Unfortunately, Ron was already pacing and angry when I got home. I guess it was an evening of firsts. I felt first guilt, then a cold, unpleasant wedge of fear across what was left of my gut. But in our game of emotional isometrics it wouldn’t do to show him. I had to force myself to act unconcerned as I strolled through the kitchen door.
“You went out,” I said, tossing my purse to the chair. Missing, dammit. “So did I.” “You were out with some guy,” he sneered. “How could you think I wouldn’t find out?” Lucky guess or did Ron have spies? Here was something Bolio obviously hadn’t thought of. Me either, for that matter.
“I don’t know his name,” I said, walking past him up the stairs. “He just happened to be there so I talked to him. You talk to people, I talk to people. I’m sure your spy told you we never touched each other.”
He was following me up the stairs too closely. It was all I could do to keep from running. Showing fear would be fatal; I would lose my upper hand. I found myself thinking frantically about possible weapons, methods of escape. Slam my door shut and jump out the bedroom window? Now!”
“I don’t believe you!” he barked. “Strip!
Physical fear is a disgusting and unforgettably horrible experience. Ron was drunk, but not enough to help me out. His eyes glowed insanely. If I’d had a gun I would have rescued Bolio then and there. In all our time together I had seen Ron this mad plenty of times; just never at me. Because I never challenged him. How had I ever lived with this man? Kidded myself that I was free? I started undressing because I knew I had to or he would tear the clothes off me. What was he after? I could no longer read him. He pushed my garments aside and put his hands on my body – hard. “Where did you get those marks?”
He pried my thighs apart. I tried to back away from him, almost tripping over the bed.
“You made them yourself, this morning. Don’t you remember?” I bruise easily. Cost of doing business. “Twice.”
He flipped me to my stomach. He had a lot of strength. “You’re lying. Who have you been with? What did you do?”
Out of his back pocket he pulled the handcuffs and began to smack them menacingly against his palm. At the sight of them I began to shriek and babble. I’ve never liked confinement or restraint – this was not a game I cared to play. As I’d suspected, my fear only emboldened him. He handcuffed me right to the headboard. I couldn’t help showing fear, so I needed Plan B. Maybe if I just cooperated with everything I could calm him down. I wasn’t guilty after all, not of what he thought. He bent over sniffing me. Sniffing me like a dog.
I kicked at him furiously. Big mistake. He stared at me as incredulous as if I’d aimed a punch. Then he started taking off his belt. I began screaming, but out on the country there was no one to hear. We were both out of control.
“Don’t come near me! Don’t touch me! I’m leaving! I’m calling the police!” I said everything except, “I’ll kill you,” which was the only true thing. He was a dead man from that moment. He beat me, rhythmically, shouting, “Don’t -Ever-LieTo-Me-Again!”He said he only hit me six times – but I wasn’t counting. I floated away.
I floated away because I hate being trapped. Closed my mind because, in spite of everything I’d ever thought, everything I’d ever felt, everything I’d ever done, my life came down to the fact that I was the sort of person to whom this happened. That was the truth about me. Was there blood? It hurt a lot. He said, “You brought it on yourself.”
I could tell from his face that he was the scared one now. That meant there were marks. Now the police would lock him up for the night on just my say so. He knew that. He uncuffed me, asking solicitously,
“Are you going to be good?”
I pulled the comforter up over my head and snuggled down into a hot fetal nest, the way I used to when I was a little girl. Gone. I didn’t want the police. I planned for better than momentary satisfaction. I am a cultivator and my plans were flowering hugely.
I heard him talking to himself, stomping around and muttering, something about putting a roof over my head, giving me gas money, being entitled to respect. Entitlement? On the “fairness planet,” he would be squashed at birth like the bug he was. It was up to me to squash him.
“Well, I’m going on a rubber run,” he said. “Now that I can’t trust you any more.” I didn’t want him out in the world, babbling to sets of sympathetic ears about his horrible, ungrateful devastation of an evening. So I lowered the comforter. “Nothing happened,” I said. “I guarantee you. I swear to you. You’re the only one.”
Was there something in him that was wishing I was lying, so the beating would be OK? Who cares? Try too hard to understand someone and you let them invade you. I had to play through. My conciliatory attitude inflated his confidence.
“Well, next time I won’t just beat your pretty ass,” he said in a big voice for the trees to hear. “I’ll toss you out.”I reached for him. Hardest thing I ever did.
I proved it. Next day I was very sore. I woke up first as I always did, stepping out of bed over the pants I’d sucked off him. I made coffee, brought him a cup. As he drank, he looked me over with a fond smile.
“Let me see your tail.”
I turned. He pleated my buttocks with his hands, petting his handiwork. “Nothing. It’ll be gone in a week.”
He found me sitting out in the garden with a glass of wine. No comment on how early it was to be hitting the bottle.
“I’m going to PepBoys. Need anything?”
What the hell would I be needing at Pep Boys? Thank God for dark glasses. I didn’t trust myself to answer. dinner?”
He persisted. “Got everything you need for Cyanide? Rat poison?“Sure,” I managed.“Enough wine?”
He was teasing now. He liked that I was hitting the bottle. Not so superior now, was I? He could see I’d turned some sort of corner, but he couldn’t tell where that left him. heard.” “Liquor stores aren’t open on Sundays, so I He rattled his keys. “I’ve got connections.”
“Sure then.” Let him be seen buying illegal booze all over town. “St. Emilion.” There’s a touch of my old self. “Nothing later than ’94.” Blowing smoke, but he wouldn’t know. He never knew. He drawled, “Right.”Then he was gone. Free! I went straight to the phone and hit 2 on the speed dial.
Would Bolio be in the office on a Sunday, cooking the books, trying to make sense out of his own addicted senselessness? And if so, would he answer? He did, on the second ring. possible.”
“I want him dead,” I said. “As soon as “What happened? What’s up?” He kindled at my change in tone.“He beat me up last night. First time.”
“Could be a problem. Is it visible?”“It could be a problem! Hell, it’s more than a problem. I almost killed him myself.”“We don’t want you to have too obvious a motive, that’s all.”“No. Not visible.”
“Well, what happened?”
“Someone saw us together, you and me. But they didn’t seem to know who you were.”
“We might be able to carry it off tonight. Make sure the liquor flows. Stay away from the stuff yourself. Right before bed, take him out to the garden to look at the moon, or whatever. I’ll do the rest.”
I prepared steaks the way Ron liked them, rubbing them with garlic and mustard, pounding them thin. While I worked, my mind wouldn’t stop whirling. Back when I was having chemotherapy, they threw a therapist at me. She made much of the fact that I’d lost my dad at age 5. Lays you open to subsequent depression, she said. Making it sound like that caused the cancer.
Death, she said, would be “processed” by my five year old self as rejection. “Narcissistic injury”. When I told her I didn’t believe in wasting time in depression, she made one of those “damned if you do and damned if you don’t” modern therapy comments; said, “Maybe you don’t allow yourself to feel it.” That remark has bugged me all my life. If I was going to start getting even, that dame would be on my list. Blaming my poor dead dad for cancer. Telling me she knows my feelings better than I do.
If I had ever been depressed I was no longer. Instead, I was galvanized, pulsating with excitement in every cell. Call it “The murder cure”. I laughed out loud as I imagined myself writing a book, becoming famous, touring the talk shows. “Sometimes You Just Have to Kill ‘Em.”
“Well, Geraldo, all I can say is it worked for me.” I set the table with my best linen, china and silver, things used only once or twice a year. Ron would be impressed. He never knew they weren’t my antiques. I had always tried to convey the impression I was wellborn, a mysterious wealthy family somewhere off in the mist. Of course I’d bought all the things myself. Presents to myself.
If I am the one who gives them their meaning, I might as well give them their existence. That’s the way I look at it, whatever people say. The only thing I really want is that chainsaw mermaid. Everything else is a substitute. If while looking for her I found a wonderful piece of china or silver instead, it was like a gift from my dad.
I actually tried telling that damned therapist about my chainsaw mermaid, and how much she meant to me, about how I lay in bed imagining her looking at me from the woods, peering through the trees, and it gave me such a sense of reassurance. I felt so safe. But the stupid therapist said, “Why does she feel she can’t come inside?”
Because she’s a garden sculpture, you idiot! That’s what I wanted to say. Instead I clammed up, because I was too sick. But the real question is, why didn’t I go out into the woods to join her? I couldn’t go, because I was only five years old, but I was not five years old any more. The woods were beckoning, dark and deep. Boiling with life and possibility.
