Kate had never really thought about it, but then she did. “Really?”
“Really.” Philip turned off the light behind the X-ray. “Like I said, not so different from the guys you’ve met at your mother’s gallery.”
Kate simply could not get the two things to jibe. The gay men at the gallery were flamboyant and witty and charming. To say that Jimmy was unpolished was being generous. “It doesn’t make sense. Jimmy stared at my breasts all morning.”
“He’s gay. He’s not dead.”
Kate took the compliment, mostly because she couldn’t think of a rejoinder.
He said, “Good thing Wesley’s mouth wasn’t full when it happened.”
“Philip,” she chastened. He shouldn’t joke about it. “This could end Jimmy’s career.”
“It could end his life.” He wasn’t exaggerating. They both knew what happened to homosexuals. “Don’t worry. No one will hear it from me.”
“Me either.” Kate didn’t think anyone would believe her. She still couldn’t believe it herself.
“Murphy!” Maggie stood at the end of the hallway, flapping her hand like she was developing a Polaroid. “Come on! Let’s go!”
Kate told Philip, “I’m sorry. I need to—”
“Go do your job.” His smile showed his perfect teeth. “I’m happy for you, Kaitlin. The work suits you.”
Again, Kate didn’t know how to respond. Even a goodbye seemed superfluous considering the conversation they’d just had. All she could do was walk away. Kate felt Philip’s eyes following her. She was still so astonished that she couldn’t even feel pleased.
“Who’s that?” Maggie asked.
Kate struggled to switch gears. Did Maggie know about her brother? The way she’d yelled at Jimmy before didn’t indicate any closeness. And Maggie didn’t come across as particularly open-minded. She categorized everybody. The colored girls. The Italian dry cleaner. The Polack bar owner. Irish Spring.
Kate said, “I knew him in junior high school.”
“He’s good-looking.” Maggie asked, “Is he Jewish?”
Kate feigned ignorance. “I think so. He’s married.”
“Too bad,” Maggie said, though Kate didn’t know which part she thought was the problem.
Frankly, she was too tired to care. All Kate could do was follow Maggie toward the door. This required going through the waiting room. People were packed in so tightly that some patients were sitting on the floor. Just when Kate thought she was getting used to an odor, a new one would pop up. Toddlers were barely clothed. Diapers were full. Desperate faces stared back at her. She trained her sights ahead, thinking she might as well be walking on Mars.
She was reminded of Patrick’s letters from his first week at boot camp. He wasn’t so thrown by the military setting as the customs of his fellow soldiers. Black, Hispanic, American Indian, even some Asians. Patrick had grown up in a neighborhood surrounded by his own people, the same as Kate. He went to their restaurants. He went to their church. He worshipped their God. He’d never met anyone who didn’t vote for Kennedy or think that Nixon was a pig. His fellow soldiers had been as foreign to him as the Vietnamese.
Kate wondered what Patrick had made of the letters she wrote back. She’d tried to keep them full of shopping and family anecdotes and whatever gossip she picked up over drinks at the Coach and Six. She mentioned nothing of the searing loneliness and fear that rocked every single moment he was away. Kate wondered if she would even have the guts to tell him the truth now—if she could write Patrick an honest, awful letter about her day. The housing projects. The harsh way people spoke to her. Her crushing lack of confidence. How when Gail Patterson slammed her radio transmitter into Violet’s head, Kate’s initial reaction wasn’t repulsion but bloodlust.
She’d wanted to hit Violet, too.
She’d wanted to beat her. Kick her. She’d wanted to punish her for the hell she’d rained down. The absolute terror Kate had felt when she saw Maggie pull her gun. The sharp, stabbing pains of the equipment on her belt beating into her flesh. The blind panic from not being able to see anything beyond the rim of her hat. The jarring shock of slamming not just into a wall, but into a filthy, scrawny whore who still had the remnants of her last customer dripping down her legs.
The impulse to harm had passed as quickly as it had come, but the memory lingered.
Maggie asked, “You okay?”
“I’m terrific,” Kate quipped, because this job had turned her into an animal who couldn’t show weakness. “Was Jimmy hurt during the shooting?”
