The Murderer Next Door

by Rafael Yglesias

  “No. You don’t understand. In fact, there was only one person who really did understand that it was my decision. And that was Wendy.” Joan must have been sure that her kind speech would be reassuring and pleasant, because my answer startled her. She returned to gathering her hair and stretching it back. Her eyes went back and forth across my face. I had her thinking hard about something. I continued, “Otherwise, you see, it means the only person who voluntarily did something for me is converted into a wrongdoer. I mean, Naomi saved my life.…Really. That’s what she did. And if I look at it the way you did, it lets me off the hook all right, but it turns the one person who did me a kindness into someone who did me wrong. It makes a joke out of morality: ‘Naomi’s good, but really she’s bad. Father was bad, but he deserved better.’ You’ve turned everything upside down. Don’t you see? I wanted to get away, to be happy. Naomi made it possible. But I wanted it. And I took it.”

  “I don’t know…” She dropped her head down and the waterfall of hair covered her for a moment. She abruptly flipped it back, a magician revealing the surprise. Her face reappeared with a settled look of conviction: “I still think you’re being too hard on yourself.”

  “I’m not. It’s not about being hard or easy—it’s about being accurate.”

  “Mom!” one of her boys shouted. “It’s for you!”

  Apparently the phone had rung. I hadn’t heard it. Our conversation must have been intense—neither had she. Joan glanced at her wristwatch as she moved to the wall phone and exclaimed, “Oh my God,” into the receiver without saying hello. “I’m sorry. I’ll be right there.” She hung up and told me in a rush that she was late for her writing workshop.

  I was disappointed I had to go. And I hadn’t gotten the full story of her marriage to Ben. “Do you come into the city?” I asked as we hurried outside. “Can we talk some more about Ben?”

  She didn’t hesitate. She vehemently agreed that we should get together and said she would call tomorrow to set a day when we could meet. We hardly said good-bye.

  I returned to my car to go home. This time, driving to the city in the Volvo, skimming soundlessly on the white-gray concrete of the Long Island Expressway, I wanted to go back, to stop traveling. My afternoon tea with Joan had proved I could still make contact with people. She was right: I couldn’t change Ben. But if I was accurate and clearheaded while with him, maybe I could steer around his devils and find his real center. It had to be there—it’s in all of us—the final doll in a sequence of diminishing nesting dolls: a tiny, indivisible child who wants to be loved.

  ON SUNDAY JOAN CALLED AND WE ARRANGED TO HAVE lunch in two weeks. The prospect of another talk with her buoyed my spirits while waiting for Ben’s return. Stefan’s presence didn’t.

  During the afternoon, the vigil wore me out. I was obsessed, thinking of nothing but Ben and Naomi—off in the unknown—insisting to myself that everything would be okay. Attempts to concentrate on work were hopeless. I paced in the living room, picking up magazines, reading nothing, staring through old movies on television. Ben couldn’t kill her, I encouraged myself. Even in a rage, how could he hurt that beautiful little girl? Logic told me he could. Feelings said no. People do, I lost the argument with myself. They often kill the innocent gleefully.

  Stefan ignored me for most of the day. Toward evening, he came in and approached the subject of our relationship by way of my anger at him for refusing to deal with Ben. I told him nothing had changed: I would do whatever it took to ensure Naomi’s safety.

  “All right. I understand your feelings on that score. I was insensitive. You can’t just leave it to the law…I understand that now.” He rubbed his small dark hands together—the fine black hairs curved over to the very white, meaty part of his palm. Stefan was good to hold hands with; they fit nicely in mine; they were warm and dry and calm. “I don’t think it means we have to end our relationship.”

  “I don’t want to end our relationship. I want to end our marriage.” I pressed my lips together, squashing them, wishing I could stop my mean mouth.

  “What does that mean?”

  I kept my lips together: no more talking, Molly.

  “You said you didn’t love me.” He nodded in my direction for me to agree. “You meant it?”

  I nodded yes, pressing hard to keep my mouth closed. My teeth bit painfully against the inside of my cheeks, but I didn’t ease up. I wanted to spare Stefan the ugliness in me.

  “My question is, why is it that Wendy’s death has caused you to discover you don’t love me?”

