Better Homes and Corpses by Kathleen Bridge

candy . . . carousel rides . . . butterfly kisses . . .” Jillian’s voice had changed. She was talking with an aristocratic English accent. The only person I knew with an English accent was Caroline Spenser. I shivered. It felt like her ghost had entered the room.
    I went to Jillian, secured her elbow, and led her and her dolly back toward the bed.
    “Watching me . . . always watching me,” Jillian mumbled.
    The sheets were turned down. Black satin, where there should have been white eyelet. Jillian got in and stared at me, her eyelashes sending some kind of weird Morse code. The bedside table was littered with loose pills. Cole went to the table and scooped the pills into both hands.
    I blocked Jillian’s view of Cole. “Did you decorate this room yourself?” I looked around and knew it wasn’t Caroline’s influence.
    She closed her eyes and mumbled, “Yes. And I will do as I please from now on. You can’t order me around anymore.”
    Hmm, can’t remember ever telling her what to do, even in college, when I had to pick up all her clothing, which covered seven-eighths of the small dorm-room floor.
    “Why don’t you two go downstairs. I’ll stay with her,” Adam offered.
    The phone on Jillian’s desk rang.
    Adam picked up the handset. “Okay, Stu. Take it away. No. We’ll be fine. Call in the morning.” He put down the receiver. “Meg, your car has engine problems. Stu the mechanic from Toby’s Service Station is going to tow it to the station.”
    “Damn. I’ll call a cab.” Both men jerked their heads in my direction. Hadn’t they ever heard a woman swear before?
    “No. I’ll give you a ride,” Cole said.
    *   *   *
    Adam looked torn. He glanced at me, then at Jillian.
    Cole and I rode in silence, not that I could carry on much of a conversation on the back of a motorcycle. I was self-conscious of my hold on him. My arms were wrapped tightly around a waist that felt like forged steel. The wind lashed at my face, but at least I was free from a day of confinement, able to catch some insight into the personality of a man who would prefer a Harley to a Mercedes.
    The roads were empty. Cole chose to take Old Montauk Highway, driving faster than the speed limit, up and down, leaning to the left then the right, into the fog, out of the fog. I was transported back to my teenage days of carnival rides—terror and ecstasy so intricately mixed.
    When we reached my cottage, Cole grabbed my waist and helped me dismount. His presence offered security as I shakily turned the key in the door. Was I supposed to let him in?
    In answer to my question, he marched ahead, entered the kitchen, and flipped on the light. He seemed large in my small kitchen. With the exception of Doc, Cole was the only male invited into my home since I’d moved in. Then again, he hadn’t been invited. We faced each other, awkward and mute. Cole’s nose was swollen, and he had the beginning of a black eye from the door-banging I’d given him earlier. I should offer him something, but I wasn’t the sultry femme fatale type who had the chutzpah to say in a raspy Lauren Bacall voice,
Would you care for a nightcap, handsome?
    Instead, I said, “Would you like a glass of chocolate milk?”
    “Sure.” No hesitation.
    I turned on a few accent lamps with low-wattage bulbs. Cole took a match from an antique match safe on the mantel and lit the kindling. It was as if he’d done it a million times before. He stood with his back to me, his shoulders slumped, his posture without its usual rigid stance. I touched him gently on the back and presented the glass of cold milk mixed with Sanders fudge sauce. Sanders fudge had been a Detroit staple from my adolescence. My father religiously sent me a care package every two months. Also included were Vernors ginger ale and a crock of Win Schuler’s bar cheese.
    Cole smiled as he took the glass. The tiny flecks ofamber in his blue eyes hypnotized me. There was enough electricity to