Category: Crime

Chapter Sixteen – Mortgaged

Oz says regret is an inherently degrading emotion. On that point he and Colleen were agreed; nostalgia is one thing, but there’s no percentage in second-guessing. Preserve at all costs that forward motion.

I lay in bed staring at my new dark suit without enthusiasm. I definitely didn’t want to wear that again. I was always surprised that after a bout of nocturnal wrestling, I didn’t wake up taller.

Shouldn’t we have exchanged more than fluids during the night? I teased myself imagining what it would be like to be Trevor for the day.

I’d be knotting a pink tie to go with my white shirt and my dove-colored suit, looking beyond myself deep, deep in the mirror.

“That’s not a “mourning” color,” I said. Two can play the criticism game.

“It actually is,” he said. “It’s a color called “ashes of roses”. Do you need to be dressed?”
It wouldn’t be the first time.

“No,” I yawned. “I have to take a shower.” I smelled like chum. “What’s it doing out there?”

He glanced out the window. “Raining.”

“See? The universe itself feels our pain.”

“The pathetic fallacy,” he said, and kissed my forehead with a feather’s touch. Then because I was the most pathetic of the fallacies, he brought me coffee and a dark pink dress of Colleen’s. Not really ashes of roses, more like cerise. I thought it had a rather old-fashioned cut, with its high waist and pencil skirt.

“Would look nice with pearls,” he suggested meaningfully.

I covered my face with the blanket. I knew it would be hard work talking him into letting me wear my turquoise jacket. Artists use color to repel pathos. Substituting one fallacy for another.

“Listen,” he said, taking me into his lap, “At least we’re going through this together. Think about poor Oz.”

Yes, think about poor Oz, in “protective custody” so he doesn’t wind up incarcerated with men who don’t realize that he is a “top”, always a “top” and only a “top”. Poor, poor Oz.
Trevor placed me in the shower and turn the spigot. The tardy are punished. There was no hot water left.

Eventually I added my cold one to the array of haggard faces in the limo. Craig was clutching a can of Red Bull, Jake looked like he had forgotten to remove his eye makeup, Shelley’s hair seemed lank and uninspired and Mina’s glasses were smudged. Was nobody getting any sleep? Only Spike appeared chipper as usual.

As I claimed my corner of the groom’s bench it was Spike who put a note in my hand. Written on Marriott Hotel stationery it said,

Brontë, I would love to catch a glimpse of you before I leave. I have something of your mother’s that I want to give you. I’ll be having lunch at the Marriott at exactly noon today if you or your sister want to join me. Believe me, today will be a court day you’d like to miss.
Love, Aunt Shea

That was clever. Clever to address the note solely to me. She must know Shelley wouldn’t speak to her. Leaving the inclusion of Shelley strictly up to me, she minimized her chances of a turndown.
I decided not to tell Shelley. Why tell her, when she not only wouldn’t go, she would probably insist on my not going too? She might even tell on me, “for my own good,” that’s the sort of thing older sisters are primed to say. As if Shelley, who spends her evenings making out to French porn, knows anything about my “good”. I knew the “gift” thing was probably a ploy. Should I subject myself to emotional blackmail just to receive some unlustrous object of specious provenance?

Still, doesn’t hurt to dream. Kind of a necessity since I missed my dreamtime last night. My whole body ached like I had played the Super Bowl. I allowed the motions and counter-motions of court to flow over me as I contemplated a mystic, magic item, waiting for me in Aunt Shea’s suitcase, a portal sent by my wizard mother; an item of psychometric alchemy transporting me back in time to meet her face to face. Damn I wanted it bad.

My mother was so far dead as a result of this damn trial that any clue was precious. Oz might call Shea a witch, but think, what if she was? What if she possessed a sorcerer’s rabbit hole powerful enough to launch me back into my mother’s arms?

My mother. I was familiar enough with the work of the Brontë sisters to know “the little brown wren” thing was just a disguise. She was only trying to navigate the universe, to maximize knowledge and pleasure, minimize pain and prejudice, just like the rest of us. If death is an unmasking, then my mother was free. I still needed all the masks I could get and I would be grateful just to touch with my hand any discarded masks of hers.

Shea was smart to choose a public place. She couldn’t throw things, rend her garments or try to manhandle me. I could leave if she got obnoxious. I think at least by now I’ve learned how to leave; I know how to get out of places where I don’t want to be.

When Shea said I’d want to skip today’s session, I knew she referred to the computer expert. He was supposed to testify about the pornographic images and emails found on Oz’ hard drive and Craig was battling to keep out what he could.

I let them fight it out till eleven thirty when we gained a bathroom break.

But instead of stepping into a stall, I only had to step through the double doors and I was free.
Or almost free. Spike came right after me.

“Don’t you know it’s rude,” I said to Spike, “To read other people’s private mail?”

“Special circumstances,” he grinned at me. “How did I know it wasn’t a death threat?”

“Well, now you know it was just an invitation to lunch.”

He bobbed his head in a mockery of servitude. “And the lady needs a ride.”

I had been planning on taking a cab and sticking Aunt Shea with the bill, but, what the hell. Why not show up at the Marriott in a limo? Let the old bat know I was well taken care of.

I was sitting up front with him so I saw him pull out his cell phone.

“Don’t you dare tell them where we’re going.”

“I’ll just tell them we’re getting lunch. Otherwise Trevor will send the cavalry after you.”
True, I thought. Smugly.

“To the Marriott, Jeeves,” I directed, “Unless you’d rather find a skeezy dive and do shots.”

“I’ve had all my shots,” said Spike.

The Marriott is between the highway and mall.

“Come back for me in a half an hour,” I ordered.

“Not on your life,” said Spike.

Valet parking is always happy to look after a limo. Spike went to sit at the bar. Catching up on those inoculations, presumably. I felt reassured when I saw him swivel his stool around to watch me. Would he rescue me if she made me cry? Would he rush forward, guns blazing? It was comforting, knowing he was there.

She was sitting right in the window, just like a person who doesn’t have to think about hiding from the press. Well, so far they hadn’t followed us. I stood looking at her a moment until her psychic perimeter alarm went off and she turned and recognized me.

She was wearing the same baggy zebra outfit she’d worn in court, so either she was traveling light or she’d hit the Krispy Kremes full throttle and nothing else fit.

She smiled and gestured to the other seat. It was the other side of the table, so outside the danger zone. I sat down.

“It was nice of you to come,” she said in a formal way. “I’m sorry we had to meet under these circumstances.”

I tried picturing her as a little girl. She was the eldest, the Trevor of that family, so maybe she’d never been young. I tried picturing her and my mother as two little girls cuddled under the blankets giggling together. It was hard because she was just a plump, middle-aged lady sitting without makeup in a patch of full sun. She looked old; faded; unimportant. I was glad of it, because that made it easier to steel my heart against her. In case there was any steeling to do.

“I’m on one side and you’re on the other,” I said. “I don’t want to get into an argument about it.”
I didn’t go so far as to say he was innocent. None of us was innocent; I had been on trial for quite awhile in my own head and I was not coming out of it very well.

“I understand,” she said.

The busboy came to try to look down my front as he noisily poured water. Both Shea and the busboy looked as if they were trying to think ways to touch me. Fortunately, neither of them tried.
“I’ll have the croque monsieur,” said Shea.

Imagine mistaking a busboy for a waiter!

“I’ll git yr wyter,” he said with that unmistakable mountain twang. You have to have an ear for it. Sometimes it’s incomprehensible. Here’s a boy who should keep his mouth closed at all times.
To my relief Shea didn’t make me beg for my trophy. She felt around in her massive flocked carpetbag-purse thing and produced a small, white leather case. It was shabby, some of the leather peeling away. It looked to be a traveling picture frame, the kind you can carry with you anywhere, then set it up where you happen to be. Ideal for me, really, in my evolving restlessness. I held my breath as I opened it.

I knew it was a picture of my mother. But it looked like a picture of me.

“It’s your mother at eighteen,” said Shea. Unnecessarily.

I realized then; I knew what I’d lost. As the tears spilled out I felt enough anger to explode the planet. I couldn’t even feel the rage through the horrible pain to the roots of my hair. Shoot her, Spike. Shoot her now.

I rubbed my face with the huge white napkin, not caring where my eyeliner went. I tried so hard to stop the tears and harden them inside me.

“She’s not gone,” said Aunt Shea, patting my hand with such a light touch I wasn’t able to bite her. “I speak to her every day. When you’ve really loved someone – I hope you find out – they’re inside you always.”

I cried and cried. It was awful. Where was Spike?

“She’s recently bereaved,” Aunt Shea explained to the waiter. “I’ll have the croque monsieur.”
“Water,” I gasped. “Evian.”

I was so glad no one was here, no one knew about this. Maybe I could pretend it never happened. Could I stifle Spike if I had to?

Curiosity kept me looking at the picture. It was easier than looking at Aunt Shea. My mother’s hair was a little longer than mine and exactly my shade of red, but unlike me, she’d tried to straighten it instead of allowing it to explode in all directions. She didn’t seem to be wearing makeup and I couldn’t see the telltale freckles, but that was my own face, all right. She wore just enough of a summer dress to show off her knobbly shoulder bones. Thinner than me; a young woman with appetites either unrecognized or under fierce control.

Her expression, also, was one never seen on my face. It was sweet, full of hope, unembarrassed about being caught dreaming. I imagined having a conversation with that face. It would probably be interesting and easy; she looked so sympathetic and thoughtful.

I wondered what she would say about Trevor and me. Would she forgive me? Maybe it was her fault in a way; giving me a genetic code that longed for deathless ardor.

“So where have you decided to go to college?” Shea asked in a bright, false manner. I lowered the picture and looked at her unwillingly.

“Georgetown.”

“Georgetown, oh my,” she said. Impressed. It made me like her less, if that was possible, that she should be so much like everybody else. Predictability being the opposite of freedom. Or was it me who was predictable, for wanting to go Ivy?

“Maybe I won’t go there,” I spluttered. “It’s expensive. I have a free scholarship to the University of Arizona.” I got that on my own, so I should be proud of it.

“I would think the Chagall would take care of school for both you and Shelley,” she sniffed. “That was one of your mother’s favorite pieces. Unless he’s already sold it .”

He hadn’t sold the Chagall. When Shelley started Sweet Briar Oz did sell something. He sold the folding leather camp bed reputed to have belonged to Gilles de Retz, and he complained a lot about it, too. But everyone agreed Sweet Briar was the perfect place for Shelley.

Funny he’d never mentioned that the Chagall was ours. I was kind of surprised he hadn’t sold it because he called Chagall “middlebrow.” I assumed it was Colleen’s.

“Oh, we’ve still got it,” I said. Lied. “We don’t sell things.”

I was angry about all the insulting financial testimony about how desperate we are. I bet if I opened her checkbook and looked inside, I wouldn’t see anything to brag about. A retired art teacher nobody’s ever heard of!

Her sandwich arrived, gooey melted cheese over two kinds of meat, sporting a pair of sword-pointed toothpicks. In case we wanted to duel. Could I defend myself without Spike’s help?
Shea sniffed at my assertion. “Needs must when the devil drives,” she said.

Even though I was clearly drinking Evian, the busboy came and poured more water. He would have given me a bath if I’d asked him. I might have liked that, actually. A lunchtime wet t-shirt contest is just what the boring old Marriott needs.

I was calmer now. The other side of my mother’s picture was a mirror. I dipped the napkin in the busboy’s water and tried to clean my face.

“Any idea for a major? Favorite subject?”

What is this? The Spanish Inquisition? I looked pointedly at my watch.

“Writing,” I said. “I want to be a writer.”

Shea smiled, her facial creases opening like crevasses. “Your mother would love that, of course. She tried to guarantee it by giving you your name. Do you see yourself working in publishing?”
How to explain that I don’t see myself working? I loathe being told what to do.

“I see myself traveling the world,” I said.

“Who are your favorite writers? Alice Hoffman? Anita Shreve?” She made a massive effort. “Anne Rice?”

Who the hell were those people?

“I like the Russians,” I said.

She nodded officiously. “The Brothers Karamazov,” she offered.

I adore Dostoevsky, but why admit that to her?

“I prefer Pushkin, Goncharov, Turgenev,” I said. “Goncharov’s my current favorite. He wrote only one novel and he never finished it.”

“Oh. Like Mendelssohn. Unfinished Symphony.”

Honestly, the woman was an idiot. First off, he was a musician. And Mendelssohn composed more than one thing, but why argue with her?

“I confess I don’t know the writers you mention,” she admitted, busily chewing and speaking with her mouth open. “Education never stops.”

She slid a card across to me. “Let me know your address. When you get settled.”

Was there any possibility anybody would be speaking to anybody after all this was “settled”? I took the card. I noticed she had a website called RealArtByShea.

“What kind of art do you do?” I asked her.

“Found pieces. Sculptures. Collages. Some jewelry.” She fingered her necklace. “These are antique Christmas lights.”

They were little glass balls, strung together on golden thread. I had to admit they were charming.
The press had found us. A shape appeared right in front of me flashing away. I reeled, dazzled. Spike was at my side in a moment, elbowing them aside. He isn’t afraid to knock people down. He took me out through the kitchen.

“Any way out of here?” he asked a pair of Mexicans wearing chef hats.

Nobody argues with Spike. They gestured. Soon we were out on the loading dock. He used his cell phone to ask the parking valet to bring the limo around.

I regarded him suspiciously, “Why are you being so nice to me?” Maybe he’s the one selling secrets to the tabloids.

Spike tucked in the collar of my jacket.

“You remind me of a kitten I used to have. Same color and everything.” He patted my back. Once again, the baby needed burping. “Jesus, you look horrible. So how was it?” he inquired.

I didn’t want to talk about it. “God-awful.”

“We’re supposed to get lunch. Anything special you’re in the mood for?”

I gave the matter my deepest consideration. It’s the flywheel of my personality that I’m always hungry. Why should Aunt Shea be the only one to eat?

“I could really go for a meatball sub.”

Chapter Fifteen – Masochism

Back at home the newly feisty Persian cat had left a thank-you string of giblets draped across the doorstep like wild valentines; “This way to the crime scene.”

It was Spike’s turn to cook.

“What are we having?” I asked Spike. Everyone has a specialty. Mine hasn’t been figured out yet.

“Squid dogs,” says Spike.

“I’m allergic to calamari,” warned Jake.

He’s not. He just hates those little feeler things.

“It’s because you’re an octothorp,” I told him. Jake stuck his tongue out at me, but he needn’t have worried. “Squid dogs” turned out to be crab-stuffed manicotti. They were good, too. Add a bagged salad and some chunks of bread and cheese and you’ve got yourself a meal.

According to the wine book we had two bottles of Cuvėe Emile Peynaud to go with it, plus a Le Pin, a Trotanoy, and a Cheval Blanc, “for the ladies”, said Trevor. Ladies subsisting on white wine is a cherished illusion of Trevor’s. I’m partial to Southern Comfort and tequila when I can get it, and in this case, the ladies drank everything.

Once again we layered the table with chintz and Limoges; once again candlelight stained the hurricane glass, once again the company effervesced.

“Colleen would have been so proud,” said Shelley.

But would she? As so often throughout history, the writer was the only one pierced by the ironies. If it had been up to me, we’d have dined in front of the TV like the Clampetts.

Craig lectured us on the death penalty and the innocence project and how often it had been conclusively proven by DNA that juries sentence the wrong guy.

Shelley wasn’t eating. “Food just makes you fat,” she said sadly, clutching tight her glass of wine. Shelley can’t eat when she’s upset. I’m made of sterner stuff. I need to last a long time, not just till I’m thirty.

That evening Craig got really drunk. Not since Trevor on the night of my graduation party have I seen anyone so determined to get loaded. At first I thought he was celebrating because even Court TV said he made the prosecution look like a bunch of lame-footed idiots, but during one of his frequent bathroom breaks Mina told us,
“He’s depressed about Pring.”

“Well, what’s the matter with Pring?” we all wanted to know.

“He won’t say what we want him to say. He loves critiquing the police; that’s his specialty; he’ll say anything about them. He’s shakier on manner of death. He’ll say it could have been an accident, but he won’t say it was consistent with accident.”

“That’s fine,” Jake said. “Could have been an accident is all we need. Get their minds off of murder.”

Trevor gave his brother his “watch the fetal alcohol syndrome” look.

“It wasn’t murder, Jake,” wailed Shelley.

“I’m not saying it was murder,’ said Jake, “But if the jury decides that it was, then we need to prove someone other than Oz could have done it. That’s what I’m saying.”

“The defense isn’t supposed to have to prove anything,” said Mina. “Also the forensic animator says he can’t be ready in time and Craig says cartoons are all this crowd understands.”

Craig reeled out of the powder room with his shirttail zipped into his fly, stretched out on the dining room love-seat and began snoring.

Mina glanced at him, then said calmly, “I’m trying to talk him into getting a synchronicity expert.”
“A synchronicity expert?” demanded Trevor in his “how-much-is-this-going-to-cost voice. “What’s that?”

“An expert in coincidences. We have to explain this other case somehow, and the truth is, coincidences are a lot more common than people think. You only notice them because they’re so noticeable. Link recognition is the basic component of human reasoning.”

“How totally ad hoc,” said Trevor.

“You can only declare a coincidence in hindsight,” said Jake. “That’s messed up.”

Spike said, “I had a friend who slammed his car into the exact same tree his brother hit ten years before. They both died.”

“Wow,” said Jake, “what are the chances of that?”

Craig, blowing like a whale, rolled off the sofa and hit the floor with a crash. And that was the end of that party.

“Bedtime for Bonzo,” said Trevor.

Spike hoisted Craig in a fireman’s carry. “I’ve got him,” he said. “Here we go, Jefe.”

Dessert, since it came on a stick, could be eaten in front of Court TV. Trevor abstained.

“Harridan watch,” he said, dismissing that cross-eyed pit-bull of a woman he particularly hates.

She was introducing a clip of Ira McWhiggin interviewed on the steps of the courthouse to make him look taller.

“I just can’t see Oz with that dwarf,” I said. Of course I’m prejudiced against short people.
“No accounting for tastes,” said Trevor. “Oz has a low boredom threshold.”

“And variety is the spice of life,” sighed Shelley. Was Jake getting restless already? Shelley probably wouldn’t object if he asked her to wear a sheep costume.

“It’s all just role-playing,” said Jake, “You know Dad’s never been interested in kids. He was just messing around. The dwarf thing is tame. Hell, bestiality is legal in Sweden.”

“The jury isn’t sequestered,” Mina said, holding a stack of plates and standing in the doorway. “You know they’re glued to this.”

“They swore they wouldn’t watch it.” That was me. Still naïve after all these years.

She shrugged. “People lie. Everyone lies.”

“Then we should be able to expose them.” Writers want to expose everybody. It’s in our blood.
“They lie without even knowing they’re lying.”

A particularly unflattering picture of me, looking like I’d been eating red-hots, flashed across the screen. I shuddered.

“Trevor, may I dye my hair black? Please?”

“Over my dead body,” said Trevor. He turned away toward the kitchen, and I followed like a puppy expecting a treat.

I was willing to start coffee but determined to avoid garbage detail. When Trevor and I get our apartment, I thought, we’ll have only chopsticks. And we’ll only eat takeout.
Spike came whistling down the stairs, shooting back his sleeves like a man who’s completed a difficult task.

“I was getting worried,” said Mina. “I know he can be a handful and I know you have this need to beat people up.”

Did Spike have a need to beat people up? Was that why they hired him? I regarded him with fresh interest.

Spike chuckled. “Naw. He was a pussycat. I just made sure he said his prayers.”

“Bet I know what he prayed for,” said Mina.

Unwilling to let this rich fantasy go, I asked Spike, “You beat people up?”

He smiled at me lazily. “Say the word.”

I told him I’d think about it. There are so many people who deserve a thumping.

Jake and Shelley loaded the dishwasher with Colleen’s fine wash-by-hand china, and then Jake said,
“Shelley and I are going to make out at a French porn movie. Want to watch?”

Trevor almost spilled his coffee. “You’re going out?” he asked as incredulously as if his brother had announced plans to escape from Alcatraz.

“Don’t worry. Spike will drive us. They can’t see into the limo anyway.”

“Evasive driving 101,” said Spike, spinning an invisible wheel.

Mina slammed cabinets. “Pick up some dish detergent,” she said. “The greaseless kind.” Who knew ham leaves a ghostly memory?

“Please don’t go out in public. Not tonight.”

I’d never actually seen Trevor beg his brother for anything. I don’t think that’s a good way to manage Jake. It wasn’t in this case. Jake just smiled and shrugged.

“It’s just a porn movie. Everyone’s anonymous, everyone’s “absolutely elsewhere”. No trial rats, that’s for certain. They’re writing up their blogs. And hey, if I spot a member of the jury, we can do business.”

“And we’re going to wear disguises,” piped Shelley. “Like a costume party.”
See what I said about the sheep costume? I knew it was coming. That’s Jake for you. He loves costume parties. His Nazi Nun was the hit of the 2008 party season. I was congratulating myself for not falling into his trap. It’s so hard being rejected as “not quite enough.”

“You come, too,” Shelley pleaded. Lonely.

But Trevor said, “I don’t come in groups.”

I thought, but didn’t say, that wasn’t what I heard.

“Nah,” I thanked her. I don’t need to make out with Trevor in public. “You can see the same thing on the Playboy channel.”

We had almost finished cleaning the kitchen – I got sucked in after all — when Shelley came down the stairs holding hands with another girl. The girl was Jake. He spun around while we whistled and catcalled. I recognized the wig from Colleen’s collection.

“Am I hot?” asked Jake in his unsettlingly masculine voice. “Am I hot or what?”

“Finally a real sister,” said Trevor. “My life is complete.”

Spike began singing Lady Marmalade. “Voulez-vous couchez avec moi, ce soir?”

Spike! Speaking French! It was like those talent shows in high school where the silent kid shows up with a boombox and a pair of chainsaws.

“You’re too pretty to be a guy, Jake,” I told him. ”Are those eyelashes real?”

“All mine,” said Jake. Shelley did my makeup. I admit the boobs are fake. See my garters? I’m going to toss them to the crowd.”

“Isn’t he gorgeous?” said Shelley. “Look at his legs! He shaved.”

“Wow, and he didn’t even have to!” I exclaimed. “So men are the masochistic ones after all.”

“I did have to,” said Jake. “I’m wearing hose.”

“Attention to detail,” said Trevor and,
“La Vida Loca, baby,” said Jake.

Spike announced, “Your chariot is at the door. It’s been fun but it’s time to blow this dive.”
“I like your French,” said Mina.

Spike smiled his trout in the milk smile. “I’ve often been complimented on my Frenching.”
He did look as if he knew his way around a tongue lock.

“Then I’m coming too,” said Mina, spilling coffee in her haste.
Trevor called. “See you in the tabloids.”

Thank God Trevor and I were getting an apartment together. The old, stable married folks who like to be in bed by nine. I had already had it with dorm life.

In our honeymoon suite Trevor kissed me through my underpants.
“Leave them on,” he said.

