“Breathe deeply. Count backward from ten,” she said.
“Good-bye,” I said.
Just then a man in a white tunic came up. He had cultivated my least-favorite male hairstyle. He was balding slightly, but had grown his hair long—in a flowing Beatles “do.” He looked like an aging George Harrison, but mean, with a caymanlike jaw that sprang open and shut with force.
“Iris. Nina,” he crooned. “Time for Group.”
They shrugged. Iris dried her eyes, winked, and showed me the key already hidden in her sleeve. She smiled at The Cayman. “Group sucks,” she said sweetly. Nina was still crying. Iris waved and walked off with her, helping her along the path.
The Beatle-Cayman-Doctor looked at me from under his bangs. “I understand you’re the SISTERHOOD reporter whom Iris contacted. It’s phenomenal. I can’t tell you, really, what this has done to the rest of us, who are also victims—in the sense that we were completely ignorant about what was going down here. This has been a shock to everybody. But we’re grateful that it came to light, I can share that with you!”
I looked away. The guy was probably perfectly okay, but I was in no mood for shrinks. I searched the long drive in vain for a sign of my taxi. Then I checked out his name plate.
“Dr. Bush, I’m not a reporter. I’m an editor.”
“And I’m not just Dr. Bush, I’m director of this institution. Hey, I don’t mean to overwhelm you—this is no power trip—but my position does give me a particular perspective on your gamble.”
I felt myself getting angry. “What gamble?”
“Well. The obvious. I mean, what kind of person trusts a completely disturbed voice out of nowhere?” He laughed, an unpleasant sound. “Let’s face it: I adore our Iris, but she’s at risk. I’ll share with you that she is clearly not our most integrated personality. But you knew that!” He laughed his horrid laugh again.
“The letter made sense to me. And it proved to be true. So what’s your point?” I glared at him.
“Yeees,” he crooned. He pushed his bangs back and touched his wispy mane self-consciously. “You were very lucky. This could have all backfired in your face, sweetheart—what is your name?”
“Digby. Willis Digby.”
“Miss Digby. Iris is so delusional—oh, God, how does one make it real to the uninitiated? And something tells me you’ve never been in therapy! Well, let’s start here—Iris is so delusional that it’s almost impossible for her to separate her invented realities from what is actually happening to her. I’ll share with you that it’s a limited-progress case. I’m sure she’s told you about her life. The mother was psychotic, suicidal, killed herself and tried to kill her little girl, Iris. She opened a gas valve, then took a cigarette lighter to it. Forced little Iris to stand next to her, hold the flame.”
“Bullshit!” I yelled. A few people looked over. “Iris’s mother was beautiful, a beautiful, kind woman with auburn hair in a goddamn French twist—an ice-cream truck had a generator explosion and it blew her up.”
“Oh, sure!” He laughed his ghastly snort-laugh. “You liked that story?” He pushed his big bangs out of his eyes again, to give me his sincerest look. “It’s one of many she tells herself, Miss Digby, to help herself cope with the incomprehensible and unending horror of her life. She had a murderess for a mother! And can you imagine living inside that body?” He clucked like a hen. “She tells stories; she invents love. Hasn’t she told you that she thinks she’s beautiful?” He smirked a little.
The cab finally poked into the drive. I waved it down. I was shaking. I picked up my bag and stared into his nasty little shrink’s eyes.
“Iris,” I said, “is beautiful. Personally, I find her one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen. I believe everything she says. I honor it.” I pulled open the cab door, threw my bag inside, and looked back. “What do you honor?”
He smirked again and put on a “naughty-boy” look. “Oh-oh. I seem to have touched a nerve.”
I got in and slammed the door shut. “If you’re a good guy, I can’t wait to see what they put behind bars. Thanks to Iris.”
The cab shuddered off, with a spray of gravel. The good doctor stood smirking on the curb.
Fifteen
THE TRAIN WAS late; the train was hot. At Grand Central I decided not to bother putting an appearance in at work at all; I’d go home. Whatever happened happened. I would call Terence and invite him over after the show. If he couldn’t come, I’d stay there alone.
