“Anyone ask, you accidentally dropped the paint,” he said, so calmly. “You gonna have to git more.”
From the front corner of the warehouse, he picked up the huge piece of cheesecloth that had lined the canvas when Anna bought it. “For your car,” he said. He walked to the door. “I’ll shut this after me.” He looked past her toward the wall of the warehouse, staring hard as if he could see through it to the dirt road. “I ain’t never rode one of them motorcycles,” he said, “but when I come back I’ll do my mighty best to git it gone.” He looked at her then, still sitting there cold and dumb as a rock, and told her, “You got to git rid of that book, Anna,” he said pointing to the journal in her hands. “That there diary. You done wrote too much in it.”
She clutched the journal to her chest. Nodded. But she knew she would never get rid of it, this last gift from her mother. Never.
Jesse turned people away from the warehouse all that afternoon, while Anna sat numbly in the chair by his easel. He stood at the door. “She ain’t feelin’ well today,” he said to anyone who wanted to come in and watch her paint. She was glad he was there. She was afraid one of the men would come in and she’d be alone with him. The mayor, or Mr. Fiering, or some other man from town. She suddenly feared all of them and how they had the power to hurt her. Or maybe they would realize that the red paint on the floor covered blood. Or maybe the police might come. Maybe they found Martin’s motorcycle? Jesse didn’t tell her what he’d done with it—or with Martin’s body—and she didn’t ask. He told her only that he’d burned the gloves.
Pauline came to the warehouse sometime that afternoon. Anna wasn’t sure when, exactly. Time was falling apart for her. She was still sitting on Jesse’s chair when Pauline arrived, while Jesse painted some of the border of the mural. He’d asked her if he could, and she’d nodded yes. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to paint any of the mural ever again.
Jesse quickly walked to the door when Pauline stepped inside.
“Miss Anna ain’t feelin’ well,” he said, trying to block her entry, but Pauline pushed him aside with a hand on his chest.
“I’m a nurse,” she said, marching toward Anna across the warehouse. Anna knew she should do all she could to appear like her normal self, but the effort seemed too much for her. She gave in to the catatonia that had taken hold of her, staring into space as Pauline crossed the room.
“My God!” Pauline stopped suddenly. “What happened here?”
Anna followed Pauline’s gaze to the spilled paint, the broken cot. For the first time, she noticed the blood in the exact center of the cot’s khaki body. It was her blood there, not Martin’s. She let out a sob before she could stop it.
Pauline squatted in front of her, the skirt of her white nurse’s uniform fanning out around her. She rested her hands on Anna’s knees. “What happened, Anna?” she asked, her voice gentle but firm. Then more softly in a whisper. “Did the boy … Jesse … did he … hurt you?”
Across the warehouse from them, Jesse stood against the wall by the door. Anna felt his fear from where she sat.
“No.” It was the first word she’d spoken aloud since Pauline’s arrival and it came out as a croak, but she couldn’t allow Jesse to be blamed for any of what happened. “Jesse,” she said to him. “Go. Go home.”
“No, Miss An—”
“Yes,” she said with as much authority as she could muster. Jesse was keeping her safe. She needed to do the same for him.
He hesitated, then finally picked up his sketch pad and left the warehouse. Pauline watched him go, then turned back to Anna.
“What did he do to you?” she asked her.
“Pauline!” She tried to put a playful note in her voice. She was certain she failed. “You’re jumping to silly conclusions,” she said. “I’m sorry about your cot. I got my period earlier than I expected and—” She glanced at the bloodstain and nearly gagged. It took every bit of strength she had in her body and mind to speak to Pauline normally. “When I realized I had my monthly, I got up so quickly that I must have … somehow the legs broke. I’ll replace it for you.”
Pauline stared at her and Anna knew she didn’t believe her. She could feel her words twisting in her mouth. In her head.
“I’m taking you to the hospital,” Pauline said, reaching for her hand, but Anna pushed her hand away.
“I’m all right,” she insisted. “I don’t need the hospital.”
Pauline got to her feet and looked down at her. Anna could tell she was trying to figure out what to do. She knew she should get up. Go to her paints. Act as if nothing at all was wrong. She thought of Jesse, riding home on his bike, and how frightened he must be. She looked at her friend and could see the wheels turning in Pauline’s head, jumping to the wrong conclusion. What if she shared her suspicions with Karl?
“Jesse and I are not lovers,” she said firmly. “That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”
Pauline glanced at the blood on the cot again, as if she could assess whether it was menstrual blood or not.
“I’m worried about you,” she said. “I think you’re playing with fire and are too naïve to know it.”
“Nonsense.” Anna forced herself to stand up and walk toward the mural. Her knees were rubber. “I really need to get back to work,” she said, a tremulous hand reaching for her palette.
Pauline stood there another moment or two. Then she said something kind or worried or … Anna wasn’t sure what words came out of her friend’s mouth. She was thinking of how Pauline said she was playing with fire. Pauline had no idea the magnitude of the fire Anna was playing with.
“I’m glad you’re staying home tonight,” Miss Myrtle said when Anna returned to the house that evening. The landlady sat at her drop-down desk in the living room, writing something. A letter. Something. Anna didn’t know or care. “You spend far too much time in that horrid warehouse,” Miss Myrtle continued. “I was mortified to discover you weren’t in your bed last night. I hope no one knows you were there all night. I don’t ever want you to stay out like that again. Do you hear me?”
“Uh-huh.” I killed someone, Anna thought. Not even twenty-four hours ago, I took a life. She remembered Martin’s fatherless daughters. She rested her fingertips on the back of an upholstered chair to keep herself upright.
Miss Myrtle frowned. “Are you ill?” she asked.
“I’m all right.” Anna’s voice sounded husky. She’d used it very little that day.
“Are you sure?” Miss Myrtle stood up and came forward to rest the back of her cool fingers on Anna’s forehead. “You’re not warm, but you look … quite pale.” She seemed concerned now rather than angry. “Can I make you some tea?”
Anna shook her head. “I’m fine,” she said. She needed to get away from Miss Myrtle’s scrutiny. She couldn’t carry on a normal conversation for one more minute. “Just tired.” If Miss Myrtle studied her face any longer, Anna was certain she’d know what she’d done. She turned toward the stairs. “I’m going to bed,” she said.