Seems white cotton is his thing. Me wasting La Perla!
“Wow,” said I, “That’s one way to guarantee safe sex.”

“This sex is going to be unsafe at any speed,” he said, pulling off his shirt, “Brace yourself for the attack of the blue-gilled monster.”

But I was still thinking about today and Trevor was the only one I could ask.
“When you were four and your Mom was drinking so much, do you think it was because Oz was whipping her?”

Deflated the gills of the blue monster. Just a bit.
“Oz never “whipped” my mother,” said Trevor, speaking the word as if it was impossibly antiquated. “I’m sure of it.”

“How can you be sure? You were just a little kid.”

“Because he told me. OK. Time to lose the underpants.” Kicking Oz out of our bed, he lit the candles, fetched the citrus lotion. I guess it was my turn to be the buzzkill. That’s what a mutual relationship is all about. You get to play each other.

“But how do you know he wasn’t lying?”

“Because Oz never lies to me.”

I thought about the meaning of all this. It seemed unlikely. Oz cared too much what Trevor thought of him. But if Oz told Trevor everything…
“Then he did whip Colleen?”

“If Oz was whipping Colleen, it had to be sex play that slipped out of bounds. She forgot the safe word or something. You know, Colleen could be a problem.”

See what you can find out, sleeping in the corridors of power? “You don’t think he whipped her as a punishment? He beat you.”

Trevor gave up on rousing me.

“This is a little beyond your pay grade, Cherry Vanilla. And it’s hardly pillow talk, but you should know that if there’s buried hostility in a relationship, domination/submission is a dangerous game. She was threatening to get rid of Vermillion, saying we couldn’t afford to keep it up. She must have known how that would devastate him.”

“Oz had a whip collection, though. I saw it. Did he have them when you were little?”
He rolled me over and began lotioning my backside.

“Oz has always been a rider. He doesn’t like borrowed equipment. “ He looked at me with a spice of frustration. “You’re making me sorry the police took them all. Where’s a good whip when you need one?”

Oz’s major complaint about Vermillion is that by the time he bought the house all the land had been sold off piece by piece. Nowhere to keep horses. I was getting close to the secrets. I couldn’t give up, not even for Krakatoa.

“He and your mom fought, though. You told me that.”

Trevor sighed, his chest collapsing. Naked in the candlelight he looked eleven again. Maybe thirteen. “Whenever he got physical with my mom it was because she deserved it. She’d get drunk and out of control. He was trying to stop her from hurting either him or herself. He was in better physical shape and she was a couch potato. Res ipsit loquitor.”

Using Latin to push me away. Returning the lotion bottle he jostled a candle so that it squirted wax across his skin.

“Ouch,” I said, feeling the pain as if it had been mine.

Yet he watched calmly as it hardened. Then peeled it off.

“See?” he said. “There are advantages to experiencing pain.” He smacked my backside sharply. “I think you’re done. Don’t you?”

How could I be done? “Done” is impossible; it’s almost as bad as “away”. Besides, the definition of youth is we’re only getting started. Bowing to the sacred desire that can never be ignored, I slid face first between the pillows.

Chapter Fourteen — Machismo

Tuesday began with the judge telling the jury to forget all about the mysterious letter that had been waved in front of their noses yesterday. But forgetting isn’t so easily achieved. Maybe like a lot of other things in life; the more you want it, the less you can have it.

Craig’s fresh request for a mistrial was again denied – I could tell he was happy enough keeping the letter out, and the medical examiner took the stand. She turned out to be a tall, gawky, geeky broad named Rakyel Zackary.

Dr. Zackary looked like the kind of girl whose parents sent her to a single sex school so she wouldn’t be distracted from her studies, and when she finally lifts her nose from the grindstone she discovers the party has moved on. She’s forty-five and tired, divorced from a deadbeat and in thrall to a daughter who thinks she’s a dork. Let’s hope a job for cutting up dead people for the state with a pension and benefits makes it all worthwhile.

She had dangly earrings and one of those “au naturel”, pyramid-shaped, semi-cool, frizzy hairdos that goes in an out of style. Right now it’s out.

“Did you have occasion to read a letter from a woman named Shea Shortall in July of this year?”
The speaker was Buford, neck spilling out aggressively over his shirt collar, his jowls threatening to take over the Court. It was a battle of the jowls, between him and Craig, quivering and wattling at each other like a pair of turkey cocks. There was Buford’s Mama, beaming from the front row. According to Court TV she brings his lunch every day, favoring childhood delights like catfish, fried pie, home-made tortellini and hush puppies. Making sure Junior gets enough fuel, like some monstrous kiln. Craig probably never had a Mama. Much more likely to have been a science experiment with a Petrie dish and a dash of Clarence Darrow’s “eau de vie”.

This was a different letter they were talking about now; I’d been warned. The letter that started the whole thing. We glared at Aunt Shea to let her know what we thought of her busybodying. Suspecting sin is sin itself! So there!

“It was brought to my attention by you, Mr. Buford.”

“Do you recall the gist of the letter?”

“It said that Mr. White-Hawke’s wife – excuse me, friend – had died fifteen years previously in the exact same way as his recent wife.”

“At that time did you comment on this information?”

“I did. I said I thought we ought to see if the family would allow an exhumation.”

“And what subsequently happened?”

“The exhumation was set up and I flew out to Petaluma, California to meet with one of their medical examiners, and with his assistance, to perform a forensic autopsy on the body of Mary Elizabeth Shortall Barringer.”

“Was it your understanding that this was the first time the body had been autopsied?”
“It was. I had the verbal assurance of Dr. Namnoun Bouzidi, who operates as state coroner in Bouclem, Tunisia. He wasn’t coroner at the time of her death, but he sent me what records they had. Because the death was ruled accidental and occurring to a foreign national on the grounds of a foreign corporation there was no autopsy. It was clear we needed to take a look for ourselves.”

“At autopsy, what did you find?”

“The body was very well-preserved. It was the body of a slightly built but well-nourished woman in her forties who had borne children. Her internal organs were in excellent shape with no anomalies. I found no evidence of disease whatever.”

“So you could see a cause of death?”

“I could not. The body had sustained a great deal of bruising, but that would be consistent with a fall from a height. There were no broken bones. The eyes seemed normal, without petecchiae. Hyoid was intact.”

“I thought she’d had kids,” hissed Jake.

“The hyoid is a bone in the throat,” whispered Trevor. “Shut up.”

The medical examiner told the courtroom, “Cause of death was supposedly a brain aneurysm, so I thought I’d better take a look at the brain.”

“Have you ever heard of a brain aneurysm being diagnosed without opening up the brain?”

“Not unless there was a medically diagnosed pre-existing condition, as there was not in this case. It would be simply guess work.”

“So what did you find?”

“I shaved the skull. At that point I found seven cuts – representing distinct blows – to the back and top of the head.”

“You honor, request entering State’s exhibit 14 into evidence.”

“So ordered,” sighed the judge.

“I would like the jury to take a look.”

“Allowed.”

Craig said nothing. At least they didn’t flash it up on the big screen. Trevor squeezed my hand. This was just a drawing. Some artist’s rendering. That’s how Mme. Tussaud got started — they gave her the fresh-cut heads to model. One at a time, jury members studied the picture of my mother’s head.
“What struck you about this discovery?”

“That it was exactly the same number of cuts – sustained in the same area – which I had found on the skull of Colleen White-Hawke.”

“Would it be possible to sustain blows like these falling into a disused swimming pool?”

“I don’t see how. You might get one or two bangs, but how could you get so many actual cuts? That presupposes a sharp object. And even if there was one—a sharp edged metal ladder, say, how could you keep falling on it in the exact same way? All the wounds clustered in one spot seemed very suspicious to me.”

“So what did you do after you had photographed and measured these wounds?”

“I opened up the skull and took a look at the brain.”

“Did you locate cause of death?” Buford waggled his eyebrows at the jury.

“I did. Massive internal bleeding caused by blunt force trauma.”

“Did you locate any aneurysm?”

“I did not. The brain was in good condition before the blows.”

“Would you have seen an aneurysm had one been there?”

“One couldn’t miss a ballooning or ruptured artery.”

“Can you speculate about what weapon was used?”

Would Craig object? He only crossed his legs and hummed.

“Something long and thin and cylindrical, with distinctive structural integrity. Such as a fireplace poker or a gutta percha walking stick.”

Trevor and I looked at each other. The Scary General had just such a walking stick in his later years; you can see it in the photographs. He died long before Oz went to Tunisia. So perhaps Oz had inherited it.

“Why gutta percha?” The prosecutor inquired.

“It’s the hardest wood I the world, that’s what makes it popular for walking sticks. It doesn’t break.”
I thought the prosecution was trying to imply that the death might have been caused by an object that wouldn’t alarm the victim, one that could be naturally carried along for an evening stroll.
“Thank you. One further question. Would you compare for us the autopsies of Ms. Barringer and Ms. White-Hawke?”

At this Craig objected but the judge shot him down. Zackary never looked at either of them. She was looking at us. I found her gaze uncomfortable.

“The wounds to the bodies were astonishingly similar. In my expert opinion, the similarities were beyond the bounds of coincidence. It was like viewing two works by the same artist.”

The frenzy in the court resulted in two members of the press being ejected by the bailiffs. Trevor stood up in front of me, trying to say something about “kangaroo courts”. I pulled ineffectually on his coat, fearful that he would be removed; finally Spike got him down by sheer brute force. The judge pointed his little hammer in our direction as if it was a ray gun.

“One more…” he threatened, “One more disruption and my patience will be gone. I have been very tolerant under the circumstances, but I warn you, tolerance cannot last forever.”

Was he addressing Spike? Spike gave him a chop to the head; a half-salute.

Craig phrased his usual objection — a demand for a mistrial, the judge parsed the usual denial and we were back with Buford, who had been standing beside the witness box, blinking at the fray like a groundhog flushed from its burrow by a false spring. He swiveled back towards Zackary.

“Were there, however, wounds that you found on the body of Colleen White-Hawke that were not present on the body of Ms. Barringer?”

“That is a leading question!” shouted Craig. He seemed to know something was coming. Mina shuffled papers frantically, while Craig twitched like an ant before a thunderstorm.

“It’s a perfectly fine question,” snapped Buford. “When I ask a leading question, you’ll know.”

The judge banged away angrily. I wondered if he might have a seizure, and if he did, would they let Oz go under some kind of double jeopardy loophole?

“I’m ruling here,” the judge snapped. “The question is legitimate. Please proceed.”
“Ms. White-Hawke’s body bore long, narrow healing cuts on her back and buttocks. I counted thirteen. They resembled whip marks to me.”

The audience made a useless attempt to control its frenzy but the press surged like unruly children hearing a distant bell. Oz bowed his head as if in prayer. But who would he pray to? The jury looked as if they might be the ones with whiplash, their necks jerking back and forth between witness and defense table. I heard a whoosh and a slam, and I saw Skylar’s back disappearing through the double doors.

“Prejudicial, your Honor. Pointlessly inflammatory,” suggested Craig with an air of desperation.
“I need this evidence to make my case, your Honor,” said Buford. “I have drawings of photographs.”

“I also object that this testimony is out of order,” said Craig after a hurried conference with Mina.
The judge considered. “I think the subject at hand was the differences and similarities between autopsies,” he ruled. “That will be allowed, but make it brief. No drawings or photographs until you get to your case-in-chief.”

Shelley and I looked at each other in absolute horror. Photographs? Again? I yearned to follow Skylar. Maybe this was the prosecution’s strategy, emptying the room of possible Oz supporters. I wished we were anywhere but here.

Craig almost leaped over his table.

“Your honor, I had a ruling against photographs.”

“Not in the White-Hawke autopsy,” said Buford.

“Well you can’t present anything twice,” said the judge testily. “That would be inflammatory.” He seemed to grit his hen’s teeth. “ Keep going.”

“Jeez,” hissed Jake, “This judge is the prosecutor’s bitch.”

I could easily imagine this judge in drag. Maybe it’s the long black dress they have to wear. On the other hand, he didn’t seem Buford’s type, judging from the fan club of well-upholstered older women hanging dreamily on the prosecutor’s every word.

Buford gave them their money’s worth as he returned serenely to his task. “Could you judge the age of those marks?”

“Some were old, old enough to scar. Others were more recent.” She shrugged. “That’s all I can say.”

“Then I have no more questions of this witness.” Buford sat down.

Craig made the fastest recovery of any human being I’ve ever seen. When he rambled over to the witness box with his hands in his pockets, I wondered if anyone else figured he must be trying to conceal his clenching, jerking fingers. The jury looked at him curiously, even impassively. Impossible to read those French-fry-fed faces.

The first question was mild. Even friendly.

“How long have you been employed by the state as a medical examiner?”

“Since I graduated from Virginia State Medical School in 1990.”

“That’s not quite true, is it? Didn’t you take a leave of absence in 1995?”

“I took maternity leave when my daughter was born.”

Craig consulted a paper in his hand.

“I believe your allowed maternity leave was three weeks long? Yet you took a year?”
“I felt my daughter needed it,” said Zackary.

“Didn’t you lose your seniority? Effectively, when you re-upped, you were starting over?”
“I didn’t look at it that way.”

“But that is the truth, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so.” Zackary looked at him as if he were some kind of poisonous spider.
“And now, you’re considered part-time?”

“That just means I can’t take over-time.”

“You are listed as a part-time employee?”

She sighed. “That’s correct.”

Craig flipped a few sheets.

“You began as a forensic pathologist and became medical examiner in the year 2000?”
“That’s correct.”

“So you’ve never been employed as a doctor by any body other than the State of Virginia…how about teaching? Done any?”

“Your Honor,” barked Buford, “What’s going on here? This is pointless harassment. This witness has been qualified as an expert already.”

“Not by the defense, she hasn’t,” snapped Craig.

The judge’s color deepened. He seemed mightily offended on behalf of the state of Virginia.
“Mr. Axelrod, are you challenging this witness’ credentials?”

Craig shook his paper in the air.

“Looks like I’m going to have to. This witness has taught nowhere and published nowhere. She is a part-time employee of the State of Virginia—“

“She has taught! She has published!” insisted Buford.

Now Fryssen joined the fray, rising threateningly as if she’d like to clean Craig’s clock.

The judge summoned them all to the bench. I could see Oz rocking with glee but I thought the jurors looked even more stony-faced.

“Why’s he doing this?” I whispered to Trevor.

“Sloppy experts. Inadequate experts. Exclusionary and self-dealing qualifications. Grounds for appeal.”

But for an appeal to occur, Oz had to be convicted. It was like they had given up on getting him off.

Mina passed Trevor a copy of the resume currently under fire and I peeked over his shoulder while he read it. Dr. Zackary had taught classes…for Virginia law enforcement officials and she had published in State of Virginia publications. None of that would count with Craig, of course, but wasn’t he just pissing off this homegrown jury? Don’t surround yourself with yourself.

The attorneys were leaving the bench. Craig was so calm and smiley you would think he’d won, but the judge announced,

“The previous line of questioning has been stricken because this witness has been qualified as an expert by the Court. Get something going, Mr. Axelrod.”

Craig looked like he thought he had plenty going. Probably he was thinking two can play at the game of leaking things into the jury’s minds and then telling them to forget about it.

He asked the doctor, “Are you familiar with the fact that falls are a leading cause of death in this country?”

“Among senior citizens,” said the doctor, lifting her chin. “Of course, falling into empty swimming pools is extremely rare.”

Craig smiled his alligator grin. “Have you any literature on the subject?”

“All I can say is that these are the only two cases I found searching the Internet.”

She puffed like a runner when she spoke. I began to think maybe Craig had challenged her credentials just to upset her, throw her off her game.

“You wouldn’t call it impossible. How many other falls have you autopsied?”

“Two. Maybe three. And they didn’t present anything like this.”

“So what you’re telling the court is you’ve seen two – maybe three — victims of falls in your entire practice, but you want to tell this jury that even though falls are accepted as a leading cause of death you and you alone understand the “right” way for a fall victim to “present”.”

“I wouldn’t expect them to have several blows to the top of the head,” said the doctor austerely.
“Oh? Were all the others killed immediately?”

“Perhaps not immediately. But they were rendered unconscious and died subsequently of severe hematoma.”

“So you want this jury to believe that it is impossible for a woman who has struck her head on cement after falling nine to twelve feet to stand up, then fall down and strike her head again?”

“Nothing’s impossible,” said the doctor. “But I wouldn’t expect it to look like this. I wouldn’t expect the blows to be equal in force, for instance.”

She was a fighter. You kind of had to admire that about her.

“I believe you mentioned the cuts you describe could have been caused by a sharp object? Have you seen a photograph of the swimming pool where Ms. Barringer died?”

“No. No one has. Such a photo does not exist,” retorted the doctor.

“That’s right,” says Craig, looking around him meaningfully. “No one in this courtroom today knows what was in that swimming pool…it could have been full of razor wire for all we know. Are you familiar with the work of Dr. Victor Pring?”

“Everyone is familiar with the work of Dr. Pring.”

“Do you respect his work?”

“Usually.”

“Are you aware that he is going to testify for the defense that certain unlucky candidates could die in exactly this manner by slipping repeatedly on their own blood, attempting to climb out and striking and re-striking their heads? Provided, of course, there was a sharp object present?”

“I don’t know what Dr. Pring is going to say. I am testifying that in a case of such an accident as you describe I would expect at least some of the blows to strike somewhere other than on a restricted surface at the back of the head.”

“I don’t think this man’s life ought to be subject to your expectations, Dr. Zackary,” sneered Craig, emphasizing the title as if she wasn’t really entitled to it. “Apparently one of your expectations is to put in a thirty hour week and retire at sixty with a taxpayer-funded pension.”

“This is outrageous,” sputtered Buford, rocketing out of his seat like a pheasant. You could almost see the feathers flying.

“Was that an objection, Mr. Buford?” asked the judge, glacially.

“Withdrawn. I have no more questions for this witness,” spat Craig.

“State reserves the right to recall Dr. Zackary for its case-in-chief,” chanted Buford.

“Granted,” said the judge, shooting his sleeves, “Let’s get this show on the road.”

Dr. Zackary gave Craig a very dirty look as she left the stand.

Chapter Thirteen — Misogyny

Talking Trevor into a mall trip was not difficult. Craig and Mina would be tied up reading the famous letter and thinking up reasons it shouldn’t come in. Besides, we needed clothes and haircuts; Trevor wanted to buy me a laptop. Jake, Shelley and I love the mall. Trevor hates it. At the mall, I’m ashamed to admit I made Trevor cry. Some people wouldn’t have been able to tell, but I saw the telltale moisture stain his eyes. In a life of embarrassing things to wake you panting at two a.m., I rate that the worst.

I was already feeling sort of emotional, what with the trial and everything. And then there was that terrible thing Oz said, niggling at me. I wanted to yell at Trevor because I felt I’d been played, but how could I really? I still needed him so much. And what, exactly, is Oz’s excuse?

I know Oz’s raison d’être in life used to be go ing around shocking people, and you could certainly argue that all men suffer from such a serious case of womb envy almost as bad as their penis envy, but I still couldn’t get rid of it. Couldn’t put it out of my mind.

Partly I was angry at myself. It’s the old story; why hadn’t I said anything right then? I pride myself on never being at a loss for words, but I guess I’m still shockable. He really got me that time.
Me! Having a baby as a high school graduation present, like someone in a trailer park! So not gonna happen. It wasn’t a question of Trevor or anybody. Trevor would probably be an OK father someday; I mean clearly he needs to loosen up; he’s just a mass of rules at present. Let’s finish this murder trial, OK, one way or the other, and then allow poor Trevor to at least have adolescence and then we’ll see.

Trevor plans on marriage someday but it can’t be to me. Duh. And single parenthood? No, merci! I don’t think I ever want to be a parent; it’s that “hostage to fortune” thing. I’ve been a hostage; it’s loaded with problems, some of which we heard about today in court.

Partly I was mad at Trevor; if he hadn’t needed to brag to his father that he’d got the unattainable we could have kept this whole thing quiet and personal, where it belongs. Men! Mostly I was mad at Oz. Hadn’t he learned his freakin’ lesson for freaks sake? Brought up on charges. They were trying to execute his bony ass.

I’m eighteen freakin’ years old with my whole life ahead of me and he wants me to get pregnant with his freakin’ son’s freakin’ child? The more I think about it the madder I get. The cat would really be out of the bag then, wouldn’t it? I know we’re not really brother and sister but you can see how the world would look at it; just one more outrageous insult from the hedonism cesspit.

Why couldn’t he just leave us alone and concentrate on his own freakin’ problems? How could he even think of bringing a baby into the mess we already had going? This trial might be over in nine months but Trevor and Craig were already talking about the “appeal phase”; it could turn into a lifelong project, like a family business. Craig says it takes over a decade to put someone to death. Didn’t this make nonsense of how supportive he’d been about my writing for all those years? Did he think I’d get a nanny, or give the baby to the Shortalls?

It really upset me. Trevor could tell, but he thought it was the trial. The letter and all that. He kept trying to hold my hand in between steering and downshifting.

That was the other thing that pissed me off. How could I tell Trevor? Trevor would be shocked. He might decide to deny me sex and I needed it too much. He’s the suffering-builds-character-spokesperson. I could see him smacking his forehead expostulating, “What were we thinking?!” Trevor’s always looking for something to nobly renounce. He might make do on self-abuse, self-mutilation and Haydn but it’s too late for me. I’ve got to have my fix or I can’t get through this trial.
Goddamit. I could never share it with him, so I would be forced to bear it alone forever. Document and file. Is it possible that Oz, with his obsessions about having a “Plan B” and playing the long game, intended this all along? Believe me, he’s capable of it. Didn’t he realize he risked ruining it by seeming to promote it, if you know what I mean?

The mall was almost empty. It would pullulate with foetogs except security won’t let them in. “No solicitation, assholes.” Second good thing, at least we split from Shelley and Jake so I could focus on just one relationship instead of three cubed. Although isn’t a relationship between four people four to the fourth power? I don’t even know how many it is, that’s how bad I am at math.

“Don’t let them shave you bald this time,” I suggested to Trevor my subtle way. “You don’t have to go through life looking like a concentration camp victim. Why don’t you get a fade? Have my initials put over your ear.”

“Ha ha,” said Trevor. “That would be funnier if I wasn’t so worried that Jake and Shelley are getting tattoos right at this second.”

“Are they?” I gasped. Riveted. Oh how I wanted a tattoo! Virginia malls have tattoo parlors – there’s another cool thing about living in the country. Why was I always where the party wasn’t? How could Brontë be an artistic free spirit when she’s locked in perpetual mourning?

“Oh let’s get tattoos! Come on! I’ll put your name right here,” gesturing to my appendicitis scar. “And you could cover up the scars on your back.”

“Yeah, your husband would really thank me for that,” said Trevor as we settled into barber chairs. “Tattoos! What kind of a world are we living in where cosmetics are permanent and relationships ephemeral?”

