Many Moons
Diane closed and locked the bedroom door. Onto the bed she tossed her red cap and glasses, then pulled the red sweater over her head and tossed it aside. Her fingers shook as they dealt with the hooks of the padded bra. Finally she twisted the clasp to the front and yanked it apart.
In the bathroom, she took a spray bottle and wet down the lace edges of her wig.
While the glue was softening, she peeled off her lashes and washed layers of paint off her face.
She worked quickly, but clumsily. She hadn’t done this in a long time, and never with this fast a turnaround.
Diane always did the brave things but there’d been no need for this kind of courage in…
Her scalp winced as she removed the wig and set it on its stand.
She slid off the tight skull cap: The hair beneath was shaved close around her neck and ears but the top was long and crunchy with gel.
She rubbed it vigorously with her fingers, breaking up what she could, then gathered it back in an elastic.
She washed her face again, picking out the dried glue along her hairline.
She didn’t have time to do a perfect job of it. A ball cap would cover the rest.
She looked in the mirror and met her azure gaze. She leaned and pinched out the contact lens covering her right iris. It fluttered into the sink, a thin cupped bowl tinted blue.
She blinked rapidly, turned on the water to wash the lens down the drain. Pulled the silver hoops from her ears and the rings from her fingers. Then Diane stepped back and looked in the mirror again.
One blue eye and one brown eye stared back.
A long breath in. Held for five thudding heartbeats.
A longer breath out. Soft words within.
“I’m so sorry.”
A drawer opened. A brown-tinted contact lens was deftly slipped over the blue iris. Another set of rapid blinks. Another gaze into the mirror.
Now Dane looked back. Rough, scrubbed, hard and brown-eyed.
“Sorry,” he said, then cleared his throat a few times. “I’m sorry,” he said again. And again. Until he’d coughed and apologized his voice back to where it belonged.
The rest was easy. A fleece pulled on and zipped to his chin.
The women’s sneakers swapped for men’s hikers.
Ball cap. Heavy jacket. Phone. Wallet. Keys.
Shades. He slipped down the back stairs, silently out the kitchen door, and hustled up toward the farm where he’d parked his car behind one of the greenhouses.
He drove out the service road, down Rt. 34, turned onto Oak Hill, then back into the driveway of Schoenfeld’s.
He pulled up to the farmhouse, checked his reflection one last time and got out of the car.
Up the porch steps and he could hear Salma barking. He walked into his house, strode into the living room, calling out, “Dude, I am so sorry…”