by Janice Weber
“Put it in my closet.” Ross tossed Dana’s “All-Star Nude Midgets” calendar into the wastebasket. When Marjorie returned, he asked, “How did Dana take care of Billy Murphy? Besides cash, of course.”
She removed a bright blue condom from Dana’s copy of the Massachusetts Building Code. “He sent a case of Cutty Sark to Billy’s brother-in-law in Stoneham. I have his address. Never send any gifts to Billy at City Hall or at home.”
“Could you do that for me? Thanks.” Ah, Marjorie. Without her, this office was Babel. Ross pulled open a drawer full of vitamins and miracle potions. “Do you think Ardith really wants these?” He squinted at several labels. “This ones guaranteed to produce a twelve-hour erection. This one’s supposed to promote the growth of thick, luxurious hair from head to toe.” He lobbed that bottle into the trash. “Just what Ardith needs.”
After placing the last of Dana’s books in a large cardboard box, Marjorie opened his closet. The faint smell of Dana’s cologne brought tears to her eyes; for a tiny moment, his residual vapors had tricked her into believing that he was still alive. Thank God she hadn’t allowed Ross over here! Inside hung Dana’s dark blue suit, the one he always looked so dashing in, and a raincoat. On the shelf were spare shirts and a few unfavorite neckties. Marjorie hastily folded everything into two shopping bags and was about to shut the door when, high in the corner, she spied a white box.
“Can’t reach something?” Ross asked as she was dragging over a chair. “Here, I’ll get it.”
Ross immediately recognized the embossed box: It came from an expensive shop on Newbury Street. Once upon a time, Emily had bought him little nothings there. The box felt empty, but Ross knew better than that. Suddenly losing his courage, he handed it to Marjorie and watched as she lifted the lid.
Beneath the tissue paper they saw purple silk. “Take it out,” he whispered.
Marjorie removed a pair of bikini briefs. “Why would Dana keep this atrocious thing? There’s a note. Should I read it?” Silence. “Ross?”
He had become extremely pale. “Go ahead.”
Marjorie removed a small card. “’Madly.’”
He waited a moment. “That’s all? No signature?”
“Nothing.”
Ross snatched the card away. As he was examining the handwriting, comparing it to his wife’s, the door of Dana’s office swept open. Ardith strode in wearing a black suede suit, terribly exquisite makeup, and more gold chains than a professional athlete. “Good morning.”
Ross slid the note into his pocket as Marjorie expertly crumpled the briefs, then the box, down her skirt. With her jacket buttoned, the bulge could be mistaken for a potbelly. “Hello, Mrs. Forbes,” she replied. “You’re looking well. May I get you some coffee?”
“No, no,” Ardith waved, jangling her ten bracelets. “I won’t be staying long.” She eyed the shopping bags next to Ross. “What’s in there?” she asked caustically. “A gross of condoms?”
Marjorie pretended to have misheard. “A blue suit, a raincoat, and some neckties.”
“Give them to the Salvation Army.” Ardith looked quickly over Dana’s books. “You can keep these, too. I have nowhere to put them.” She walked to her husband’s desk. “What are these?”
“Vitamins,” Ross said.
Ardith noisily upended the entire box into the wastebasket. “Have I missed anything?”
Marjorie opened the top drawer of Dana’s desk. “A beautiful antique Waterman,” she said, removing a thick, gold pen. “Dana loved it.” Actually, he hated it, but Marjorie remembered Dana mentioning that it had been an anniversary gift.
Ardith stared at the pen. On one hand, she wanted to snap it in half, on the other hand, it had cost her two thousand bucks. She could probably get two and a half for it now. “Thank you,” she said finally, tucking the pen into her purse. Then Ardith noticed the bronze bust of Dana across the office. “Good God! I had completely forgotten about that thing!” She circled the statue with an appraising eye. “Not a bad likeness, really.”
“We’ll have it sent to your home,” Marjorie said.
Ardith smiled coldly at the other woman. “You can send it out the window.” She placed a key on Dana’s bare blotter. “I won’t be needing this anymore. Ross, I’m going to Europe tonight. Call when the lawyers have finalized the business arrangements, would you?”
“Of course.” He took the key. “Ardith, do you recall Dana ever taking antidepressant pills?”