So we each got what we always get, a little off the top. So exciting. Then we went to Brooks Brothers like a pair of pathetic job applicants where he bought each of us a suit. I admit mine wasn’t as bad as I’d feared; it had a line of charmingly colorful embroidery around the hems of both jacket and skirt. If you looked closely enough, they looked like those irises, Colleen’s favorite flower. It wasn’t even black, but it was dark navy. I contemplated my future. Mourning, mourning, mourning.
Trevor began to see I was smoldering, so at the jewelry store he tried to buy me pearls. He never got over the fact that Colleen gave me cultured for graduation while Skylar got real. Who the fuck cares? I adamantly rejected the pearls; setting my heart on a cloisonné box but he wouldn’t buy me that.

I threw a tantrum right in front of the salesman. A shit fit. I admit it. I hate writing it down, but if I start lying now, where am I? Misremembering, forgetting, deceiving. Never going to be good enough for me. My only excuse is, shit happens. I screamed at him in the jewelry store, just like Fayette.

“You are such a blight!” I shouted at him. “You never want me to have any fun! I don’t love you at all! I hate you!”

It was the worst thing I could possibly say, and I knew it. He put his face in his hands right there in the middle of the Cross Country Mall and sobbed. People stared, but thank God they didn’t seem to know who we were. A mall is a wonderfully leveling sort of place. This trial has really helped me to understand the gift of anonymity. I never want to be recognized again.

Heartsick, I put my arms around him and got him out of there. How can couples think of having children when they have to take care of the baby within each other?
“God I’m sorry,” I said. “I lost it. I didn’t mean it. Forget it.”

He was still quivering.

“I’m the sorry one,” he said. “Everything’s been such a bitch lately.” Did he mean I had become, for him, the bitch everyone said I was? Trevor went on, “Nothing has gone right, but I thought at least I had you. I’m sorry. Get whatever you want.”

Of course I didn’t want the goddam chintzy little thing. I didn’t want to go back to that store ever. I wanted a tattoo, but I didn’t even want that if I had Trevor staring at me all moisty-eyed. I was struck with that horrible cold fear – if I continue to act like a jackass I’m going to lose my supply. I’ve got to stop pushing it, get control of myself. The truth is I never imagined I’d have this kind of power. It’s not like I had never seen Trevor cry – he was a crier when we were growing up – more than me actually. It was because of Trevor that Oz posted the “No Sniveling” sign on his study door. The only times I can recall Oz hitting him were for crying, whereas with Jake it was for trying to blow things up. But I had never been the one to make him cry. And I hadn’t seen a tear in ten long years.
No more shopping for us; I didn’t even want a laptop, so we were the first to get to Starbucks. We waited half an hour for Shelley and Jake.

“Please forgive me,” I apologized, trying to hold his hand while we sipped our lattes. “I just snapped. It was like I was possessed by a demon or something.”

He had recovered himself, but he seemed kind of distant. “I know what that’s like,” he said.

I looked around, envying the ordinary people going about their business. I used to be so happy to be me, felt so proud and lucky all the time, but now I envied everybody, even the waitress with such severe overbite she looked like a harelip. Wouldn’t it be great not to be wanted by anybody?

“Maybe I should just take the first job I can get,” I suggested dispiritedly. “Let the rest of you go to court.” As if Trevor would ever let me!

“Great,” said Trevor, putting a hand over the pulsing vein in his head, “We’re in such desperate need of your pathetic four cents an hour. No fucking way.”

This is why couples argue all the time. They just can’t stop insulting each other.

“ Don’t be so controlling,” I snapped.

“As if anyone could control you,” said Trevor.

Maybe it was true. Could I even control myself? On top of it all Jake and Shelley were late, all happy and burdened with packages. Trevor groaned as he collected credit card receipts, and he punished them by making them get their coffees to go.

“Did you get a tattoo?” I whispered to Shelley.

“Yes,” she hissed back, “It’s on my butt. I can’t show you until we get home. Love your hair.”
My hair was nothing special; in fact it looked exactly the same, just a bit tidier. Shelley is so loyal. I can be so mean to her sometimes too. I despise myself.

In the Lexus I let Jake sit up front and I collapsed in the back from all the emotion of the day. I was starting to see why people want sex without feeling.

We’re not like Russians, after all, I thought sleepily. More like Egyptians. Didn’t the Egyptians have to marry their sisters because no one else was sufficiently royal? No one else understood the in-jokes. When I was eight I entertained company by reciting from The Book of the Dead and I still remembered some of it. Out loud I murmured,
“My flesh is gold; my bones are lapis lazuli…”

Interior music is so sustaining.

“We need to pick something up for dinner,” Jake said to Trevor. See? Eat, eat, eat. Buy, buy, buy. It never stops. Any way off the carousel of carnage? Yes. When I’m at college and I’m hungry I’ll go to the dining room and eat something. Maybe standing up at the salad bar. And then I’ll go away.
“Get a ham,” said Shelley. Colleen always had a ham. A spare country ham “wintering” in the wine cellar. Looking like hell and covered with newspapers.

I opened one eye. Country ham is delicious. Didn’t Tutankhamen die hunting wild boar? It was worth it. Also he very young and we all know what that’s like. Trevor was driving a little too fast right now.

“You have to order those weeks in advance,” said Trevor, Mr. Buzz-kill, but Jake, suddenly all thrifty and helpful, said, “You can get an regular spiral ham at Costco.”
Made me wonder if his tattoo said, “Buy in bulk.”

Back at the house Mina was cleaning up from the night before. And me thinking she was playing lawyer on our dollar! Feeling guilty I rushed to help. As always when labor threatened, everyone else melted away.

“You don’t have to do that,” I said falsely. I’m telling you now, it’s impossible to get through life without lying.

“I come from a big family, so I’m used to it.”

She already had the dishwasher humming, and she was working on the big pots. Soon we had a rhythm, she washing, me drying.

“Trevor got us a ham for dinner,” I offered. Just making conversation, the way Colleen had taught me.

“You can do anything with that man,” said Mina admiringly.

Not something I cared to discuss. I changed the subject. “So what got you into law?”

She gave the question such intense consideration she stopped washing. Memories flickered over her eyes like shadows and I saw the reason for the off-putting little glasses with their heavy black frames. Not for her looking out, but for us looking in. Whatever she thought of, she rejected it, attacking a Dutch oven with ferocity.

“Can I plead insanity?” she said lightly.

Sounds like an interesting story.

“No, really,” I begged.

“I grew up in a family with a lot of violence.”

“You got hit?”

“I was the youngest. Actually I was the only one who didn’t get hit. Sometimes I think just watching the violence is worse. You know the blow is coming and it keeps you up late, stiffened up and waiting.”

I knew just what she meant. Oz was never harsh with me, but when he yelled at Trevor it hurt worse than if he had attacked me directly.

“I would have expected you’d be more attracted to law enforcement,” I said. “Some place where you get to carry a gun.”

“The way it started was I wanted to stay in school forever. I was such a good little student and it seemed a safe place. I think I’m allergic to brutality. Call it sin-aesthesia.”

“I think I have that allergy too,” I said. It occurred to me that Craig yells a lot. I wondered how she could stand him? I like silence, myself.

“Then once I discovered what the law is about, I was hooked.”

“So what’s it really about?” I asked her. Punishing people, I would have said on a quiz.
“Our whole legal system is built around the issue of intent. There couldn’t be a more interesting puzzle, if you like puzzles. Intent – that’s kind of like motive. Intent is character. Think how interesting that is. What did the defendant think would happen and what were they capable of imagining would happen? It’s pretty fascinating.”

“Some defendants are so dumb,” I objected. “Like one-celled organisms.”

She looked at me shrewdly over misted glasses.

“And some of them are pretty smart.” She turned away, holding her shoulders rigidly, so I knew she was thinking of the case at hand. I wondered how much I could get her to tell me.

She shrugged, dodging neatly.

“We don’t have to deal with the dumb ones if we don’t want to. That’s the fun of working for the defense.”

“So what’s it like working for Craig?”

She shrugged. “I’m learning a lot.”

“Why doesn’t he ever let you stand up in court? Fawna gets to stand up.”

“He says women aren’t intimidating enough on cross. He says we lack the killer instinct. Anyway, I’m not sure I want to be a litigator. He says he might let me do the character witnesses.”
She seemed unexcited about the idea.

Time for some girl talk.

“He ever proposition you?”

Mina sighed. “Only when he’s desperate. I think he secretly likes it that I’m not gaga over him. Every other one of his assistants was scheming to be the next Mrs. Axelrod. This way, we can actually get some work done.”

“He doesn’t attract you?”

She peered at me over her little glasses.

“Craig? He’s too married.”

“I thought he was divorced.”

“As if that mattered. He has four wives for Pete’s sake, and they all call him practically every day, wanting something. He maintains four homes, yet he sleeps in a studio apartment over his office and lives mostly in hotels and airplanes. He has eight kids.”

“Eight kids!” Talk about a trailer park!

“That’s what you get when you have four wives. Finally he got wise and went for The Big Cut.” Mina made snipping gestures.

“The Big Cut?” Seeking elucidation. Or just gossip.

“That’s what he called it. No more little Axelrods, ever.” She sighed. “You can’t imagine the rivers of cash running through that man’s life.” (Sounds like Oz!) “And he can’t hang on to any of it.”
“So he needed this job?”

“He needs six of these jobs.”

I tried catching her off guard.

“So do you think Oz did it?”

But there is no “off guard” with Mina. Remember? She’s the one who stays up late. Stiffened and waiting.

“We learn not to think like that,” she answered smoothly. “He says he didn’t do it, and he tells a perfectly plausible story. He’s entitled to the best defense he can get.” She could change a subject a lot more adroitly than I.

“So Craig can’t have kids. Not that I dream of that. I just think I should want them. I mean, if you don’t have kids, you end up alone. Maybe I don’t have a biological clock. Sometimes I wonder if I’ve been playing for the wrong team. Maybe it’s just that brutality thing. All men suffer from testosterone poisoning. And I can’t get over it.”

Trevor doesn’t, I thought smugly. He yells, all right. He can get angry. He’d even smash something, if it isn’t too valuable. But he prides himself on being civilized. Being a Christian. Being a gentleman. Trevor wouldn’t hit.

“So I find myself thinking,” Mina went on, “What it would be like with a girl. Mirror images, right? Both of you slow and sensitive? Waiting for the other to come?”

Am I slow on the uptake, or what! She caught me completely by surprise. I just stared. Then, because work was at a standstill and the water wasn’t even running and she obviously expected me to say something, I ventured,
“I’ve never been with a girl. So I don’t know. Actually.”

“Oh.” She looked away. Work started up again. “I just thought — you being so adventuresome and free and all.”

“No,” I repeated awkwardly. Had I just been propositioned? Did she not know about Trevor? Was she looking for a threesome?

“It’s not that I’m not attracted to men,” She elucidated. “I just don’t like the level they take things to.”
I was grappling mentally. “Pass,” I said finally. Just to make sure Trevor and I didn’t experience Late Night Visitations.

She smiled, pushing up her glasses with a soapy finger. “Don’t worry. I passed “Don’t Fuck the Clients” in law school.” Under her breath she added, “Although a whole lot of people were sick that day.”

Trevor and Craig appeared at exactly the same moment, so I assumed they’d been together. Trevor looked like a man who had paid and Craig like a man who’d been paid. The inflated one smiled at us and commented approvingly, “How, I love watching women plying the domestic arts.”

Mina threatened him with a soapy barbecue fork.

“We’re having ham for dinner,” I said, easing the moment. I was starting to think there was no telling what Mina might do.

Craig sniffed the air with excitement. “Shouldn’t it be cooking?”

“It’s a spiral ham.” Trevor warned disparagingly. “Those things only need to be heated up.”
Good enough for the help, apparently.

“Then I’ll make my famous red-eye gravy!”

Behind his back Mina made throat-slitting motions. I found out later the “red-eye” part comes from coffee. Maybe Trevor is right. He’s abstemious about sauces, ordering everything “on the side.”
That was the night we drank the Montagna Magica and the Hungarian port. I went down with Trevor to help him choose. Since Oz had been gone we had used up an entire wall in the wine cellar. Of course, we had three walls to go. I struggled with the necessary mathematical calculations.

“Think this trial will last till spring?” I asked Trevor as he made his selections. Worst case scenario.
“No,” said Trevor. “Craig says it’s going fast because it’s the most expensive trial the county has ever had, and if he can just get a mistrial, the state will have to move the second trial somewhere else.”

“If we have a mistrial, we’ll run out of wine for sure,” I decided.

“We’ll never run out of wine,” Trevor told me with comfortable certainty.
“Why not?”

“Because the world will never run out of wine. Better to go without food than wine, Brontë. There are some things a gentleman can’t compromise.”

He sounded so exactly like Oz when he said that. Why argue? Who needs sauce when you have The Sauce?

There were more memories of Oz at dinner. Craig was almost as entertaining with his bizarre legal stories. He told us about how they used to embalm corpses with arsenic and it leaked into the groundwater and poisoned an entire New England village. He told us about another case where churchgoers were poisoned by the nickel in the chalice while taking communion and they all started having the same hallucinations. Thought it was the Second Coming.

“Odd they would all react in the same way,” said Trevor.

“Apparently it’s so common in Europe there’s a word for it. “The madness of crowds.” Everyone knows it was ergot poisoning from bread that caused the whole witch frenzy. Ergot is a fungus similar to LSD!”

“Bread and wine,” said Jake, “Who’d believe it?” He nudged Trevor. “You Christian devils!”

“Fascinating to see a medical problem express itself culturally,” said Mina. “The mind-body dilemma writ large. Different expressions of mass consciousness.”

“There is no “mass consciousness”, said Trevor. “That really is the madness of crowds. Educated people have their own consciousness. They rise above it.”

“Except if you’re inside it, you don’t see it,” said Mina. “Aren’t we all victims of our programming?”
“Ah yes,” quoted Craig, pausing in stuffing himself. “As Shakespeare said, what nourished us, consumes us.”

“I’m not,” said Trevor. “A victim of “programming”.”

We looked at him skeptically. Had Oz succeeded in raising one free child? I know I’m not free, or why aren’t I in college? Why do I go to this friggin’ trial day after day?

I guess Trevor was so threatened by our scene he bought not only the ham but also my favorite Moo-lage bars. Even though he disapproves not just of artificial sweetener but anything eaten off a stick.

He passed, and went upstairs. So I ate his.

After dinner Mina and I tried to talk Craig and Shelley into doing the dishes. Jake had already vanished. No sale. Craig is above that sort of thing. We’re just another three-star hotel as far as he’s concerned. So I had to do the dishes again with only Shelley to help.

I could hear the shouting a hundred feet away. When I topped the stairs Trevor and Jake were shouting at each other. Trevor’s face was twisted with red rage.
In our boudoir I asked him.

“What the heck happened?”

“Oh, Jake suggested a foursome,” he snorted angrily as he flung himself out of his suit. “That asshole. He’s so out of his gourd!”

Creepy! “So what did you say?”

“Told him not to be a fetal pig.”

He came over to help me undress. I wasn’t going fast enough for him. I was his stress medicine like he was mine.

“It is kind of disgusting thinking of us all naked in bed together,” I said.

“Oh, we’ve done that before,” said Trevor. “Don’t you remember? That little experiment of Oz’s? Of course, you were little.” He laughed at the memory. “You didn’t like it at all. You said you wanted to sleep with only me.”

I didn’t recall any of it. I wish we hadn’t talked about programming at dinner.
“Sounds like I got my wish.”

“We got our wish,” echoed Trevor.

Once again I was bothered. I pride myself on my good memory. It’s the most important attribute of a writer, but some things are just gone. I made a note to ask Trevor exactly how old I had actually been. Ask him someday when he wasn’t wearing my hips for a hat, telling me if there was reincarnation he wanted to come back as my jeans.

Craig has taken cases based on the falsity of “recovered memory”. People remember things that didn’t happen. He says it’s been scientifically demonstrated that there’s also implanted memory, and not only that, people have been confessing to things they didn’t do for hundreds of years.
So what even is “programming?” What is memory? What can you trust? I was starting to think maybe art is the only thing that tells the truth. I should stop writing this diary right now and venture on a novel. But how?

Afterwards as we lay there exhausted I thought of so many things I wanted to know.

I mean on the face of it, Jake’s question to Trevor was the most ridiculous thing. Unless…

“You’ve had fourgies with Jake before?” I asked as lightly as I could manage. Otherwise I didn’t think he would tell me.

“Drunk people will do anything. I’m living it down, aren’t I? We’ve all made enough degrading mistakes.”

What was my degrading mistake? I didn’t even want to think like that.
He hauled me to my feet, his face settled mulishly.
“Shower time. Come on, I’ll soap you.”

The great thing about taking a shower late at night is that the water is finally hot. I closed my eyes and held the handrails, feeling like a blissful horse after a particularly challenging steeplechase, while he pounded me. A horse that needs to rest up, because it’s going to get another big run soon. He pounded hard enough to raise bruises, and yet I liked it. I guess I just can’t write that novel. There’s still too much I don’t understand.

This water was surely hot enough to wash degrading mistakes away – along with several layers of skin. Wouldn’t we emerge pristine again, like infants? There was just that one last thing to get off my chest.

“You know, Jake came on to me once.”
Wicked of me to tell?

The water pouring off over his brows and chin made him look like an angry sea god.
“Jake comes on to anything that slows down long enough,” growled Trevor. “He needs shock shorts. He’s going to get every STD that’s out there.”

“Oh, poor Shelley,” I worried.

“You said no, of course?” He separated my legs, the better to get up and into all the nooks and crannies.

“I said no.”

I didn’t tell him how I’d been tempted by all those miles of shiny muscle.

He pulled my naked body to his chest and let the water cascade over both of us.
He grunted while he worked.

“You saved a life.”

But he didn’t say whose.

Chapter Twelve — Mendacity

Morning found us all back in our own little circle of hell; like chum cast upon the haters.
Fawna was in fine form decked in navy blue and white, hair sharply cut and curled. She smiled at the jury and they smiled back. Our guy, Craig, looked like an unmade bed.

“The state calls Shea Moira Shortall.”

A woman I recognized as my aunt rose to her feet and moved with the forward lope of someone unused to high heels. I regarded her with a well-nourished hostility. This was our sworn enemy, the woman whose letter to the prosecution had opened my mother’s grave. She was having more peace there than she could ever have again. Artists competed now to sketch her wounds for the public in all their ghoulish glory.

Aunt Shea wore one of those mass-produced, vaguely African-themed outfits favored by big women –identifying with hippos, I guess, or elephants. She had a mess of what looked like zebras running across her back. Alone among my mother’s happily married sisters she was the anomaly, the single one, the “artistic” one. She had no children. When she was at art school there had been some kind of abortive attempt at a fake green card marriage that soon collapsed; Oz called her as “the dyke”.
She sent me art kits every birthday and Christmas; origami sets suitable for a five year old received on my fifteenth birthday. If I ever had talent, we’ll never know now; she must claim responsibility for my loathing of the graphic arts.

Her hair looked a bit more presentable today than yesterday; less of a bird’s nest. It was twirled up artfully and secured with jeweled combs. Maybe they had a salon at the hotel to pass the time, while Oz read Spinoza and I ate beef. She might have even been wearing makeup. She stared at the jury, bright-eyed, and they looked back at her with interest.

Like a big animal trainer, Fryssen marched her witness through her paces.

“My name is Shea Moira Shortall,” said the witness, touching the Bible like she knew her way around it.

There was one lie, anyway. I happen to know that when she was born those names were reversed. She was Moira Shea Shortall.

“I live in Prairie Nouveau, Nevada, and I am a retired teacher of art.”

“Did you once have a sister named Mary Elizabeth?”

“I did. She was a year and a half my junior.”

“Can you recall the circumstances in which you learned of her death?”

“I received a transatlantic phone call in the middle of the night from a man calling himself Oz White. He told me my sister had passed away and I should inform the rest of the family.”
“Did you know who he was?”

“I thought he had something to do with the school where she worked. I asked him if we should hop on a plane and come over but he said instability in Algeria rendered air travel uncertain and he promised he would personally escort the body and the children to wherever we wanted them to go.”

“And what did you say?”

“I was very upset, but to the best of my ability I thanked him. I said I’d have to speak to my sisters to find out whether they wanted her in the family plot in California or out in Arizona where we all lived. I took down his numbers and asked how she died.”

“So what did he tell you?”

“He said the doctor described it as an aneurysm. He said they need to embalm bodies very fast in the hot countries and asked if we wanted her embalmed or cremated.”

“What did you say?”

“I said in our religion, cremation was a sin. We needed the body whole. For the resurrection.”
Little did she know what resurrection lay in store! I shuddered and Trevor moved his shoulders comfortingly against me.

“Tell us what he said.”

“He made some flippant remark… I don’t remember exactly what it was, but it certainly disparaged our beliefs. I thought it was very inappropriate, bordering on cruel. That’s when I realized he was just a friend of Mary Elizabeth’s and not in the employment of the Franciscans. They would have known better.”

“What was the next thing you recall happening?”

“I rang off. I guess I was in shock. I woke my sisters with a conference call and we all agreed on the family plot. I called him back in the morning to give him the details and spoke to his wife.”

“Renée White?”

“That’s correct. She seemed a thoughtful person. She said he was unavailable, so I gave her the information.”

“Did he at any time mention that he was the executor of your sister’s estate?”
“Not then.”

“Did he mention he was the administrator of her dead husband’s estate?”

“He did not.”

Jake jerked at Mina’s collar and demanded to know why Craig didn’t object. Mina hissed that it was better not to prolong this testimony.

“Did Mr. White or the girls actually attend the funeral?” Fryssen had a way of standing alongside the witness box with her back to the jury and staring at Oz as she spoke. Then they all stared at him, like he was a captured alien.

Shea had been awaiting this question. She spat out her indignation as if it was a poisoned tooth.
“They did not. He called me from his new home in Washington to say he had thought about it and decided it wouldn’t be good for the girls. That’s when he mentioned that Mary Elizabeth had appointed him guardian before her death. Of course we had assumed they would come to us and had made our preparations in that regard. Mr. White – he wasn’t remarried at that time – described funerals – especially open casket services – as barbaric and unnecessarily traumatizing.”

“How did you respond?”

“I was incredulous…I barely understood. I told him there wouldn’t be an open casket service because our funeral director described the body as “excessively embalmed”– beyond repair. I really think his objection was to any service whatsoever. He seemed to think “out of sight-out of mind” – about their own mother – would be better for the children!”

Her voice quivered with outrage and set to vibrating the various scarves and necklaces strewn about her person.

“What disturbed you most about this phone call?”

“This awful fact about guardianship…I couldn’t believe it. None of us had daughters. We were so looking forward to welcoming them, to telling them about their mother. About their family. Mr. White told me he would be sending copies of the documentation.”

“Did you ask him anything further?”

“I did. I had got the death certificate interpreted; it said “aneurysm subsequent to a fall.” That was the first I ever heard about the swimming pool. So I asked him about that.”
“What did he tell you?”

“That she had been out walking late one night and fallen into a disused swimming pool. That there was no one around to hear her cries or help her to get out. Apparently she succumbed to her injuries. Alone.”