Ron was late coming home, and when he did, it was obvious he’d been boozing. When he saw my slinky black dress, heels and makeup and the ornamental table, he thought just what I wanted him to think, which was that I was trying to make up to him. Apologizing for upsetting him so much he had to hit me. Big You, Little Me.
He pinned me up against the kitchen wall and gave me a tongue bath. I wondered how many bars he’d visited. All of them, I hoped.
“Got you something,” he told me, after he’d scored my thong as a trophy. “Come and look.” My trophy was a fairly new looking, bright blue Pontiac GrandAm. I knew him too well to even imagine he had put it in my name. It was just about the most repulsive thing, outside of Ron himself, that I’d ever seen. Don’t care for “push” presents.
“Only thirty thousand miles on it”, he bragged. “Sure beats that ancient Beamer of yours.” In Ron’s world, everything “beats” something. I guess it’s beat or be beaten. You bought your own coffin, Ron, I thought. I had a hard job convincing him not to take us out for a spin. Told him you can’t keep red meat waiting!
For his last meal I fed him all his favorite food. Ranch dressing on his salad, cheese poured all over his vegetables – restraint was gone for good. He didn’t offer St Emilion – lowballed me with California Riesling instead – but I was only pretending to drink so it didn’t matter. Ron, who considers wine an affectation, swilled several bottles of Magic Hat.
Was I going overboard? Was he too drunk to realize I wanted him to explode? But he accepted it quite unironically in tribute to his kingliness. He even finished my dinner.
“You go sit in front of the TV,” I said. “I’ll clean this up.”Should I make coffee? I didn’t want to sober him up one iota, but I needed the stuff myself. Hell, I could throw brandy in his.
As I was carrying plates out through the pantry I was annoyed to discover the light was off. I know I’d left it on. Must have been the bulb.
But then Bolio detached himself from the darkness and stepped into my path. “Having fun yet?” he asked, touching my neck. Left hand-right hand. Tried to kiss me.
I smelled scotch, cigar and sweat. He wore a suit but no tie, and his shirt was partially unbuttoned. I was angry that he had broken with our plan and let his gambler out and enraged that he’d been drinking, but I couldn’t do much with all those plates in my hand. I tried to push around him, but his hands grabbed my shoulders.
The light went on. It was Ron, screwing in the bulb and gaping at us, too stupefied to speak. He shook his head as if to clear hallucinations.
Bolio lunged for him, grabbed his head and smashed it into the glass cabinet. Glass shattered everywhere, spraying out into the room in fine particles. I dodged away from them into the kitchen. They clutched each other and went down on the floor, rolling back and forth in the tiny space. Ron had the upper hand of knowing the room. He grabbed a drawer, pulling the contents down on himself. Uh, oh. Knives. He was on top – it looked to me as if Bolio was losing. His cell phone skittered across the floor.
But it was Ron who lost when I slapped the brandy bottle against his head. It didn’t break, but he went down and stayed down.
“Thanks,” said Bolio. I wanted to shriek at him for betraying our plan. But I never cuss when I can get even. “He dead?” I asked instead.“Not hardly. Better tie him up, he could come to at any moment.”
“How are we going to explain this mess?” We were out of the plan and floating free. “We’ll take the crime scene elsewhere. Clean it up. Tell anyone who’s interested he was going to replace the cabinet fronts. We’ll break the window on that new car of his and hope they can’t tell one kind of glass from another. Got any bungee cords?” I went to get them.
“And a couple cans of whatever he was drinking. Full.” Ron up.
“Bottles.” I produced them as he trussed “I suppose that will do. Ready to roll.”“I’ll get my coat.”“You won’t need it.”
“Will too.” I certainly didn’t tell him why. My coat pockets have gloves.
“Nice new car,” said Bolio as he bundled Ron into the front seat of the Pontiac. I followed them in Bolio’s diesel Mercedes. At the railroad crossing Bolio propped Ron up in the driver’s seat and began removing the bungee cords.
Ron was coming to, moaning. I came slowly up behind Bolio and from my pocket whipped out the handcuffs, cuffing both him and Ron to the steering wheel. I counted on a moment of drunken, frozen amazement to be able to steal the car key and I got it. I threw it across the tracks. Bolio couldn’t puzzle it out. With all his best efforts, best intentions, the house kept winning. “What’s this?” he demanded drunkly. “No time for this, babe.”
“I’m not your babe,” was all I said. See? Save your breath for the important stuff. It was already almost midnight, so I got in his car and drove away.
I would have liked to stay and tell him I’d figured out who reported seeing me with a man to Ron, but I could already hear the train. Maybe Bolio salted the earth a bit, never wasting an opportunity to point out to Ron how little I gave for what I got.
Bolio was banging on the hood and screaming so loudly I was afraid he’d rip out the steeping wheel. But he hadn’t managed to do it by the time the train blew through.
As soon as I got home I called the police. My husband and his lawyer had a terrible fight. Something about money. When it turned physical and they started smashing things, I ran upstairs. Then they drove away in Ron’s car. Since they were drunk as well as angry, I was scared, so I took the lawyer’s car and tried to follow them but I couldn’t find them. I was afraid something awful was going to happen.
The police were extremely uninterested in things that were about to happen. No emergency that they could see. So instead of cleaning up I took a nice hot bubble bath, with music and candles. I was still in the bath when I got the call about the train crossing.
Bolio was right. There was a lot of money. But I was most surprised to get a check from the Client Security Fund, some special fund that compensates people for thieving lawyers. The attorney who brought me the check was such a nice young man. He explained with great seriousness how apologetic the Bar Association was, but in a whole barrel of apples one or two are often bad, and poor Mr. Bolio was infected with the disease of gambling. Maybe they’ll find a cure someday, said the nice young man handing me the check.
Actually he was infected with the disease of losing, I thought, but I certainly didn’t say so. And they’ll never find a cure for that.
Seems criminal that a person has to wait thirty-nine years to acquire a garden, but that’s what happened to me.
My father was a sculptor — a master of transformations. His day job was arborist so his tool was a chainsaw. He made many fantastical creatures to populate our wild garden — dragons, demons, griffons. My mother believed too much in personal freedom even to weed – thus giving my father’s creations their perfect background. When my dad asked me what I wanted him to make for me I said, “Mermaid” – the Little Mermaid being all the rage that year. So she was born – a chainsaw mermaid to watch over me through the sumac saplings. Then my father died and life assumed a different mien.
Turns out there is no freedom without money – a brutal fact with which my mother seemed unprepared to cope. When the process servers came, the things I’d always known were sold piecemeal.
I’ve haunted junk shops and garden stores ever since, certain I would someday find something of his again, and when I did not, well, it only proves how unwilling anyone would be to part with such masterpieces. But everyone has to die eventually, right? Someday I would find them. And!the right garden to put them in.
Ron never wanted to be a homeowner, just like he’s never wanted to get married. “Steps to the grave” is what he calls such behavior. He’s more concerned about premature burial than Poe ever was. But he’s been so successful in the construction business that finally his lawyer made him see reason, by actually accusing him of throwing money away. That lawyer is the only person I’ve ever heard of who can make Ron do anything. His technique? Numbers.! Show Ron the numbers, and prove to him he’s wasting money.
If numbers aren’t my thing, neither is begging or cajoling. The really worthwhile things in life are without numerical expression. If a person can’t figure that out for themselves then God help them, I say.!! Ron already has a sneaking suspicion my brain is better than the one he’s got and he wastes too much time trying to convince himself of the opposite. It’s a sore spot – one he irritates himself. I was less than thrilled about moving, after finally getting the garden at the rental place just the way I like it. I could hardly imagine that Ron, acting alone (or even with his lawyer) could come up with a house acceptable to me.! Partly because Ron is!the King of Deals – he won’t buy anything unless the price is an absolute steal.!What else can you expect from a man who chains his wallet to his pants? So I took it for granted the place he bought was a dump. Rental agents have legal standards they’re required to maintain, but you can slap a “for sale” sticker on anything. Since Ron’s expertise is construction,! he’s not bothered by little details like missing roofs or bathrooms. He likes to pee outside anyway.
I’m happy to say I was very surprised. Yes the house – and garage – were a dump and going to be an eternity of work – but that garden! Or “yard” as Ron calls it. Huge! Gorgeous! So overgrown – very reminiscent of the garden of my childhood. Haunted by the ghosts of perennials – hollyhocks and roses and dahlias and poppies– poking up through the weeds. Shadows of espaliered pears and pollarded crabapples. So much room! I was dazzled. I was in love. It was big enough for a water course – a koi pond or even a waterfall. A garden you could get lost !in. Delicious challenge!