  Anger stepped to the head of the line, demanding to go first. I pushed it aside with the law: “I’d like to keep the apartment, go on living here. We can negotiate the agreement so that I buy you out.”

  “Goddamn it, Molly!” Stefan’s arms shot out awkwardly from his sides, stiffened in the air, and moved up and down. His rage had a comical quality—a childlike miniature of the real thing. “Deal with me! I’m a real person! You’re hurting me. You have to deal with that!”

  “Let’s make love,” I suggested. We hadn’t since Wendy’s death. It would be nice to be physical for a little while, to forget the brain and the heart. I thought about Stefan’s smooth hands. I could press one between my legs and leisurely kiss his red lips, nested in his fine fur. I stretched out and captured his fingers with mine, entwining us. His confused dark face still pantomimed fury.

  “No!” He stepped back; my fingers stuck between his. We stood awkwardly apart and united. “That’s not the answer to my anger. Pacifying me—”

  I walked into him. His body was a wall, no give of welcome. I took hold of him, rising on my toes, gaining height, arching my arms around him, hands taking hold of his small, little boy’s behind.

  “—isn’t the answer,” his lips mumbled into my attempt at a kiss. I covered the fur and red mouth with more kisses. He talked into them: “I don’t want sex—”

  “I do.”

  “I want—”

  “You’re excited,” I argued—his flat body had topography now. I have long strong fingers and Stefan likes the feel of them on his back, his shoulders, kneading him. He’s a sensual man and the release of sex is important to him, yet he fights his urges. Sometimes I think the great preoccupation of his life is to keep his desires in check.

  I cracked his icy resistance with my grip, rolling his skin, paying no attention to his words, listening instead to the resonance of his tone, the rhythm of his breathing.

  “You can’t manipulate me—this is too serious…I won’t allow you to degrade our relationship, there’s more to it—”

  “Let’s say good-bye right.” I kissed him on the eyes, licking the lids shut. He was a perfect doll, an exquisite miniature.

  “You’re acting out—,” he mumbled, but the talk was an obvious prop now. One push and the flat would fall over.

  “This is your last chance to enjoy me, Stefan,” I whispered, and slipped a hand between us to caress his tangible excitement, his truthful organ.

  At last he took hold of me. His hand squeezed the back of my neck, he bumped his pelvis against me, and the fur flew apart. His tongue forced itself into my mouth and wiggled inside.

  He withdrew fast and stared intently at me, his brown face concentrated. He spoke honestly, without a whine: “Maybe I’ll kill you.”

  “Sure Stefan.” I covered his mouth and exhaled the words into his open throat: “Go ahead and kill me.”

  That’s what orgasm is: a happy death.

  Afterward he cried. Without any preliminary talk or warning. I felt fine. My head was clear, relaxed, thinking nothing, troubles forgotten. I floated on the earth, seeing limitless sky, breathing in time with the world. I heard a sniffle, turned my head, and saw the indentations of his tears trailing down, mountain streams disappearing into his black forest. He made almost no sound. His small bird’s chest heaved in rapid motion, his little heart breaking.

  I felt a pang, but it was obliterated by rage. How dare he put this on me,
the responsibility for his impossible desires?

  “I love you,” he said at last, and then wailed his first sob.

  That was too much for me: “You love a fantasy!” I told him, furious. “My blond hair. My shicksa body. You don’t love me. You don’t want me to be real.”

  “That’s not true, Molly,” he moaned.

  “The minute I’m real you want to send me to doctors, you want to shut me up. If I don’t tie down everything I feel—like you do—you want me medicated.”

  There is no ending to a past that doesn’t hurt. Even an evil past is frightening to let go of. Stefan needed to be hurt—he wanted to be shoved away. He wished to blame me.

  Why not? It was my fault: I had lived a pretense, choosing comfort over passion, ease ahead of commitment. Many others seemed to get away with that compromise. Not me. Ben Fliess had flushed me from my hiding place.

  Stefan took a pill, the only time I had ever seen him prescribe for himself. Once he had calmed down he packed a bag. I asked him to hire a lawyer and get in touch with Prosser.