Fawna swiveled her hips to check the jury out and make sure they were getting all this. She then changed course, resting her elbow on the side of the witness box as if leaning into a friend’s car to chat.

“Let’s switch to this recent case. When did you come to hear about the death of Mr. White-Hawke’s current wife Colleen?”

“My sister Gemma clipped her obituary from the Post. I think that was in July. I went on the Web and looked up the stories about this so-called-accident. I thought” —

“Never mind what you thought, what did you do?”

Unchewed words fell from her lips like crumbs of disappointment.

“I wrote a letter.”

“Addressed to whom?”

“I didn’t have a name so I addressed it to the Head Prosecutor whom I have come to understand is Mr. Buford. I pointed out the similarities between my sister’s death and Mrs. White-Hawke’s.”
“Thank you,” said Fawna. “No further questions.”

Craig rose and simply looked at Shea for quite awhile, as if she was a particularly interesting specimen. I knew he was feeling aggressive because he played with his tie.

After a moment he shook his shoulders and said,

“Permission to treat as a hostile witness.” He had figured out how to use this judge’s thirst for speed to his own advantage.

“Granted,” said his Honor, crisply.

Craig continued to gaze at the witness for a moment, arms akimbo. Then he said,
“How many legal actions have you and your sisters brought against Mr. White-Hawke?” Emphasizing Colleen’s name.

Shea sat up as straight in the witness box as a pointer dog and said, “Two.” Sharply.

“Describe these actions. What were their dispositions?”

“The first was to contest Mr. White’s guardianship of the children.” That one was dismissed, to our sorrow. The second was directly for custody of the children. We dropped that in 2003 because the case ran on too long – he did everything to block it and the children were getting too old.”

“Too old for you to love?” Craig mocked her.

“Too old to have guardians.”

“You really mean too old to be compelled to do something they don’t want to do, don’t you?”

“Objection!” shouted Buford, “Argumentative.”

“Hostile witness, counselor,” the judge chastened, “not hostile attorney.”

I saw Mina write that down.

“Move on.”

“The first suit was really about depriving Mr. White of his position managing Ms. Barringer’s estate, was it not?”

“She didn’t leave him any money personally. It was all for the children’s benefit. He was just a trustee. We would have liked to see an accounting.”

“Wasn’t the money primary and the issue of the children secondary?” Craig asked silkily. “I have a copy of your suit if you’d like to refresh your memory.”

She was wearing makeup; I could see it now, standing out in patches against her reddening skin. Third witness in a row to testify in blood. Craig did have a way of getting to people. Her voice rose to a squeak.

“We wanted the children to have what had been their mother’s! We were trying to have the entire will set aside!” As an aside she muttered, “We realized too late”—and stopped herself. Too late.
“What did you realize?”

“We didn’t care if he kept Mary Elizabeth’s things. We just wanted the children. That was the burden of the second suit. Certain facts about his character were emerging…it had come to our attention…”

“Or your private investigator’s attention”—Craig interjected.

“That Mr. White’s behavior was questionable as a role model. And then there was the way they lived—“ “Please don’t just ramble, Miss Shortall. Answer the questions that I ask. Why did you drop the case?”

“We had some communication with the children before the suits, but afterwards…that stopped. It just seemed…self-defeating.”

Was that a tear in her voice? I was beginning to be enough of an old hand to realize that trials bring out the actor in everyone.

Craig said sonorously, “I put it to you that you dropped the case after the judge interviewed Miss Brontë White-Hawke and she said she did not wish to change families.”
“I believe I heard something of the sort.”

Aunt Shea looked at me for the first time and I braced myself for a death-to-the-enemy-shot from my tongue ring but her eyes flickered over me gently. Trevor put a hand on one of my wrists and Jake covered the other. Seems they thought I might vault the defense table.

“Of course she was loving and loyal to the family in which she was raised.” Her voice softened. “It was a characteristic of my dear sister.”

She wasn’t going to give Oz any credit at all, if she could help it.

“Did Mr. White ever express to you his own love for these girls?” Craig was going to get her to admit it.

“Many times. I take their absolute lovability as a given. Anyone would love them.”

“Didn’t he tell you that he had to spend their entire estate fighting the case, that he was supporting them with his own funds, but that he didn’t care because he would never give them up?”
“Hardly,” said Shea coldly. “He offered us Shelley.”

There was a stunned silence.

Then pandemonium broke out. I thought I’d heard wrong. I think Shelley stood up, then staggered forward. I thought she was going to fall. Trevor and Jake grabbed for her but they were too late because they’d been concentrating on restraining me. They found themselves wrestling with an empty coat. She was gone. Spike shot out after her.

“Objection!” cried Craig. “Your Honor, this is a setup!”

“You opened the door, Mr. Axelrod. Now you’ll have to walk through it.”

The angry defense attorney said coldly to his witness, “I put it to you that this is a lie engineered to divide the family.”

“It is not! He wrote it in a letter!”

Buford lifted a paper above his head. “Your Honor, we would like to offer this letter as –”
“Mistrial!” shouted Craig. “The defense has not seen this purported document. I understand surprise witnesses are de rigueur in the glorious state of Virginia but surely surprise documents are too “star chamber” even for this great commonwealth. If not offered during discovery it should be irrelevant.”

Mina disappeared after Spike and Shelley. Oz put his head in his hands but when Trevor touched his shoulder, he whispered, “Go after Shelley.” Jake rose obediently. Trevor and I were alone.

“The prosecution concealed something – who knows what – to spring upon us at this moment in order to further upset this family and violate this defendant’s rights. This is clear ground for a mistrial.”

Buford stepped into the center of the room wringing his hands in a palliative fashion.
“Ms. Shortall moved recently and she only just recovered the letter, bringing it East with her. There was no bad faith here. I have a copy for the defense. The state—“

“Mistrial, your Honor! I demand a ruling. We were deliberately blindsided.”

The judge tossed his gavel around in a nearsighted manner.

“Mistrial motion denied,” he said.

“Then I ask that this letter not be admitted and the witness’ words stricken.”

The judge spoke. “Mr. Axelrod, I don’t see how the defense is encumbered by this little matter. It concerns a subject entirely ancillary to the case at hand.”

“This entire testimony is ancillary to the case at hand,” Craig insisted doggedly.

“Court is dismissed until nine a.m. tomorrow pending my ruling,” said the judge.

And this is the judge so in love with speeding these things along! Trevor steepled his brows in my direction.

There was Jake hovering outside the ladies room, and Shelley inside, crying her eyes out. When I hugged her, I could feel her heart hammering away.

“He always loved you best,” she wept.

That’s bullshit,” I insisted. “Trevor says every kid always thinks that about the other kids.”
It was too claustrophobic in the toilet stall and was she was holding me too close for comfort. I don’t like feeling small; it feels like I’m going to disappear. Anger at Oz made me want to thrash and flail, but there was no room and in any case Shelley wouldn’t let me go.

“You know when they finish with Oz, they’ll be coming after us,” she gasped, her mouth quivering. “We’ll have to change our names and run away.” She dried her eyes with toilet paper. “I always wanted to live in Paris.”

Did she mean the prosecution or the Shortalls? In just a couple of days I’d been offered Georgetown and Paris. I wondered if I could talk Trevor into going to the Sorbonne. We needed to survive this first.

“I’m afraid to go back to college!” she wailed. “Remember that seventeenth century Scottish cannibal family? The law killed them all, even the children.”

I had always wondered why she seemed so taken with that grisly tale of a family of highwaymen who not only robbed travelers, but ate them.

“That’s just a nightmare,” I said. “Long ago and far away. Not going to happen. Come on. The judge is letting us out of here. Let’s go to the mall. Besides, Jake is waiting for you.” I laughed as I kissed her. “You know he always loved you best.”

She blew her nose but refused to be comforted. “Take my advice, Brontë. Never love a guy who’s prettier than you.”

“Don’t worry,” I told her. I like the Bad Boys.

Spike had been keeping everyone at bay, re-directing them to the first-floor john. As soon as Shelley emerged Jake pounced, gabble at the ready, grabbing the back of her neck to guide her to the conference room.

“Oz explained it. He was playing for time. It was just a legal ploy to slow down the case. You were almost of age, so it didn’t matter. He knew you wouldn’t agree… He suggested everything he could think of… things he never would have actually done…”

In the conference room Shelley threw herself into Oz’s arms.

“I’m sorry I made a scene,” she gasped. “It’s been so hard. We’ve all been on edge.”
Shelley was apologizing to Oz for disrupting his murder trial! Now that’s what I call perfect manners.

He patted her back.

“Don’t even think about it. It was just something my lawyers suggested…”
He hugged her, then pulled me in too for one of those disappearing-act embraces that I loathe so much. “You girls are my heart,” he said as he knocked our heads together. “I was there when both of you were born.”

We had heard that story already, many times before. Oz was our mother’s labor coach and attended both our births, cut the cord because our own father wasn’t there. Oz hadn’t been allowed to attend his own sons’ births because his wife didn’t want him seeing her like that. In my opinion that squeamishness really backfired on her, the way squeamishness often does. Without all the mud and the blood, what do we really have of each other? Nothing.

Craig ordered lunch and we had a family picnic that would have seemed almost normal if it hadn’t been for the gunslinging deputies guarding the door. Oz regaled us with his contemporary version of scenes from The Life of Sir Walter Raleigh in the Tower.

Before court reconvened he made a point of pulling me aside.

“I’ve never seen Trevor looking so happy,” he told me, eyes bright. “I didn’t think he even had the happiness gene.”

I was thinking Oz always knew exactly what to say when he tightened his grip on me and whispered, “The two of you would make such a fantastic kid. Are you using protection? Don’t.”

Chapter Eleven — Metamorphosis

The men declared a need for beef. Big, big, beef. It started when Craig announced that he and Mina would prepare dinner. He was determined to grill. Beef.

The men were as enthusiastic as Eskimos on a seal hunt, so it seemed unsporting for me and Shelley to point out that we’d pretty much stopped eating red meat. That was Colleen’s influence; she was vocalized about toxins lurking in one’s cells causing death and damage to the skin. She claimed she could smell as well as recognize beef eaters. I was starting to think there were other forms of damage she should have paid attention to.

Craig says hindsight’s the only truly twenty-twenty vision. Oz was in agreement; the-living-forwards, understanding-backwards thing. I take it seriously. If I didn’t keep a diary how would I even know what’s happening to me?

Oz didn’t make it up. It was probably a quote; something borrowed, trailing provenance. Oz loved history, he was less excited about originality. The following unoriginal rule applies entirely to myself; I pledge to eat anything if only someone else will cook it.

Beef was another one of those things Spike turned out to be an expert on. Did you know there is a black market in restaurant-grade beef? Of course there is and it’s flourishing right here, (Jake says there is a black market for everything.) I went along, on the theory that writers should see all there is to see. As an artist I try to stand outside the capitalist frenzy – these people haven’t heard that by getting and spending they are laying waste their powers.

Court was dismissed early so that’s when the party started. Leaving the pursuing press in his dust (he has tricks aplenty) Spike drove us to a collection of storage lockers on a hill outside of town. Craig insisted on coming to check out the beef although as an “orifice of the court” – what he calls himself – he isn’t supposed to observe anything illegal. (He says it’s not up to him to figure out what’s illegal — that’s the prosecutor’s job. I thought he solved the problem neatly by concentrating on his silver flask. If at least one person is having fun, isn’t that the definition of a party?

Spike took an unbecoming glee in dumping the beef right on Craig’s lap, still in its black garbage bag serial killer wrapping. Craig lifted up the duct tape, peered inside. We all observed a pregnant hush as Spike asked,

“This OK?”

“This is gorgeous,” said Craig, gathering the ripply red and white hunks to his bosom and staining the oxfordcloth beyond repair. Now he looked like a crime scene. Why is it men like that marbling on food and not on women? Life is so unfair. I suppose they need to be able to tell the difference between dinner and a date, even “three sheets to the wind.” As Oz would say.
The sellers looked Asian so God knows where this meat was from. Trevor paid them in hundred dollar bills.

Over Vermillion the sky was dark. The press had set up tents that the rising wind began to threaten.
I took a long hot shower in Skylar’s bathroom to flush away the indignities of the day while the men set up a grill on the back terrace, beneath the portico. I had survived the first day of what Craig called “the trial within a trial” and I needed to be alone, to think about what I had seen and fit it in with the rest of my knowledge.

Just when you think you understand something the Matrushka doll breaks apart, revealing hidden versions of itself. The suspended animation of waiting for the trial to be over meant I was living a life inside my life, just as my stepped-up relationship with Trevor was a relationship-inside a relationship. So how could I write anything new? It seemed to me the poems assembling in my head were chopped up versions of what I had seen.

Outside the shower I found a spiral of blood along my towel. My period wasn’t due, but I had noticed that my untrustworthy body had a habit of punishing my passing enthusiasms. Colleen used to say that her periods came whenever she traveled – that is when she used to get them – just to make life hard. You’d think a person feeling that would welcome menopause.

If my body was determined to squelch my sexual escapades I wouldn’t give it the chance, I was already feeling that delicious build-up to a promised night of sexual adventuring where one can do anything and be anybody; heart-pounding exercise followed by a deliciously new depth of sleep. Every touch on my body was inherently masturbatory. I looked different, being loved; had to tear myself away from looking at my naked self emerging in the steamy mirror. If Trevor had come upstairs for any reason I would have fallen on him like a wolverine.

I stuck my head in Shelley’s room to borrow a tampon; she saw my pinned-up hair and asked, “Are you dressing for dinner?”

“Of course,” I answered. Good idea! The best presents are the most exotically wrapped; we are willing to cut and bruise ourselves to open the inside. “Are you wearing your body-stocking dress?”
She sighed happily, “Jake hasn’t seen it.”

It’s a wonderful outfit, an Arabian Nights tale of a gown that seems to consist only of gold coins stuck randomly across her pale body.

I would have to work hard to be worthy of my sister, but I had a dress in mind; Colleen’s ruby-red velvet. As a child I was fascinated by the little looping chains across the arms that shimmered and fell whenever she moved. I recall reaching up my hands to touch them, Colleen laughing as she pulled away. She hadn’t worn that dress in years but I had seen it in her collection. I guess it was mine now.

Tampon in place, wearing only a towel, I ventured into the other side of the house. I always consider it the height of luck to find myself alone and I was lucky again this time; the others were preoccupied.

Searching for black stockings I found gorgeous lace underthings still sporting their LaPerla tags. I guess those were mine now, too. Could mere youth and will dispel the inherent creepiness?
When I saw my gorgeousness in black lace and garters even I was intimidated. Had she had bought these for Oz? Because I couldn’t imagine him buying them for her; alas. No man buys black lace and garters for his valet.

Thankfully I was clothed when Shelley came in search of me. I’m not sure I should even let Trevor see me thus transformed.

“Looking good,” she whistled, zipping me. The dress was so tight my breasts mashed upwards, giving me some unexpected cleavage.

“I remember this dress,” said Skylar. “God, Colleen was tiny.”

Was that why we liked and trusted her so much the day we first met. She was like an intermediate adult.

“I’m not tiny,” I snapped. It is the greatest sorrow of my life that I am so short. Look at Shelley in her stilettos, gracefully towering over everyone. If intensity of will could add inches, I would be so tall!
“You’re not tiny,” Shelley comforted. She’s so loyal. “You’re the biggest person here.”

“But what can I do with my hair?” I asked my sister.

“It looks perfect exactly the way it is,” said Shelley. “Let me put in a clip to hide the rubber band and we’ll pull more tendrils down.”

As she snapped in a rhinestone butterfly I studied myself in Colleen’s Empire mirror. Tendrils released by the hot steam fell around my face. I looked so different to myself, darker and more grown up, my eyes expanding into depthless pools. Was I inhabited now by both Trevor and Colleen or did they cancel each other out? There can be loving, as well as demonic possession. Oz used to say we belonged to him until we were old enough tom belong to ourselves. Had that time finally come and if so, what accomplished it? Sex? Orgasms? Murder trials?

As we descended the stairs we were rewarded by a chorus of gasps.
Jake said, “Wow.”

Spike sat down hard on a chair far too small — it struggled but held.

Craig, looking clownish in floral mitts and a matching apron, said, “My eyes. My heart. My arthritic loins.”

Trevor, dusty in the basement doorway, snapping the wine cellar key back on his watch chain, declaimed, “Rose Red and Snow White stepping out of a storybook to toy with our frail hearts.”
Mina, sweatily stuffing potatoes, said, “Good God, y’all. Am I going to have to get my French maid’s outfit?”

Jake said, “Please.”

“Well, too bad for you. I gave it back after Halloween.”

I, armpits stinking of Trėsor, attacked the job of setting the table. Colleen’s got lots of beautiful, beautiful things and I used all I could find. The Havilland china, the damascened chargers, the Baccarat crystal, the Georg Jensen silver with spoons like trowels, the pearl handled steak knives like little Moroccan daggers.

“Go for baroque,” Oz suggested. I guess it’s my nature to understand excess.
Shelley brought in candles and hurricane lamps as I laid out the dark green damask napkins edged with lace, napkins Colleen deplored because they needed dry cleaning. All the flowers in the vases were dead, but at least I could strew the table with their still-fragrant petals.

The red-walled room with its black cherry wood furniture was transformed into a cave of enchantment. I did consider hanging a sheet over the leering, disapproving portrait of Oz’s father, The Scary General. Looking at him explains why Oz seems to have spent the majority of his childhood on his knees; I never met He Who Must Be Obeyed, but even in his portrait his face bristles with rage.

In the end I left him alone; I thought it might do him good to observe the scene. Unless the afterlife evens up our deficiencies, resetting us to “start” so to speak, he was in dire need of softening up.
Outside it had started a depressing Virginia winter rain. Trevor appeared silently behind me, leaned down, kissed my neck and rubbed his cheek in the downy hairs of my nape.

“This is so good of you,” he said, and set himself to opening the wine. Trevor treasures family dinners.

I almost snapped, “I’m not doing it for you,” until I thought how rude that was, so I said nothing. I don’t like quid pro quos in sex and love and until now I’d planned to get along without them. His compliment meant I had to ask, why was I doing it? You almost escape, then they pull you back in. It’s a writer’s truism that nobody knows why they do anything. That’s why they need us.

Was this somehow symbolic of the dinner parties my mother attended and enlivened, the ones we heard about today? Did she watch me in my black stockings and ruby red velvet, and if so, what was she thinking? Maybe it was a coming out party for the maiden chosen by the eldest son, or a case of lighting-the-lights-and-banging-on-the-pots to scare away the dark and ghosts?

Speaking of ghosts, did you know living people can have them? Oz might be absent, but his presence vibrated strangely among us, his power increasingly erratic like a vanishing power source. Though I would never have confessed it, in some ways he felt deader than Colleen. Tonight we used the tools she chose; he had approved, loving history and quality, but surely these possessions belonged to the one who cleaned them and preserved them. As a result Oz, lost in the playgrounds of flesh and ideas, had melted away.

Or were the different stories I had heard about him this morning transforming him before my eyes? Would he ever come back, to dine with us in this room? Perhaps we celebrated now for the same reason people no longer delay sex until after marriage, because the longer you wait the sadder things get. In my experience you have to do things when you have the energy if you want them done at all.

I felt understood everything the moment Trevor put the first glass of blood-red wine in my hands and I drank. I understood everything. That’s why they call it “stun-gravy.” The revelation drink. It may be completely specious, but it sure feels authentic.

Mina had prepared a plain green salad, garlic bread and a recipe she likes to call “once, twice, three times a potato.” The miracle of that dinner was the beef, charred on the outside, raw on the inside, soft and buttery, delicious beyond compare. It made you want to eat it with your hands.
“I hope nobody has allergies,” Mina told us as she passed the potatoes. “There’s a little bit of everything in here.”

Oz and Colleen raised us tough, guaranteed to gag down our peck of dirt before we flew. Proud of being tough. Disapproving of finicky eaters, Oz forced on us kidneys, sweetbreads, brains and tripe. If he told the story about the meshwi at which he was given the honor of eat ing the dead sheep’s eyeball once he told it a hundred times. Surely there was no longer a germ we could catch. We thought ourselves invulnerable.

Looking in Colleen’s wine book I can see that night we drank three bottles of Domaine la Grange des Peres Rouge 2001 and three bottles of Domaine de Trevallon Rouge 2001. Both were judged “rude, rough and aggressive” by Craig whose signature is almost illegible; I made a note that I preferred the Trevallon.

Did we drink all that wine to soak up the beef or did we eat all the beef to soak up the wine? I used to be accused of bringing home “undesirables” when I invited fellow public school denizens to sample the contents of our refrigerator; watching Jake and Craig fighting over the meat juices I wondered if I had done it again.

Over the meal we discussed religion, of all things. Craig introduced the topic by shouting, “That fucking religion! I blame it for every bad thing happening to this country.”

“It’s not religion that’s the problem,” corrected Trevor, who never seemed to show the effects of alcohol, “It’s education. People can only think with the brain their education gives them.”
“It’s genetics,” said Jake. “You have to have a brain to think with.”

“Let me get this straight,” asked Mina. “You’re blaming Christianity for how the trial is going?”
“I am,” said Craig, drawing himself up and puffing out his reddened cheeks, “Face it, Mina. Christianity is a conspiracy of old women against the male libido.”

“Hear, hear,” said Jake.

“That’s so totally untrue,” Mina challenged him, and Trevor backed her up.
“Jesus was a man,” he pointed out.

“Not so you could tell,” grumbled Jake.

“All religions were invented by men to control women,” said Mina. “Name me a religion started by a woman.”

“Uh oh,” said Jake. “Feminazi alert.”

“Christian Science,” retorted Trevor.

“Yeah? And what’s the first word of that? Doesn’t count. It’s a modification of a pre-existing religion.”

“You can’t lump all religions together,” Trevor insisted. “It’s ignorant. It’s like talking about “all education”. There’s good education and bad education.”

I knew all about his thoughts on that.

“Or sex,” I said. “Because there’s good sex and bad sex.” Was that Trevor kicking me under the table?

“You think this jury is going to differentiate between good sex and bad sex?” asked Craig sourly.
“I thought you did a pretty good job setting up the parameters today,” Jake said, lifting his glass.
“You definitely exposed the weaknesses of their witnesses,” Trevor agreed.

“They don’t have a case,” snapped Craig. “Just wait till I get my hands on that family.”
I knew who he meant. My mother’s sisters.

“If only it mattered.” Craig collapsed, boo-hooing into his booze. “I feel like I’m trying this case in a foreign country. Asking them about their religion is a no-no and yet it’s going to control the outcome.”

“People don’t tell the truth about themselves anyhow,” said Mina. “I think the best we can hope for is a couple of closet gays. And maybe some of those women have kids that are gay.”

Craig snarled in disagreement. “This case isn’t going to turn on homosexuality; it’s going to turn on recreational sex, period. Did you hear that woman call him a “swinger”? Codeword! Who cares what happened in Tunisia fifteen years ago? Who cares what he did with his weekends? None of this has nothing to do with his stoned wife falling into the deep end of an empty swimming pool. I saw those women’s faces. They just want to punish him for jumping the fence.”

