Behind the Curtain

by Peter Abrahams

  “I told you everything,” Ingrid said.

  Silence. What was he thinking? That she hadn’t told him much?

  “I couldn’t see, remember?” Ingrid said.

  “Because of the duct tape,” the chief said.

  “Yeah.”

  Another silence. Then the chief said, “I’ll tell Joe you called. He should have been home by now.”

  But wasn’t, Ingrid realized, because the week of detention must have started right away. “Thanks,” she said, and hung up.

  The duct tape. If only those scraps had remained in the gully off Benedict Drive, no one would be doubting her. Ingrid thought back. She remembered rolling down the hill, coming to a stop, panting. Then she’d bitten through the duct tape around her wrists and ripped the blindfold tape from her eyes.

  Panting: whoa. She’d been able to pant because somehow that tumble down the hill had torn off the third strip of tape, covering her mouth. She and the chief hadn’t found any tape at all, but wasn’t it likely that this third strip had been smaller than the others, that it might have gotten twisted up and maybe bounced or rolled or slid beyond their search area?

  How small would that strip of tape have been, exactly? Ingrid opened the junk drawer, found duct tape, cut off a small piece. She covered her mouth with it, checked her reflection on a pot hanging on the wall. A small piece, but more than enough.

  Nigel opened an eye, saw her, and barked. Ingrid took off the duct tape. He stopped barking. His eye closed.

  Bzzz. A little spark went off in Ingrid’s mind. She’d felt that kind of spark before. It always accompanied a stroke of inspiration, like lightning with thunder. A minute later Ingrid was checking MapQuest for the directions to Benedict Drive. Two minutes after that she was on her bike, rounding the corner of Maple Lane and Avondale, several strips of duct tape in her pocket. Only later, as she came to the curve on Benedict Drive bordering the gully, did she remember that advice or whatever you wanted to call it about not going out alone.

  Ingrid laid her bike at the edge of the slope, peered down. Everything the same—steep hill, a little clearing at the bottom, woods on the other side. And no glint of duct tape. That didn’t discourage her. She was approaching this scientifically now, conducting an experiment in the manner of Sherlock Holmes. What was that line from “Silver Blaze”? “We imagined what might have happened, acted upon the supposition, and find ourselves justified.”

  This was the acting upon the supposition part. The tape over her mouth got ripped off in the long tumbling fall. Whoever had come back and picked up the other scraps down at the bottom might have missed it. But what exactly would she be looking for?

  To find out, Ingrid took the strips of duct tape from her pocket. Suppose, for example, that the strip over her mouth had got twisted up like so? She tossed a twisted strip down the hill. Wow. Completely invisible in the scrubby grass the moment it landed, even though she’d watched it the whole way. And it hadn’t come close to reaching the bottom, where she and the chief had concentrated their search.

  Or what about if the tape hadn’t got so twisted up, just folded over like this? Or maybe balled up? She threw more duct tape down the hill, all of it invisible in the undergrowth except for the folded-over one, which landed on a little bush. One thing was clear: She was going to have to search the whole hillside on her hands and knees.

  And here was another thought. Supposing the tape had got torn in two, two pieces, even smaller, even harder to find, like so? She twisted them up as well, flung the scraps in different directions, exploring every possibility like a conscientious scientist.

  From down at the bottom came a sudden movement. Chief Strade stepped out from behind a tree.

  “What are you doing, Ingrid?”

  sixteen

  “YOU MUST BE INGRID,” said Dr. Josef Vishevsky.

  Ingrid toyed with the idea of denying it.

  “Please sit down.”

  Ingrid sat down on the visitor’s side of Dr. Vishevsky’s desk. Dr. Vishevsky was a middle-aged guy with a graying beard and a slight accent that reminded her of Count Dracula. Lots of framed certificates hung on his walls. The closest one said that Dr. Vishevsky was a distinguished fellow of the New England Adolescent Psychological Society.

  “Comfortable?” said Dr. Vishevsky.

