When Mrs. Bellis finally arrived at the rented villa, it was with the freshly-widowed Mr. Crandall. She hadn’t asked permission to bring Mr. Crandall. Mrs. Christchurch knew them both from book group. Mr. Crandall’s wife had been a member.
Eyes blazing, Mrs. Christchurch bid them welcome. She folded her arms. Mr. Crandall was more taken by her than even before.
Wanting to lift the mood, Mrs. Bellis began telling about a documentary she’d just seen, about a South American drug kingpin and the way he’d come to have a zoo down there in Peru or Bolivia or somewhere. Over the years since the narco was shot to death by his country’s army, the various animals were shipped off to good places where they’d be cared for. “But not the four hippos,” Mrs. Bellis singsonged.
“You mean, they’re still there?” Mr. Crandall, asked, trying to shoot Mrs. Christchurch an amused glance. The two guests had barely entered the foyer. Their suitcases stood beside them on the tile floor.
“Yes, but now it’s 40 hippos! Left to multiply!” Mrs. Bellis’s naked lips, Mrs. Christchurch reflected, made her look more vulnerable than ever.
“In his pleasure palace, I suppose.” Mr. Crandall fingered his hairline.
“Once he got his government to ban extradition, he surrendered,” Mrs. Bellis said, tapping her temple. “And then they let him build his own jail! The catedral, they called it. Overlooking the city of Meh-de-jeen.” She did her best to pronounce the words in the Spanish way, as the narrator had on the show.
“Hippos are merciless.” Ms. Christchurch said.
Mr. Crandall flashed her a look of mock fear. His shirtsleeves were lightly bunched into his underarms. He had been an astronaut and had never shaken the expectation of being welcome. Speaking engagements. First class travel. A pretty house on the lake.
“They’re threatening the balance! Terrorizing the neighbors!” Mrs. Bellis cried. Her two friends didn’t seem to be taking this seriously. Leaving her suitcase where it was, she carried a large paper shopping bag into the kitchen. Mrs. Christchurch wanted nothing more than to follow. Instead, she and Mr. Crandall lowered themselves onto two oatmeal colored club chairs.
“I wonder who killed the drug lord at last?” Mr. Crandall asked, using his foot to swivel slightly back and forth like a child.
“Oh, some squad, I expect.” Mrs. Christchurch said absently.
When Mr. Crandall’s wife took ill, he was a terrible caregiver. But she wouldn’t have a professional in. Only him. Toward the end, the authorities had had to get involved. It was Mrs. Christchurch who had seen to that. Most people in the town turned against Mr. Crandall then. But not Mrs. Bellis.
“Thank you for including me on your little getaway,” Mr. Crandall began. His eyes found Mrs. Christchurch’s. “I’m new to the single life. Whereas, you’ve been at it for years.”
“I’m cutting cake!” cried Mrs. Bellis from the kitchen. Two perfect martini glasses stood in Mrs. Christchurch’s freezer, chilled white. The idea had been for the two women to sew and read and plan the sale of their houses and what would come next. Mrs. Christchurch had had no idea these two turtle doves had become a package deal.
Mr. Crandall rose and walked to the bookshelf, where he picked up and discarded several titles. Toward the end, there had been a meal brigade, but by then his wife wasn’t eating. Since he and Mrs. Bellis had come together in her car, it seemed unlikely he’d leave.
“I mean, there are buses. Taxis. Hired rides,” Mrs. Christchurch said now.
“You’re hinting I should take a powder?”
“Oh! Well, I did wonder why you are here,” Mrs. Christchurch said. Mr. Crandall was filled with a splendid, cotton candy feeling. As if he was floating weightless above, swaddled and witnessing colorful people below, artistic types living passionate lives.
He floated beside her. Her scent. Could it be sandalwood? He’d forgotten the cake Mrs. Bellis was slicing and plating in the next room. “I should really … go.” he said.
“I should really GO,” she mocked. “Oh, if this was a book, I’d stop reading. I’d stamp on it and then throw it out the window!” But something had awakened in her. Mrs. Bellis wanted him. She must know something hidden about his value.
Mr. Crandall had invited himself along with Mrs. Bellis for just this type of scene. Oh, he wanted to take that chin and tilt her face up to his for a kiss! Was it possible she might join him in the cathedral of love?
Gosh, that woebegone face. Maybe if she thought of him as a dashing spaceman rather than a floppy widower. Mrs. Christchurch could just take a surprising leap. Motivated by schadenfreude, she might allow—
She slid her gaze to the hands. Big hands that had steered Mrs. Bellis’s car. Caressed Mrs. Bellis’s pale décolletage and the cathedral of her rump. Experienced roaring black space. Maybe they could make each other a little happy.
“Pablo Escobar!” cried Mrs. Bellis, bearing a tray with slices of cake on small plates. Her lipstick echoed the flamingo-colored rosettes of frosting.
But the two were already lost to her. What is wild, when left unattended, will blossom and flourish. Tropical. Incautious. Coded into id.
Cake? Cake was for innocents.