Maggie gave her a curious look.
“He was limping.”
“Football injury. His knee got wrecked in high school.” She pushed open the door. “I guess it’s acting up because of carrying Don.” She assured Kate, “He’ll be fine in a day or so.”
The smell of fresh air made Kate’s eyes sting. She looked up. The pole lights were on. The sun was sinking like a stone.
Maggie asked, “Where’s your car parked?”
“What?”
“Your car,” Maggie repeated. “Where is it parked?”
Kate had to think hard to jog her memory. “In the lot off Central.”
“I’ll drop you there and leave the cruiser at the motor pool.”
“What?”
Maggie stopped walking. “I’m taking you to your car. The shift is over. It’s time to go home.”
Kate stared at her, disbelieving.
And then she burst into tears.
15
Kate sat on the couch with a martini on the table beside her. She was in her parents’ living room. She was wearing a patterned shirtdress with princess seams and the pearls her mother had given her on her wedding day. She was freshly showered. Her hair was washed and draped around her shoulders. The lights were turned down low. Her feet were in a bowl of warm Epsom salts. She held an ice pack to her forehead. A heating pad was shoved down the back of her underwear. The cord hung like a tail between her legs. Six aspirin and a Valium were working their way through her system. Every time Kate got an inkling that she might live, she remembered what her life was like and wondered if it was worth the effort.
She would not go back tomorrow. She simply couldn’t.
So why had she brought all of her uniforms for Mary Jane to tailor? Why had Kate hunted and pecked around on her father’s typewriter for two hours writing up her daily report?
The fact that she had begged her mother’s maid to clean and mend her clothes served as a shining example of why Kate should not be doing this job. She was not Sabrina living with her father over a wealthy man’s garage. She had grown up in the main house with the Larrabees. Kate’s father was a respected psychiatrist. Her mother owned a renowned art gallery. Her grandmother had been a professor of chemistry back in Holland.
Kate was just as sheltered as Patrick had been. She had only ever met people like herself. She went to their restaurants. She went to their social clubs. Did the police force even have a club? Kate didn’t know and she frankly did not care. She didn’t belong with those people, with their coarse language and constant criticisms. Thinking of them as “those people” was proof enough.
But with whom did she belong? Most of her friends were all married and raising children now. Their lives were interesting, but only to other married women with children. The two single girls Kate had kept in touch with from college were both living in New York, much to the scandal of their mothers.
Philip Van Zandt had gone to Columbia. Kate wondered if her friends had met up with him while he was in medical school. Surely there would have been a letter. It was the sort of thing you did when someone from your crowd was in town. You threw a cocktail party. You asked them to drinks. You made them feel welcome. And with a man as handsome as Dr. Van Zandt, you did a lot of other things that would further scandalize your mother.
Kate let her head drop back on the couch. She moved the ice bag to her eyes. She let her memory conjure Philip’s charming grin and st
rong, broad shoulders. He seemed so damn sure of himself. Kate could not remember the last time a man had looked at her the way Philip had. Hell, she couldn’t even recall the last time a man had made love to her. The night before Patrick had shipped out was one she tried to block from her mind. She had driven down from Atlanta and met him at a seedy hotel outside the army base. Kate had still been so desperate and angry. Patrick was drunk. The entire ordeal was sloppy and mean and neither could look at the other afterward.
Since his death, Kate had gone on a grand total of two dates. One ended in a handshake, the other in a chaste kiss, and then word got around to all the bachelors who knew Kate’s girlfriends that she wasn’t worth the dinner and drinks and no one asked her out again.
She bet Philip Van Zandt would not let her leave on a handshake. Just the thought of him made Kate’s legs tremor.
“Darling?” The overhead lights came on.
“Oma?” Kate blinked to clear her vision. She felt a tinge of guilt, as if her grandmother could read her lustful thoughts. Not that Oma would disapprove. She was Dutch; there wasn’t much that disturbed her. “Is something wrong? I thought you were out with Mom and Dad.”
