A Turned Down Bed

Camille liked a turned-down bed, even if she was the one turning it down. She folded the bedspread and creased the sheet down just a bit and re-tucked it under the mattress assuring its security. She took the decorative pillows off and placed them on the bench at the end of the bed. She then propped the pillows, the ones actually designed for sleeping, up against the headboard and sat atop her carefully curated turned down bed with her back up against the pillows and a quilt over legs, let out a deep sigh and cracked open her book, much like she did every night.

Camille always had a book she was reading. She preferred fiction, mostly, she used the stories of fictional characters to transport her to other worlds. Worlds without endless piles of laundry, book reports, homework assignments, and carpooling. She loathed the self-help preachy books Conrad seemed to pick up but never finish. Camille couldn't wind down without a book. Barnes and Noble knew her by name as she had just about read every book in their local library, a selection Camille constantly complained about.

By the time Conrad entered the bedroom after a rather eventful night of the police searching their home Camille was as calm as she could be. In part, due to her reading ritual and part due to the Gin she tossed back a half-hour earlier. Camille was not a drinker, but she decided on the night that an officer enters your home with all children present is a night that merits hard liquor.

Conrad passed through the bedroom into the bathroom as if it was any other night. Right as his feet transitioned from the warm cushioned carpet to the cold tile bathroom floor he heard his wife.

"Con, mind telling me what that was all about?"

Conrad exited the bathroom headed toward Camille and sat on the edge of the bed perched by one knee on the bed and one leg stabilizing beneath. That was Conrad. He looked like he was all in, yet beneath there was always an exit strategy.

"It was a misunderstanding." He smirked as he explained to Camille that police, much like all people, make errors in their work.

"What exactly was the misunderstanding? What were they searching for?"

"Listen, they thought they heard the sound of my voice on a tape. I suggested, rightly so, that voices sound differently on tape than they do. Certainly, you've heard a recording of your voice on the tape and thought my goodness that sounds like a child, and yet it was you. Isn't that a weird phenomenon?"

"Okay. But, what made them search here, at our home?" Surely there was something other than a voice?" Surely someone had to suggest the voice sounded like yours? They got your name from someone? Right?

"Yeah, I don't know how all that came about. It was interesting. I had the officer record my voice while he and I were down in my study. Then I had him play both recordings. And, wouldn't you know it! They didn't sound alike. Not even close. The officer apologized and that was that."

Conrad spoke with a certain finality. Camille thought she knew what he was saying as he said it. He explained everything thoroughly with an arrogant sort of confidence. He went on and on about the tape and that it was obviously not his voice. He was casual, laughing, but his eye contact was unflappable. By the end of this one-way conversation Camille didn't have any questions for him. In fact, she couldn't remember the last time she questioned him. How could she?

Yet, the next morning when her nosy neighbor called just to see if everything was okay over there?  She realized she couldn't repeat, in the same authoritative detail, what Conrad had told her. She didn't actually understand what he had told her. She didn't understand why they would come to her house and question her husband. She couldn't connect the dots. And going into the whole voice recording debacle seemed as if it would require her to answer the same questions that Conrad had somehow been able to avoid.

So instead, she said, "It was a misunderstanding. Hah! A big one. I'm sorry if it alarmed you. Hey while I've got you on the line, I've been meaning to ask you about that pasta salad you made last month for book club. The one with the olives and some sort of Italian seasoning. Can I get the recipe? It was fabulous!"

While Camille wasn't as cunning as her husband she did know how to change the subject. Sure enough, Lori was beaming at the compliment and continued to recite the recipe, almost in its entirety.  Camille never made that salad. Lori was notorious for leaving out a key ingredient, so no matter who tried to replicate her recipes, they were never quite as good as Lori's.

Camille hung up the phone and picked it right back up to call Conrad. She punched the first number and then couldn't get herself to dial the last six digits. What would she ask? How would she ask it? He probably wouldn't pick up, anyway. He never liked being disturbed at work. Camille put the phone back up on the wall. With her hand still weighing heavily on the phone, she wondered if maybe she was making too big a deal of this. Misunderstandings happen. People make mistakes, even the police. All her suspicions, her questions, her worries, they were just hers now. She wasn't going to get anything more from her husband. she knew that. She'd known that for a long time. She lived in her own head with no real partner, or companion to talk to. Her hand slipped off the phone and with that she headed to the laundry to see if Alice's softball uniform was dry. She had a game scheduled for tonight and she was slated to be the pitcher, for her first time.