Thirteen Crucifixions 15

            Even before the gentle little girly-voice squealed, “Hellooo?  Carol?”  she could tell by the three timid knocks on the door that it was Suzanne.

            “We saw you on TV.”, she said, squatting like an African village maiden on the edge of Carol’s unmade bed.  A small, slight, and very pretty woman, she had long shaggy chestnut hair, cut in the then-fashionable mullet-style, and the brown eyes of an overly eager squirrel.  Suzanne was a hair-dresser, and she never failed to treat Carol with the deference owed to a wealthy, long-term client, though she had never cut her hair for her.  She had offered to on numerous occasions.  Carol just couldn’t countenance the suggestion.  She did rather like her ex-husband’s beautiful young consort, and would have liked Suzanne even better had she not at times reminded her of one of those creepy little dogs that tries to hump your leg.  She was dressed down today, wearing a burgundy-crimson sweat-suit that, like almost everything else in her wardrobe, seemed as if it had just been taken out of the package it was purchased in.  The colour went nicely with the sepia-brown of Gandhi’s face that towered above her.  She wore white plastic sandals and the colour of her toe-nails matched almost perfectly her sweat-suit, as did her fingernails and lipstick.

            In a carefully measured voice Carol said, “Can I make you some coffee?”  Often around Suzanne she felt as though she were reassuring a timid child.

            “Oh, I can’t stay.  Stan will be wanting his supper.”  Carol tried to not wince too obviously whenever Suzanne spoke in her affected little voicy-poo.  She didn’t want to hurt her.  With people like Suzanne she inevitably felt like a bully, an ogress, the sort of monster that takes delight in torturing defenseless puppies or kittens.  And Suzanne and Stan both could summon forth in Carol that demon unlike anyone else.  She bit her lip and forced herself to not remark that her ex-husband, an excellent cook, was more than capable of getting off his ass and cooking his own supper, and Suzanne’s and Carol’s besides.

            “When we saw you on TV last night Stan was very concerned about you.”  It had long become evident to Carol that whenever Stan was feeling “concerned” about her, Suzanne would be the one to come upstairs to inform her.  Was he putting her up to it?

            “Thank him for me.”

            “You were actually IN JAIL!”

            “I was.”

            “It must have been HORRIBLE!”

            “I was strip-searched.”  Carol stifled a grin, as she tried not to think of how greatly she enjoyed doing this sort of thing to Suzanne.

            “Oh, CAROL!”

            “Please could we change the subject?” she said, fearing that at any moment Suzanne might come rushing towards her with wide-open and comforting arms.

            “Oh yes.  Of course.  I’m sorry, it must have been very upsetting.  Stan wanted to know if you’d like to join us for dinner.”

            “YOU would like to know if I could join you and Stan for dinner?  I’ve already eaten.  And I still have that speech to prepare.”

            “Speech?”

            “For the Walk for Peace tomorrow.  However”, and now Carol was openly and wickedly grinning, “Would you and Stan like to have me for dessert?” 

            “At six-thirty, seven?”

            “Or six-thirty-eight, or six-thirty nine, six-forty. You can have me with chocolate ice cream"

            “Oh, you’re SO FUNNY!” Suzanne was smiling with the innocence of those on whom any irony or sarcasm would be always and forever lost.  “So, when is this walk for peace?”

            “In less than twenty-four fucking hours.”

            Suzanne, as though on cue, promptly stood up.

            “I’m glad you’re okay, Carol. We should do dinner soon?”  Like many young women, Suzanne, to Carol's annoyance, had this vocal affectation as though she was always asking a question, as if she was perpetually unsure of herself.  This always had her gritting her teeth.

            “After the weekend.”

            “What should I tell Stan?”

            “Tell him whatever the hell you want.”  Carol caught herself too late.  The rudeness had hit home with Suzanne, who was struggling to catch her wind and quell the hurt from Carol's unexpected swipe.  “Sorry, I’m under an awful lot of stress right now, as you can see.  Thanks for coming, Suzanne.”

            She made herself smile.  “Six-thirty-seven, six-thirty-eight?”

            “Six-thirty-nine.  I’ll see you at seven.”