get out of this, anyway? Will you ever eat something solid and substantial? It couldn't hurt if I took you to a game. Or, is that just 'off-limits'? Your move. Goner. 

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