“The prick wants what it wants,” intoned Jake.

“I don’t think it’s the women we need to worry about,” said Mina. “Women are a lot more forgiving of sexual peccadilloes than men are.”

“Bullshit!” exploded Craig. “Men are naturally polygamous.”

“Not any more than they are naturally murderous,” argued good old Trevor. He’s s cute. “A commitment’s a commitment. Civilized people make them and keep them.”

He was going to make some lucky girl a fabulous husband someday. I knew I would never get one as good. I felt downright envious.

“Everybody knows its women who are the possessive, jealous sex,” Craig insisted.

“No, they’re not.” Mina seemed to enjoy arguing with her boss. “This whole marriage thing was invented by men and I can prove it.”

He gaped at her. “You’re on.” Slapped down a Benjamin.

Mina rattled her empty wine glass, calling for more. Spike sprang into action.

“Imagine a religion – an institutionalized religion — big, successful, millions of adherents — where ten guys share one woman. I dare you.”

God. She had us there. All were silenced. We couldn’t imagine it.

“Boo-ya,” said Spike. “Talk about mayhem.”

He made a ceremonial show of filling Mina’s wineglass. “Touché. Lady takes table.”

He’d been so quiet before, sitting in the outsider’s position, eating quietly just outside the circle of light. That’s the writer’s position. Where I should have been. Enviable ability to disappear into background, especially when you’re big like he is.

Mina scarfed up Craig’s Benjamin and inserted it where she should have had cleavage.
“So how do you think it’s going to go?” I asked Spike. Our man in Havana played it safe.
“No telling with juries,” said Spike.

There was a slow deflation of energy – like the expulsion of a sigh — across the table. This was still only the beginning. The next day hung over us, and the day after that. Not like television where you can change the channel.

“I don’t think I can stand it,” I said aloud.

Jake spoke for all of us. “Isn’t one of Dante’s circles of hell sitting in court day after day? What did we do to deserve this?”

Just beyond the candle glow, something ran across the Chinese rug. Shelley rocketed nervously to her feet.

“It’s just a chipmunk, Shelley,” I reassured her. The cats had taken to bringing in their prey and releasing them inside, prolonging their amusement. It might not have been a chipmunk at all, but I know chipmunks are something Shelley’s not afraid of.

“The poor thing,” mused Shelley, sitting back down. “Like trapped on a strange planet.”
If the wine was gone it must be time for coffee.

“Dessert?” I queried, hostess-like, knowing my dessert waited upstairs in the Bed of a Thousand Kisses, where Trevor would crouch above me, balls coiled like springs.

“Pass,” said Jake, rubbing his stomach. “I ate too much.”

“You didn’t eat that much,” I said to Trevor, who is always abstemious. “Want ice cream?”

“No, thank you,” said Trevor.

“There’s brandy,” Jake suggested.

Accepted by all but Trevor, who asked rhetorically, “Who appreciates food more, the glutton or the hunger artist?”

“Don’t pay him any mind,” Jake said, filling Craig’s glass, “Professional buzzkill.”

But I knew what he really meant. A special glance passed between us. Keeping himself in fighting trim for later. I put a hand over my brandy glass.

“You know what we need,” said Jake. “That Perry Mason moment. You know, you put someone on the stand and he says, “I did it!” No offense, Craig.”

“None taken,” Craig agreed glumly. “At this point I’d appreciate a miracle. I wouldn’t look in the horse’s mouth. Know who I really want to put on the stand? Colleen.”

“She probably doesn’t know who did it,” said Trevor. “She was stoned, remember?”

“She knows now,” I said excitedly. “Let’s ask her! Let’s have a séance!”

“That’s a terrific idea,” said Shelley. “I’ll get the Ouija board.”

“You don’t need an Ouija board for a séance”, said Mina. “We just ask her to manifest herself.”

“This is in the worst of taste,” objected Trevor.

“Hey,” I told him, “You’re the one who insists there’s an afterlife.”

“I’ll ask the questions,” said Craig. “I need to get a lot of things straight.”

“I’m going out for a cigar,” said Spike, and Trevor said, “I’m joining you,” until I grabbed his hand.
“Stay with me.”

He sat reluctantly back down.

“We should all hold hands,” I suggested. This made it less obvious that Trevor and I were holding hands. Mina moved into Spike’s chair and extended her fingers.

“Sorry,” she apologized to me. “My hands are always cold.”

She had little bony fingers like a monkey’s.

Jake said, “We should get something of Colleen’s.”

I said, “Everything was Colleen’s. Look at this table.”

“Something intimate. Personal.”

God. I was wearing the underwear she’d chosen. But how intimate can it be if it still has the tags on?

Shelley said, “Brontë is wearing Colleen’s dress.”

Jake gave me an unflattering look. “It looks completely different on you,” he said snidely in a once-a-squirt-always-a-squirt voice.

“Well then,” said Mina, “We’re ready to start. Everyone close your eyes.” She cleared her throat. “Colleen White-Hawke, we summon you from beyond the grave.”

The things you don’t know about people! I would never have figured Mina for a medium.
For a long space of time I listened, sorting out the different sounds. Craig’s wheezing breath, Jake breathing through his “perfect” nose, broken once by Trevor and again by a Bulgarian fencer, re-built by experts. Trevor began stroking the palm of my hand with his middle finger. It occurred to me that spiritualism is a religion invented by a woman. So there.

“Colleen, we feel your presence,” whispered Mina. “Speak to us. Let us know who caused your death.”

Through the slits in my eyelids I could see pools of wax overrun the flower petals like lava. Was that a foot touching mine? Bare foot out of a shoe? Couldn’t be Trevor; he wore lace-ups. There was a long silence, then a thump as something hard hit the table. Shelley screamed and her chair turned over. We all pushed back and Trevor hit the lights. But it was only Colleen’s Persian, licking up meat juices. There’d been a kill so he thought himself invited.

Spike came running in, a cigar in one hand and a 45 in the other.
“You can’t shoot ghosts, Spike,” said Mina.

“Or cats,” I said.

“There are no ghosts,” said Spike, but Craig quoted,
“Yet as the old lady said, I’ve never met a person who wasn’t haunted.”

“Get out of here!” Jake shook his napkin at the cat, who absolutely ignored him.

“Colleen says let him have the rest of it,” I said, putting the tray on the floor.

“That’s it,” proclaimed Trevor. “I’ve out of here. Totally bushed.”

There was general agreement that the party was over. Shelley and Jake looked at each other longingly, and I saw the benefit in avoiding Trevor’s bathroom. Why witness my sister canoodling with Brownie, the Fetal Alcohol Syndrome poster child? Upstairs in the Honeymoon Suite Trevor wrestled me impatiently out of my dress.

“I’d say this is one size too small,” he said. “At least.”

I’ve got news for him; girls don’t like hearing this. It was true I’d eaten too much at dinner and was probably puffy from my period. When finally I fought free of the damn dress I rose up to my full height (such as it is) and said, “Ta da!”

My erotic display fell flat. Trevor turned away.
“Take them off.”

Was this the “buyer’s remorse” I’d heard of? Indio would have killed to see me in this outfit. He was always very critical of my patched Lady Jockeys.

“What’s the matter? Aren’t I perfect anymore?”

“Don’t gild a lily until it stinks,” he said, undressing himself. Still turned away from me. “You were born perfect. That’s not the issue.”

“What’s the issue?” I joined him in nakedness on the bed. He lifted one shoulder to embrace me, smiling. He began kissing me all over my face, light butterfly kisses.

“You and I are beyond fetishes, beyond mementoes,” he said. “Don’t you see? I’m a man with a plan, put upon this earth to make sure you become yourself, and don’t get derailed onto someone else’s template.”

Still I felt somewhat cranky and offended. Was he really saying I couldn’t grow up and change his idea of me? I know I was gorgeous in that lace, so gorgeous you would not believe.

“Georgetown is going to accept the real me?” I queried in a spoiled child way. “They’re not going to force me into their template?”

He rolled me over, pulled back and looked down at me with pride. Pride and love.
“I’ll be there to make sure they don’t,” he said. “Admit it’s possible that I know you better than you know yourself.”

“It’s impossible,” I objected. “By definition.”

“Why can’t you trust me?”

Why couldn’t I? I had to give him that one.

“I do trust you.”

“Well,” he said, smiling, “I trust me, too.”

Softening me up. I’m beginning to see why men will do anything for sex. If you know you’re going to get an orgasm like the eruption of Krakatoa out of it, it becomes a whole different deal.
He certainly was the best kisser in the Western hemisphere, playing with my mouth, my lips, my tongue, with his own soft lips. Yet I hesitated to let myself go. What was wrong with me? I know lovers don’t need to agree about everything just to have sex. But I felt some need to badger him. Maybe it’s the power equation. You know. That brother-sister thing.

“Maybe when we summoned Colleen, we got her,” I teased. “Do you think Colleen’s soul went into her Persian?”

He interrupted his palpating and savoring long enough to say, ‘How can a person go to church for fifteen years, be baptized and even confirmed, and remain so theologically naïve?”

“Maybe I wasn’t paying attention.”

“I’ll say you weren’t. I had to personally wipe the drool off your face countless times.”

I loved it when he talked about my childhood. It lived on in him; I could enjoy it without the obligation (and the pain) of reliving it. All pleasure. No powerlessness.

“There’s no reincarnation,” he lectured patiently. “There’s no transmigration or transmutation of souls. Cats don’t even have souls.”

“So Colleen’s in heaven?”

“Sleeping till judgment day, presumably,” he said. “Not up to us. Fortunately.”

“I think your religion is just impossible,” I argued. “When you get to heaven and see the cats are in charge, won’t you be surprised.”

“I’ll be very surprised,” said Trevor, gnawing on my hipbone.
“And then she’ll be judged? We’ll all be judged? Oz too?”

“Oz too.” He licked my inner thigh. “Thank God for mercy, eh?”

He had reached my crotch. I had forgotten about my tampon.

“Oops,” I said. “Sorry.”

Delicately he removed it with his teeth.

“Oh Cherry Vanilla,” he sighed, “You know I love all your flavors.”

Even through shuddering blasts of pleasure I recognized truth when I heard it. He’d been licking clean my cuts as long as I could remember.

Chapter Ten – Meretricious

“The state calls Ira McWhiggin,” said Buford triumphantly, as if he’d won something. He gleefully wrenched control of the state’s jalopy from Fawna and was riding high and proud. Probably gave her the “less important” witnesses, giving us a handy key to the proceedings.

Ira McWhiggin was shorter than me. He really was a dwarf. He had a gingery crust of hair surrounding a bald spot, and he walked with a strange hitch in his gait suggesting a painful series of increasingly unlucky medical interventions. In spite of all that he was fussily dressed in a suit whose ice cream candy color seemed a little too summery for Virginia in December and definitely too festive for a murder trial. His collar was white, his shirt striped – a combination Oz particularly loathes – and he wore a tie of brocade so shiny it resembled leather and displayed a pocket square of the same nauseating material. Oz would describe such a man as a “poseur”. The witness looked markedly away from us as he passed the defense table.

When offered a Bible, he said, “I prefer to affirm.”

“See?” hissed Trevor. “That’s what liars do.”

The witness carefully spelled out his name, described his residence as “Lucerne Switzerland” and his current employment as “tutor in the private household of Prince Lubingen” and then Buford was off to the races.

“You recognize the defendant?”

“I do.”

“Can you describe to the jury where and when you met the defendant?’
Was that a tattoo on his neck or a bulging vein? Colleen had a beautiful mother-of-pearl set of opera glasses in its own sequined bag but I was pretty sure Trevor wouldn’t allow me to bring them to court. Anyway they were Skylar’s, now.

“It was the end of August, 1987, in Tunisia, at Franciscan International. I was a mathematics professor, just starting my first term, as a matter of fact, and his wife was a professor of history. I got the impression that he – Mr. White – was attached to the State Department in some way; some government service anyway. We met at a reception for new faculty.”
“What was your impression of the defendant?”

McWhiggin looked at Oz for the first time. “I thought he was a breath of fresh air,” he said. Buford waited, and so he went on, “He was amusing and had so many clever stories. He was iconoclastic and irreverent, a rare combination in that locale. He made particular fun of the college and the faculty, but really no one was spared. I had just emerged from a repressive background and I found his attitude refreshing. He could make anyone laugh even under the dourest circumstances. He had such a glow about him.

That particular evening I recall he held forth about an occasion when the military required him to investigate some supernatural incident and he just kept manufacturing outlandish miracles of his own and reveling in the consequent excitement.”

McWhiggin had a glow himself describing Oz. That alone told me plenty; I’d met people like him before. I couldn’t say if the jury was as observant. Buford, though, wanted to rub everything in.
“You saw a lot of Mr. White and Renée White, his wife at that time?”

“I did. They had the most wonderful elaborate dinner parties. His wife was an impressively capable gourmet cook who cleverly combined classic French with the local cuisine. Fusion, I suppose you would say. They made such fun of all the people who weren’t there you daren’t stay away…it was like a little club.”

I pictured Vinca Verna, holding a serving dish, hovering on the edge of the laughter. Could she muster up a contact high, or was resentment growing?

“Mary Elizabeth Barringer attended those parties also?”

“She did. She was often present. Renée swore by an equal division of the sexes to maintain the right spark and I was odd man out because I wasn’t married, and she was odd woman out because her husband was posted elsewhere. So we were often invited together.”

“What was your opinion of Mrs. Barringer?”

“She was a lovely woman, very intelligent. Sweet in a quaint, old-fashioned way. She was the perfect foil for Oz – Mr. White’s type of humor. If she had a fault, it was perhaps her naïveté…I recall Mr. White challenging her one evening that no great work of literature had a happy ending and she countered with Jane Austen. She specialized in just those nineteenth-century novels ending with a marriage and it limited her worldview. I recall Oz taking her literary education rather aggressively in hand, trying to upgrade her to some of the moderns. Ferlinghetti, Henry Miller – just the basics, really. She could just about stomach Virginia Woolf and Dubliners but she bailed at D.H. Lawrence and Finnegan’s Wake. I don’t think she really cared for the twentieth century. She was the only faculty member without a computer and it was quite inconvenient sometimes, as I recall.

She certainly was brave about stating her views even when we all disagreed with her. I remember her arguing against the findings of depth psychology that our group accepted as gospel. She seemed to think everything could be cured with long walks, fresh air, and thinking hard about something else. She was also quite religious in a rather sweet way…self-perfection, the efficacy of prayer, and all that. Reading Thomas á Kempis each night before bed, that sort of thing. Oz called her a throwback. He used to say – right to her face – that he despaired of her, but he was never as cruel to her as he could be to others.”

“Do you think she liked him?”

The witness’s face lost the expression of animation that had fueled his memories. It was almost as if he had suddenly remembered where he was. He said sadly,
“I think it would be fair to say that she loved him, but I very much doubt she realized it herself. I think she was a romantic woman who was terribly lonely – she only saw her husband twice a year — and Oz was quite a meteor in his own way. She appreciated his uniqueness. He talked a lot about his years in the service, what it felt like to confront physical danger, and how to manage not just one’s own responses, but other people’s. I think she saw him as the kind of nineteenth century hero that’s died out, you know, Byronic…and I think he knew that and played to it.

“She failed to realize he represented in fact quite an earlier era… I think it’s safe to say she admired him and delighted in him. We all did. None of us had ever met a person like him before. She adhered adamantly to the most stringent concepts of marital fidelity so she wouldn’t have taken it further…we all saw their interchanges played out most entertainingly, right in public for all of us to see. They obviously both enjoyed their spirited arguments, even though he usually bested her. I’ve heard that women secretly yearn to be dominated, so perhaps that was it…

He was so easily bored that any attention from him was a compliment. In a way they had a lot in common. He liked to pose as a modern thinker but in fact was something more antique; an aristocratic elitist. We were all a bit shocked by his “après moi, le deluge” kind of approach to the problems of the universe. He shocked her – in a way he shocked all of us – by being very anti-meritocracy, even anti-professionalism. He had a particular thing about manliness — in fact, he said that it was being ruined by the modern world. We basked in his energy.

He demanded love really. He wasn’t a man you could just like. You either loved him or hated him.”
The sourness with which he spat these words into the absolutely silent courtroom told me all I needed to know about Ira McWhiggin. Ira McWhiggin had been burned. I’ve seen his like before. I know exactly what he must have looked like to Oz, this talky little dwarf; an exotic pet with a high portability. When Spike says of someone, “I can take him,” he means one thing. Oz uses the same expression to mean something else. Oz loves teasing people in an almost scientific way, poking them gently to discover what they’d respond to, carefully fanning resulting sparks into a blaze for his own amusement.

“So when her husband died, nobody was surprised that she chose Mr. White to manage his estate?”

“I’m not sure she even chose him so much as he made himself constantly helpful…he wasn’t employed at that time – he was on some sort of leave of absence. Most academics are paycheck to paycheck but he had been born to wealth and he was comfortable with the full range of international investing. Currencies, futures, that sort of thing. Referred to them as “instruments”. He said people were poor by choice. We were all impressed. He took it for granted that the ultimate goal was the personal freedom of never having to satisfy the standards of others again, but rather spending your time honing your gifts and following your own pursuits. It sounded ideal to all of us.”

“You didn’t suspect him of nefarious intentions?” Buford asked, head cocked to one side as if expecting an objection from the other side of the room. Craig, Mina and Oz were dead silent, staring at the witness as if at a riveting spectacle. I thought of Craig’s previous statement that given enough rope prejudiced witnesses lasso themselves. I was glad he didn’t object; my mother had taken life in the courtroom and hovered there before us, however insubstantially; a fascinating combination of Shelley and me.

“I certainly didn’t suspect him then,” said McWhiggin carefully.
The defense table rallied. The specter vanished.

“Your honor, your honor, your honor…” begged Craig, rolling his eyes and rocking helplessly, a sorely abused tourist in a country whose natives are robbing him blind.

“I offer it not for the truth of the matter but for the state of mind of the dead woman who is not here to testify,” Buford repeated his mantra virtuously. “This witness corroborates the previous witness’ testimony that Ms. Barringer“ – he called her “Miz Barringer” as if her family came from down the street – “was becoming disenchanted with Mr. White’s financial management.”

“Mistrial!” shouted Craig. “He has not testified to any such thing. It is the prosecutor who is testifying here and it’s an absolute abuse of this defendant’s rights.”

“Well, he’s about to testify,” said Buford.

The judge barked, “There’s no mistrial here, but keep it short, Mr. Buford. I don’t want to send this jury out. It’s a great waste of the court’s time to hear everything twice.”

“Your honor, may I remind you, we cannot take too much care,” said Craig. “We have a man on trial here for his life.”

“You don’t need to remind me, counsel,” said the judge acidly, as if death cases were two a penny in his region. Probably they were. “Proceed.”

Trevor and I squeezed hands. I passed my palm over his gray-suited thigh without touching it, feeling the power of his electrical field; knowing the very hairs on his leg turned towards me like sunflowers.

“Did you and Miz Barringer ever have occasion to converse privately about Mr. White?”
“We did. It was shortly before her death.”

“Will you repeat what was said?”

“She said she’d discovered that he really didn’t like women. She said he didn’t seem to have much respect for her mind. She told me she had figured out that his philosophy was dangerously self-serving. She called him “an anarchist.”

“An anarchist?” The word sounded idiotic in Buford’s cornpone accent.

“She compared him to Lord Byron’s Corsair, “a man of one virtue and a thousand crimes.” I recall the quote clearly. She said he used words differently from other people. She said his whole philosophy was nothing more than a rationalization allowing him to do whatever he wanted. She said such a program while promising to perfect the will in fact vitiated it to the point of slavery. She told me she wanted to take the girls back to the States and put them in school and she said she was afraid he would do something to stop it.”

“Those were her exact words? That she was afraid?”

“Her exact words,” said the witness solemnly.

Was it true? Wasn’t it true? Craig had told us about the scientific studies that prove people can honestly “remember” things that never happened. Emotion is memory. Trevor adheres to the Freudian theory of “screen memory”; people remember what didn’t happen precisely so they won’t have to think about what really happened. We artists have the universe as our palette. Our memories are the engine of the living dreams we seek to create.

I was not that surprised to hear someone express fear of Oz. Oz likes people to be afraid of him. He just likes getting what he wants; nothing “anarchic” about that at all. If he managed my mother’s estate then she was his source of income; in his view any manly man would fight to keep that from slipping away.

“Did you attend the Whites’ dinner party the evening before her death?”

“No, and no one else did. It was just her and the Whites, discussing their situation. Making plans for the future. Oz told me all about it later.”

So he was the confidant at that time. Entitled to see the wizard behind the curtain.
“What did he say?”

“She’d misinterpreted things erotically, he told me. He said he had to achieve an understanding with her, in the presence of Renée.”

“What did you take that to mean?”

Craig vaulted high.

“Objection! The prosecutor can’t back this up. This is hearsay and the rankest speculation!”
Apparently the prosecutor couldn’t back it up. He said,

“I’ll withdraw. Tell me about the morning you learned of Miz Barringer’s death.”

“I was teaching a class, and the provost came to my door to tell me.”
“What did you do?”

“I couldn’t believe it. I went straight to the swimming pool.”

“What did you see?”

“A lot of our friends…people in shock. Crying. The body was covered with a tarpaulin, but I could see the blood. Oz was there, speaking in Arabic to the officials. I could see him making drinking motions…He told me later she’d had too much to drink, but she rejected his assistance, because she felt rejected by him. He told her she needed the help of a psychiatrist and she took it amiss. He described it as a thoroughly bad evening.”
A bad evening celebrated with champagne?

“What did you make of the crime scene?”

“Well, it looked like she’d been attacked. There was so much blood… I asked Oz if any of her clothing was missing or disarranged… I thought she must have been assaulted. Local men didn’t often come on campus, but there was nothing really to prevent them. We knew that they thought all Western women were loose. Available.”

“Did you mention your theory to Mr. White?”

“I did. He said Arab men really aren’t interested in women except for procreation.”
“Did you believe him?”

“Well, clearly he can’t speak for all Arab men. I asked if there would be a rape test. He said, “Her family won’t want that.” I realized he was probably right. It would only make it harder for her girls. In Arab countries, rape is more of a crime against the family than the victim herself or even the state. Imagine her children waiting around while the police try and then fail to find some anonymous rapist. They were decades behind on every kind of technology, and of course there’s the language barrier. I agreed it was better for them to go straight home and start a new life. They were fortunate in a way, being so young. They wouldn’t remember any of it. They wouldn’t even miss her.”

Miss her? I must have. Without language, who can recall such things?
Buford turned and faced us with a satisfied expression.

“Thank you. Your witness, counselor.”

Craig rose and stood for a moment with his hands in his pockets, looking down at the little man.
“So Mrs. Barringer compared my client to Lord Byron, did she?” he asked with a genial chuckle.
“I believe she compared him to the Corsair,” said McWhiggin pedantically, “A character of Lord Byron’s.”

