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“They think I killed him, don’t they?” Merodie said.
“Killed who?” G. K. was testing her. Merodie had been fading in and out all through our conversation. At one moment she was aware enough to answer G. K.’s questions clearly; at the next she was unsure who G. K. was.
“Eli,” Merodie answered. “Eli Jefferson. They think I killed him. That wonderful man.”
Merodie began pacing across the tiny room—four steps, turn, four steps, turn. When I first met her outside her home she had reminded me of the female lead in a zombie movie, The Night of the Living Dead—the original, not the remake—incoherent, oblivious even to where she was. Now, even though her eyes were red and blotchy and her face still had the same tint as the olive green jumpsuit that she wore, she moved like a woman alive with hope. More than that. Clean and sober, she was pretty, and I noticed for the first time that she was also young—no older than thirty-five—and that her features seemed delicate, as if she could be bruised by a hard wind.
It’s amazing what a few hot meals and a good night’s sleep can do, my inner voice concluded.
“Who is Eli Jefferson?” G. K. asked.
“My fiancé.”
“Did you kill him?”
“I don’t think so.”
“No. Uh-uh. From now on, if someone asks you if you killed Eli Jefferson, you answer . . .”
“No.” Merodie’s shout bounced off the walls.
“Exactly.”
“I mean it,” Merodie insisted. “I didn’t do it.”
“What did you do?”
Merodie hesitated before answering in a low, childlike voice. “I hit him with a bottle.”
“What did you say?”
“I hit him with a bottle.”
“What kind of bottle?”
“What kind? I don’t know. A bottle, you know, a beer bottle.”
“How?”
“What do you mean, how?”
“Tell me what happened,” G. K. said.
“I threw a bottle at him and I hit him.”
“Where?”
“In the kitchen.”
“No, I mean where did the bottle hit him?”
“In the kitch—. In the head. Not the head. He lifted his arm up in front of his head and the bottle hit him there and it broke to pieces. Pieces of glass from the bottle, they went everywhere.”
“What happened next?” G. K. asked.
“He started bleeding here.” Merodie touched the inside of her upper arm near the armpit.
“Badly?”
“I don’t know. I guess.”
“Then what did you do?”
“I told him to get a bandage for it. For the cut.”
“Did he?”
“I guess not.”
“Why did you throw the bottle at him?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Try.”
“I can’t.” Merodie shook her head. “I can’t be expected to remember every little thing.”
“Listen.” G. K. gave her the stock lawyer-client line, trying mightily to be patient. “I’m your lawyer. I’m not here to judge. I’m here to help. You can tell me everything. In fact, if you want me to defend you, you’d better tell me everything.”
“But you said to shut up, already. You said not to say anything.”
“To them,” G. K. shouted, finally losing it, waving her hand vaguely at the gray metal door as her words reverberated through the room.
“Sorry.” At first Merodie looked down at her gnarly fingers, a penitent schoolgirl, age thirty-five going on eight, then she perked up. “What about him?” she asked, pointing at me.
“He’s on our side,” G. K. assured her.
“Are you, mister?”
“Yes, I am,” I said. “You can call me McKenzie.”
“McKenzie? Do I know you?”
“We’re close personal friends. Can I ask you a few questions?”
G. K. nodded.
“Do you play softball?”
“I do,” Merodie said. She smiled broadly as if the memory of it brought her joy. “I play for Dimmer’s. Second base, sometimes short.”
“Can you hit?’
Merodie grinned at me. “I get my cuts.”
“What kind of bat do you use?”
“Lady Thumper.”
“Thirty-two ounces?”
“No, that’s too heavy. Twenty-eight.”
“Ever hit Eli with it?”
“With the Thumper? No. Why would I use . . .?” She stopped speaking. For the first time she looked me in the eye. “No,” she said. “I never did.”
“Okay.”
She smiled, and for a moment she actually looked innocent. It didn’t last.
“Who is Priscilla St. Ana?” I asked.
Merodie erupted the way a volcano might—ferociously. She didn’t call me anything I hadn’t heard before, but she fitted the obscenities, profanities, and vulgarities together in such interesting combinations and with such a thrill in her voice that I felt she was creating a new art form. During her diatribe two points were made: Priscilla was the best friend Merodie ever had, and I should not dare to involve her in this mess if I knew what was good for me.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” G. K. said. She pulled Merodie back into her chair and patted her hand. “We won’t bother her.”
“You better not,” Merodie said.
“It’s okay.”
“I mean it.”
“Don’t worry, Merodie.”