had asked one of her own psychiatrists about them. Dr. Jones had called them fugue states. Alison looked up the word fugue in her junior dictionary.
A musical form or composition in which a theme is taken up and developed by the various instruments or voices in succession according to the strict laws of counterpoint.
Had Mama been playing music all this time?
The idea puzzled Alison for years. Until she was older and looked the word up in an unabridged dictionary. There were two meanings, the second one stating:
A state of psychological amnesia during which a patient seems to behave in a conscious and rational way, although upon returning to a normal consciousness, the patient cannot remember the period of time nor what was done during it. A temporary flight from reality.
A temporary flight from reality.
Not so temporary in Mama’s case.
When Alison didn’t answer the doorbell, Poe took out his picks. A minute later, he was inside the house. She was exercising on the treadmill, her face as red and wet as a rain-washed plum. Her long legs were cutting long strides to keep up with an unnaturally fast pace. Her fingers were so tightly wound around the handlebars that the knuckles had turned bloodless. Her breathing was fast and furious and much too shallow.
Poe went inside her hallway closet, pulled out an octagonal red stop sign mounted on a dowel handle. He took the sign, placed it in front of her face.
As if she were looking at air.
Even before Poe did it he’d known that this time, it wasn’t going to work. She was running too fast … out of control. Time to take action. Slowly, he reduced the machine’s rate until she was barely walking. He let her go for five minutes, then turned off the treadmill.
She stood in place, not uttering a sound.
“Look at me,” Poe whispered.
Alison met his eyes. Then she dashed into her bedroom. He heard a sudden blast of water rushing through the pipes. He’d give her ten, maybe fifteen minutes tops.
While waiting he realized he was hungry. It was half past six and Poe had eaten his last meal, at Myra’s, well over eight hours ago. He returned Alison’s stop sign to its place in the closet, then went into the kitchen and opened the fridge, happy to see it well stocked. He made himself a meatball sandwich with dark mustard on thick sourdough, poured himself a glass of orange juice. He ate slowly, hoped that the water would stop. Of course, it didn’t.
With reluctance, he got up from the table, went into the bedroom.
Their bedroom.
Into the bathroom.
He opened the shower door, reached inside. The water had turned cold and Alison was shivering. He turned off the taps, placed a bath towel around her shoulders, and led her back into her bedroom, placing her in front of her dresser mirror. Carelessly, she let the towel fall to the floor.
Poe took in her nakedness, tried not to react. He held out her robe, then averted his eyes.
After a moment, she accepted it, slipped it on. Observing herself in her looking glass. She picked up a brush and began ripping into her hair. “I look like shit.”
“You look gorgeous.”
“I can’t figure it out. No matter how long I run on that damn thing, I still have these big, fat thighs!” She pounded her flesh for emphasis. “Like saddlebags.”
“You’re as thin as a cat’s tail. Shame on you for buying into that anorexia shit.”
“Don’t yell at me.”
“You’re overdoing it. It’s not healthy.”
“Can you kindly leave so I can get dressed?”
Poe paused. “All right, I’ll leave. But if I hear the water running—”
“Stop it!” She threw her towel at him. But she was smiling now. And a beautiful smile at that. “Go make yourself useful.”
“By doing …”
“Make some coffee.”
“Where’s your family?”
“Steve took the boys out for dinner.”
“When did they leave?”
Alison gave him a slow, seductive look. “You’re allowed to be here even if he isn’t. I’m not chattel.”
Poe wasn’t too sure about that. “I’ll make some coffee.”
She joined him just as the pot had finished brewing. Dressed in a loose black tunic over black leggings. Her face was awash in an after-exercise blush, her blond hair combed and pulled back in a ponytail, emphasizing perfect cheekbones. Two gold studs decorated her earlobes. Her lips were coated in something pink and wet.
He poured two mugs of coffee: they sat at the kitchen table. The house was ranch-style, a decent-sized thing on a generous lot which held a pool. It had a formal living room and dining room off an entry hall. The back part of the home was made up of an enormous kitchen, a breakfast area, and a den—the true living room of the house. At the moment, it was a bit messy—a stack of old papers, a couple of discarded items of clothing, a dirty dish on the coffee table. But Poe had seen it worse. The bedrooms were on the left side of the house—three of them.
“Why are you here?” Alison asked.
“Just to say hello.”
“Yeah, right.” She sipped coffee. “You’ve got that look in your eyes. What do you want? Besides to sleep with me. The answer is no.”
“Alison, when was the last time I asked you to sleep with me? Like twenty years ago?”
“Try six months ago.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You kissed me, Rom.”
“Alison, it was your birthday—”
“Not a chaste kiss. You gave me tongue.”
“You gave me tongue.”
“I don’t want to talk about this, Rom. Just drop it!”
Poe didn’t respond. Instead, he began drumming his fingers against the tabletop.
Alison put her hand over his to quiet his fidgeting. “Steve was really working last night, wasn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“A corpse in the desert.”
Poe eyed her. “He told you?”
“Occasionally we do talk. He was very upset by it. Did he know the woman, Rom?”
Poe shook