I found a bank of pay phones and actually located one that worked—next to a woman dressed like Chiquita Banana. She wore leopard skin toreador pants, a gold reflecting bolero, Carmen Miranda makeup, and a bunch of bright yellow plastic bananas on her head. She smiled over at me, and as she continued speaking into the phone, passed me a card that read:
MEXICALI MAMMA
She dances, tells you your fortune, (who will you marry? will you or others be rich or dead?) and sings the most big walloping hits from South of the Border!
Telephone (any hour) 111-5522
I smiled and nodded, pocketing the card. She smiled and nodded, shaking her bananas.
I got Terence at home.
“Listen, Willis,” he said. “I’ve had it. You can’t live like this anymore. I can’t live like this—worrying about you all the time! The play gets out at ten twelve. I’ll be showered and out of the dressing room and at your place by ten-thirty. Meet me there and we’ll face this psycho together.”
“I can’t. I’ve been out of town and I’m at Grand Central. I’m not going in to work, it’s already almost five. I’m going to grab something to eat and go home now. I’m tired.”
“Okay. Go home, drop your stuff off, say hello to your walls, and then get out of there again. Go to a movie—come up here, sleep in my dressing room, something—till I get there. Please. Let me protect you from this.”
A pause.
“Willis?”
I was thinking. I was experiencing reaffirmation (in the parlance of my age) about this guy: I was thinking, he’s a hero, Terence. He’s a goddamn hero after all. (The snag was, I had to rearrange my schedule to allow him to be one. But there it was.)
“Okay,” I said meekly. “Okay. I’ll just drop some things off and I’ll go take in a movie somewhere. I’ll meet you at my place at ten-thirty.”
“Sharp.”
“Sharp.”
“And, Willis?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t worry about anything, I can handle this guy. Okay?”
“Okay, Terence. Thanks.”
I hung up. I took the local home. When I got there, Whizzer opened the door and shook a gloved finger at me. He was the world’s slowest talker. I waited for him to glance right and left, wet his lips, push back his visored hat, run a hand through his great white pompadour. Finally he was ready.
“Will … is. You’re … late.” He sighed and wet his lips again. “There’s a … mag … a … zine … PA … PA … RA … ZZ … I … wait … ing … up …”
I couldn’t wait for the gumball.
“Goddamnit!” I threw my bag down. Whizzer, who’d still been forming words, jumped. His gloved hand fluttered to his lips, as if to block the assembly line of slow-moving words.
I’d forgotten all about the interview Minnie had set up for me.
“Whizzer, c’mon. You know you’re not supposed to let anyone upstairs without telling me first.”
He started to gear up again. “Will … is?” He caressed his amazing white hair again and nodded several times, as if he’d begun receiving messages through a hidden earpiece.
“I … told … them … ab … so … lute … ly … no,” he began. Several eternities later, he’d managed to explain that Minnie had arrived in a cab from SIS with PAPARAZZI in tow. She’d told Whizzer that I’d approved everything—he also made sure, he told me proudly, that he was shown an official press I.D. (I … D …)
“Will … is.” A long pause. “Did … I … do …
wrong?”
I sighed. “It’s okay, Whizzer. It’s not really your fault. I just don’t feel like doing this today. Is Minnie still up there?”
He looked right and left, pushed back his visor, wet his lips.
“Wait,” I cried, “she got mad and left, right? She told me to call her at the magazine, right? Try not to talk, Whizzer. Just nod yes or no.”
He made a sound somewhere between a belch and a muted scream as he cut off the goose-stepping syllables. Then he looked right and left, pushed back his visor, wet his lips, and nodded yes.
Sitting on the floor outside my apartment, collapsed next to a pyramid of cameras and lighting equipment, was a good-looking, very tired young man with a laminated PAPARAZZI press card clipped to his leather jacket. He was half-dozing, his long legs in jeans stretched out into the hall, his dark hair falling into his eyes.
I took a deep breath. “I’m sorry I’m late. I forgot about this interview.”