“That’s right. You compared him to Byron,” agreed Craig affably. “A corsair is a pirate, isn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t know,” sniffed McWhiggin. “I am not personally familiar with the poem.”

“The late, lamented Mrs. Barringer was a very imaginative lady, was she not?” Craig’s voice rippled smooth and folksy.

“I wouldn’t say so,” returned his witness, refusing to give an inch. “She said she wished she could write, but she lacked talent. She was, however, very well read.”

“In a rather narrow range, as I believe you pointed out yourself,” said Craig, jingling the change in his pockets.

“True.”

The witness wasn’t going to call himself a liar.

“She preferred tales of high romance? Pure young heroines at the mercy of dastardly, villainous aristocrats? Heathcliff, Lord Rochester, that sort of thing?”

McWhiggin’s brow furrowed as he scented trouble ahead.
“I believe the genre is not utterly lacking in moral ambiguity,” he returned.

Buford vulcanized. “Your honor, what is the relevance of this? Is Mr. Axelrod implying that this jury needs lessons in nineteenth century literature to understand this case?”

“I’m not implying anything,” said Craig. “You’re the one dragging in people’s “states of mind” fifteen years and gone!”

“You’re making fun of the process of justice in this courthouse,” barked Buford.

“Well, if the process of justice has become sufficiently perverted to allow my client to be accused to piracy by a dead woman, then I reserve the right to make fun of it.”

The judge played right into his hands by banging tempestuously away on his gavel like a tyrannical three-year old.

“You may not, Mr. Axelrod!” he roared. “Do anything of the sort in my courtroom and find yourself in contempt! Change the subject!”

Craig bowed. I have heard him say that if he isn’t threatened with contempt of court at least three times during a trial he isn’t doing his job, so I assume he was satisfied. Nobody was prepared for what he did next. He changed the subject, all right. He approached the witness and inquired conversationally,
“You and Oz White-Hawke had a sexual relationship, did you not?”

The courtroom erupted, doors bursting outwards from the change in pressure. Trevor raised a quizzical “here it comes” brow at me. Buford crossed his arms at the defense table and leaned back in his chair.

“Why doesn’t he object?’ Jake asked Trevor.
“He probably doesn’t care what the jury hears at this point,” said Trevor told him. “From his point of view the more mud the better.”

Well, I was surprised. Oz’s taste these days runs to hard bodied centerfolds on hot military stud dot com. How could he ever forge a sexual relationship in this odd little being? He did favor experimentation. Variety? Bragging rights? Oz’s version of Ecclesiastes’ “there is a season” means “try anything once”.

McWhiggin’s face cycled through a hot series of Disney sunsets. Blood came and went in waves. Maybe he thought they couldn’t ask this; he didn’t look prepared. Oz says you have to feel around in people for what he calls “the ignition point”. Well, he had found it, long ago, on this guy, and Craig was in there again. McWhiggin never got over it.

“Let the record reflect the time it’s taking for the witness to answer the question,” said Craig sonorously.

“I’m trying to be accurate,” the witness admitted in a low voice. “I thought I was having a relationship. God only knows what he was having.” He couldn’t look at Oz who was sitting ramrod-straight and attentive.

“Who initiated the relationship?” Craig softened a bit. Possibly he had thought McWhiggin would deny the whole thing. He would if he was smart.

“He did.”

The air in the courtroom seemed to thicken. From press to jury everyone leaned forward as if determined not to miss a thing. I felt sorry for the dwarf. Most people live and die without ever having to explain themselves in court.

We would all look bad, every one of us; if you are old enough to talk, you are not innocent. I like to consider truth my business. Can truth be reached this way? Or will brains get sprained from swinging our necks back and forth? Craig says juries are monsters because people’s tastes have become degraded by the thirst for celebrity laundry; Trevor would say they never had any taste to lose. Oz would say – well, Oz would answer the question as he often did; with a quote. What is truth?

Craig was going to feed the monster.
“How did it happen exactly?”

The witness puckered his face as if he could turn it monkey-like inside out.
“About two weeks after we met he asked if I realized I was gay.”
“What did you answer?”

“I told him the truth…I didn’t know what I was. I’d had no opportunities. I had been forbidden to think of myself in a sexual sense and apparently nobody else thought of me in that way. My upbringing said masturbation would send me to hell. I was resigned myself to a lonely life.”
“And then what?”

“He told me I was probably gay and there was an easy way to tell. He…offered himself….as my instructor.”

The jury appeared rapt and self-forgetful, as if the drama unfolding before them flickered on their private TV screens. Two sat with their mouths completely open. Catching flies.

I couldn’t see Oz’s face but his body was relaxed in his chair. He probably enjoyed himself more than the witness, who glanced longingly at the prosecution table for protection, while perspiring enough to make use of his pocket square. Buford and Fryssen exchanged smug expressions: here was the homo stuff getting in and they hadn’t even had to fight for it.

Probably they cared nothing for this poor little queen. Throw him to the wolves.
“And…?” prompted Craig.

“Well, as you said. We became lovers.”

It seemed in the end he was going to cheat us, forgive the expression, of our blow-by-blow description.

“Was he correct about your sexuality?”

The witness squirmed. The judge looked over at the prosecution table and began shuffling papers in an annoyed fashion.

“He was correct,” the witness affirmed. “I even recalled some childhood instances I’d forgotten.”
Trevor looked at me significantly.

“Did he ever offer any explanation for his apparent bisexuality?”

“He said all the recreational sex on offer in Arab countries was homoerotic. He said it was just like the military, or prison. He told me wives are grateful because men can absorb more…raw carnality, and women are only really jealous of other women.”

Craig turned and waved a hand at the witness as if unveiling a work of art. He was too self-satisfied. If he thought he had just defused one of the prosecution’s most powerful explosives I was afraid he’d misjudged this jury. It’s a neat trick to make a prosecution witness testify for the defense but in my opinion only lawyers could appreciate the subtle suggestion that Oz was too uxorious a husband to risk entrusting his excess sexuality to potential home-wreckers. Around here a popular bumper sticker is, “Kill ‘Em All And Let God Sort ‘Em Out”. Maybe this was Spike’s fault for not educating our side better; nobody listened to me when I said anything. You know what they say in chess, don’t surround yourself with yourself. Not if you want to win.

“Who broke off the relationship?”

“We both did. On numerous occasions.”

Craig shook his head, smiling seductively. The witness’ eyes followed this trajectory with a kind of hopelessness, a rabbit dancing with a cobra.

“Now, that’s just not true, is it,” corrected Craig. “Didn’t you ask the defendant to leave his wife and come away with you?”

“People say a lot of things,” said McWhiggin desperately. “If I did, I didn’t mean it. It would never have worked. He could be physically…very cruel. He liked to pretend I was a child!”
Craig skated away from the court pandemonium and the judge’s stirring outrage with a fresh line of questioning.

“I believe you testified that Mrs. Barringer told you she was fearful Mr. White might raise some sort of objection to educating her daughters in the States?” “That’s right,” said the witness. His party handkerchief was dead; he had strangled it. Now it lay limply in his hands.

“After her death, do you know where he took them?”
“To the States. But that was –”

“Thank you!” barked Craig. “Answer only the questions that I ask you, please!”

He found a way to effectively shut the witness up; advancing towards him. Was it his diminutive size that made McWhiggin such a timid little man? Did he think Craig Axelrod would reach into the witness box and drag him out by the scruff of the neck? I saw McWhiggin looking at the clock with the exact same expression he must have seen on so many of his students’ faces. Now he knew what it was like to yearn for lunchtime rescue.

“When did you leave your employment at Franciscan International?”

“Later that spring. Right after Oz left, in fact.” He gathered up his courage and his dignity and flung them at his tormentor. “I was dismissed, if you want to know.”

“I think the jury needs to know. And why were you dismissed?”

“Someone gossiping about my sexual orientation. I always thought it might have been Oz. He could be vengeful. He liked leaving people worse off than he found them.” The witness looked at Oz, his lips pouting, “Why?”

“If you thought so, it must have made you angry,” suggested Craig.

“Actually it was a relief to start over, to lead a more authentic life,” said the witness. But the expression of hurt anger did not leave his face.

“So perhaps he left you better than he found you,” said Craig, smoothly. “Thank you for coming to court and testifying today.”

The judge gaveled for recess, even as we all — except McWhiggin — wanted more. Oz would say some appetites respond to feeding and some awaken only to deprivation. Inconsiderate of our personal hungers the marshals summarily ejected all of us out into the surprising sunlight.

Chapter Nine – Moribund

“Is there anyone in this courtroom whom you recognize?” Fryssen resumed her stride.
Verna looked out over all of us, her mouth pulled down at the corners, her eyes anxious, as if suddenly fearful of saying the wrong thing. Did she think it was a trick like the one played on Joan of Arc when they hid her sovereign in the audience? I felt her eyes linger over me as if I were in a lineup. Because Oz was in front of me I couldn’t see his expression, but I could imagine what it was. Sardonic. Removed.

“That man, there,” she said, pointing. “The defendant.” She got it right.

“Let the record show that the witness has identified Osmond White-Hawke,” said Fryssen. “Was there ever a time when you and the defendant were friends?”

I heard Oz growling in a protest.

“Yes,” said the witness. “Between 1985-1990. In Bouclem, Tunisia.”
“Tell us how you came to know the defendant.”

“My husband at that time worked for the Franciscan College there, and so did the defendant’s wife. We were a small group of Americans in a foreign place; everyone knew everybody. I had a little business looking after the children of faculty members in my home, and so I watched his sons. Then I got to know Mary Elizabeth Barringer — a literature professor — because she was expecting. She was so excited.” Her eyes strayed out over me and she smiled.

It was creepy. She knew who I was, probably recognized my hair. The fourth wall collapsed, I felt all of them looking at me and I recoiled against Trevor in my loss of invisibility. I was beginning to see why my mother dyed her hair.

“Did you and Mrs. Barringer become good friends?”

“Oh,” said the witness enthusiastically, “We were great friends. She was a wonderful person. I looked after both her girls as soon as they were born.”
“Can you tell us about her?”

Craig lumbered to his feet. “Let’s not go a-wandering, your Honor,” he said wearily.
“If the witness could just sum up,” said the judge, making wrapping motions with his hands.
The witness said, “She was a very nice person. Shy. A real straight-arrow. She was totally against gossip so some people thought she was difficult to talk to. She agonized over ethical choices that didn’t seem to bother most people. She always said if you ever had a complaint, you should take it right to the person involved, and that’s what the Bible says. But on the subject of ideas she was very well informed.”

I admit I was fascinated. This was my mother she was talking about. It was like uncovering an album of unseen photographs. I stole a glance at Shelley, but her expression was stoic. She has a tendency to chew on the side of her right thumb, usually ragged from texting. Not that there was anyone to text, anymore. Even Twitter had fallen silent. She may not have been listening.
“Can you tell us specifically about the morning of March 12, 1992?”
Was that the day my mother left the world?

“I was expecting Brontë and Shelley at eight am as usual and they never showed up. I called over to Mary Elizabeth’s house but no one picked up the phone. Then I phoned over to Mike Zwilling. He was her faculty supervisor – and I asked him if she had come to work. He said she hadn’t. So I thought–”

“Irrelevant what she thought, your honor,” said Craig, his eyes closed as mentally elsewhere.
“Confine your remarks to what you actually did,” said the judge.
“I went over there,” said Verna. “To her house.”

A photo of a house flashed up on the screen. A cute little sand-colored stucco house with a gate and blown-glass windows. The house I was born in. I didn’t remember it at all. Nothing.
“Is this the house you went to that morning?”

“Yes. That was Mary Elizabeth Barringer’s house.”
“Was it locked?”

“No.” She gasped, hyperventilating a little. “In fact, the front door was part way open. I went in –”
“Did anything in the house seem disarranged?”

“No. She was an immaculate housekeeper. I called for her. I searched everywhere for her but she wasn’t there. The children were sleeping in their beds.” She looked at us, distressed. Shelley stared back, thumb dropped, mouth open. “They were always particularly heavy sleepers.”
“Did you try to wake them?”

“No. I phoned over to Oz’s house.”

A map of lines and boxes flashed up on the screen.
“Would you situate us on this map?”
Verna took the laser pointer.

“Here’s the college. My husband and I had rooms over the car block. Here’s Mary Elizabeth’s house. She had a private residence because she got a bit of money after she was widowed.”
“Approach, your honor.” Craig threw his papers aside so explosively they slid to the floor. Spike rose to pick them up. Mina and Craig and Buford and Fryssen all approached the bench and there was a heated argument none of which we could hear.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Well, Fryssen asked her about buildings and she introduced money,” suggested Trevor.
Were they trying to introduce motive, I wondered? Verna seemed so sketchy. Was she a cockroach? Hard to credit the prosecution following any subtle game plan starring her.
“…last remark be stricken,” said the judge.
Ridiculous, right? I mean the jury heard it.

The dancers resumed their places. The laser pointer’s pink dot wavered over the box.
“So this is Mary Elizabeth’s house…” wandered three boxes, “And this is where Oz lived.” The dot quivered over a long rectangle. “He was known as Oz White in those days. And this is the swimming pool.”

“Why did you phone over to Oz White’s house?”

“I knew Mary Elizabeth had dinner there the night before. She told me she was going.”
“What did Mr. White say when you spoke to him?”

The witness’ lower lip trembled. “He said he’d be right over. But he didn’t show up. I felt I had to stay with the children.”

“How did you find out what had happened?”

“Not from Mr. White,” said the witness. “I heard from someone else. They found her in the swimming pool.”

There was a gasp in court, just as if everybody didn’t already know.

“Did you visit the crime scene at any time that day?”

“YOUR HONOR!” Craig shouted. “This was officially ruled an accident! It was AN ACCIDENT SCENE.”

“Everything in its proper order, Ms. Fryssen,” said the judge indulgently. He was looking at Fryssen as if he thought she was edible. How come we had only Mina, and not a sex goddess? Craig missed a bet there.

“Boy, I bet he has the hots for her,” whispered Jake, stating the obvious.

“Did you visit the site where the incident had occurred?” Fryssen recovered smoothly.

“I did. After a couple of hours my partner replaced me so that I could go. I was giving the children breakfast and Jane came over. She told me about…the swimming pool.”

It was funny to hear myself talked about and not remember a thing. I tried to picture the baby I had been – the redheaded, red-faced, red-fisted baby from the photographs – sitting in a high chair and being ministered to by this woman. Eager for breakfast, like usual. Not knowing Mom was dead.

“I went right to the pool. There were a lot of people there from the college, and Oz – Mr. White was talking to the local police.”
“Did you understand what was said?”

“No. Because he spoke Arabic and the rest of us did not. He kept touching his head. I was afraid he was making the “she’s crazy” gesture. I asked him what he meant by that. He told me just that it was late and they’d been celebrating her announcement that she was moving to the States. She didn’t drink, she wasn’t accustomed to booze – but she did drink champagne and they’d had rather a lot – he said she was unsteady on her legs. I asked him why he hadn’t accompanied her home if that was the case. He answered that she was very independent and liked being on her own. But that’s not accurate at all. She –”

“Did you look into the pool?”
“Yes.”

“Can you describe what it was like?”

The witness shook her whole body from side to side as she said, “There was a lot of blood. Too much blood for someone just falling into the deep end and banging their head.” She closed her eyes and her whole body throbbed as she remembered, “There were bloody handprints on the walls. My best friend’s blood.” The witness wept.

A group shiver, sort of like the wave they do at football games, ran through the crowd. Fryssen rushed forward with tissues.

“Do you know, of your own knowledge, why the pool was emptied?”

“The college was in some kind of quarrel with the town. The town said there wasn’t enough water to fill a big pool. The college administrator told me what there wasn’t enough of was baksheesh.”
“Baksheesh?”

“Bribes.”

“Wasn’t there some kind of fencing around the pool?”

“There was a chain link fence, but it was in disrepair.”

“Did you voice your sense of disturbance to Mr. White?”

“Yes. I said, “What happened?” He said, “She fell in and I guess she couldn’t get out.” He said she’d been complaining of headaches and she had a history of strokes in her family so she wanted to see a doctor but she was going to wait until she got back to the States.”
“Had Mrs. Barringer ever mentioned anything about headaches to you?”

“No. Her usual complaint was sleeplessness, but that hadn’t been bothering her lately. She was happier than usual, I thought. She told me she had recently made a decision to be more proactive –”
“Objection! Beyond admissible hearsay, your Honor!”

The judge looked over at the prosecutor.

“Your rationale, Mr. Buford?”

“Pattern of conduct, Your Honor.”

With a gesture of irritation the judge summoned his players forward.
“Welcome to the Gulag,” muttered Craig as he rose to comply.

There was a lengthy bench conference about exceptions to the hearsay rule. We must have lost because when the lawyers backed away Fryssen pursued the subject.

“Will you tell us exactly what Mrs. Barringer told you about Mr. White?”

“She said he was getting too bossy and acting like it was his money. She said she’d realized that if she wanted her girls raised her way she was going to have to do it herself.”
“Anything else?”

“That’s all I remember specifically. I tried to state it word for word,” said the witness with nervous virtue.

“Did Mr. White ever inform you of the ultimate medical ruling on Ms. Barringer’s death?”

“That she died of an aneurysm. So I assumed they’d done an autopsy, or how would they know? I know there was pressure to embalm her body right away to ship it back to the states.”
“Were any photos taken of the accident site, to your knowledge?”

“I didn’t see anyone with a camera there. It was just the local police; they didn’t have crime technologists. Afterwards the pool was filled in with rubble. The college officials said no one would want to swim there. That was within a day or two, I would say.”

“Did you have a conversation subsequently with Mr. White’s wife, Renée? Specifically a conversation about the night of the accident?”

“I saw her at the pool that morning, when everyone was there and milling around. I said, “Why didn’t your husband insist on escorting her home?” And she said, “He did. They left together.” But later on her story changed. “

“When was that?”

“The college gave Mary Elizabeth a memorial mass. Renée came up to me and said she wanted to explain, that she was afraid she’d given me the wrong idea. She said they left together that night, but Mr. White said Mary Elizabeth only allowed him to escort her part way home.”

Ms. Fryssen studied the map.

“The swimming pool isn’t really on a direct route from Mr. White’s house to Ms. Barringer’s house, is it?”

“No. She would have had to go quite out of her way.”

“Did Ms. White say anything more to you at the service?”

“She said Oz was leaving for the States because he was the executor and Mary Elizabeth wanted the girls raised there, but Renée didn’t want to go back. She said—“

Craig shot up like a gamebird. “Your honor, for the record I would like to re-state our absolute objection to this entire line of questioning. Poring over seventeen year old gossip in an uncharged incident is the most outrageous violation of my client’s rights!”

“Your objection has been noted, Mr. Axelrod. I have ruled on the matter. You’ll be able to cross examine the witness about it,” said the judge mildly. “Do you have corroboration, Ms. Fryssen?”
“Your Honor, both the State and the defense have issued subpoenas for Mrs. Renée White to testify. She hasn’t responded to our subpoenas, but perhaps the defense will have better luck,” said Buford smarmily.

“If I can’t cross-examine the person who made the statements, I request this entire line of questioning be stricken,” snapped Craig.

Oz whispered to Mina. From the way his head was shaking back and forth I think he was probably saying his ex-wife would never willingly return.

“Would she be for us or against us?” I whispered to Trevor. The fact that Oz had no communication with his ex-wife for seventeen years suggested bad feeling.

Trevor gave me the wild eyebrow. “Of course she’d say anything to help, but she isn’t coming. We don’t need her.”

How could he possibly know what she would say? Did they have communication I didn’t know about? I didn’t like to think there were things about Trevor that I didn’t know.

Fryssen returned to her gossip. “Did Mrs. White give a reason for her husband’s sudden decision to leave?”

“She said he was suing the college on behalf of Mary Elizabeth’s estate, so it would hardly be comfortable to stick around. He was guardian of the minor children and she wanted them educated in the States, but she didn’t leave much of an estate so that was the only way he could think to swing it financially.”

“Were you surprised by that?”

“I was. She always seemed so well off…I thought her husband left her lots of money.”

“Objection, your Honor, no foundation. This is not the proper way to introduce financial information! If they have documents, let’s see them.”

“I offer it not for the truth of the matter but to explicate the witness’ state of mind,” said Fryssen.
Even Verna looked startled by this suggestion that she had a mind.

“Then I think you’ve gone far enough with that line of questioning,” said the judge.

But Fryssen was a dog with a bone. “So what happened subsequently?”

“Mr. White took the children back to the States. Mrs. White stayed on, and later I heard they were got a divorce.”

“Thank you. Your witness.”

Craig rose, flapping his tie. I knew this was something he did when he was upset. He paced in front of the witness who watched him with tired eyes.

“Ms. Verna, this accident scene that you saw, this shocking scene. You were suspicious, I think you said. You found it upsetting?”

The witness relaxed her guard. “Very much so.”

“Accident scenes can certainly be upsetting, can’t they? Did you report your suspicions to the authorities?”

The witness’ jaw hung down. “The police were there.”

“I mean afterwards. Did you report it to the American police? The embassy? Consulate? Anybody?”

“Well, no,” said Verna fecklessly. “They called it an accident.”

“Yes. It was, wasn’t it? Did you contact Mrs. Barringer’s family?”

“Well, no.”

“You must have gossiped about it. To somebody.”
“I don’t gossip,” said the witness stiffly.

“That accident happened fifteen years ago, didn’t it? Fifteen years went by and you were so troubled by the suspicious death of your friend that you did exactly nothing about it, is that right?”
“Well, there was nothing to do,” said the witness.

“Until now, isn’t that right? When the state asked you to take a plane and a hotel room and to smile for the cameras?”

The judge spoke over Buford’s objection. “Point made, counselor,” he said. “Move along.”

Craig put his hand on the wooden surround of the witness box. The witness leaned back as far as she could, blinking like a deer in the headlights. As if they were two buddies having coffee down at Starbucks he asked her,
“Ms. Verna, did you like Mr. White?”

The witness glanced at Oz briefly, as if seeking a clue. “I liked him… at first.”
Craig stopped directly in front of her. “Why?”

The witness jumped as if jabbed with electrodes.
“Why what?”

“Why did you like him at first?”

“He was very ingratiating. He made an effort to be charming.”

“And there wasn’t a lot of that in your life?” Craig inquired with crocodilian sweetness. “You and your husband also divorced within the year, isn’t that true?”

“That’s true, but it didn’t have anything to do with my knowing Mr. White, or even anything that happened at the school,” said the witness hotly.

To my surprise, although he seemed to have her on the run, Craig didn’t pursue it.
“So what did appeal to you about Mr. White?”

Verna considered, seeming to make a great effort to be fair and honest.

“I’d never met anyone like him. He knew everything. He had been everywhere. He was so entertaining and well-educated. He had all these opinions about historical and political things. He knew all kinds of inside information. He was always correcting people, but not in a mean way, just giving us the benefit of reading and experience.”