  Comfortable? Ingrid almost laughed in his face. That would have felt great. She’d never been so pissed off in her entire life. Maybe Ms. Groome not believing her shouldn’t have been such a big surprise, but now lots of people had jumped on the stupid bandwagon, including Chief Strade. Had he bought her scientific experiment explanation? Not even for a second. The worst part was this angled look in his eyes: He was seeing her in a brand-new way. And after that he’d driven her home from Benedict Drive and told Mom and Dad that he was afraid—that was the way he’d put it—that she’d been planting evidence to back up her story.

  That was the moment, there in the front hall at 99 Maple Lane, when Mom and Dad should have gone ballistic and told Chief Strade that he was out of his mind. Had that happened? No. Instead of going ballistic, Mom and Dad looked kind of sick, like they’d both been punched in the stomach.

  “Mom? Dad? You don’t believe me?”

  “Of course we believe you,” Mom said. But nothing in the tone of her voice backed up those words.

  “Maybe we could have a few minutes alone,” the chief said to Mom and Dad.

  Ingrid went up to her room. Ten or fifteen minutes later, she heard the cruiser driving off. Then came a knock on her door.

  “Yeah?”

  Mom and Dad came in.

  “It’s not that we don’t believe you,” Mom said.

  “Good. Because that’s what happened.”

  “I’m sure it was,” Mom began. “Still, we can’t help wondering.”

  “Wondering what?”

  “About the goddamn duct tape,” Dad said. “What the hell were you—”

  “Mark,” Mom said.

  Dad shut his mouth.

  “It might help if you explained about the duct tape,” Mom said.

  “I already did.”

  “Tell us again, if you don’t mind,” said Mom. “Sweetheart.”

  “I mind.”

  Mom sat on the edge of the bed. Ingrid shifted away, toward the wall.

  “Sometimes,” Mom said, “people can convince themselves that something really happened so completely that it’s no longer a matter of lying. And no one would treat it that way or get mad. Do you see what I’m saying?”

  “No.”

  Dad, standing in the doorway, said, “If this is some screwed-up plan of yours to stick it to that stupid Ms. Grundy—”

  “Ms. Groome,” Mom corrected.

  “—then cough it up now.”

  “Go away,” Ingrid said.

  Dad banged the doorjamb with the back of his hand, stalked off down the hall.

  Mom put her hand on Ingrid’s shoulder. “Were you more…upset about the whole Cracked-Up Katie thing than you let on?”

  Ingrid shrugged her shoulder free. “Go away.”

  “The chief is worried about you,” Mom said. “He thinks, and we agree, that it might be good for you to talk to a sympathetic professional.”

  “You’re sending me to a shrink?”

  “I wouldn’t put it that way,” Mom said. “He’s supposed to be very nice—his office is in the same building with Dr. Binkerman.”

  “Is that supposed to be a recommendation?” Ingrid said. “You can forget it.”

  “You can go kicking and screaming,” Mom said, “or just go.” Ingrid just went.

  “I understand,” said Dr. Vishevsky, “that you’re into acting.”

  Ingrid gazed at him. He had soft brown eyes, like a puppy. Ingrid wouldn’t have dreamed of kicking a puppy, but kicking Dr. Vishevsky came to mind immediately. “Yeah,” she said, “I like acting.”

  “Are you in a play now?”

  “We’re rehearsing a scene from The Wiza
rd of Oz for The Xmas Revue.”

  “And your role?”

  “Dorothy.”

  “Ah.” Dr. Vishevsky jotted something on a notepad. “The main character, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “I guess.”

  “Meaning you’re not sure?”

  “The Tin Man and the Cowardly Lion and the Scarecrow are important too.”

  “Would you prefer to be playing one of them?” asked Dr. Vishevsky.

  Ingrid thought about that. All those parts probably started with body movement—stiff for the Tin Man, floppy for the Scarecrow, catlike but in a timid way for the Cowardly Lion—and she wasn’t too good with that. “No,” she said.

  Dr. Vishevsky made another note. “What do you like most about acting?” he said.

  Ingrid shrugged. “It’s fun.”

  “What makes it fun for you?”

  “I don’t know,” Ingrid said. And she didn’t really want to know. Was it a rule you had to understand what made something fun?