He jumped so violently that he popped the lens cover off the camera he was holding in his hands—it went crazily rolling into the door. He shook his head and pulled himself up to a sitting position. “Christ!” he said. “Christ.” Then he grinned up at me good-naturedly. “You really sent me. I was just nodding out a little here.” He stood up and offered his hand.
“Perry Tate.”
“Willis Digby—I’m sorry to have kept you waiting so long.”
He grinned again. “Beats chasing Liza around Studio 54.”
“It does? Sleeping in an apartment hallway? She must be something.”
He laughed, then noticed me looking at his press card. “My writer went out for coffee. She got a little impatient. Oh, yeah, and your friend Minnie got pretty pissed off after an hour or so. She took off.”
“We can manage without Minnie.” I unlocked the door and he hoisted the cameras and the jumble of lenses and light meters over his shoulder, ducked his head at the door. I switched on the lights.
“Would you like some coffee or something?” I threw down my bag with an ominous chunk, remembering, too late, my Crafts Fair purchases. I pulled them out—the ashtray was broken, but the other stuff looked okay. I pulled out the tea cozy and the wire Empire State Building and took them out to the kitchen with me.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I wasn’t listening. What did you say you wanted?”
“Well, maybe a Diet Pepsi—if you have it.” He was kneeling near a window, unpacking his lighting equipment.
“Lemme check.” I put the stuff down and opened the refrigerator. Amazingly, I had a diet soda of some sort and a cream soda for me.
“I’m really kind of relieved you’re here,” I called, opening the can. “I’m being harassed by this weird guy, a Peeping Tom who’s gotten very aggressive lately.”
“Dammit,” I heard him curse softly as he dropped a piece of equipment. “Oh, yeah?” he called. “How does he get up high enough to see in the windows?”
I brought him the diet soda. “I think he stands on the sidewalk when he looks in here. You can see lights go on and off from down there. It turns out, though, that he can see right into my office at work—he works in some office building that’s right across from SIS, or really close by.” I peered out the window at Third Avenue below. It was starting to get dark.
“How do you know?” He drank some soda, pushed his hair back.
“The guy writes to me. He writes me these weird letters—God, you should see them!” I laughed, though I was shocked that I could make light of the whole thing. “I mean weird. Like he’s some cross between J. D. Salinger and Norman Bates. A literary killer.”
A phone in the kitchen rang. “That might be my writer,” he said. “Oh, yeah, wait, I almost forgot. There was this letter for you at SIS—I thought I should bring it down to you.” He pulled an envelope from his jacket pocket.
“There are always letters for me at SIS,” I said. I took the envelope without looking and sprinted for the phone.
“Hello?”
“Willis, if you think just because you’re getting some media attention right now, it’s okay to make people wait for hours on end for you, you better think—”
“Minnie, I’m sorry. But you know, you really can’t go ahead and schedule things for me without confirming them. Anyway, I’m busy right now, the photographer is here setting up, and the writer is coming over in a minute.”
“What writer?”
“The writer, Minnie! They always travel in twos, photographer and writer.”
I was slouched in the kitchen doorway, looking into the living room at Perry Tate. He stood up and faced me, a camera in front of his face. He turned the rings, focusing.
“Well, this guy didn’t. He told me, he was the writer and the photographer. There wasn’t any writer with him.” She paused. “Anyway, they can always send a writer over later. I never knew this—Did you know this? There’s a branch of PAPARAZZI right across from us. I could throw a stone out these windows and hit …”
I turned away from the living room, twisting the phone cord around my waist. I felt very calm, eerily calm.
“Minnie,” I said softly. I heard my own voice talking, from far far away. “Listen to me. This is life and death, Minnie. Tell Page that PAPARAZZI is here, in my apartment. And then tell her that their offices are right across from us …”
“What? I can’t hear you so well, Willis, you sound weird. What are you saying?” He was crossing the room, the camera still held up before his face, moving toward me. Somehow, without realizing what I was doing, I’d opened the letter—before I looked down at it, I knew what it would say. The famous handwriting. Three words.