  He nodded, beaten. But he said: “Think about it, okay? I won’t do anything for a month. I want you to think about it.”

  “You can wait a month. I won’t change my mind.”

  He did an uncharacteristic thing: he grabbed me impulsively as I walked him to the front door. He dropped the suitcase and his body jerked at me, almost a leap. Stefan bent me back and kissed me hard, like a slap, on the lips. His arms squeezed me—a desperate clinging child—and he buried his head in my hair, moaning: “Molly…Molly…Molly…”

  “Shhhh,” I comforted him. “You’ll be all right.”

  “I won’t,” he croaked.

  I know I’m bad: I was glad when he finally left.

  I gathered his things—photographs, mementos, a small sculpture—emptied the medicine cabinet of his toiletries and drugs, and put them in his study, closing the door. I rounded up all the stray copies of psychoanalytic journals. I dumped his favorite snacks into the garbage and—

  That’s when I saw the Fliess kitchen light go on. I phoned. Busy signal. I crossed the hall.

  Naomi answered the door.

  “Who is it?” Ben shouted from the living room.

  “It’s Molly,” she hollered back.

  “Why aren’t you in bed?” I asked her.

  “I swam across the whole pool!” she announced. “Even the deep end! I wasn’t scared.”

  Ben and Naomi had gone to a hotel in Westchester for the weekend. The attraction was that it had an indoor pool. Naomi loved to swim. Of course Ben paid the bill with my money. I learned all this from her as she undressed, brushed her teeth, argued that she ought to have a bath (losing), and during our talk in the night-light dark, after I had read her a chapter of The Secret Garden. Ben talked on the phone through the whole bedtime ritual. He was still at it when I came into the living room.

  He hung up after a few more exchanges and mumbled, “He’s an incompetent jerk.”

  “Who is?”

  “My so-called lawyer.”

  “You can’t call him on Sunday night and expect that he’ll be happy about it,” I said, not for the first time.

  “I tried him all day Saturday and today! He was skiing! I’m paying him a fucking fortune—”

  “No. I’m paying him.”

  “You want your money back—?”

  “I don’t—”

  “I don’t have it! You gave it to me without any strings.” His lips quivered as he abused me. But he always seemed happiest when he shouted. Quiet, he was sullen and despondent. At least anger brought him to life. “You can’t give me—”

  I was sick of his bullying. I didn’t calculate my response. I let go: “Shut up!”

  “I won’t shut up!” He kicked the wing chair next to him. Despite its bulk, it skidded three feet. “Don’t shout at me!” Ben bellowed.

  “Daddy!” Naomi called out, almost in a scream. “Daddy, I’m scared!”

  I moved toward the hallway. Ben cut ahead of me. He bumped me back with his hip. “She called for me! he complained.

  “Act like a grown-up,” I told his back.

  “Oh fuck off,” he mumbled, disappearing.

  I felt good. Pissed off, a green anger, wanting to ripen. A lively feeling. I was eager for him to reappear.

  He entered grumbling. His head was down; he rubbed his forehead wearily as he walked, eyes averted. “I told you I don’t want you here after she’s—”

  “I’ve got something to tell you. I’m divorcing Stefan.”

  “Oh yeah?” Ben perked up. He flopped down on the couch, legs sagging, but his face was enlivened: “How come?”

  “We see our futures differently.”

  “Come on, Molly. You want to get along with me, tell me the truth.”

  “Who says I want to get along with you?”

  He smiled appreciatively, nodding at the floor. “What do you want from me? I can’t read you. Never could, Wendy claimed she knew everything you were thinking—”

  “She did.”

  “Bullshit.” Ben rubbed his face, allowed his legs to sag even more, and mumbled: “Excuse me, but I’m tired of sentimental bullshit. Especially from women.”

  I was amazed. Overloaded, really. I laughed at him—scornfully. “You’re really something.”

  “What the fuck does that mean?”

  “You plan on beating all of us to death?”

  The world stopped. I had spoken the scariest words in a tough, casual, thoughtless outburst. Ben himself appeared confused. “Shut up,” he said in an intense whisper, indicating Naomi’s bedroom. “She’s still up. She can hear.”

  “You want me to go and tell her? She hasn’t asked. If she does, I’ll tell her what I really think.”