  “Could it be the make-believe aspect?” said Dr. Vishevsky.

  How could it not be? Acting in a play was make-believe, for God’s sake. It was like saying does the chocolate aspect have anything to do with why you’re downing that pack of M&M’s? “I guess that’s part of it,” Ingrid said.

  Dr. Vishevsky nodded. “And what attracts you about make-believe?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Dr. Vishevsky looked at her for a moment, rubbed his beard. Did something fall out of it, some little food particle? Was that possible? “Think about it for a minute or two,” said Dr. Vishevsky. He rose. “A soda, perhaps? I have Fresca.”

  Fresca, Ingrid’s favorite, no doubt about that, but was it the brand of soda most people had lying around or offered first? No. They offered Coke or Pepsi or maybe Seven-Up. So Dr. Vishevsky was in the know about her, meaning that people, including her parents, were doing all this plotting behind her back. Ingrid felt a chill.

  “I’m not thirsty,” she said, although her mouth was suddenly dry. “And I can’t answer your question about make-believe.”

  “Can’t?” said Dr. Vishevsky. “Or won’t?”

  Ingrid didn’t reply. She just sat there, staring ahead, and came close to crossing her arms over her chest.

  Dr. Vishevsky surprised her with a smile. It even looked friendly. “Do you know why you’re here, Ingrid?”

  “My parents,” Ingrid said.

  Dr. Vishevsky nodded. “How would you say you get along with your parents?”

  “Fine.”

  “How do you feel about them arranging this meeting?”

  “I don’t know,” Ingrid said.

  “Angry, perhaps?” said Dr. Vishevsky. “Resentful?”

  Ingrid shrugged.

  Dr. Vishevsky leaned back in his chair. She saw that his beard grew right down his neck and under the collar of his shirt. She’d seen enough of Dr. Vishevsky.

  “How do you feel about expressing your feelings in general, Ingrid?” he said. “Comfortable or uncomfortable?”

  Ingrid looked him in the eye for the first time.

  “It depends,” she said.

  “On what?”

  On what? How about who she was talking to and what the feelings were for starters? But wasn’t that obvious? Wouldn’t an experienced shrink like Dr. Vishevsky already know the answer?

  “Stuff,” she said. “You know.”

  Dr. Vishevsky made another note. “Do you like to read, Ingrid?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have a favorite book?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What is it?”

  “The Complete Sherlock Holmes.”

  “Ah,” said Dr. Vishevsky, writing it down. “And what do you like about Sherlock Holmes?”

  “Lots of things.”

  “Such as?”

  “They’re good stories,” Ingrid said.

  “What makes them good?”

  “I just like them.”

  Dr. Vishevsky sighed; a tiny little sigh, but Ingrid caught it.

  “Moving to the character of Sherlock Holmes specifically,” he said, “what do you like about him?”

  “I don’t know. He’s interesting.”

  “In what way?”

  At that moment, Ingrid actually figured out what she liked best about Sherlock Holmes: He thought for himself and didn’t care what anyone thought about him.

  “It’s hard to say,” she told Dr. Vishevsky.

  “I understand,” he said. There was a long pause. He seemed to be lost in thought. Then he said, “Do you ever imagine yourself doing the kinds of things Sherlock Holmes does?”

  “No.”

  “Investigating cases, for example? Solving crimes?”

  “No.”

  “Or being the center of attention like him, admired by everybody?”

  “No.”

  “Allowing your powers of make-believe to carry you over to another—”

  “No.”

  Dr. Vishevsky wrote on his notepad, turned the page, wrote some more. “Do you know what a biography is?”

  Of course she did. What a question! She gave a little nod.

  “Have you read any?”

  Ingrid thought. “There was one about Sacajawea.”

  Dr. Vishevsky blinked. Was it possible he was unaware of Sacajawea? “How about—given your dramatic interests—biographies of actors and actresses?”

  She shook her head, at the same time making a mental note to go on the Internet and see what actress bios were out there.

  “I’ve read a few,” said Dr. Vishevsky.

  “Oh?” said Ingrid. “About who?”