“You too? Detective O’Keefe spent a morning going through the house and the boat looking for them. He didn’t believe me when I told him that Dana’s boat was one huge antidepressant pill.” Ardith was just about out the door when she noticed a plaque on the wall “’Architect of the Year,’” she read aloud.
Marjorie gave it one last try, for Dana’s sake. “That’s an important award, Mrs. Forbes.”
“Really?” Ardith lifted the plaque off the wall. “It’s all yours, then. Good-bye.”
The door clicked shut. After a long moment, Marjorie exhaled. “Why did she even bother coming in?”
Drained by point-blank female rage, Ross slumped into Dana’s favorite chair. “She was obviously making some kind of statement. Any idea what it was?”
“Good riddance, I’d say. After that performance, the feeling is mutual.” Marjorie eased the white box from under her skirt. “Would you care for a purple bikini?”
“I’d prefer a dozen aspirin.”
Marjorie left, returning shortly with the pills and a glass of water. “Dagmar Pola’s expecting you in ten minutes, you know.”
Oh joy! More merry widows! He swallowed a fistful of aspirins. “Tell me something, Marjie. Do you think Ardith caused Madly or Madly caused Ardith?”
“That’s a question only a man would ask.” She sounded somewhat disgusted.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean Dana caused everything.” Marjorie left.
Ross could tell from the chuff chuff of her shoes against the carpet that she was angry. What the hell had brought that on? He would never understand women. They blew hot and cold and tepid and deadly and they never, ever gave you an inkling which face was going on next. A man agonized his life away trying to choose between retreat and conquest, and in the end, if he guessed right maybe half the time, his reward was not even adoration but a benign, maternal tolerance. Was that what all love and lust boiled down to? Tolerance? Maternity? Ross sighed; he must be getting old. For a moment there, he would have given anything to be back on his mother’s lap, nodding blissfully as she read a bedtime story. He wondered if he had ever been truly happy since.
Ross returned to his office and picked up his overcoat. “Where does Dagmar live?” he asked Marjorie, stopping at her desk.
“Commonwealth and Clarendon.” She gave him a slip of paper with his exact destination. “Your eleven o’clock appointment’s back here. Try to call if you’re going to be more than fifteen minutes late.”
“Thanks.” Had Marjorie forgiven him for that stupid question about Madly? Ross wasn’t sure; better bring a dozen roses when he returned. He caught a cab, arriving just a few minutes behind schedule at a palatial building on Commonwealth Avenue. “Ross Major. I have an appointment with Mrs. Pola,” he told the doorman. As the fellow called upstairs, Ross wistfully admired the brass-and-marble foyer, envying those born shortly after the Civil War, when there had been a better connection between hard work and just reward, and when wives cleaved to their husbands till death did them part. On the other hand, Plexiglas hadn’t yet been invented.
The doorman nodded toward a small elevator. “Tenth floor, Mr. Major.”
Dagmar was waiting for him as the door whooshed open. She wore a white wool suit and, here and there, several hundred pearls. On her tiny feet were tiny red high heels. Dagmar had very slim, fine legs. Ross stared a moment at her wavy white hair. He had never seen her without a hat; the effect was oddly intimate. “Hello, Mrs. Pola,” he said. “You’re looking wonder-ful.
”
Her diamond rings tinkled as she offered Ross her hand. “My condolences upon the death of your partner. He was a talented man.” She turned toward a long hallway. “But a wastrel.”
Ross paused only momentarily, thinking he had misheard her. What could she have said, though? Fossil? Rascal? He trailed Dagmar through the hallway, past an exquisite series of water-colors of a woman with flowing red hair. Naked, of course. Was that tiny signature at the bottom Degas? Now was not the time to inspect; Dagmar was already half a dozen paces ahead of him.
Ross followed her into a salon with a stunning view of the Charles River. Sculptures and paintings of lush, inviting female anatomies filled the room. Ross hastily sat beside Dagmar on a settee with orange pillows. “This is quite something,” he remarked, glancing casually about, crossing his legs to camouflage the willful lump in his pants.
Dagmar poured two cups of coffee from a silver pot. “Poor Mr. Major, don’t blush on my account. What’s here is sedate compared to the other rooms. Milk or sugar?”