“Can you give us an example?” Craig queried mildly. The witness pulled her brows together in fierce contemplation.

“One thing that stuck in my mind all these years was his statement at one of his dinner parties that the popular idea that Aristotle’s fatal flaw was “hubris” was just a vulgar error, an incorrect translation. The fatal flaw wasn’t “pride” but too much “animal energy”. Not separating the animal from the human. Failing to take one’s place as the crown of creation. Something like that.”
The witness had relaxed, seemed animated, but I saw disturbance signals rippling between Fryssen and Buford. Probably they’d warned her about cruelty, attacks, humiliation. They hadn’t warned her about interested politeness.

“I understand he and his wife gave legendary dinner parties. You must have been a guest at these dinners?”

The witness glanced downward, as if she had written the answer on her cuff. Flushed beet-red.
“Not exactly.”

“So the remark you quoted was not addressed to you.”
The witness nodded.

“Could you say yes, please, just for the record?”
“Yes.”

“Let it be noted that the witness answered in the affirmative. How then did you overhear this comment you’ve just quoted?”

“I was helping out. Renée asked me to help out.”
“What form did this helping take?”

She gaped at him. She was certainly making it easy for him.
“You know. Serving and cleaning up and such.”

“Were you paid for this contribution?”

“I think they gave me something,” said the witness uneasily.

“And you were certainly paid to look after his sons.”
“Yes.”

“So when you realized that Mr. White thought of you more as an employee than as a friend, is that when you stopped liking him?”

“No. That wasn’t it at all,” the witness burst out. “He was so inappropriate.”

“Ah.” Craig put his arms behind his back like a magician hiding his hands. Buford and Fryssen conferred, but they evidently couldn’t come up with an objection that wouldn’t make things worse.
“Can you give the court an example?”

“He sexualized everything,” said the witness. “I’ve been reading about it and –”
Craig turned a sorrowful face to the judge.

“Your Honor, will someone please explain the boundaries of testimony to this witness?”
Buford rose threateningly. “I don’t like that tone,” he began but the judge waved him back to his seat.

“Miss Verna, please don’t introduce anything that happened after the time in question,” said the judge.

“On second thought,” said Craig, as if suddenly inspired, “Perhaps it would do the jury good to hear how this witness has been shaping her testimony through contemporary research.”
“No, it would not,” said the judge. “Move along.”

“Your Honor, I object!” said Buford.

“Are you objecting to your own witness?” questioned Craig, outrage gone. It was as if nothing could astonish him anymore. “That’s a first.”

“I’m objecting to what you just said. I object to counsel slandering my client. He’s testifying himself when he puts out ideas in open court that are not subject to cross-examination or the rules of evidence.”

“Somebody has encouraged this witness to think anything that drifts through her head is important,” retorted Craig. “You just don’t like it when it goes against you.”
“Gentlemen, approach!” roared the judge.

“I’ll leave it alone,” said Craig, showing his palms. Our side looked all-exultant, but they had all been to private school. I knew making fun of the witness might be dangerous.

“I believe we were discussing sexualization,” said Craig, bowing to the witness. “Inappropriate sexualization. If you could favor us with an example?”

The witness shifted nervously in her chair. Buford and Fryssen looked nervous too. Finally Verna said,

“He talked about sex all the time. He made sex jokes.”

Craig spat out a sudden question, “Ms. Verna, why did you leave Franciscan College?”
He had startled her. After long consideration, she said uneasily, “There was that divorce we spoke of. I wanted to come home.”

“Weren’t you asked to leave?”

“Well, they didn’t like divorce.”

“Come, that wasn’t the reason, was it? The divorce came afterwards.” “It was time for me to make some life changes,” said Ms. Verna helplessly.

“One of which was to partner romantically with a woman, wasn’t it? And you’re still together, aren’t you?”

Buford, clearly not a man who liked to get up once he had made himself comfortable, rose. “Your Honor, this is just a mud-throwing fest,” he objected.

“What’s good for the goose is good for the gander,” barked Craig, hitching his pants angrily. “This woman has been offered to the jury as some sort of a gossip clearinghouse. Reference has been made to her “state of mind”. I think it’s only fair that the jury see she may have had ulterior motives.”
“I’m allowing it,” said the judge.

“It’s true that I have made a life commitment to a woman I met at Franciscan College,” Ms. Verna said, trying to lift her chin and keep it steady. Her voice wobbled up and down the scale.
“I think you described yourself as Ms. Barringer’s best friend,” said Craig smoothly. “Ever hope the relationship could be more than that?”

A series of micro-expressions cycled rapidly over Ms. Verna’s face. For a moment it almost looked as if she was going to agree with him.

“No,” she said finally, but I thought the jury knew different. Trevor squeezed my hand excitedly in Morse code communication I didn’t bother to interpret. I had other things to think about.

“Perhaps you were the one who sexualized everything,” suggested Craig. “Eyes of the beholder, eh?”

“No, no, no,” insisted the witness. “He came on to everybody. He was a swinger.”

“Ms. Verna, you’re on oath, I remind you. Are you saying the defendant came on to you?”
The witness hesitated pathetically. Trapped, she summoned up her dignity.
“I didn’t let it get that far,” she insisted.

“Ms. Verna, you’re the gossip expert. Wasn’t there gossip about the relationship between Ms. Barringer and Mr. White?”

“There was a lot of gossip,” said the witness unwarily, eager to change subjects. “Mary Elizabeth never would have had an illicit affair with anyone, ever. She respected Renėe White. He’s the one who wanted more. He wanted everybody. After Mary Elizabeth’s husband died he just injected himself into her affairs. Started acting like they had an arrangement.”

“He was acknowledged to be a clever investor, was he not? Didn’t Mary Elizabeth invite him to manage her affairs?”

The witness backpedaled, waffling.

“She was bereft. Alone. She needed somebody.”

“Ms. Verna, when somebody becomes an executor, a guardian, a financial manager, there are legal papers involved. Didn’t Ms. Barringer consult an attorney?”

“All I know is she thought Oz was getting pushy,” Verna said mutinously. “She told me she didn’t like it.”

Craig pressed his advantage. “Sounds like you jealous of their relationship.”
“Certainly not,” said Verna in a high, thin voice. I felt sorry for her. She sounded jealous to everybody.

Craig paused to let this interchange sink in. In the silence the witness seemed to get even more flustered, as if that were possible, tossing her hair and rocking her bony behind in her seat. I felt sorry for her.

Finally Craig smiled. He was her buddy again, friendly Mr. Crocodile. He checked his notes as if he had any need for them and asked her,
“I believe you described yourself as a spiritual healer?”

You could see the flutter of panic ripple across the prosecution table.

Fryssen and Buford poked each other back and forth like children initiating a dare. He lost.
“Your honor, I fail to see the point of this.”

“Is that an objection, Mr. Buford?” asked the judge. “On what ground?”

“Relevance?” Buford waved a hand in the air as if picking a cherry off an invisible tree.

“I would like to show a general framework of bias on the part of this witness,” said Craig smoothly. “She has a philosophical commitment to destroying my client that I would like to expose.”
“I’ve been a spiritual healer since 1998,” said the witness in a loud, firm voice, as if she just discovering solid ground.

“Why don’t you wait for a question,” suggested Craig.

“Your honor, what she was waiting for was a ruling,” said Buford. “Don’t let him badger this witness, your honor. She came a long distance to render this state a service.”

“Bet she gives readings on the steps of the courthouse,” snickered Trevor sotto voce.

“We’ve established you’ve been a “spiritual healer” since 1998,” said Craig. You could hear the quotation marks. “Is that regulated by any licensure?”

“I’m a member of the American Association of Spiritual Practitioners,” said the witness.

“That doesn’t sound like a license to me,” said Craig. “I take it you’re unregulated. You charge money for your services?”

“On a sliding scale. Sometimes I don’t charge at all.”

“And what is it you actually do when you heal, spiritually?”

“Objection!”

“Your time is up, Mr. Axelrod,” said the judge. “I’m pulling the plug on this.”
“Just one more question, your honor. I think you’ll agree with me that it’s relevant. Did you ever “heal” Mary Elizabeth Barringer?”

The judge was seduced, in spite of himself. We all wanted to know the answer to this question. The judge waved a hand and his amanuensis typed something on her machine.
“Sometimes I was successful at helping her sleep.”

“So she invited you over in the evening?” Craig pounced.

“I dropped by a couple of times. I felt…I felt she might need me.”

“Anything sexual take place on these evenings?”

The witness turned bright red. “Absolutely not. I massaged her temples until she could sleep. Then I tiptoed away.”

Funny hearing that my mom, too, was plagued by insomnia. Those devilish genes.
“How many times would you say this occurred?”

The witness shrugged her shoulders helplessly. “Twice? Three times?”

“Don’t ask me,” said Craig. “I wasn’t there.”

The audience tittered. The witness rallied.

“It wasn’t often, at any rate.”

“How about Mr. White? Ever extend any healing to him?”

The witness covered her face with her hands and began to sob.

“We’ll take that as an answer,” said Craig. “The witness is dismissed.”

Jake clapped Craig enthusiastically on the back as the defense attorney sat down. Too publicly, alas. This crew would never learn.

“Re-direct!” shouted Buford, quivering. “We aren’t in the business of leaving the jury with misimpressions. Apparently the defense is.”

“That’s uncalled for,” said the judge as Craig rose.

“Then I apologize,” said the prosecutor stiffly without looking at Craig. He walked up to Verna.
“Why are you crying, Ms. Verna?”

“This is all just so upsetting,” she gasped. “I guess I’m too sensitive.”

“What is your answer to the defense attorney’s question? Did you offer healing to the defendant?”
“He made fun of what I did,” gasped the witness. “He referred to it as “dowsing”. There wasn’t any point offering because—healing is never successful with a person like that.”
A ripple of amusement shook Oz’s shoulders.

“Thank you! Now the witness is dismissed!”

Chapter Eight — Malevolence

Monday arrived, as Mondays will. I lay late in our new bed, allowing Trevor to bring me my coffee, luxuriating like a Jane Austen heroine conserving strength before The Big Dance. The greatest luxury was watching Trevor ‘armor-up’; sliding on his boxers, locking his French cuffs into place, buttoning the vest of a (thankfully) clean suit and positioning his Phi Beta Kappa key to maximum effect. What thoughtful being could grudge Oz a romance with the young male body? There is nothing in the world so beautiful. Women are fruit on the edge of spoiling; men are sculpture. Is there anything as glorious, as evocative, as the male clavicle? It’s a boat, a cave, a tunnel, a whirlpool. Trevor’s is taut like a bow anchoring his shoulders.

“See you downstairs,” said Trevor, peering into the mirror, not really seeing himself but pressing down his cowlick, which sprang back instantly. I pulled the covers over my head. Damn. I had to “armor-up” too; this was the battle even women have to fight. It couldn’t be so bad today; I had Trevor. This time I really had him. I had him before and I fully intended to have him again. I get why couples long to have a child (though it’s a longing I don’t share); that human yearning for incarnation. They need to see a physical embodiment of their attraction. Every coupling, every recombination of DNA is a new person, with fresh powers. And when it’s your foster brother you’re coupling with it’s your very childhood you’re rewriting. We were the children our own selves created.

I for one would never be my old self again, and I was glad of it. The thing I most like about being young is that you can wear a different face every day, and yet it can really be your face. Teenagers are always Walt Whitman. We contain multitudes.

I dragged myself to Colleen’s closet to study the possibilities. What mask to wear today?
I ran into Craig clutching his forehead and wearing an embarrassingly small “happy coat” across his embarrassingly hairy person. Probably the correct translation from the Japanese would be “gag coat;” both meanings of the word intended, I am sure, by the Japanese flight attendant who passed it along to him. I diagnosed a hangover, or possibly a particularly savage case of jet lag; to him I was just one of the many ghosts haunting that part of the mansion. I doubt he even recognized me.

The ghost was gone from Colleen’s closet; Trevor successfully exorcised it. Goodbye Colleen, wallowing in the light. Leave life to the living. They were just dresses and did not speak. I quelled my thirst for color; Trevor was so generous sexually, here was a tiny gift to give him compared to those he heaped on me. Colleen had so many “little black dresses”; I guess that’s female armor; so from the possibilities I built our child; combination of the pair of us. He was the little black dress; I was the cropped red jacket. Colleen said mourning has phases. In my opinion, when your whole family is on trial for murder, you’re in the fire phase.

There was frenzied cooking going on downstairs. Mina, steamy hair sticking to both sides of her face, was making individual omelets to order.

“We’re going to need more eggs,” she said.

See? Why go shopping in the first place if you know you’re only going to have to go shopping again? Why contribute to what is obviously a vicious cycle?

I found Trevor seated at the eighteenth-century secretary in the foyer, raving about the price of oil.
“We have heat?” I teased. “Really? Can’t tell in the servants’ quarters.” Skylar’s fireplace had come in particularly handy last night. I leaned down, hissing in his ear, “Time to burn the place down and collect the insurance?”

He knocked over his chair rearing up; face red, cords standing out in his neck, eyes blazing the coldest blue. Spitting.

“You of all people should appreciate what it is I’m trying to do around here! As if I would split another dime with Skylar!”

“Jeez,” I said, “Excuse you. I was only joking.”

Was it a clause in the mysterious honeymoon contract that I could no longer rib Trevor? Arson isn’t worse than murder. He wasn’t this worked up about Colleen’s death. The more I thought about my idea the better the idea sounded, a sort of Roman justice. They get revenge; we get hotels with room service! “We’re not admitting anything, but would it make you feel better if we burned down our house?” Let the jurors tour a smoking ruin. I could play tour guide. “This is the very place Trevor pulled my panties down.”

“Spoils claim the victor,” I snapped and Trevor said,
“Don’t you go all Beautiful and Damned on me.”

I was sure my quote came from a different novel but at that moment Spike appeared to tell me my omelet was ready.

“Better leave him alone,” he warned, whispering. “You’ll get more out of him later. You can heat him up, but you can’t cool him down.”

I was so angry I was almost speechless. Because Trevor was sitting at the check-writing desk Spike assumed I wanted something, when all I wanted was to play with the tendrils lying unguarded along Trevor’s beautiful neck.

“Paugh,” I said. Pronouncing it correctly.

Even Mina was in a bad mood – Jake said her omelets were too “set.” The only thing he likes hard is his own self. See? Doesn’t take much to rev up the whole gift-giving resent-a-thon.
In the limo I consulted my notebook. I was considering a poem cycle to be called: “What To Do If You Wake Up In a Dostoevsky Novel.” The first poem would be: Expect Brain Fever. Maybe I could ignore the court proceedings entirely and just sit there scribbling. I had to be there but I didn’t have to pay attention.

My prose seemed stilted, flat and precious. Girly. Katharine Mansfield says that when you find yourself in the boat of death, pulling inexorably away from the shore you must uncover your eyes and look. This case was the only thing I could write about.

Trevor slid in beside me, bony hip against mine, arm around me, holding my hand. Just as if he’d never yelled at me. If I closed my eyes I could imagine dissolving into him, the way a baby kangaroo becomes its mother. He gave me the reassuring smile, the shoulder clasp. No oil, no anger, no arson. Spike was wrong. With me, he could always cool down. Courage bubbled up within me. The two of us could take the rest of them on, no matter how many of them there might be.

The monsters were proliferating, springing up the steps of the courthouse like dragon’s teeth. Craig said there was a special entrance the prosecution could have let us use, but they made a choice to let the press assault us, hoping we would back away from Oz’s side and leave him twisting in the wind alone. They underestimated us. Thank God for Spike and downfield blocking.

There were people from France, from Africa, from the BBC. It must be a slow news day indeed when people care so much about some Virginia woman falling into her swimming pool. Then Skylar appeared out of nowhere and grasped my arm. Spike didn’t protect me from her. In all the years we lived together we had never been so close. We could have been having sex. She pushed her face right into mine.

I saw a nonsensical glitter of face powder drifting across her pores. She looked worse, if that was possible, bony, but with her skin puffed up, doughy and swollen, maybe the antidepressants had finally kicked in. She pressed my hand; we were passing notes in school. I looked down; but it was my own note, coming back, a bad penny. To her it was worse than contaminated, a curse you could only get rid of by passing it on.

“Take everything,” she hissed at me. “The clothes. My mother would have wanted you to have them. You look good in them.” Tears scored her cheeks; her fingers encircled my wrist like handcuffs. I felt rather than saw Trevor approaching in rescue, but the demon inside her gasped in my face, “He killed your mother, too.” And then she was gone.

“What did she say?” asked Trevor, sheltering me, gazing after her retreating back, scurrying back to the bride’s aisle. I felt a flush of sorrow over the reality of a honeymoon contract, that even although Trevor and I were closer than we had ever been, there were things I could have told him before that I could no longer say. Now we were hostage to each other’s pain and progress and the oath of protection our bodies took foreswore total honesty.

“She said I could have her mother’s clothes.”

I looked down at myself as if surprised to find myself dressed like a Junior Leaguer. This was my dress now. I had wanted to wear the dress because it was Colleen’s. I didn’t want to wear it if it belonged to me.

“Was she nasty about it?” Trevor gazed after her angrily, his jaw locked. The hatred in his face was unmistakable. It’s too late, I thought. We’ve been corrupted by “sides”. We left school and joined different teams, and I can’t cross over and join Skylar just because she looks lonely.

Oz was already in his place, the only figure seated at the defense table as the lawyers milled about. To me, suddenly, he looked little and sad. Was he shrinking or was I growing? Oz too, I suddenly realized, had taken the oath of protection when love took him hostage; he’d had to drink the Kool-Aid. Was he just pretending to be brave because we were there? He must be able to feel how much they wanted to convict him.

I felt so guilty. Caught up in our honeymoon we never did visit. I know Trevor called him but Trevor’s not the same as me. To him it must have seemed a long weekend, that same weekend I had hoped would last forever. I put a hand on his shoulder to reassure him and he grasped it gratefully; Trevor leaned across the wooden bench to whisper in his ear. I wished I’d asked him not to tell about us but it was probably too late now.

I don’t know what he said. Men’s much vaunted “honesty” can be just a need to brag. Oz used to say we would hook up one day; why deny him the pleasure of being proved right? I saw Oz expand and glow under his son’s words. The curse of the freckled; I blushed as my foster-father winked at me.

The judge came in and we dutifully rose. He didn’t care what we were really feeling just so long as we demonstrated obeisance. He wasted no time but handed down his ruling in his plummy voice; photos of the Barringer autopsy were too inflammatory and would not be admitted. The prosecution could use drawings. Craig tried to object again but the judge cut him off sharply with a “Let’s get this show on the road” demeanor. He too, apparently, had had a bad weekend. Golf rained out? Country club crowded? Prime rib less than prime? I knew he’d had the gall to pity me and I hated him.

Craig didn’t look happy but clueless Mina gave us the “thumbs up” sign, just as if no artist could create anything as ghastly as a photograph. I imagined the paintings of Hieronymus Bosch introduced as exhibits, passed around and laser-pointed, I guess she wanted me and Shelley to feel excited and victorious about seeing some dauber’s “take” on our dead mother. Now I held Trevor’s hand, and he was holding mine. I was the one responsible for the blue shadows around his eyes. They were happy blue shadows, and I felt better. We were now the keepers of each other’s sleep; that exhausted sleep that comes from every muscle locked in synergy with its opposite.

This court was convened to expose secrets; I exulted over everything they didn’t know. I was an initiate into the ultimate grown-up secret; the power of naked versus clothed. I was the only one to precisely count the hairs that marched like soldiers from Trevor’s bellybutton to his pubis. Even if tortured, I would never share. Someday I would transform these truths to a greater truth, but now I was invulnerable. I felt I could bear anything, now.

Trevor smiled and squeezed my hand; he knew what I was thinking. Spike slid in beside me and we all moved down, like the kids in the lullaby. Trevor and I melted, blissfully, into each other.
The jury trooped in, gazing at us with hushed glee as if touring the set of a reality show. No prime rib for them. They looked as if they might have been interrupted while dining on the local specialty; stuffed raccoon. (The joke is it’s stuffed with your neighbor’s garbage.)

Fawna Fryssen, wearing a skintight royal blue short-skirted suit that looked catalog-fresh, (probably in every color), stood up and claimed the center of the floor.
“The state calls Vinca Verna,” she said.

I saw Jake dig his elbow into Trevor’s other side, “She’s got a rockin’ hot bod,” he said, meaning the assistant prosecutor, not the witness. Also the triangular nostrils that scream “nose job”, I wanted to say. But Jake doesn’t care about “modifications”. To him it’s just “customizing”.

No modifications for me. It’s a subtle battle of the wills; who’s on approval and who’s “the approver.” If they can get you to admit that you weren’t “quite right” to start with, they’ve got you forever. You never will be “right”; there’s always one more thing in need of fixing. I know I’m a mess; it’s adorable that Trevor doesn’t notice. Call it the “palimpsest” effect; he not only sees every me I used to be but all the future possibilities. Trevor thinks I’m perfect. I guess love is as rare as they say.

Vinca Verna was a tall whipping-post of a woman with a sad sack expression that she probably considered appropriate courtroom demeanor. She spelled her name and took the oath, touching the Bible in a distant manner like someone allergic to books.

“Where do you currently reside and what is your employment?”
“I reside in Taos, New Mexico, and I am a spiritual healer,” she said.

There was a moment’s pause while Fryssen was stayed in her flight. Either this was news to her or she had never heard it put exactly that way. Like a cat spotting a flutter, Craig stiffened and leaned forward. Something good for our side.

I’ve overheard Craig comparing litigation to a “cockroach race”. Only God knows what your cockroach is going to do. If you rehearse them too much they sound stilted, but if you let them be spontaneous they risk opening up a line of questioning the other side can drive tractor-trailers through. In other words, you can lead a cockroach to water, but you can’t make it think.

Chapter Seven — Marriage

When I woke in the morning, we were stretched out side by side in my narrow bed, holding hands, the marble knight and his lady atop the tomb. Shouldering each other aside the better to spring into the afterlife. In the morning light I could give his beautiful body the attention it deserved, tracing with my fingers the snail tracks of my own slime. So sharp, so hairless, so spare; all bone, like the curve of a boat. So glad he was still beside me, proving it hadn’t been wishful dreaming. I know it’s traditional for the male to skulk away unless awakening on his own terrain: then it’s her turn. It’s a skulking race; last cadet through the door gets punished. Glad we didn’t have to play that game.

I needed to see just how he’d act to adjust my own grip on reality. Trevor usually has a firm attachment to the stuff. Had we become surgically sealed conjoined twins, pasted romantically together; or could I unstick myself and make it to the bathroom? I found it easier to wake him up.
“Go to the bathroom for me,” I moaned.

“Are you awake?” His hand tightened on my thigh as if to prevent escape, but he spoke guiltily; a sentry accused of leaving his post. Sleep was a crime. He sat up so fast he tore a hole out of my side.

I had other questions. “What time is it?”
“Seven. But there’s no court today.”

He fell back, remembering. Our hips barely fit on the narrow bed; easier if I twist sideways; pulling myself out of the frame. His eyes searched out the absent pack of Camels. I raged inwardly at the notorious distancing technique.