“By great coincidence, we all developed headaches at the exact same moment.” Oma walked gracefully into the room. Her graying blonde hair was pulled into a loose chignon. Her light eye makeup brought out the blue in her eyes. She was wearing a dress Kate might find in her own closet, though somehow, the style looked better on her sixty-five-year-old grandmother than it did on Kate.
Oma sat in the chair beside the couch. “Will I hear stories about your first day?”
“I’m not sure you’d believe them.”
“Try me.”
Kate dropped the ice bag from her forehead. Oma didn’t comment on the dark bruise. Instead, she drank the rest of Kate’s martini.
“Kaitlin, is that you?”
Kate suppressed a cringe at her mother’s voice. She had wanted so badly to be gone when they returned from supper.
Liesbeth frowned. “Put your knees together, dear. Anyone could see straight up your dress.”
Kate forced herself not to obey.
Oma offered, “I think a young woman should open her legs as often as possible.”
Liesbeth ignored the observation. She sat on the couch beside Kate. Like Oma, she was dressed for a night out. Her skirt was light blue. The matching sheer blouse had flowing sleeves that ballooned from her delicate wrists.
Kate always felt reduced next to her mother. She imagined Oma gave Liesbeth the same feeling. They were like Russian nesting dolls, only rather than fat babushkas, they were diminishing blonde replicas carrying on the Dutch maternal line.
Liesbeth primly crossed her legs, setting a good example. She took a cigarette from the box on the coffee table. “Why are the lights on in the basement?”
“Mary Jane is tailoring my uniforms for me.”
“She has the evening off.”
“I’ve offered to pay her.”
“That makes it all right, then.” Liesbeth’s Dutch accent was always more pronounced when she was being sarcastic. “I can’t imagine a seventy-three-year-old woman would want to be in bed at a reasonable hour.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.” Kate shook her head when her mother offered her a cigarette. She’d smoked her throat raw after Patrick died. Just the thought of the taste made her queasy. “I’ll apologize to her.”
“And pay her as well.” Liesbeth lit her cigarette. She studied Kate through the veil of smoke. “You’ve been crying.”
She had not asked a question, so Kate did not offer an answer.
“This bruise on your head? The blisters on your feet? I hesitate to guess what the heating pad is for.”
Kate didn’t know where to begin. The projects. The prostitute. Deep Throat—a movie she had a sinking suspicion her far more cosmopolitan grandmother had seen. She thought about the way Jimmy had pushed her around this morning, and how Maggie had said the uniform could get you anything for free, but then refused to take advantage of it herself. Then there was Gail Patterson. Never mind the beaten-down prostitute. Kate knew how to run. The only reason her arms were straight was because she was trying to keep herself from being flayed by the equipment around her waist.
She asked her grandmother, “Have you ever seen a sheep run?”
Oma laughed at the idea. “Have I ever seen a sheep run?” Her accent was heavier, too, though this was likely the result of too many martinis. “I once knew a Flemish girl who kept sheep.”
Kate smiled. Oma’s jokes often began with a Flemish girl. She had an Amsterdammer’s arrogance about the Dutch-speaking region of Belgium.
“Shush with your Flemish girls.” Liesbeth put her cigarette in the ashtray. She walked over to the bar. “We saw the afternoon Journal. Had you met the police officer who was murdered?”
“No.”
“I’m relieved to hear that.” Liesbeth used the tongs to put ice in the martini shaker. “I hope they get the right person this time. The paper mentioned Edward Spivey. His life was ruined by that trial. He had to move to the other side of the country.”
“Justice always prevails.” Oma turned to Kate. “Isn’t that right, dear?”
Kate nodded, though she wasn’t sure how she felt. She had gathered that no one in uniform thought Edward Spivey was innocent, whereas most of the people Kate knew assumed that the police had tried to frame him for the crime. “Where’s Daddy?”
“In his greenhouse.” Liesbeth poured a generous splash of vodka into the shaker. “He’s worried about his orchids. There’s something wrong with the heater.”
Kate hadn’t technically lied to Maggie Lawson. Her father was passionate about gardening.
Oma asked, “How are the people at work? Did you make any new friends?”