I was unwise enough to let Ron see my rapture. Afterwards I heard him on the phone with his lawyer worrying about what constitutes common law marriage. Would I get some kind of legal hold over him by sharing his legal residence?! (He didn’t know I was listening, natch.) His lawyer reassured him that we don’t live in a common-law marriage state and Ron was all relieved. The property was in foreclosure – too good a deal to allow to slip away.! Some other guy’s grief was Ron’s tax break, because the garage was big enough to store business equipment and there was room enough for a home office. So after offer and counteroffer, scaring me half to death, he bought the place.
Don’t ask me what Ron’s problem is. I’ve got too strong a gag reflex to study anyone’s psyche closely. All I can say is Ron appears to operate on the basic theory that women are always trying to force men to do things they don’t want to do and the only manly stance is Resistance. In our relationship, I’m cast as the Nazis and he’s the French Underground. Emotional isometrics.! At the beginning of our relationship he used to try to get me to take any position, just so he could pick the opposite side. If I switched, he switched. I’m too wily for that now.!I don’t care about marriage. I was married before and it was sufficiently unpleasant that I wouldn’t care to go through anything like it again. The short version is, I was diagnosed with ovarian cancer and my husband bailed. He was the type who has to be having sex every minute and if you’re under the weather, he’s out the door. And no kids? Dealbreaker.
I! beat the cancer – I’m a survivor. Forget marriage. I’ve explained all this to Ron this over and over, but Ron thinks women automatically lie about everything. At the start of our relationship it was condoms, condoms, condoms. He’s a double bagger — he just wouldn’t take my word for anything. “That’s what they all say,” was his wittiest retort. We must have had sex 180 times before there came that one time when he “wasn’t prepared.” Of course that makes them want it even worse.!I said,“Don’t worry,! baby, I took care of it.”
Bit of a euphemism for massive organ removal, wouldn’t you say? But things improved from that day forward.!!As a cultivator, bound by the cycles of the seasons, I cultivate patience. I care about potential, about becoming. One thing I learned from my mother is, don’t waste energy. Allow nature to take its course. I respected Ron enough to allow him to take his course; he would love me or not, as he needed to; we would stay together or not. Whatever.
We’d been together five months – approaching the Critical Half Year – when I got The Speech. He had to wire himself up with a few beers first so I could see something big was coming. He told me he was never getting married and he never wanted children, and I could live under his roof and cook his food and tease his penis but that was it.
I probably gave him the shock of his life by telling him it was fine with me. Whew! I was afraid he was going to tell me to get a job but as long as he pays the bills and lets me do what I want I consider myself lucky. I’ve got too many plans of my own to sign my time over to someone else.
So I gave Ron my speech. I said that since the condom’s disappearance I had assumed we were a monogamous pair, but if he ever wanted to partake of foreign delights, I would appreciate its reappearance. I wouldn’t say a word of criticism – he was as free as a bird. But I’d be grateful for protective impulses. I’ll share, but I don’t gamble with my health. He said “OK.” Although I considered we had an ironclad agreement I couldn’t resist being a bit curious about him. I wasn’t surprised to discover that his most potent fantasy is being handcuffed to a bed. “Control freaks!”
Careful not to wear her out I saved Dungeon Mistress for our “special” nights. His other fetish seemed to be taking nude pix of me – I have a great body and I don’t mind showing it off – but I draw the line at action fare. And I was gratified to see the condom never again reared its ugly head. In a relationship like ours, “Love” is a forbidden word. You don’t want to hear Ron on the subject of love – it’s his least attractive side. He totally buys into the self-interest explanation of why people do things. “Love” doesn’t exist – it’s just dressed-up lust, a social lie people tell to make themselves feel better, yada yada yada.
He’s “freed” himself from all that. I did feel sometimes like I was having sex with a fifteen year old – he’s not that much younger than me – but if he’s immature, he has other qualities. I learned not to scare him with the things he can’t understand. It just messes with his hard-ons.
I’m the Queen of Deals myself — I haunt consignment and thrift stores. It’s amazing the treasures you can find. That night I wore my red silk Halston with the long skirt – slit right up to here – and no blouse beneath the jacket.! It doesn’t need a blouse unless I lean way forward, which I wasn’t planning to do. I put on long dangly jet earrings and all my rings.
I enjoy being alone in restaurants — I insist on one set place so everyone can see I’m not expecting company. I love the whispering, the speculation; whatever they guess about me is wrong. I even enjoy the occasional attempted pickup, but so far I haven’t been tempted to accept. Ron keeps his weirdnesses well hidden – he’s a handsome man with a gorgeous body – and he knows what I like in bed — so he’s actually made my standards higher. If he’s intellectually lacking, well, a game of intellectual chess usually results in boudoir disappointment, I find. So who could seduce me? Perhaps a man the exact opposite of Ron – wearing, say, a Tom Ford suit with art deco cufflinks; blond, foreign, cosmopolitan.! None of those hanging around our corner of the world.! Not so far.
I’d been busy with the move and I hadn’t had the opportunity to study the “fine dining” pages and pick a place to patronize, as is my usual amusement. Plus, now that we lived in the country I really didn’t want to go all the way to town. The Smithy was the furthest outpost I could think of where the food was impressive, the ambiance acceptable and the decibels dulled so I steered the BMW there. At the entrance to the restaurant I was hurrying from the parking lot as fast as possible in stilettos when I bumped into somebody.! Come to think of it, he bumped into me. “Renata,” he said. “Right?”
“I don’t know you.” I halted abruptly. This was not my dream man, but he was wearing a suit. He was about my height with a receding hairline and long, messy salt and pepper hair. An unkempt moustache. Looked a bit like the manager of a rock group or somebody of that sort.
“Oh yes you do, Renata. You know me quite well. It’s true we’ve only talked on the phone, but we have so much in common. I’d like to buy you dinner tonight.” Hmmmm. Nothing familiar about those bloodhound cheeks, those sad, sad eyes. But he was right. The voice I recognized.
“Brad Bolio,” I said. “You’re Ron’s lawyer.” “Right.”! We were standing in the doorway blocking traffic. He took my elbow and steered me inside.
“How did you know I was coming here?” I asked. “I didn’t even know myself till about twenty minutes ago.”
“I followed you. I’ve been following you for days.”
Questioning my memory, I hadn’t noticed him – I hadn’t noticed anybody. But thirty-nine-year-olds don’t expect stalkers. !So I allowed myself to be led to a table. I noticed he chose the darkest corner.
I ordered the grilled salmon; he selected the lobster ravioli and a bottle of St.Emilion. A vintage that can lead you astray.
With the long habit of saying the exact opposite of what I’m really thinking, I said, “It’s kind of flattering to be followed. What did it tell you about me?” “That you’re a deal taker and a risktaker. I already knew you were clever and cultured. Ron brags about you. “
Jawdropper. I had to struggle not to react. Ron, bragging to others about the very things he criticizes in me?! Be still my heart!
“I assume you know he has nude pictures of you on his phone and he shows them to everyone. Waitresses, cops, flagmen. People he’s just met. They’re his calling card.”
This info was less welcome. If he was trying to get a reaction out of me, he’d scored. My one hope was in all this darkness he couldn’t tell how dark I’d reddened. Brad Bolio eyed me glitteringly.
“I ask myself why the hell do you put up with him?” He answered his own question. “I’m guessing you’re addicted. Addicted to comfort.” The wine was delicious. I pushed away the forgettable food to concentrate on its dark delight.
“You’ve got me,” I said. “I’m a lazy risktaker.” I always think of my father when I drink. Why? He used to get down on his knees to speak to me. No man has done it since. “Unfortunately,” Bolio was saying, “I’m a risk-taker too. And the house keeps winning.” A gambler! Poor bastard.
“I’ll bet you have a system,” I said.! I’m not a dumb risk taker. I would never bet against the house. The odds are deliberately stacked in favor of the house and everyone knows this. The key is to be the house.
“Let me show you something.”! He produced a black eelskin document case from his breast pocket and removed a folded square. He wore three big rings – Catholic high school, college and law school rings, judging by appearance. They’re usually the gaudiest. His precise movements didn’t match that big lazy body, so I psychoanalyzed him for amusement. I can smell “internal conflict”. I visualized the gambler in fisticuffs with the attorney, picturing each in a variety of hats. Cowboy? Coonskin? Maybe a Cardinal’s hat to go with those ostentatious rings. He produced a cigarette lighter – gaudy and bejewelled – and lit it so that I could read the paper.