  “Okay. That’s it.” He rose from the couch ominously. “You’re gone.”

  But he was too slow. Instinct told me he didn’t mean it. “You need my help, Ben. Stop pretending you don’t. You’ll need more money soon. Deal with me, or I swear to God, I’ll cut you off. And I’ll help them convict you.”

  “You’re nuts. You can’t help them.” He dismissed me with a disgusted wave. Then he mused: “I don’t know what the fuck you want from me. What is your fantasy, Molly, about all this?

  You want me to give Nommy to you? Forget it. She’s the only thing I’ve got left—”

  “She’s not a thing.”

  “Oh, please! Don’t give me that crap! Okay?” He stamped his foot, squashing my semantic correction. “Do you really believe all that stuff? No one else does, you know.” He came up to me, slow, not scary. He put a long tapering finger in the air, hovering obnoxiously in my face. I wanted to bite it. “Of course she’s a thing, a really precious thing—my life. I lose it and I’m dead. I don’t care what happens. You can’t threaten me with shit in order to get her, cause she’s my bottom line.”

  “That’s your excuse for killing Wendy,” I said, and I knew what I risked.

  Again, for a moment, the world stopped.

  Ben transformed. He lowered his lecturing finger. He cocked his head to one side, brought his chin up. His mouth weakened, almost sadly. “I’ve always liked you. Always wanted to sleep with you.” Didn’t surprise me. He was greedy. He wanted everything. If he intended to shock me, he failed. I watched him, wondering what was the goal of this manipulation. My money, my silence, or my body? “Wendy knew that. She said everyone wants you. She said you’re like a beautiful cat. People want to possess you, she said, because you can’t be owned. They want you purring in their laps.” He adjusted his glasses, pushing them back, and squinted through them, waiting. “Did Stefan get to have you? That’s what I always wanted to know. I used to tell her I thought you two didn’t screw. She said I was crazy. She said she knew everything about you, whether you told her or not.”

  “She was right.”

  “Oh yeah?” He smirked and finally straightened his head, curiosity gone. His tone changed: “She said you wanted to
sleep with me.”

  How many times have I underestimated him? He had a punch to throw, after all. I got hit pretty hard, though I pretended not to be fazed. I stumbled for a moment and concentrated on a riposte. “Well…,” I mumbled, stepping away, unable to meet his triumphant, gleeful stare. “She was flattering you,” I said.

  Ben shook his head, gently, so unconvinced he didn’t need to disagree out loud. “She didn’t mean because of me…” He searched my face for a moment and then gave up on what he sought, shrugging his shoulders. “Well, she was full of shit, too, you know. Thought she was a brilliant, wonderful person, the best goddamn mother in the whole world, the most sympathetic friend…. Like all women today—just convinced she was morally superior. And everybody buys it, too. It’s incredible. Magazines, the TV, books, movies—it’s unbelievable. Your sex is even allowed to kill. When one of you gets rid of a husband, she’s a victim defending herself.”

  All I got out of this was his hatred of women, his typical use of self-pity to justify his own evil, and, of course, I felt relief that he had apparently abandoned his attempt at sexual blackmail, if that’s what it was. Since Ben’s release from jail, his behavior was disorganized and often pointless. He hardly left the apartment, and although he complained about his lawyer, he made no move to replace him. Maybe he was merely crazy, not evil or perverse, but unplugged from the switchboard, incapable of sending and receiving like the rest of us. Perhaps what seemed to be a sadistic carrot-and-stick use of Naomi in his dealings with me was actually random, irrational behavior.

  “Look Ben,” I appealed to him, “for better or worse let’s try and be civil, for Naomi’s sake.”

  “No way!” He was lively again. “The one good thing about all this is”—he smiled and opened his arms, embracing and welcoming everything—“I don’t have to pretend anymore. About anything. I’m not going back to that polite shit of the world, to all those lies. I’m not going back to having someone make me feel like a piece of unworthy shit all the time. I’m not gonna be the ugly one, the selfish one, the failure, the pig, the bad boy who has to behave. Forget it I’ll take your money as long as you’re stupid enough to give it away, but I won’t kiss your ass for it.”