Kate would have laughed if she’d had the energy. “They’re fantastic. It’s like Seneca Falls without the organization or camaraderie.”
Oma frowned. “I’m sorry, dear. Were they mean?”
Kate felt like she was back in junior high again, crying to her grandmother about the cruel girls on the bus. Though Maggie and Gail and the rest of them weren’t exactly cruel. At least not to Kate.
She said, “They’re all just really tough. They walk around in armor.”
Liesbeth noted, “I imagine they have to.”
“No, that’s not what she means.” Oma crossed her hands in her lap. “Sometimes, women with a little bit of power can be much harder than men. Especially on other women. They have to distance themselves from the weakness of their sex. Yes?”
Kate looked at her mother. She generally disagreed with whatever Oma said.
For once, Liesbeth didn’t offer her opinion. She held the shaker between both hands as she mixed the martinis. Ice clanked against the stainless steel. Her sleeve had fallen down. Kate saw the tattoo on the outer side of her left forearm. The letter A followed by five numbers.
Oma asked, “Are you attempting to punish the ice?”
Liesbeth stilled the shaker. She put two glasses on the coffee table and filled each one. “Kaitlin, did you eat all of the olives?”
“Of course she did. She loves olives.” Oma offered Kate’s empty glass to fill. “I told Margot Kleinman that my granddaughter was a police officer. You would think I had told her you were an astronaut.” She raised her glass to Kate. “It’s wonderful you’ve found a way to help people, darling.”
Reluctantly, Kate picked up her glass. She met her grandmother’s gaze, then her mother’s, then downed half the drink.
“That’s lovely,” Oma said, meaning the martini. She told Kate, “It’s very important for your life to have meaning. Even on the days it makes you unhappy, you still need a purpose.”
Liesbeth sat on the couch. She stroked Kate’s hair behind her ear, then rested her hand on Kate’s shoulder. “It’s nice that you’re wearing your pearls.”
Kate stared at the cigarette smoldering in the ash
tray. She was probably six or seven the first time she’d noticed her mother’s tattoo. She was in the bathtub getting her ears scrubbed. “What’s that?” Kate had asked. “Nothing, schatje. Hold still.”
“Darling?” Oma asked. “Are you tired? Should we leave you alone?”
“No.” Kate rubbed her mother’s hand. “Please don’t.”
“Will you tell us about your day?” Oma waited expectantly. “Was it so terrible?”
Kate smiled at her grandmother. Oma’s dress was long-sleeved, covering the tattoo that was on the inside of her left arm. Same letter, different numbers. As with Liesbeth, she’d been sent to Auschwitz, but when the Nazis had discovered that Oma was a professor, they’d sent her to Mauthausen, a so-called “bone-grinder” camp designed to work intellectuals to death.
Liesbeth said, “You’re very distracted. Did something bad happen today?”
Kate held on to her mother’s hand. “Nothing happened,” she lied. And then she figured that since she was lying, she should put her heart into it. “Work wasn’t that bad. My feet don’t hurt any more than when I’ve danced all night. And this”—she indicated her forehead—“is because I’ve apparently forgotten how to look where I’m going when I wear a hat.”
Oma leaned back, smiling. “I suppose the worst part is having to get out of bed before ten. I can’t imagine.”
“Moeder, you’re always up before I am.” Liesbeth seemed more relieved than Oma. She took one last smoke before extinguishing her cigarette. “I know because half the coffee is always gone.”
“It’s very good coffee. How can I stop myself?”
Kate wasn’t sure if it was the Valium or the heating pad, but she finally felt her muscles begin to unknot. The room had taken on a lightness that hadn’t been there before. She tried to think of something else to tell. “I think the most galling part is that I never realized how smart I am about things that have absolutely no consequence in the real world.”
Neither her mother nor her grandmother objected to the observation.
“I’m not used to feeling so stupid.” That, Kate understood, was the rock she had been forced to push uphill all day. People had talked to her like she was an idiot because in many ways she was an idiot. “I don’t know how to talk to strangers. I don’t know how to stand up for myself. Apparently, I don’t know how to run. I even had to be told how to go to the bathroom.”
Cop Town Page 15