It was a marriage certificate, made out for Ron Valerio and me. Ron’s side was signed; a line awaited my signature. Somehow, in the midst of packing and unpacking the UHaul, it seemed we had found the time to go to Vegas.
“Who are these witnesses?” I demanded. “They’re going to know it wasn’t us.”
“They’re professional witnesses,” said Bolio. “A Franklin is the only face they recognize.” “It really looks like his signature,” I teased. “Must be one of his surprises. I wonder when was he going to tell me?”
“It ain’t real, sweetheart, but the minute you sign it, it’s legal,” and Bolio stretched it helpfully out on the table and offered me a pen. “What Ron doesn’t know won’t hurt him. There’s a will, too. I’m a Renaissance man with many gifts – I’ve been signing Ron’s name for years. Sign here so you will no longer live in sin.! Then everybody’s happy.”
Maybe after a day of hard work, on an empty stomach and three glasses of wine, I was as high as a kite, because I signed. But I still wasn’t getting it. I was certain Ron knew all about this. It was some kind of underhanded legal maneuver – like, we’re married if it suits Ron financially, and not when it doesn’t. That touchstone. A marriage of convenience. I tolerate ambiguity less well when drunk. challenged.
“Did Ron ask you to come here?” Bolio summoned the waitress and addressed her flirtatiously from beneath his lashes. “This lady is cut off,” he said. “Get her a double espresso.”
“Hey, I signed,” I said. “So how come I don’t get another bottle of wine?! You could always drive me home.”
Bolio sighed. “Because I have something very serious to discuss with you and you need your wits about you. And no, Ron definitely doesn’t know I’m here.”
The waitress delivered my espresso with a smirk. I felt like giving her the finger. I was starting to feel rebellious but also antsy. Ron wouldn’t like me doing things behind his back – had I just done something stupid? Messed up my future? But if Ron’s signature was forged, couldn’t I claim mine was forged too? But would I get away with it?
Bolio poured cream so carefully over a spoon it floated on the surface of his coffee. Flashy dude. “Ron is very, very rich,” he said. “And he maintains a huge position in undeclared cash. But not as much as he thinks he’s got because when I was in a jam I helped myself to some of it.” “And now you can’t pay it back.” I guess the party was over. Regrettably the espresso was working.! Time to smarten up.
“I’d rather not pay it back,” said Ron’s attorney. “I’d rather kill Ron actually, but for that I need your help.”
“Why on earth do you want to kill Ron?” That got a reaction out of me. “Doesn’t everyone? Don’t you? Isn’t he the most irritating bastard you’ve ever met? He won’t marry you and he doesn’t love you. He says emotional involvement is for suckers. You got nothing, lady. I expected you to be smarter, actually. After you’ve worn your pretty fingers to the unattractive bone fixing up his brand new house, what’s to keep him from kicking you out and moving in a younger cutie?”
Of course that had always been a possibility. I simply enjoyed believing Ron couldn’t find anyone as wonderful as Wonderful Me. But Wonderful Me was definitely getting older and missing most of her insides. What if he got some cootchie pregnant? Ron wouldn’t be the first man to decide in his fifties that what he really wanted was a family. I had a sinking feeling Bolio knew plenty of things I didn’t know. But I was hinky. There was still that possibility of a setup. “Are you recording this?” I demanded.
“Why would I? I’d have to be crazy – since I’m doing all the talking, and you’re doing all the listening, right? So listen a little. I need an heir I can trust. You can’t lose! – it’s all gain.! He’ll leave a huge estate. There’s even insurance. We split fifty-fifty and you clear a cool mill after taxes. Did you know he paid cash for that house? Can you imagine such a thing in this day and age? The house would be yours. The cars would be yours. There’s no family around to spike your play. The partners will almost certainly offer to buy you out of the business. I could negotiate that for you. You don’t want to get ripped off.”
I knew better than to show the rage I was beginning to feel but my remarks were fairly cutting. “And we’ve established how trustworthy you are. My affairs would be so safe in your hands.” He was game; a game advocate. And so he advocated. “Look at it this way. We’d each be contributors to the body of the crime, so if we tell on each other we’d be telling on ourselves. My assessment of you is you’re too smart. You enjoy the finer things of life but spend all your time at flea markets. Here I am offering a free upgrade. Want to spend a lifetime in jail? Neither do I. I’m his executor, I’ll see his estate through probate, then we’ll say sayonara. I’m even willing to do all the wet work. The way I see it, all you’ve got right now, is Ron, and if you knew Ron as well as I know him, you’d realize that’s less than nothing.”
Before meeting Ron I was in sales, so I recognized this technique. Give the sucker two choices – yours and something horrible. Don’t let them think about what could go wrong. This is the same way he probably manipulates Ron.
“Don’t assume-“ I hissed with a little too much heat but he held up his hand.
“I’m not assuming anything. I’m asking. You can certainly refuse and that’s the end of it. I wouldn’t dare kill him if you say no, so his life is in your hands. I’ll pay the money back and look for other opportunities.” He shook the eelskin document. “Here’s your bonus for even talking to me about it. Goes in the safe and mum’s the word – only gets found if it needs to get found. All I ask is you sleep on what I’ve said for a week. One week. OK?”
He leaned over the table, gripping my hand in both his. A musky, heated smell of desire poured off him. He said troatily, “You’re settling for way too little, lady.”
Finally a come on! I pulled back and loosed my hand. Cocked a brow. “Is there a Mrs. Bolio?”
He threw down his napkin. “There’s a question I didn’t expect.! Should I be flattered?”
I guessed clever Mr. Bolio was still a secret to himself. “You know all about me. Tell me all about you.” I liked seeing him nervous. Unsettled. He rattled his rings against his coffee cup.
“There are no co-conspirators, if that’s what you’re asking.” “That’s not what I’m asking.”
“There are three Mrs. Bolios. All of them are too expensive. However, they are not in the picture at present.”
“Got a girlfriend?”
“All my exes live in Texas,” I hummed. He shook his head. “Can’t dignify her with the title.
“So here’s my final question. Wives or girlfriends –who do you treat better?”
His mouth worked his moustache nervously. He realized he was auditioning and he didn’t like it.
“I’ll agree with Ron about one thing. Marriage is best avoided,” he said shortly. “My advice to you is pass through engagement and head straight for widowhood. You’re going to be a very wealthy widow. I recommend it as the best of all possible worlds.”
Of course it didn’t answer my question. But it only raised my suspicion that the truth about Mr. Bolio was that his right hand and his left hand had never even met. When I drank the last cold little bit of espresso, I was sorry to see it go.
“Do you know how you’ll do it?! Have you gotten that far?”
Now he was on surer ground. “He makes it pretty damned easy by driving drunk every Saturday night. It’s not a question of how.! It’s a question of when. I favor jamming a beercan under his pedals and stranding him unconscious across the train tracks with the midnight Acela coming through. There’s a bad crossing the town fathers have been dithering about fixing for years. Three deaths there already. Simple but effective.”
Sounded functional. As the suicide hot line counselors say, his method was sufficiently lethal.! I rose abruptly.
“OK. I listened.”
“You’ve got one week,” he reminded me. “Call me. I’m number two on your speed dial.” That was also true. Over my shoulder I saw him paying for our dinner in cash. Ron’s cash, presumably.
This is not an easy tale to tell, Officer, but if you pay attention, I guarantee you’ll understand. I realize I should have known better than to let a guy pick me up in a bar. Tears after bedtime – sometimes even before. But what are bars for? And he had such an original line. And he himself was an original. Moments like that keep a girl getting up in the morning. I know what with your work you’re probably jaded. But let me assure you, lots of us still seek a “gloves off” experience. Without that narrow skull he would have been soap-opera handsome. His profile was perfect, but when he faced you head on, you couldn’t help feeling something was missing. And his haircut was strange – very curly at the top and nothing at the sides. Yet he was dressed like he came from money. I found it fun imagining him with long curly locks and a point-lace collar. Little Lord Foppington.
And then, as I said before, he packed such a refreshingly different line!
“I’d like to take you home to meet my grandmother,” he told me. I mean, come on! How often does a girl hear that sort of thing in a bar? Never even asked who I was. Never showed the slightest interest in my name. In a bandage dress and gladiator heels you wouldn’t have taken me for a Granny’s girl.
