Free Extracurricular Activities by Maggie Barbieri Page A

qualify as remotely happy and yet I only confided that in my best friend. Okay, and my priest. Secondly, his wife was painting him as a crazed substance abuser and murderer and he’s living on Sunnybrook Farm. “That’s great, Jackson. I wish you the best of luck,” I said. I looked at him closely; nope, not scary at all.
    â€œYou know how this is, Alison. Either you throw it away,” he said, looking at me pointedly, “or you try to work things through. We’re going to make it,” he said with a confidence that really wasn’t warranted, given what I knew.
    I was one of the “throw it away” people he was referring to, so I didn’t have a reply. When your husband’s penis has as many stops as the local Metro North train line, I think you have the right to “throw it away.” I smiled again.
    â€œTerri’s been taking night classes at your school, too. She wants to finish her degree,” he said.
    â€œGreat.” My guess was that she had declared a biology major what with Ray having been head of the department.
    We stood, looking at each other for a few seconds. He reached out awkwardly and gave me a hug. I let my arms hang at my sides and waited for him to release me.
    â€œI’ve really got to go,” I reminded him.
    He let me go. “Oh, and Terri has hired Magda to do our house cleaning!” he said. “I forgot to tell you.”
    â€œShe’s a great cleaning lady,” I said. Magda could really spread her gossip wings cleaning that house. I got into the car and gunned it out of the spot, leaving the happily married Jackson and beautiful Trixie standing on the sidewalk.
    There was something up with that guy, but I wasn’t sure what it was. Again, he didn’t strike me as a murderer. But what does a murderer look like? I decided that Max and I would have a lot to talk about on our drive to the play.
    I managed to get home without running into any of the other undesirable people in my life. I walked through the back door, closed it, locked it, and rested my head against the cool granite counter. I was starting to think that perhaps I should join an online grocery service and teach my courses strictly on the Web. Leaving the house was presenting a whole new set of challenges.
    I filled Max in on Terri’s story on our way to Boscobel. I finished with my account of running into Jackson on the street.
    â€œThe dog is the only one who doesn’t turn my stomach right now,” I said.
    Max responded with just the right amount of indignation and disgust the story deserved. “She needs to stay away from you,” she said, making a right onto Route 9D in Garrison. We were about ten minutes from Boscobel and it had taken me nearly the entire ride to tell her my tale of woe. “But let’s think about this. I like Jackson as a suspect.”
    It certainly made sense.
    â€œDo you think he has the cojones to have killed Ray?” she asked, chewing the inside of her mouth.
    â€œThey’re in counseling, Max. He seems like the ‘let’s talk about this’ kind of guy, not the ‘I’ll cut you to bits with a chain saw’ kind of guy.” I looked out the window and studied the scenery for a few minutes. “Maybe she did it,” I said.
    â€œNow that’s an interesting theory,” Max said. “She’s potentially setting him up for the fall by using you. Framing the husband. Interesting. Let’s ponder that.” She pursed her lips. “You know, we really need to Google this whole hands and feet thing. See where it comes from. It’s clearly not an accident that Ray lost a few appendages. Maybe we’ve got a dormant serial killer on the loose again.”
    The thought of that made me queasy. I was more comfortable with a crime of passion committed by my graphic-designer neighbor than with a roving serial killer.
    I turned and looked out the window, hoping to see