LOOK AT ME.
“Willis? I’m going to hang up now. Betty Friedan just walked in. I never get over her presence! I’ll call you back.” She hung up.
I replaced the receiver. I turned and looked at The Watcher. The split second I turned, the flash went off and I was blinded. I heard him crossing the room swiftly.
I saw black and red circles before my eyes. I groped along the counter for a weapon, any weapon! A knife, a frying pan. My hand fell on something hard and cold.
When he grabbed me from behind, I turned and stabbed him in the neck with the Empire State Building. He cried out and grabbed at his throat. I saw blood. I came at him again, slashing with the spire, aiming for the jugular. I was sobbing. He made no sound, but his face was savage, canine. He grabbed for the Empire State Building and tried to twist it out of my grasp.
One of his fingernails ripped across my hand. I stabbed wildly with my weapon; he put his hands up against my attack. He fell backward against the kitchen door and I started kicking, in the general area of his crotch. I hit.
He fell to the floor, holding himself. I fell on top of him; I heard the wind go out of him. The Empire State Building cut through his shirt, his undershirt, the skin of his neck.
“You son of a bitch. You son of a bitch!” I gasped. “You wanna hurt me? You wanna hurt me?” I stabbed his arm. Blood welled up. “You bastard!” I was screaming so loud I couldn’t hear myself. I stabbed his hands, held up against his chest and neck.
He grabbed at the Empire State Building. He fended it off, once, twice. “What are you doing?” he yelled. “What are you doing? You want to kill me? The way you killed Matthew Kallam?”
The name stood in the air. I hit him again, this time in the chest. Then the name took hold. I pulled myself off him, pushing a hand, bloody, against the wall.
“Who the hell are you?” At last I heard my own voice—it sounded like an animal trying to speak. “WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?? How do you know these things about me?”
He sat up suddenly and hit the Empire State Building out of my hand. It skittered across the linoleum floor. He fell back, exhausted. “I’m Danny,” he groaned. “I’m Danny.”
“The name means nothing to me, fuckhead.” I looked at the Empire State Building lying propped against the refrigerator. I began crawling toward it. I looked back. “You’ll
have to do better than that.”
He touched his hand to his face and looked at it. He was covered with bloody cuts, and blood had welled up in the hollow of his neck. “Danny Hayburn,” he said in a tight small voice. “I was in the tent the night you shot Matthew Kallam.”
For one wild second I believed him. I believed that he was the ghost who’d been following, just a little bit behind me, since the night Matthew died. He was Justice—now he would stand up in armor made of flames and hold out the sword. I would be judged and released into Hell. I would be freed at last. Unequivocally damned.
Then I returned to myself. I rested my hand on the Empire State Building. He and I stared at each other. He looked like an actor in a horror movie; blood had run in rivulets down his face and neck and had soiled his collar and shirtfront. Abruptly he pulled himself up to a sitting position. I brandished my weapon like a switchblade. He eased back against the wall.
“You say you were in the tent. What tent are you talking about? Where? And what was your father’s name?”
“The tent,” he said in a surprised, vaguely hostile tone. “The tent in the countryside”—he looked at his bloody hands—“about … fifteen miles outside Carlisle, Pennsylvania. Where my father, Colonel Martin Hayburn, and your father”—he bowed sarcastically—“Colonel Homer Digby, went pheasant hunting.” He rubbed at his eyes, unconsciously smearing blood around them. “At the time they were attending the War College.” He bowed again. “The War College at Carlisle.”
He looked at me, and again he took on the glow of Avenging Angel. But the blood around his eyes made his gaze diabolical. I relaxed my hold slightly on the Empire State Building, but I kept it up, between us. I tried hard to see the child in the tent, little Danny Hayburn, ten-year-old warrior, in his face, but I was too frightened to remember. I could only imagine.
My fury came back. “Let’s say you are Danny Hayburn—why the fuck are you doing this to me?”
Just then the refrigerator came to life with a galvanized shudder. I jumped and so did he.
Dear Digby Page 13