“Would you now?” I teased. “And why’s that?”shuddered as he glanced around at my competition.
“You look just like Patsy,” he said. He “These other girls are wearing – underwear for clothes.” That’s the fashion. Straight from work, they’d probably eagerly removed their suit jackets to show off their toned arms and their barely-there camisoles. I know I would, if I worked an office. Call it “Lewd Friday”.
He continued, “I dine with Gran once a month and she always insists that I bring Patsy. You don’t mind if she calls you Patsy, do you?”
“I’m not sure.” As I said before, this was totally new. Truth to tell I was a little tired of my life.
Anonymity, incongruity — the chance to play at being someone else did appeal in some strange kind of way. Still, a girl owes it to herself to check for lust murderers and anyone recently released from any kind of institution.
“So what happened to Patsy?”
He shook his head. “There is no Patsy. Let’s say Patsy is more of an ideal than a person.”
A compliment? Maybe. Never been called an ideal and asked to meet the granny in my whole life before, and I’ve been around the track. Sometimes I was the greyhound, sometimes the electric bunny. He paid my bar tab and his, taking it for granted that I’d agreed to go. Point number two in his favor: nobody pays for anybody anymore. But I remained somewhat leery as we exited into the parking lot, aware that at the last moment I could always break into a run. Let’s say I’ve learned to run in heels.
“Is it far away? Don’t tell me it’s in Pennsylvania someplace.” “Oh no,” he said. “It’s only two exits up.”
He drove a pretty old Alpha, lemon yellow with wood grain and leather interior. Nicely taken care of. Quite a distinctive car. Point number three. It decided me. Everyone knows serial killers drive muscle cars. American.
Still, I jumped at the chance to inspect the trunk when he offered. Can’t be too careful. “Would you like a blanket? I have one in the boot. The heater’s a bit iffy.”
The trunk contained dark brown luggage and a gift basket. No crowbar, no rifle, no chainsaw, not even a tire iron that I could see. Point four. Nick extracted a plaid blanket and tucked it over me as I crawled somewhat uncomfortably into the front bucket seat. In case I ever needed to, plan B was; throw the blanket over his head and grab for the keys. Tight squash even for two people. I said, “You didn’t mention your name.”
“I’m Nick,” he said. “Nick Quilliver.” He acted as if I might recognize it. I didn’t.
Subtle to the end, I “jostled” the glove compartment till it fell open. Contained only maps. No knives, handguns, or tasers. Point five in Nicky’s favor. Of course God knew what he had in his luggage but whatever it was, he couldn’t get to it very fast.
“You have to bang on that thing,” he said, giving it the full fist. He wore a pinky ring on his right hand. Ancient signety-looking thing. Point for or point against? Too late. We were off. But since he’d paid my bar tab at least I had mad money. I’ve made it a point to pay in cash ever since I discovered that if you use a credit card they find it all too easy to track you down. You know. Stalkers. Call it the price of beauty.
It was a difficult car to have a conversation in since it rattled like a soapbox derby with the wheels coming off. But as one used to conversing in bars, I gave it my best shot.
“So Patsy is blonde?” I shouted.
“Patsy has long, old fashioned hair. That’s what Grandmother likes.”
I didn’t tell him the hair was no more real than Patsy was. Still, it was comforting to know I had the option of changing my appearance substantially, if this whole project went smash.
“Grandmother likes, or Nicky likes?” “My name’s not “Nicky”, he snapped. “And my name’s not Patsy.”
But he didn’t ask me what it really was.
Two exits bullshit; we went all the way to Queen of Prussia. First lie. I paid close attention to directions in case I had to guide a cab driver, so I gave up on conversation.
I was demanding a big house at this point and I wasn’t disappointed. Dd you see it? Pretty impressive; a stone mansion at the top of a hill, blazing with lights. You enter the drive between a pair of gender- bender lions that could have been in better shape. Or were they hyenas? I’ve heard hyenas can change sex when they feel like it. Just to spice things up.
Nicky drove around to the back, where the shape of the house was concealed by masses of ivy. There was an old-fashioned half-timbered carriage house but Nicky parked right outside the back door and threw his keys beneath the seat. He fetched the gift basket and we entered into a narrow cloakroom where piles of broken crockery stood in baskets right beside the door, and an assortment of Homer Winslow outerwear hung to the left. As soon as we stepped into the light of the kitchen a tiny woman rushed forward in a blast of scotch.
Nick’s grandmother was short, with iron- gray hair pulled back in a bun. She wore mannish black- rimmed glasses with very thick lenses behind which her eyes seemed to float like anxious fish in an unfamiliar aquarium. She was attired in a neat lace blouse and a gray skirt appropriate for fifty years ago. The effect was somewhat ruined by casually applied vivid red lipstick and huge chunky glass dime-store earrings that couldn’t have been real. They couldn’t have been.
Makeup, palette knife, bottle of Johnnie Walker, it’s a bad combination, I was thinking as she enclosed me in her surprisingly muscular arms. You have to be careful not to get any of it on you.
“Patsy! I’m so glad to see you. Have you been watching the war?”
“Which war?” I felt disoriented. Gran cocked her head to look at me in tense disappointment. “The War. We. Are. Having.”
“I don’t watch the news. It’s too upsetting.” Really I just don’t have the time. I hadn’t been coached but it seemed I’d said the right thing, because she nodded excitedly.
“I know you’re busy with the Online. But you must have heard this – the president is an alien.” Poor president! I pictured him trying to cover up his reptilian feelers at press conferences. I glanced at my date but Nicky extruded no vibes.
“I never go online,” I hazarded. I mean, she was an old lady. Chat Roulette would probably kill her. “I prefer the papers.”
Her face broke into a delighted grin. “Bless you, Patsy!” Were those tears in her eyes? It had seemed a safe enough guess; over her shoulder I saw the kitchen table strewn with newspapers, and now that she bustled away with our coats, I got the chance to see they were super-mart tabloids. Explaining the “alien” comment.
We were in a kitchen so old-timey it should have been a museum. Metal counters, very tired green linoleum, green metal cabinets, and an iron range. At the table sat an ancient black woman who did not acknowledge our presence. She was carefully cutting articles out of the newspapers.
“Don’t bother with the coats, Edna,” shouted Mrs. Quilliver. “I’ve taken care of those. You make yourself busy with the canapés.”
It was so cold in the kitchen dinner appeared a hopeless project. Not to mention “canapés”. Looking closer, I saw that atop her unraveling sweaters Edna had pasted a “Hello, I’m Hannah” sticker. Maybe she would acknowledge us if Mrs. Quilliver ever got her name right. Possibly Hannah didn’t like being an ideal, more than a person.
Fortunately we still had the gift basket, which was assuming critical importance as Nicky toted it to the living room.
“I saw such an interesting interview with a soldier’s mother,” Mrs. Quilliver prattled on. “Soldiers need strong relationships with their mothers, wouldn’t you agree? It helps to keep them celibate.” Conversation with Gran promised to be rough going. I’ll admit Patsy was flattened by that one. Clearly I should not say anything about lady soldiers. “Don’t ask don’t tell” seemed suddenly a sane-seeming policy this Patsy decided to adopt.
We passed through a long hall that probably ran the length of the house. I could see a muddy looking length of carpet, stairs disappearing upwards and a glass cases filled with moth-eaten dead things.
“My husband was such a collector,” said Mrs. Quilliver obscurely. She guided me to a wing chair upholstered in a particularly nasty green bargello.
“There,” she said. “I always think of this as Patsy’s chair. In fact, I’m leaving it to you in my will.”
Nicky finally spoke up. “Why bother with a will, Gran? Since you’re going to live forever.” He took three silver goblets from a drinks cart and gazed at me meaningfully and asked, “Iced tea?”
There was no mistaking his allusion.
“Please,” I said. “And don’t be stingy with the lemon.”
There was a bottle of crème de menthe in the gift basket and I saw him doctor all our drinks. Didn’t taste too bad. Nick makes his “iced tea” super-strong.
Mrs. Quilliver said, “I wish I could offer you a glass of wine, Patsy, but Edna has A Problem and I feel we must be supportive.”
Nicky raised his goblet. “Here’s to outliving everybody else!” he toasted, saying to me sotto voce, “Gran will be ninety next birthday.”
Mrs. Quilliver rapped his arm and chortled in high good humor. “Age is just a number, darling.”
“What a party we’ll have,” sighed Nick, producing a Swiss army knife and attacking a lump of cheese from the basket. I watched hungrily. Sitting in a bar is hard work and a girl needs sustenance.