  Dr. Vishevsky looked surprised. “I don’t recall the names offhand,” he said.

  “Maybe the books weren’t very good,” Ingrid said.

  Dr. Vishevsky blinked again. Then his face, a pretty soft one, hardened slightly, as though…as though he’d decided he didn’t like her. “But I did find a common element in all these life stories,” he said. “Any idea what that might be?”

  Multiple divorces? Drug and alcohol problems? Nose jobs? Ingrid kept all that to herself. “No,” she said.

  “They all,” said Dr. Vishevsky, “all these actresses and actors, had difficulty expressing their feelings in real life. It was only in the world of make-believe that their feelings came out.”

  Silence. Ingrid heard a man laughing on the other side of the wall. Dr. Binkerman. She wished she were over there instead, even getting her braces tightened extra tight, a really wacked-out thought.

  Dr. Vishevsky leaned forward. “Which brings us,” he said, “to this whole episode with your math teacher, Ms. Groome.”

  Ingrid’s chin tilted up in an aggressive sort of way, a motion that seemed to happen all on its own. “Does it?” she said.

  Dr. Vishevsky’s face hardened a little more.

  seventeen

  “Coffee?” Mom said.

  “Sounds good,” said Chief Strade. He sat down, laid some papers on the kitchen table. Ingrid, from her place on the other side, could make out the name on the letterhead: Dr. Josef Vishevsky. She got up and stood by the wall.

  Mom poured coffee. Dad came in, knotting his tie.

  “Morning,” said the chief.

  Dad nodded. “Will this take long? I’ve got an eight-o’clock meeting.”

  Mom flashed Dad a quick annoyed glance—a glance that Dad missed but the chief caught.

  “I’ll try to make it quick,” the chief said.

  “That’s all right,” Mom said. “Mark and I know this is important.”

  “Did I say it wasn’t?” Dad asked, spooning sugar into his coffee; he liked lots.

  The chief bowed his head slightly to take a sip of coffee, his eyes darting to Mom and Dad. “Real good coffee,” he said. “Thanks.” Then he turned to Ingrid. “How are you doing, Ingrid?”

  “Fine.”

  He adjusted his body in the chair, trying to get comfortable. Chief Strade was a
little too big for the breakfast nook. “I hear a lot of lies in my job,” he said. “And I deal with a lot of liars. You don’t seem like a liar to me.”

  “So you believe me?” Ingrid said.

  The chief took a deep breath. “I can’t see my way clear to do that.”

  “But you just said she’s not a liar,” Mom said.

  “Yeah,” said Dad. “What kind of game are you playing?”

  “If anyone’s playing games,” said the chief, “it’s not me.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Dad said.

  The chief turned away from Dad, almost as if he had no time for him. “Ingrid?” he said. “Is there anything you want to tell me? This would be the time.”

  Ingrid had something to tell him all right, but it wasn’t the kind of language you used on a chief of police, not even one who treated her father with contempt, who didn’t believe the truth. She just said, “No.”

  “’Kay,” said Chief Strade. He handed Dad the papers from Dr. Vishevsky. “Just read the first paragraph.”

  Dad read the first paragraph. His eyes went back and forth, fast at the beginning, then slower and slower, almost like they were refusing to go on. Mom came closer, read over his shoulder. Her face got pale. They finished at the same time and looked up at Ingrid.

  “On the other hand,” said the chief, “you can get a little carried away with this kind of thing.”

  “What kind of thing?” said Dad.

  “Psychology,” said the chief, taking the report from him.

  “But you just said you don’t believe her,” said Mom.

  “She’s given me no facts to back herself up,” said the chief. “The opposite. But”—he tore the report in two, then tore up the pieces and stuffed them in his pocket—“I don’t believe this either.”

  “So where are we?” Dad said, glancing at his watch. Ingrid realized he had no idea about the impression he was making on the chief, or maybe didn’t care.

  “That’s the problem,” the chief said. “Nowhere. I can only work off facts.”

  “And therefore?” said Dad.

  “Therefore the investigation is officially closed.” The chief went over to Ingrid, gazed down at her. “But—are you listening, Ingrid?”