Try cold shower. “Milk, thank you.” Something about this place was extremely odd. There were just so many of them begging for attention. A man could sit here all day, staring at nothing but navels and the river. Ross silently sipped his coffee, waiting for his brain to revert from rolling flesh to more rigorous architectural forms. It didn’t. Finally he said, “Have you been living here for a long time?”
She laughed curtly. “I live in Weston, Mr. Major. I was unaware of the existence of this apartment until after my husband’s death.”
Terrific, a fornicatorium. What was Ross supposed to say now, What a nice surprise? He pitied Dagmar having to walk through here alone after the son of a bitch had checked out, robbing her of the catharsis of divorce or murder or even a scornful glare. Ross impulsively put his cup aside and took Dagmar’s hand. “May I ask a stupid question? Why put this in a gallery?”
“Because it’s worth a fortune.”
“Doesn’t it bother you that your husband collected nothing but nude women?”
Dagmar’s sharp blue eyes mocked him. “Why should I mind? None of this fluff did him any good whatsoever.” She removed her hand from Ross’s grip. “Joseph was impotent.”
Mortified, Ross hid his face behind a coffee cup. When they chose to be direct, Yankee dowagers could outscore a torpedo. “Forgive me.”
“Nonsense. Thank you for rushing to my defense.” She lit a cigarillo. “By the way, do call me Dagmar. Would you be interested in seeing the rest of the collection? Or have you had enough for one day?”
Perhaps she cast an oblique glance at his erection; it could have been just smoke in her eyes. “How much more is there?” Ross asked.
“This apartment covers the tenth floor. You’ve been in just one room.” Dagmar extended an aristocratic hand. “Don’t be shy, Ross. I’m sure you’ve seen it all before.”
He had, but not in so many positions. Jesus! Was any creature more powerful than a naked woman? Joe Pola’s collection spanned five centuries, fifty cultures, and although the bodies were different, the women all had the same dreamy, omniscient expression as if, instead of being observed, they were the observers, waiting as the obsessed artist crashed and burned in a futile attempt to capture their souls. As he trailed Dagmar from room to room, losing track of the time and his purpose in coming here, Ross began to wonder what had impelled Joe Pola to surround himself with this chimerical sea. He wondered how much time Joe spent here, whether he came alone, and what he did here if he was impotent, as Dagmar had claimed. Perhaps Joe was only impotent concerning Dagmar.
She walked past a heavy door. “What’s that?” Ross asked.
“The bedroom. It’s of no consequence.”
“I’d like to see it. Please.”
Joe Pola’s unauthorized bedroom contained a four-poster bed, two fabulous armoires, and a life-size marble sculpture in front of the window, oddly blocking the view. Then Ross realized that if Joe were lying on the bed, looking at the statue, he would see a woman profiled against blue sky, forever gazing at the river. Lovely playful body; like Emily’s. Suddenly Ross wanted to see the statue’s face. He stepped toward the window.
“You actually like that? It’s pure kitsch.”
On the contrary; it was pure Emily, or he was hallucinating. Even in marble, the curve of her lips made his heart thump just a little faster. “Who did this, Dagmar?”
She remained at the door. “I don’t know. The initials in the pedestal say ’S.D. 1950.’”
“Aha.” So it wasn’t Emily, then. Greatly relieved, feeling a little foolish, Ross stepped away. “Maybe we should put it in front of a window in your new building.”
“Actually, I’m thinking of selling that one. It’s extremely vulgar.” Dagmar returned to the hallway. “Come along,” she called as if he were a schoolboy.
She took him through Joe’s remaining rooms, watching impassively as Ross went from canvas to collage, trying his best to look as if twenty inches of space between a woman’s knees signified nothing more than a study in perspective. Dagmar finally rounded back to the settee with the orange pillows. This time, she offered Ross whiskey. “Well?”
“It’s overwhelming,” Ross said, desperate for the liquor. “I don’t know whether I’m in Disneyland or hell. Typical male response. Sorry, Dagmar.”
“Don’t apologize. I expect you’ll be inspired to design an appropriate building for it all now.” Dagmar lit another black cigarette. “Try to do a little better than that chapel your partner built for Joseph. That is truly a monstrosity.”