Hoping we had finally put “the war” behind us, I asked, “So what would you like for your birthday, Mrs. Quilliver?” You know, just trying to get on top of the spirit of the occasion, instead of under it.
“Well, I’d like you two to get married,” said the old woman. “But I don’t kid myself I’ll get my wish.”
She allowed her gaze to drift to a large painting that occupied a place of honor on the wall. It depicted four children, three fair-haired little girls and a dark haired boy, all dressed in Winnie the Pooh-era outfits. The girls sat on the floor playing with a Pekingese so badly painted it might have been a toy. The boy behind them held a bow and arrow.
“Ninety is such a magic year,” smiled Nicky. “There’s no telling what you’ll get.”
“I’d also like the dead to walk,” mused the old lady, “Just for one day. So I have somebody to talk to. It’s no fun being the winner if nobody knows you are. Can you believe they said I was such a runt I wouldn’t even grow up? They didn’t think I’d make it.”
“Triplets, “ Nick hissed at me in a stage whisper, gesturing to the painting. He spread out crackers and attacked a sausage next.
“The doctor said I would be slow.” Granma smacked her lips appreciatively over her drink. “He was completely wrong about everything.”
“That’s doctors for you,” I said, but both of them ignored me. It wasn’t Patsy’s turn to speak.
“You showed ‘em. You’ve led a charmed life, Gran,” Nick flattered the old lady. “Why bother going to the mountain if the mountain always comes to you?”
“That is not true,” snorted Mrs. Quilliver, “not true at all. No one knows my suffering. Everyone is dead but me.”
Did Nick’s strong iced tea accelerate or inhibit all this suffering, I wondered? “But they’ve been dead so long,” Nick protested. “They were already dead when that was painted.”
Mrs. Quilliver looked thoughtful. “My poor father needed a memento. But they deserved to die. My sisters were so mean. They excluded me from their private language. And my brother kept shooting my pets and saying it was an accident. Death became them.”
I hoped she wouldn’t think Patsy should already know the story, because I was plenty curious. “Er – what happened, exactly?”
She was glad to tell it. “The day they died – they were disobedient as always. Skating where they had been told not to – and after they said to my face I couldn’t come!”
“Lucky you,” sighed Nick. He was bored. “See what I’ve been saying?” The crème de menthe was all used up. Round two was doctored from a silver pocket flask. Bourbon, by the taste of it. Not a guy in fear of mixing. I decided I‘d better pretend to drink.
Mrs. Quilliver still seemed angry. The past was not her happy place. “Then father adopted Peter and left him all his money. He said in his will that Peter should marry me, but Peter married someone else.”
I was riveted. “And then what happened?”
“I got Peter after all,” said Mrs. Quilliver loftily. “Things worth doing are worth doing well. How forgetful you are, Patsy. But I suppose a short memory is useful in your business.”
Was Patsy in politics? I wondered.
Dearest Nick-Nick-Nicky helped me out. “We just love hearing that story,” he drawled. To me he said, “Gran doesn’t get the vapors. Gran gets even.”
“Clever,” I murmured. “So how did you do it? How did you get Peter after all?”
“He called me a “jolie laide”.” She giggled. “That means good in bed.”
Actually, I speak French. That’s not what it means. Standing uncorrected, she continued. “There’s a certain lack of adventure in marrying one’s cousin. I don’t deny it. However, needs must when the devil drives.”
Hmmm. Who gave the devil the car keys? I was still trying to work this all out when Edna-Hannah appeared. To her home-knitted outfit she had added an old corduroy hunting hat with moth-eaten fur flaps.
“It’s because she hates noise,” Nicky whispered so stagily I was certain she’d overhear. But what she said was, “Dinner is served.”
“Nurse Jones will carve,” Mrs. Quilliver announced. Placed as it was in the center of the house, the dining room was small and windowless. Its low ceiling made me feel we entered a cave. A masculine-looking woman in old-fashioned nurse’s dress was tackling a roast.
So there was food.“Hello Patsy,” said the nurse in a deep voice. “I think you like your meat well done?”
I didn’t, but the roast was almost incinerated anyway so why argue? Patsy had scarfed up sausage, it was too late for Patsy to pretend to go vegan now.
Nicky refilled his flask from a sideboard bottle labeled, “Lamp Black.” I grabbed a water-glass in self-protection.
At least the chairs were Mad Hatter armchairs into which we all could comfortably sink. I sat across from a dark painting depicting a fire at sea; overwhelmed by flames, a five-masted schooner was obviously sinking. Above Mrs. Quilliver’s head hung a painting of a huge black dog so hairy was faceless. The gold plate bore the legend: Mumbo, 1941-1949. You tell me what is the point of a dog portrait whose face you cannot see!
I couldn’t help noticing the nurse’s dark hairy arms as she passed me my plate. I was fairly certain “she” was a man. Another “ideal”? Was Mrs. Quilliver’s life “charmed” because it contained avatars, rather than people?
“Gravy?” croaked Nurse Jones.
“Bring it on,” I said, but Mrs. Quilliver shook her head disapprovingly.
“You can’t afford it,” she told me pointedly. “Too much of the damage is internal.”
“She’s such a tease,” said Nicky, out loud. “Don’t fall for it. Nurse, what’s the medical opinion?”
“Everyone gets gravy,” prescribed the nurse, slopping all our plates. “I insist. With the streets so dangerous there’s nothing to enjoy but food.”
“But Patsy’s lineage has so much heart,” complained Mrs. Quilliver. Ain’t that the truth.
“Patsy will be fine,” said the nurse, resting a huge, work-roughened hand along my arm. “As long as she keeps up her exercise.”
“Speaking of sex,” said Mrs. Quilliver, turning her fog-lamps on me, “I trust you’re spending the night? I turned on the electric blankets in the Rose Room with my own hands.”
“I put them in the Blue Room, honey” said the nurse. “It’s got the bidet.”
It seemed I was dessert. I think I lost my usually hardy appetite at that exact moment. Studying the large black plate in front of me it seemed there was nothing I could eat. Was that kale, foxglove or collard greens?
I had to spend my time doing something. Usually adding up the shekels is occupation enough. My brother in the antiques business would certainly have remarked on all this silver. It was heavy enough and seemed ancient. Still, the room was so dark it might have been plate. I held my goblet to the candle in an effort to interpret the hallmark.
“Quis Custodiet Custodes.” quoted Mrs. Quilliver thrillingly, thinking I was trying to read the coat of arms. “It’s the family motto. ‘Who out-cleans the cleanest?” .
Actually, I studied Latin. That’s not what it means. Bread was passed. Stale, of course. Think big croutons.
“Is this rice?”
Mrs. Quilliver demanded, showing me a bowl of mashed potatoes. “Edna knows I hate Chinese food. It seems so disloyal in light of the world situation.“
“It’s mashed potatoes, dear,” croaked the nurse.
“That woman will take any shortcut,” Mrs. Quilliver muttered obscurely. Nick refilled all our goblets. The “lamp black” smelled like peach schnapps.
As Nicky slid back into his seat, his foot brushed mine. Or was it the nurse? Or possibly both of them? And what about that look they gave me? Suddenly a moaning sound – human? – seeped into the room. I was so startled I dropped a knife. I could have ignored it if it weren’t for the thumping overhead. The chandelier tinkled threateningly. If I had had a hat with earflaps I would have out it on.
“She’s restless tonight,” said the nurse. “It’s the change in weather.”
“Well, can’t you knock her out for dinner?” snapped Mrs. Quilliver.
“You said no pain control,” Nurse Jones sighed regretfully. “I could give her a Xanax.”
“I’m not wasting my Xanax on her,” barked Mrs. Quilliver. “That defeats the point.”
Evidently everyone wasn’t dead. I had to think how Patsy identify this new player, seemingly banging a cane on the floor. The ceiling shook threateningly and the chandelier swung so enthusiastically I slid my chair back, ready to spring for safety.
“I’ll calm her down.” Mrs. Quilliver, Martyr, wiped her mouth and left a long red smear along the lace. “She just wants attention. She knows she’s being naughty.”
She walked to the stairs, stooped over, unmistakably, now a ninety-year old woman. I guess the prison guard is a prisoner too. In fact, that’s a much better translation of the “family” motto.
As her footfalls died away Nurse Jones coaxed Lady Gaga from the sideboard radio. “Just dance,” he/she sang, swaying to the music. Nicky rose eagerly. and they began to dance. I hoped they had eyes only for each other, but no such luck. They were both after me to complete their chorus line. A threesome? Not very “original” after all, and not what I’d expected. Funny how the more things change, the more they stay the same.