“You regret it,” I accused. It was my fault; I hate having no escape hatch. Never enter a room that hasn’t at least two doors. Says Oz.

But Trevor gifted me with the rarest Trevor smile, years falling away to the unselfconscious glee of childhood. What a different face he had then! Nobody meeting him now would recognize him. He maneuvered an arm behind my shoulders and drew me to him.

“Au contraire,” he asserted. “I’ll never be sorry again.”

Glad, glad, glad. Guilt is sick-making, a most unpleasant feeling. I’ve gotten this far pretty much guilt-free; relief to return to the edenic state. Trevor tells me what I should worry about. I mean, it’s not like we’re related or anything.

“Don’t squeeze,” I said. “I have to pee.”

He ripped off the sheet so fast my breath went with it; he tossed it to the farthest corner. Suddenly the room was just a bed full of naked people.

I clambered awkwardly over, as he doubtless wanted, sensible of his perusal.
“Don’t ever wax your beautiful pink fur,” he chastised.
“What? Not even in bikini season?”

Crazy talk. I’m not going to the beach looking like a radioactive gorilla for him or any man.
“It’s such an astonishing color,” he said. “No painter could do it justice. It’s like a sunset.” He corrected himself. “Maybe Raphael.”

He followed me into the bathroom. I tried to close the door on him.

“Amscray.” I share this antiqued white emporium and its massive Victorian fixtures with Shelley. She could show up any time.

“Oh, relax,” he said, striding to the mirror, “I won’t peek.” Sniffing, commented, “I smell like a girl,” and grabbed my washcloth.

There’s a fair amount of “clothes-optional” casualness at our end of the house – Oz calls it “the nude beach” but we don’t usually pee in front of each other. But you know what men are like. Whip it out at any opportunity.

Handy thing to take to a picnic, as the old lady said. Fortunately Trevor made so much noise splashing water over his head and shoulders that I was able to go.

“This is a horrible bathroom,” he said, flicking me away from the toilet with his wet towel. “Hasn’t been updated since the nineties. And I don’t mean the nineteen-nineties.”

He was at least well behaved enough to lift the toilet seat up and to put it back down again.
“I thought you only liked houses where everything is original,” I challenged.

Oz rhapsodized routinely about the majesty of Vermillion; it hadn’t been ruined (the last owners were too poor.) He liked showing off the spur marks of British soldiers on the wide wooden floor boards; the diamond scratchings on the mullioned kitchen windows, the fact that the logs holding up the whole thing up in the basement still wore bark. Think of it! Three hundred year-old bark full of three-hundred year old worms.

“One is deserving of a decent style of comfort,” said Trevor. “Without submitting to brick-face and shag.”

He means kitchens and bathrooms with all the latest gizmos. Skylar’s bathroom had been redone at least twice in memory, Jake’s and Trevor’s once. Skylar needed a Jacuzzi because she played hockey and Jake and Trevor needed one because men don’t know how to clean themselves. And Jake is at constant risk of sex injuries. I almost gave him some.

“I like old things,” I said. I have a magnificent Victorian claw footed tub with its own copper boiler.
“What’s that, guvnor?” said Trevor. “Can’t hear you through your tongue stud.”

There’s the old Trevor. Miming the swollen-lipped, twisted-tongue diction of the deaf mute and pretending that it’s me. Throwing in a cockney accent for no reason at all. When in fact it’s a point of pride with me that no one can tell about my piercing. Not by ear.

When he returned to the bedroom I was trying to squirm my way into a t-shirt. He put a hand out to stop me.

“What are you doing? Don’t.”

“I thought I’d get us some breakfast,” I said. “Aren’t you hungry?”

“Yes,” he told me, “But not for food.”

Before breakfast would come again, so would I, and many times. He was kissing my neck now; erecting all the tiny hairs and making them sway to his baton like an orchestra conductor.
Afterwards we subsided blissfully against our sticky sheets, stickier even than the hottest Virginia summer when koi boiled in the pond. He lay between my legs, stroking my glistening pudenda.
“I don’t think you should ever get dressed again,” he said.

Uh oh. Don’t like the sound of that.

“You’re right,” I teased. “If I show up naked in court, of course they’ll Oz go. Why didn’t we think of this before?”

He sighed as he rolled over. “You’re such a buzz-kill.”

“Well, I hate it when you act like I’m your prisoner.”

“Who ever acts like that? I’m your prisoner.”

“No, sir!” I saluted him. “I insist on surrendering to you, sir!”

He jostled me, laughing. “I haven’t left my senses, if that’s what’s worrying you. I’m trying to leave something on the plate for the other guests. I know you’ll get married someday.”

I pulled back haughtily. “Poets don’t get married.”

“They do. Again and again. And when you do…I’ll give you away.”
All this sex was making me giddy. I mock-gasped, “You’ll tell?”

No shaking his seriousness.

“I mean I’ll be there for you. I want you to know, I’ll never stand in your way. This is about what you want. What you need. I’m not going to let this…” sifting pink fur through his fingers…” ruin your life.”

Sex ruins people’s lives? Lament of the deflowered. No more flower. All gone.
“I knew it,” I said. “I knew you wouldn’t respect me in the morning.”

He seemed not to recognize my teasing.

“Not true.” He flew up against me, chest to chest, a man in the bed where only boys had been. “You can’t help but worry this will change our relationship and I’m trying to tell you, nothing ever can. You’re not just safe with me, you’re invulnerable. Nothing can touch you. Solemn promise.”
Strange Jesuitical rationales. Everything had changed forever and only a dummy wouldn’t see it.
“I trust you utterly,” I harrumphed. “When do we eat?”

“In a minute. I need you to write to Sunstroke U.”

A little creepy, don’t you think? He’s so determined! Brings out the bull headedness in me.
“I don’t have a computer,” I balked. “The police took them all.”

Oz said Lenny Bruce died from an overdose of police. I could see what he meant. I’m surprised Homeland Security didn’t get involved. They took Oz’s Koran, a personal present from His Majesty Moulay Hassan Deux, King of Morocco, plus the priceless eighteenth century de Sade annotated by the Scary General himself. If we ever get it back it’ll be covered in day-glo fingerprint powder and human yum-yum juice. Oz says that to the cops sex itself is a crime scene.

“You’ll be needing a laptop anyway,” Trevor told me, “And probably a car. You and Shelley can use it while you’re here, and then when you go to college, you can take it with you.”

I was impressed. He wouldn’t give Fayette a friendship bracelet and I was getting a laptop and a car after one night’s tumble! Of course as head of the family he’s supposed to take care of me, but it did feel kind of uncomfortable getting all these things after sex. Although honestly, the perfume I got before. Did it make a difference that I hadn’t asked for them?

“What if Oz isn’t acquitted?”

I whispered this forbidden worst-case scenario. Because then we wouldn’t get Colleen’s estate.
“I swear to you he will be,” Trevor said confidently. “He’s innocent.”

Glorious having the kitchen to ourselves for a long, leisurely breakfast. We made eggs, bacon and toast; Trevor fried tomatoes; a heart-stopping feast. Unlike Trevor, I leave nothing on my plate for the next person. Fuck ‘em, I say. Besides, I usually am the next person, and as I think I said before, I am uncommonly hungry.

“Oh I’m going to be a fat little poetess,” I hummed, blissing out. “Completely spherical.”

“Greed is a great quality in sex,” said Trevor. “Don’t lose it. Now that I’ve finally experienced someone who has it besides me, I have to say it seems essential.”

Another peek into a different Trevor.

“So…. how long have you thought about doing… what we did?”

He shrugged. “Forever. I used to pretend Fayette was you.”

“Really,” I was amazed. I felt almost sorry for that bitch Fayette. I wonder if he told her he keeps that Arthur Rackham print beside his bed because the redheaded sprite looks just like me.

“I bet you say that to all the girls.”

He closed his eyes, the better to reminisce.

“There was one day in the swimming pool that I especially remember. The first time you wore a thong. You were thirteen. I was nineteen.”

I remembered too.

“The pink bikini,” I said. “I never did get up the nerve to wear it away from home.”

Never did. Buttocks are just too problematic, and in looking over my shoulder into the mirror, I thought I spied some extra pairs. I recall noticing Trevor noticing me, and it gave me confidence, especially coming from his hard athleticism. I recall his chest hypnotically shiny with the water streaming down it. We were both in slow motion, then. He seemed like a grown up man, diving and diving. It occurred to me now that he was showing off. Showing off for me.

“You didn’t do anything about it.”

“Who says?” He sighed. “I ravished some poor unsuspecting girl.”

And I knew who she was! Betsy Urquhart. In the pool house, while I listened. I had been jealous of her too, because she had real breasts with little pointy ends to snare Trevor’s full attention. What if I drowned without him there? His hands were all over her; she glistened like a mermaid.

“Not that she was any competition for you,” Trevor finished.

“Do you think she knew?”

“Probably could tell something was off. But it always is at that age. Take it from me, the teens is a desert to crawl through. Emerge alive on the other side and it’s a miracle.”

“Thanks for telling me,” I said. “I have two years to go.”

“I was thinking about men,” he said, then, because of Jake, “Sentient men. God only knows what girls go through.”

I wasn’t willing to let him off this delicious hook.
“I don’t believe you really felt that way about me.”

But he was thoughtful. Remembering.

“They could always tell I was pining for somebody,” he recalled thoughtfully. “Alexa used to tease me about “the one that got away.” Fayette called me “The Man Who Wasn’t There.”

Alexa…what was her last name? She was an import he met at a Washington youth leadership conference and took to the Napier senior prom. Colleen gave her Skylar’s room to dress in; I discovered the erotic thrill of voyeurism as I spied her preparations. Men should realize that when women anoint their bodies they’re imagining other hands, so dressing is an act of masturbation.

Alexa too was my exact opposite …tall, calm, soignée. Watching I became frecklier, stubbier and snottier. What sane person would trade that goddess for a dappled, scruffy little tagalong?
But even if Trevor was rewriting his own past, maybe we have to, since life is only understood backward.

After breakfast it was up to the Children’s Attic to drag down the Christmas decorations. It’s called the Children’s Attic because it can only be reached by the sort of miniature door usually encountered in fairy tales. I guess in the old days servants were a race of miniature people, probably growing more and more stunted through abuse and starvation until extincted, like pygmies. Poor Colleen complained about their absence. She ended did most of the work herself.
Vermillion is a cool old house, no question. Living in the midst of all that history is wonderful and we’re all very fortunate, yada, yada, yada. But when Trevor got the termite bill I thought he was having a coronary. At twenty-five! Let’s face it, at least a third of the rooms are unlivable at any given time, and when it finally dawns on you how expensive historically-certified non-leading plasterers, beveled glass restorers and boutique carpenters are, drywall and vinyl siding start to sound pretty good.

When I was growing up, the thing I liked most about living here was that it never mattered what the weather was like. Plenty of places to play out of sight of the grownups. Those dynamics of interior play – (The French Resistance versus the Columbian Guerillas; the Stupids versus the Smarts) — stand us in good stead now when we can’t step out of doors without seeing statues sporting telephoto lenses. Not the effect Colleen was going for.

It also meant that if you ever needed to be really alone, it was easy enough to arrange, although I must say Trevor showed a psychic ability to locate me when he needed to. Big Brother Global Positioning. Still, he would retreat when I yelled, and he never gave my hiding place away.
I’m ready to move on. It’s not like it’s some ancestral estate. We’ve only lived here fourteen years. There are other cool places in the world – such as the rafters of Paris or the dockside of San Francisco. I don’t mention these heresies to Oz, or even Trevor. They both act like a pair of vampires forced to seek the magic dirt every evening. Masculine blindness is akin to gambling; when the stakes keep doubling, they only want it more.

We sent the decorations down in the dumbwaiter that used to be my favorite hiding place (I was the only one who could fit inside) and suggested trying Oz’s recipe for Tom and Jerries but Shelley said we’d get salmonella. Neither of the Stupids were any fun. Jake said an international murder trial is an ideal opportunity to throw out all the crappy homemade ornaments from our childhood and buy less shame-making things. I think the whole point of Christmas tree decorating is laughing at the old stuff. (I decorated a carrot with glitter!) I whispered to Trevor that we should have Christmas alone next year but he said that isn’t Christmas.

Trevor defended the gaudy, glitter-soaked paper chains I made when I was five and what he says, goes. Arguing, too, is traditional at Christmas time, especially with two Memory Keepers together in the same room. Maybe trying to recapture the past is always a bad idea.

Dealing with Trevor’s groceries was another level of scary. First, he totally forgot cat food, but perhaps it doesn’t matter, since either they have gone completely feral or the neighbors are feeding them. Oz kept them from the vet, fearing if they got fixed what would they have to live for? Probably they prefer it outside; we can hear them in the bushes, the sounds of breeding and fighting are virtually indistinguishable. Shelley says maybe they attack trespassers. It’s a charming thought.

What he had bought were huge bags of rice and beans and potatoes and onions like we were getting ready for the siege of Stalingrad. Food in its raw state needs so much preparation. Who has that kind of time any more, especially when you have to rest up for more sex?

When it was time for dinner, of course no one wanted to cook. That’s the thing he didn’t buy. Colleen’s recipe book is in some kind of shorthand – I doubt even Skylar could make sense of it. I pulled out Mrs. Beeton because at least she’s always good for laughs – (my favorite recipe says “Take a trout from the tank and stun it with a bat” — now that’s freshness)– but I didn’t want to cook either. Plus no trout to hand, not in the milk, not anyplace. It’s a whole lot easier to just collapse in front of a movie with a nuked pile of chicken, but I couldn’t talk Trevor out of a full-blown dining room meal with six kinds of forks. At least we made our own barbecue sauce out of lime salsa, pineapple marmalade and ketchup and it turned out to be pretty good, with the worthy assist of a Riesling Sylvaner from Oz’s cellar. Wine upgrades any event. Trevor brought up extra bottles to put in the fridge, including a bottle of Tattinger, though it’s plenty cold down there. But there are spiders. I didn’t ask him what the champagne was for. I thought I knew.

I soaked the labels so I could enter them in Colleen’s wine book. That’s a tradition I’m happy can get behind. All the great celebrations are in that book, menus, seating plans, thank you notes. Sometimes she added photos and other mementoes if she had the time.

Dessert was cherry vanilla ice cream; no Moolage bars for Brontë, alas. Away at college, he hadn’t noticed my taste upgrade to diet cappuccino. Oz says we always want what we can’t have. Or maybe he said we only want what we can’t have. Anyway it seemed heartless to complain when Trevor tried so hard.

All and all, a superior weekend. Considering. At any rate I’m spoiled for honeymoons. One is all you ever really need. Maybe one is all you can stand. The only rule we used was that the Desires of the Other are sacred. Mostly I want to experience everything and he wants to do everything to me so I’d say we’re well-matched. The worst moment came when he tried to talk me into moving into Skylar’s room, because not only is Skylar’s bed bigger but she has her own fireplace. And a private bathroom. No Jake, no Shelley.

I hated agreeing to a situation where returning to my own room would seem like an act of secession, but I knew if I fought, I’d lose. Serves me right for making such a big fuss about letting go of the past during dining room versus coffee table debate. (I lost that one too.)

My feeble revolt was why not his room; he ruled that flatly out. And why, do you think? Not because of Jake in the bathroom, but because it was the room he and Fayette shared. “Ruined by post-coital tristesse.”

A new word on me (Trevor is full of them) but when I asked for a definition, he said, “Buyer’s remorse.” Kind of funny considering he bought Fayette “consumables” only; never any valuables. Subtly reminding her she’s a consumable, I daresay.

So, out of arguments as usual (force majeure) I grudgingly schlepped my stuff over to Skylar’s. It was kind of a painful admission that childhood was over. She would not be coming home. But because of all her mother’s decorating Skylar’s stripped-down boudoir had a hotel-like quality that made making it ours so much easier. No tristesse in sight. So far, anyway.

On Sunday morning, after a breakfast of Trevor’s only specialty, egg foo yung (which seems to be an omelet with salad in it) Trevor forced all of us to go to church. Trevor loves church.
When Jake wailed, “I just hate all that fucking dogma,” Trevor said, “It all comes down to love, bro. Read the gospels. You’ll see what it’s all about.”

“Well, I’m down with that part of it,” said Jake.

“I hate the way those hypocrites stare at us,” Shelley protested, but she was already dressing. She knew when she couldn’t win.

“We’ve got to go, to help Oz,” said Trevor, and I understood what he meant, in spite of the fact that to Oz religion is at best an adorable antique folkway, and at worst, a bizarrely murderous superstition. He was prone to shouting out, “The king must die!” when he was supposed to say, “Hallelujah.”

I don’t like church either. I think it’s a conspiracy to ruin spirituality the way marriage is a conspiracy to ruin sex. Colleen said, “Church is a hospital for sinners, not a museum for saints.”

The people in the sin hospital didn’t appear to know that they were sinners. They stared at us so much it was like that scene in Village of the Damned where your mind is a brick wall crumbling brick by brick. I survived by thinking possessively and pleasurably about Trevor’s body beneath his clothes. My body, now. The first male body ever to belong to me. After church old Mrs. Urquhart came over and said comforting things about how Oz couldn’t possibly have done it and how everyone envied his relationship with Colleen. The whole time she was talking I was thinking of the things Oz said about her, that she was a “carpetbagger” and that all her taste was in her mouth. She didn’t know about that. It’s a benefit of having your foster-father on trial for murder that people stop asking you to smile. Don’t say, “Why the long face?” They expect you to be miserable.

After church Jake wanted to go out to eat but I couldn’t bear being looked at one more minute, so we compromised by driving to Wal-Mart where you can buy the boxed macaroni and cheese Jake loves and will eat by the gross, just so long as it’s mixed with garlic and sour cream.

Trevor was the commando we sent in to do the dirty while Jake and Shelley huddled in the Lexus faces averted, so no one would think they ever shopped at Wal-Mart.

When Trevor came out, he had an extra bag he refused to show me. A present. A consumable? No. I thought it might be a cookbook since everyone had been so rude about poor Mrs. Beeton, but when we were alone and I unwrapped it, it turned out to be queen size white flannel sheets covered with hearts for Skylar’s bed. They really did look kind of sweet with the white canopy and all that mosquito netting. Our own private world.

We brought in personal items to home-ify the place, but inevitably got into yet another argument about decorating. Trevor’s tastes are rather staid; “beauty” is “symmetry” in his book. He claims he can prove this. I rushed into the argument all unprepared (which you should never do with him) insisting its just the opposite. Beauty is surprise. Shock, even. You should be all stirred up, not soothed.

Fortunately champagne is the adult’s Band-Aid; blesses the boo-boos and makes them go away. Holding teetering glasses, we collapsed exhausted into the oyster satin wing chairs on either side of Skylar’s gas fireplace. Press a button and the logs are roaring. I noticed Trevor didn’t argue for old-fashioned values here — who wants to haul logs up three flights of stairs? Even if you have a dumbwaiter (which is really too small, you’d have to cut the logs to bits) it would get messy. I gobbled the damn champagne, trying to feel I was gaining a new room, not losing an old one. It’s like going away to school, isn’t it? Changing old things is much harder than getting something new entirely. Somehow you want to believe the past exists somewhere, and it just doesn’t. Some things are gone for good — like Colleen — and it just seems so brutal. Maybe it’s time for me to cultivate an artistic detachment from possessions. It’s going to be hard when I’m so greedy and I want everything. This is why couples go away for the honeymoon. If they tried merging their pasts at the same time as their bodies there would never be anything but divorce.

Of all the Goddamned things, Trevor wanted to talk about the trial. As if it wasn’t coming soon enough.

“The worst hasn’t even happened yet,” he said glumly, as if my mother’s long-ago death couldn’t possibly be the worst. So what could it be? Would they produce those letters Oz wrote to the local paper, calling the police Nazis for interfering with our underage drinking parties?

Trevor topped off our anti-depressants. “Craig says they’re going to play the gay card. It’s so horrible I haven’t told Jake.”

I groaned. It’s a basic tenet of Oz’s philosophy that everyone’s “polyamorous”. I’ve never felt even a flicker around girls, but Oz says lacking a mother has made me too masculine. He said ultimately it’s a good thing because writers have to be “coldhearted” in order to “pare down”. But enough about me. The question before us is how to explain that Oz took the rugged camaraderie of all-male societies and up-down hierarchies just a little further than a Virginia jury might be comfortable with. No use appealing to their respect for the ancient Greeks. Oz’s taste for soldiers would not look good in open court.

“It’s irrelevant,” I moaned. “What does it have to do with anything?”

“Craig says you can rely on the state to throw all the muck they can dig up, and in seventeen years there’s plenty of muck in anyone’s life. They’re making it a motive.”

Oz likes muck — because of its fertility — and says people fear the primitive because it reminds them of being out of control. But the point is that Oz would never trade Colleen’s home-making competence for having some macho schoolboy around 24-7, nor would he want to live in a society exclusively of men. He’d hate prison.

“ Colleen knew all about it,” I protested. “It’s the opposite of motive.”
Trevor seemed surprised. “How’d you figure?”

“Well, she was tired of sex. Wasn’t she? Going through menopause? ”
“Maybe. But she was still jealous.”

“Who could be jealous of hired escorts? Oz didn’t bring even any of them home. I used to think it would be better if he did find a nice boyfriend with some domestic skills. Give Colleen a break.”
Trevor laughed out loud. I had cheered him up, anyway. He looked at me fondly as if my naiveté was just too, too adorable.

“But Brontë, he needed four hundred dollar an hour hookers for his “specialized tastes”. Wouldn’t that make you jealous?”

I considered. The problem was S & M. Colleen was not into that and Oz was. I wouldn’t be with a guy whose tastes were so different. Certainly I knew what jealousy was. It meant you didn’t want to share. Colleen just did not seem to me like a jealous person. She shared everything with everybody. She put up with so much.

I tried organizing my thoughts but realized I was just too drunk. Trevor can argue when he’s drunk; I can’t. I’m out of my league. What would I do, for instance, if Trevor suddenly developed a fascination with threesomes? That’s the chic thing nowadays; even though Trevor is just the last person on the planet you can imagine splitting his intensity in half. Never say never. So what would I do? Well I would back off, because it would be a totally different deal.

Colleen liked the way Oz was. Lots of people did. He was too big to be confined to just one person. Testosterone poisoning makes some men want sex that’s more like fighting, but not that many women are into the rough stuff. If they are, it usually means they are suffering from testosterone poisoning too. Colleen was too tired all the time. She used to fall asleep over her computer. Just thinking about it made me yawn. I was the tired one now.

Trevor picked me up and carried me deep into the mosquito netting. “Time for bed, sleepyhead.”
Like so many people, what he said was not exactly what he meant. As he undressed me, he was facedown in my belly, kissing it. I was almost not in the mood for sex; my mind was so full. It required a special adjustment. Trevor used to be an Eagle Scout. He knows how to be patient. He can start a fire from practically nothing. Starting without so much as a spark, he soon rewarded both of us with a satisfying blaze.