Ross’s head began to throb; so Dagmar knew about that. He wondered if she had found out about the chapel the same way she had found out about this place. “I’ll do my best,” he said. Ross glanced at his watch and nearly choked: one o’clock. He had missed five appointments. “Dagmar, I must be going.”
She reached for a straw hat. “My driver is waiting downstairs. We can drop you off.”
They left the apartment. Neither spoke for a while after Dagmar’s car had pulled into the street. “Who else has seen that apartment?” Ross asked finally.
“Just you. Who might have seen it with Joseph, of course, I would not know.”
The car stopped at State Street. Ross lingered a moment, dreading the prospect of an office full of women with blouses and shoes and crossed legs. “Thank you for letting me see it.”
She shrugged, shifting pearls. “I try not to go there alone.”
Ross kissed Dagmar’s gloved hand. “I’ll get to work on the gallery right away.” Troubled, he watched her car roll away. How was it possible that someone as smart as Dagmar had known nothing of her husband’s apartment or his art collection? Hadn’t she signed joint tax returns, talked to their bankers, lawyers, and accountants? Where had Joe found all that stuff anyway? Acquiring such a collection involved research as well as money; did Dagmar really believe her husband had been making pretzels all day and all night? What had they talked about at dinner? And he thought his marriage was in bad shape!
In the lobby of his office building, Ross bought a dozen roses, “I couldn’t get away,” he blubbered the second he saw Marjorie. “Dagmar went on and on.”
Marjorie’s smile exuded honey and acid. “Here are your messages.”
“I’m sorry. Really. Did you have to cancel everyone?”
“By no means. I shifted them all after five. You weren’t planning on an early dinner, were you?” She halfheartedly sniffed the roses.
Ross accepted his punishment. For the rest of the afternoon, he toiled obediently at his desk, bothering Marjorie only once for coffee. When she brought it, he stared doggedly out the window, trying to gaze at anything but the warm female at his elbow. If Marjorie came one inch closer, he might have to convert her into one of Joe Pola’s canvases. “Could you do a little research for me, Marjie? Dana built a chapel for Joe Pola a while ago. Find out what it cost, what it looks like, why Joe built it, everything you can. I’m curious. Thanks.�
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When she had left, he called Diavolina to tell his wife he’d be working late. “Emily Major, please. This is her husband.”
Either a high-pitched man or a low-pitched woman laughed at him. “She doesn’t work here anymore.”
“Is that so? Since when?”
“Since nine o’clock this morning.” She finally quit, Ross thought. Then the voice said, “She got fired.”
Ross immediately called the front desk. “Marjorie! Did Emily call while I was out?”
“I would have told you, Ross.”
He dialed home and got the answering machine. Goddamn it! What had his wife been doing since nine o’clock this morning? Furious, Ross redialed Marjorie. “I’m leaving,” he growled.
“I’m afraid that’s not possible. Mr. Levin just arrived. I’ve been thanking him for coming in twice today. Follow me, sir.”
No way out: A few seconds later, Ross’s secretary ushered Levin in. “Hello, Irving,” Ross said, extending a hand. “Very sorry about this morning.” Marjorie he ignored completely; maybe she’d go home. Fat chance! She stuck him with four more meetings, each time opening his door with a smile prissy and goo-goo as the Avon Lady’s. Finally, around eight o’clock, Ross’s last client left. After the doorknob had clicked, he stood a moment listening to the drone of the overhead fluorescents. The office was eerily still; even the divorced employees had gone home. All that remained of Marjorie was a note to turn out the lights and a sealed envelope marked Fax for Emily. What the hell was this? Ross held it up: opaque as cardboard. She had sealed it on purpose. Throwing it in his briefcase, he locked up and walked home.
“Emily?” he called, tossing his coat over a chair in the kitchen. No answer: Ross’s heart constricted a little. Then he smelled mesquite. He went to the balcony, looked down, and saw his wife in the backyard grilling lamb chops.
“Hi, darling,” she said. “Have a good day?”
No, but the sound of her voice had salvaged it. “I’ll be right there,” he replied, backing into the kitchen for a major dose of wine. Looked like she had already polished off the upper half of the bottle: excellent. He lost his tie. Ross went to the backyard and put his arms around her, not letting go for a long time. “I missed you today,” he said, kissing her neck.