“I take it you’ve tumbled to our little secret,” Nick said, flexing his eyebrows at me.
“I’m not sure,” I replied. “It’s so dark in here there are probably plenty of secrets still uncovered. Like who is that upstairs?”
“Oh, that’s the first Mrs. Quilliver. Peter had to divorce her to marry Gran. But Gran promised to always take care of her. “ He laughed. “Come on. Dance with us.”
“Give me a minute.” I rose. “I need to ”powder my nose.”
“There’s a nice big bathroom upstairs,” Nicky tempted. “Or a cloakroom cubby where you came in.”
That’s just what I was hoping he would say, because I saw where he put the Alpha keys. I melted gracefully into the hallway and out through the kitchen. Edna-Hannah sat at the table cleaning an ancient pistol which she had broken down in pieces on the newspaper in front of her. She barely looked up as I departed the house of the people who call things by their wrong names, but she did say goodbye.
Get it, Officer? I didn’t steal the car, I was trying to report a crime in progress. Clearly they were holding an old lady against her will. But how could I possibly have guessed what Edna-Hannah was planning, just because she was cleaning a gun? Guns need cleaning just like everything else and that entire house was a sink hole. She seemed fine, judging by the last thing she said.
She said, “You take care now.”Amen, sister. “Right,” I agreed. “Or be taken care of.”
My books have sold over 100,000 copies so YES except – I’ve made very little money BUT… Devlyn has a brisk re-sale so readers must like it BUT… Even though Find Courtney got excellent reviews hardly anyone read it BUT… Come to think of it, I’ve only ever had good reviews. (Many raves.) Only one bad one I know of. BUT… The people who are closest to me seem untouched & unimpressed BUT Several strangers appreciated exactly what I was doing and called me their “favorite author” BUT Wasn’t able to get an agent because I didn’t have a big enough “following” or “platform” BUT transitioned easily to plays, wrote 8 with much pleasure, won three prizes, had a small New York opening BUT… I had a horrible director who didn’t understand the play BUT… I thoroughly enjoyed working with and learning from the actors BUT… Felt silenced & stymied by the pandemic BUT… Have been working on transcribing my diaries, (Inspired Pleasure) am NOT intimidated by getting old – so –
Am I a success?
It really depends on your definition of success. My definition of success is to:
1) Never stop writing 2) Draw joy from writing 3) Achieve “flow” while writing (i.e. a blissful state) 4) Feel I am advancing in my spiritual path 5) Using art to connect with others.
Lewis Carroll: Open Your Mouth And Close Your Eyes, or… Nympholepsy considered as one of the Fine Arts
“And if he left off dreaming about you, where do you suppose you’d be?” “Where I am now, of course,” said Alice. “Not you!” Tweedledee retorted contemptuously, “You’d be nowhere! You’re only a sort of thing in his dream!” Through the Looking Glass
Through the lens the child seems double-fronted; Pregnant as a Rorschach blot. Knowledge is possession, says the Bible. Better to be etched forever by silver nitrate eyes Or better to be loved? But To be loved you must hold still Hold still forever. The butterfly stains spread outward: We are safe for not much longer. Faces prop the dying man like theorems Lines extending to infinity Lines that never meet. That’s mathematics, says Tweedledee, the Ultimate logician. “You won’t make yourself a bit realer by crying.”
At first Benny and Lisa thought their daughter Jane had named her doll Violet. She was always talking about Violet. It was Violet, Violet, Violet. For example she would say something like, “Last night I had the most wonderful dream about Granny and Violet.”
“That’s marvelous, Jane.” Trying not to roll the eyes, because Lisa tried to be an encouraging mother. Her model was the late ex-First Lady Mrs. Onassis, who, whatever else you might say about her, had obviously been an exemplary parent because she gave birth to two children who adored her. Jane was a handful. She was a constitutionally slow riser and it was a hell of a project to get her to the sitter by eight.
“Granny was holding Violet in her arms. She kissed her and kissed her.” “Granny was always a very loving person,” said Lisa. “Into your shoes now, come on. You can do it. Left, right.”
Nothing odd about a dream that included both Granny and the doll. After all, it had been her last gift to Jane before the cancer took her. The doll was a “cabbage patch” knockoff – a “preemie”, just as Jane herself had been. She even had little glasses just like Jane’s. On the other hand, her hair was still blond, while Jane’s by this time was decidedly ash, soon to be the rather depressing brown Lisa’s would be if she didn’t take care to color it.
But Jane’s statements about Violet continued on an arc of increasing peculiarity until they were something even a busy parent can’t ignore.
“Violet says she forgives you,” Jane told her mother over lunch. This said in public over salad and juice at The Yogurt Break.
Lisa gasped out loud – anyone listening might think she had really done something really awful, so she tried to make fun of it, saying, “What did I do – leave her face down on the sofa again?” Jane gave her mother a strange look. Such an unlikely expression on a four-year-old face. Lisa felt sure the late Mrs. Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis had to contend with nothing similar from her children. For one thing, it was way too mature – just as if some other spirit looked out of her – a sort of polite cynicism flickering with amused contempt. Lisa was awarded that look as she struggled to recall the names of the children in Jane’s playgroup. Wasn’t Brendan the one who always pushed and Mystique the one who always cried?
“You haven’t left her anywhere,” Jane said. “You can’t touch her. She doesn’t like being touched.” Creepy. She must be talking, obviously, about something different from a doll that spent all its time suspended from its owner like a baby koala. But Lisa refused to think about it. She was not one to indulge in “mind games” as she called them. The employees she supervised were always eager to waste time in long conversations in which motives and memories were examined from every angle and then stood on their head. It wasn’t the same as getting the work done.
“Well,” she said, astutely changing the subject, “We’re here to buy a party dress! Let’s go!” Ben’s brother was finally getting married after many false starts, and Jane, as the only niece, had the exciting role of flower girl. Lisa, by pleading how difficult her daughter was to fit, had managed to acquire the dress purchasing job with the following proviso: long, lace, off- white. A pleasant afternoon of fashion choice meant that it wasn’t till dinner that Lisa finally found out who Violet actually was. Lisa and Ben were on their second glass of Chablis, enjoyably discussing future plans while the somewhat over-steamed shrimp curled in its dish, when Jane said, “Violet doesn’t look anything like Daddy.”
This silenced Ben, whose face showed confusion, so Lisa said, “Don’t talk with your mouth full. It’s revolting.”“I guess I’m flattered that I don’t look like a cabbage patch doll, “ said Ben finally. But he had lost his train of thought. Just when he was agreeing that a Disney cruise for Christmas would be so nice.
“Violet is NOT a doll,” said Jane, loudly as if communicating with deaf people, “Violet is MY FRIEND.
Ben’s forehead creased. “Is she the one who’s always crying?” “Violet is my PRIVATE friend. “
“I fail to see why your friends should look like Daddy.” Lisa served everyone more salad just to keep busy, even though they hadn’t yet cleaned their plates.
“Violet’s my sister,” explained Jane. “She has red hair just like you, but her eyes are green.” Lisa rose abruptly from the table and turned away. She began dishing out dessert too forcefully. The flan would collapse if forced to just sit here, but the hell with appearances. Jane had no sister. No brother. She was an only child. Lisa had had an abortion at fifteen, which was something she never thought about, and she had gotten the idea at the time – either from something someone told her or just out of her head – that the child had been a girl. That was why when Jane was a girl she had been so relieved. If Jane had been a boy she would have felt the need to go on questing for that lost little girl. But now her family was complete, because now everything was all right again. This was not something Jane — or anybody — had any reason to know.
Lisa’s hair had never been red, that was just the most flattering shade agreed on by customer and colorist. On the other hand that boy – Lord she could not even recall his name, she must be blocking it – had fiery red hair. And very freckled skin. Even though they were still in the middle of dinner she began unloading the dishwasher, because physical activity always made her feel better.
“Sounds like Violet is one of those imaginary friends,” she said, amazing herself with the calmness and placidity of her own voice. “Lots of children have them. It shows…” she couldn’t think of anything. Her brain was parched. A desert. “Imagination.” “I had one,” said Ben.
Amazing! The things you find out about a person you’ve been married to for fifteen years! At first she was beyond grateful to him just for participating; then she wondered if he was lying to make everyone feel normal. That would be a very Ben thing to do. But it helped Lisa for one to feel calm enough to sit back down and give the others a big smile. Inside she was thinking, “God I’m a lousy mother. I probably talk in my sleep. And Jane can see totally through me and knows just how to push my buttons at only four years old.”
