Faking It Read online

  “Gwennie’s,” she told him, keeping her eyes on the radio. “She interviewed for a job once.”

  “Once?” Davy said.

  “Not her thing,” Tilda said. “Any instructions?”

  “Same as yesterday,” Davy said, trying not to stare at her eyes. Funny what a difference dark contacts could make. “I miss your eyes,” he said, and she looked over at him, startled, and then she smiled, that great crooked Kewpie-doll smile, and he thought, Good, I got her back.

  “You can see them again when we get the mermaids,” she said, relaxing a little into the car seat.

  “Mermaids,” Davy said and put the car in gear. “Can’t wait.”

  The Olafsons lived in a neat little foursquare, surrounded by a neat patch of lawn that was rimmed with even neater strips of concrete. A single row of petunias edged the walk, each spaced precisely six inches apart. The only thing that jarred, aside from the whole anal-retentive landscape, was a tire leaning up against the trim white garage.

  “Somebody who lives here likes order,” Davy said. “And somebody else does not.”

  “Okay,” Tilda said.

  “Pray I get the one who doesn’t,” Davy said, putting on his horn-rims, “and that the one who does is out.”

  “Praying.” Tilda nodded. “I’m on it. I was wondering what happened to those glasses.”

  “This time I’m Steve Olson,” Davy told her. “You’re definitely my wife. With any luck, I can do this without you, but if not.. .”

  “I’ll come up and weed the petunias,” Tilda said.

  “Do you remember—”

  “Betty’s the ditz, Veronica’s the bitch, and Vilma’s the slut.”

  “Actually, I’m quite fond of all of you,” Davy said, and patted her knee.

  When Mrs. Olafson opened the door, she was five feet nine and heavy, frowning at him, and Davy thought, Too much to hope for that I wouldn’t get the bully, and smiled at her. “Hi,” he said. “I’m...”

  “Are you here for the tire?” Mrs. Olafson said, her voice a little weak. “Because I really need to have that moved before my husband gets home.”

  “Oh,” Davy said, kicking himself for jumping to a stupid conclusion. “No, I’m not, but if you’d like, I can take it away with me. I’ve got room in my trunk.”

  “Oh, that would be wonderful,” Mrs. Olafson said, her frown clearing. “He was upset about that. He likes things neat.”

  “Oh,” Davy said. “I know how that is. My wife...” He shook his head. “Some days I want to track mud across the linoleum for the sheer heck of it.”

  Mrs. Olafson drew in her breath and then smiled, and Davy thought, Bingo.

  “I don’t want to keep you,” he said. “My wife’s aunt is coming into town for her sixtieth birthday, and my wife wants to buy her a painting that she saw here once.”

  “Here?” Mrs. Olafson lost what little smile she had. “I don’t—”

  “She came with a friend several years ago,” Davy said. “She saw a painting of mermaids—”

  “Oh,” Mrs. Olafson said, and pressed her lips together. “That’s my husband’s painting.”

  Fuck, Davy thought. “My wife really wants that painting, Mrs. Olafson. Do you think your husband would sell it for two hundred dollars?”

  “I don’t think so,” Mrs. Olafson said, resentment clear in her voice. “He seems to like it.”

  Davy put his hands behind his back. “Oh, boy. I’m going to catch heck for this one.”

  Behind him, Tilda closed the car door and came up the steps, and Mrs. Olafson frowned again.

  “Now, Veronica.” Davy turned to Tilda and watched her face contort with rage.

  “What the hell is taking so long?” Tilda said, slapping her bag against his arm. “Aunt Gwen is going be at the airport waiting for us, and you know how I hate to be late.”

  Davy rubbed his arm. “Yes, I know but—”

  “I should have known better than to send you up here,” Tilda fumed. She turned to Mrs. Olafson. “Look, I’m sorry about this, my husband never does anything right. We’ll pay you a hundred dollars for the painting. Cash.” She smiled, looking very self-satisfied, and Mrs. Olafson shifted closer to Davy.

  That’s my girl, Davy thought, but he said, “Well, actually, honey,” and moved closer to Mrs. Olafson as he ducked his head away from Tilda.

  “You offered her more,” Tilda said, exasperation oozing from every pore. “Honestly, Steve—”

  “I know, Veronica,” Davy said. “I know you’re upset, and rightly so ...” He held up his hands. “But Mrs. Olafson says her husband really likes that painting.”

  “Well, so does my aunt,” Tilda snarled.

  Davy exchanged a helpless look with Mrs. Olafson. “Honey, if you’ll give me a chance.”

  “I’ll give you five minutes,” Tilda snapped. “Then I’m leaving for the airport without you.” She stomped down the steps like a woman possessed, and Davy watched her go, thinking, There’s a woman who’s worth her weight in rubies. Real ones.

  He turned back to Mrs. Olafson. “She’s really very nice, she’s just upset. About the painting.”

  Mrs. Olafson shook her head in sympathy. “She shouldn’t treat you like that.”

  Davy shrugged. “Well, what are you going to do?”

  Mrs. Olafson nodded.

  “Listen,” Davy said, letting a little desperation creep into his voice. “You think your husband might sell the painting for two fifty? I can tell Veronica I got it for a hundred after all. She wouldn’t need to know.”

  Mrs. Olafson looked torn. “He really likes it.” Her face changed. “And it’s disgusting. Naked mermaids.”

  “Oh,” Davy said, feeling a little more sympathetic toward Mr. Olafson. “That must be awful for you. To have to look at that every day.”

  “It is.” Mrs. Olafson shook her head. “It’s vile.”

  “Boy, if you could sell it to me, you’d never have to look at it again, and I wouldn’t have to ...” Davy looked back at the car, and Tilda reached over and hit the horn. I love you, Veronica, Davy thought. “And he’d have the money, too. That’d be good, right?”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Olafson said thoughtfully. “He’s been wanting to get the driveway cleaned.”

  Davy looked over at the spotless cement. Mr. Olafson’s obsession with cleanliness, control, and disgusting mermaids was not making him someone Davy wanted to meet. “You wouldn’t get in trouble, would you?” he said, suddenly feeling guilty about Mrs. Olafson.

  “Certainly not,” Mrs. Olafson said.

  Davy got out his wallet and began to count through the bills. “I have an extra ten here and a five and two ones. That would make it two sixty-seven. Do you think—”

  Down in the street, Tilda slammed the car door as she got out and walked around to the driver’s side.

  “Just a minute, honey,” Davy called, panic in his voice.

  “I’ll get it,” Mrs. Olafson said and went inside.

  “Really, just another minute,” Davy said, going to the edge of the porch to look beseechingly at Tilda.

  Tilda started the car and gunned the motor, and Davy began to picture her in leather again.

  Mrs. Olafson came back to the door and handed Davy the painting, and he handed over the bills.

  “You can count it,” he said, glancing back over his shoulder at Tilda.

  “I trust you,” Mrs. Olafson said. “Go.”

  “Thank you,” Davy said and ran down the steps to give Tilda the painting. “Here you go, honey,” he said, loud enough to carry back to Mrs. Olafson. “Just one more thing.”

  Tilda opened the door and took the painting, and Davy started back up the drive. “Where the hell are you going?” she said, her voice like a knife.

  “Just a minute, sweetie.” Davy picked up the tire and waved to Mrs. Olafson who beamed at him in return. Then he headed back to his shrew of a wife, who popped the trunk open for the tire.

  Damn, I married well, he thought and