Unfortunately Ben felt a need to build on his success. Since there were only three of them at a table with four chairs, he joked, “Why don’t you set a place for Violet? I always did with mine. It used to drive my mother crazy!” He laughed. “I hope she likes shrimp.” “She isn’t allowed to have shellfish,” said Jane. “She’s allergic. She’s allergic to a lot of things.”
Poor Lisa’s face collapsed like the flan. She thought she was going to burst into tears. Calloway — that was the boy’s goddam name, Crispin Calloway III. How could she ever have forgotten it? He came from a very snooty family. And he was allergic to everything. His parents were allergic to becoming grandparents, that was for sure. But at fifteen years old, what choice does anybody have?
When husband and wife were finally alone upstairs, Ben sat on the bed watching Lisa do sit-ups. She had a theory that if you exercised right after a meal the fat wouldn’t “take”. It was uncomfortable and unpleasant, but that was true of virtually everything worthwhile in life.
Ben cleared his throat loudly. He must know from experience that she wouldn’t stop just to talk to him, but he went right ahead anyway, asking,
“What happened to you at dinner? I have never seen you so thrown.” She did stop. She stopped in mid sit-up, her gut aching, and leaned against the bed, thinking, I am never going to do another sit-up again. What is the point? What is the point of anything?
How could she tell him after all these years? It was an ugly, stupid story she had done her best to forget – had forgotten until this bizarre concatenation of circumstances had somehow brought it back into the present, a situation as unlikely and yet possibly as inevitable as a group of chimps typing in a room until they produced a scene from Shakespeare. What was the point of bringing it up now? Eons of time had passed, everyone and everything was different. Yet Ben was so sweet, so sympathetic, looking at her so lovingly. He would never hold it against her. Yet if she told him, it would be like giving birth to the thing she and her mother had stopped. It would be out there in the world.
Lisa, who never cried, who hadn’t cried even when her beloved father died, amazed herself and Ben by bursting into tears. Ben slid to the ground to hold her tightly against his suit, and she choked out, “I’m such a CRAPPY MOTHER!” Because that’s what she was always feeling. Jane knew she was faking it. That’s why she was torturing her. That was the accusation in Jane’s eyes. Ben was still talking, on and on, while he rocked her. He said things like, “How can you say that? You’re the best mother I know. You’re with Jane a lot more than I am…and she’s a smart kid…she’s like a little crystal radio set…she tunes into your anxieties, all of them, even the ones that aren’t about her and she picks at them like scabs. She doesn’t know what she’s doing. Imaginary friends are perfectly OK. She’s learning to “self-soothe”. That’s what we want, isn’t it? To set her free from us emotionally. It’s probably harder on us than it is on her. We can’t just invent people to make ourselves feel better.
“I think the best thing to do is to ignore it. That’s what my parents did. There will come a time when Jane and her “sister” part company. Trust me. All little kids long for a brother or a sister….till they have them. You know what the books say about single children. They’re more verbal, they have more resources, they’re happier and more successful when they grow up…”
Thank God for Ben! He was so wonderful! What slam-dunk it was the day she married him! He never really knew what the issues were but he dove in bravely anyway, smoothing the roiled waters with his charm. Or trying.
She gasped, “You don’t think… we have to find a child psychologist… bend the insurance…”
He said, “No. I’m sure of it. Jane is fine and so are we.” And she felt so much better. Much, much better.
The morning they went to the airport to catch the plane to Ben’s brother’s wedding was one of those family nightmares that becomes the stuff of legend. It was a perfect storm of unreeling disaster. First there was oversleeping; everybody overslept. The there was quarrelsomeness; everybody was quarrelsome.
Ben ate the last of the raisin bran in the middle of the night – the last of it – knowing full well it was the only thing Lisa could tolerate for breakfast. She tried to eat oatmeal with the others but it was just the most disgusting stuff. Ben forgot the tickets and they had to go back, because they weren’t e tickets, which they should have been. Jane kept asking if she could wear the gloves that came with the dress and it made Lisa’s head ache to even think of trying to clear this past a bridezilla obsessed with trying to match the flower girl exactly to the ring- bearer. It was always dangerous to lie to Jane but “we’ll see when we get there” wasn’t cutting it.
Jane, although strictly forbidden to do so, had been trying the dress on and parading around in it so much she had managed to tear one of the ruffles at the bottom. Already. Lisa would have to mend it on the flight if it wasn’t bumpy – she was scared enough of flying as it was – or maybe in the hotel room later while the rest of the world partied. Ben was warned against bringing his coffee into the car, did so anyway, and then spilled it on himself. He was so angry he threw the mug out the window, right in front of an inquisitive four year old who had been told to grow out of tantrums.
Thank God the plane was late. It gave them a moment to regroup, to calm down, to walk more slowly, to speak to each other without biting and snapping. But when it was finally time to proceed to the tarmac, Jane began suddenly convulsing, her body jackknifing like an epileptic’s, bringing the flight attendants running – in short, it was awful.
“We can’t go!” shrieked Jane. “We can’t go without Violet and Violet’s not coming! She just stands there waving goodbye!”
They had not seen anything like this since the terrible two’s.
“Stop it!” said Ben sternly. “We are getting on that plane. Violet will join us later. You’ll see.” “If not, good riddance,” said Lisa. “Everyone has to grow up sometime.”
The tiny blue-eyed flight attendant twisted her face up with concern. She was thinking what an awful mother Lisa was, Lisa could just tell. Everyone must be thinking it.
“The airline sponsors a Fear of Flying group,” she said. “But with a child this young maybe a doctor can prescribe something.“
See? They were all telling her she’d ruined her kid and it was time for medical intervention.
“She’s getting ON THE PLANE,” said Lisa, trying to pick up a forty-eight pound thrashing weight, but it was like battling a beached marlin in full public view.
“I’m sorry,” said the flight attendant firmly, “She can’t get on while she’s shrieking like that. It would disturb the other passengers. If you have medication—“
Ben had Prozac if Lisa could just remember which bag it was in. She was demoralized enough to say to the flight attendant, “Any idea what dose…?”
The woman pulled back as if they were all crazy.
“But under the circumstances, you’ll have to take a later flight. I’m sure she’ll have calmed down by then.”
Lisa wanted to burst into tears herself. Jacqueline Onassis’ children never did anything like this. They did cute things on the tarmac, like saluting and shaking hands. Ben, who had been standing there helplessly, finally spoke up.
“I’ve got to go!” he cried, the vein in his forehead pumping like a water-hose. “I’m the best man! They’re relying on me!”
“There’s two more planes today,” the flight attendant soothed.
Jane broke away and ran wildly back to the terminal, shouting, “Violet! Violet!”
Lisa felt she had never been so humiliated in her life. Everyone’s attention was focused on her. She was the one preventing this plane from leaving the runway and making all of their connections. daughter.
Lisa kissed Ben hastily, and rushed after her.
She found Jane curled up on one of the hard molded plastic seats; sobbing so hard she had difficulty speaking. She hadn’t cried this way since infancy.
“I can’t find Violet, Mom,” she gasped. “She’s gone! She said if we left we’d never come back. Well here we are but where is she? Where did she go?”
Lisa sat beside her daughter wondering if there was enough Prozac in the world for the two of them. Did she really even want to go to Ben’s stupid brother’s stupid wedding? It had been so long since she had done anything because she wanted to do it that she hardly knew what it was to want any more.
“Don’t worry, Jane. It’s like we’re having a bad dream while we’re awake. It will all be over soon. If we take a later flight, maybe Violet will meet us there.” “She said not to go,” Jane sobbed. “I tried to do what she said. We’ve got to go look for her!” Lisa took her hand. “All right,” she said, “Let’s go find Violet.”
She steered her daughter towards the airline desk where they could change their tickets, thinking, Taking care of children is like living in an asylum. You try humoring the inmates, then you realize you are an inmate. In that moment she surrendered the late Mrs. Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis, her own imaginary friend, thinking, We’re all crazy here.
On the escalator she looked out through the wall of glass, glancing mechanically in the same direction as everyone else, craning her neck to see the source of the sirens, or at least, their objective. When the escalator arrived at the top she lost Jane’s hand, tripped over the people ahead of her, unable to walk any more under her own steam, borne aloft by the panicking mob. Violet had certainly been right about it. One of them at least would not be coming back.
Alysse Aallyn 