Palindrome

by E. Z. Rinsky

  “I’m not. We’ll take you to them first thing, once we get this straightened out.”

  She looks to Courtney, as if to verify what I’m saying, but then seems to remember that there’s no reason to believe that this Italian scarecrow is any more coherent than I am.

  “You’re saying that you . . . that you found the Beulah Twelve?”

  We both nod.

  “And . . . dead?” she asks.

  “Oh yeah,” I say. “Very, very dead. Okay, but let’s get this show on the road—­”

  Helen interrupts with a glare, leans in closer, like she’ll be able to better assess my verity with the aid of another few inches. Pulls an already mauled pen out of some crevice of her blue jeans and sticks the business end in her mouth, chews intently as she stares at us.

  “I’m gonna help you with this situation, Frank, but you have to tell me exactly what the fuck is going on here. You didn’t mention all of this on the phone.”

  I check my watch. Ten twenty in the morning.

  “I need to call her,” I say.

  “You can spare fifteen minutes. Spill. Don’t leave anything out,” she says. “I want to hear it all.”

  “Jesus.” I rub my eyes, sigh, and then launch into a feverish explanation of everything since I got that phone call in Washington Square Park, rehashing what I’d already explained, and now adding the events of the last two days. Helen’s face becomes harder and harder to read as I go on. Courtney bites his nails as I describe stealing the drill, then he chimes in to assure her that though admittedly we just left it out in the woods, we have every intention of returning it. When I’m done, she purses her lips and stares first at me, then Courtney, then back at me.

  “I would think that you’re lying,” she sighs, “except for two things: First, you don’t want to lie to me when your daughter’s life is on the line, assuming, of course, that you’re not lying about that, too, for some deranged reason. And second, that’s an elaborate fucking lie. That’s some Beautiful Mind shit right there,” she says. “So you’re telling me those bodies are still sitting right where you left them? Frozen? The crime of the decade solved by you two sad sacks.” She laughs to herself. “I wouldn’t hire you two to pick me up a sandwich from the corner deli right now.”

  “Helen, every word is true,” I say. “I swear.” I point to the tape. “And all the proof is right there.”

  “But you won’t let me listen.” She smirks.

  I shake my head in disbelief, look first at her, then at Courtney. “Weren’t you listening to me? Don’t you see what that thing does to you? It drove twelve perfectly normal men to murder and suicide!”

  Helen raises an eyebrow, then says calmly, like she’s talking to a child, “Even if everything you said is true, I don’t see what could possibly be on a cassette tape that would spontaneously turn men into murderers, Frank.”

  She gives me a kind, belittling look. I must look even worse than I thought.

  “Propose something, Frank,” she says gently but firmly. “Propose anything that could be on this little tape here that would turn me into a killer or drive me mad if I heard it.”

  I turn helplessly to Courtney, who shrugs like I’m kinda curious to hear your answer too.

  “We think it’s a palindrome,” I say weakly. “Same played backwards as forwards.”

  Helen shrugs. “So?”

  “I mean, that’s weird, right? You know, physically impossible?”

  “If only there were some really simple way to settle this . . .” Courtney mutters to himself.

  “Maybe,” Helen says. “But I don’t think that would make me brain my daughter with a shovel.”

  “I . . . I . . .” I shake my head helplessly, then snatch the tape off the table and stuff it back in my pocket. “Doesn’t matter. My daughter, my tape, my rules. Now let’s call this bitch,” I say, fiddling with my phone, fingers trembling. “So what’s the plan? I’ll just call and say I have what she wants and ask where to meet her, right?”

  “Well,” Helen says softly, thoughtfully, pursing her chapped lips. She has that hippy look. Looks natural with a fifty-­liter pack on her back and a bandana around her head. Time has only enhanced that. “Remember that you have some leverage here. Not much, because you want your daughter back unharmed, and she knows that, but from what I understand—­Courtney, I’m sorry, but please keep that bottle on the coaster—­this woman is just as serious about getting her hands on this thing. A broken deal would also be devastating for her, right?”

  “Right.” I nod. Courtney’s leg is fidgeting. I turn to him, irritated. “You alright? You wanna go get some fresh air or something? You don’t really need to be here.”

  “I’m fine,” he grunts, scratches his stubbly chin. I wonder what Helen thinks of him. I wonder what I think of him.

  “The most important thing,” Helen says, “and the reason I wanted to make sure I was next to you when you called, is to stay calm. Do not show any anger, impatience . . . don’t rush her, don’t make demands.”

  I hiss some air out between my teeth.

  Courtney mumbles, “You want me to just talk to her?”

  “Shut up, Courtney.”

  “Just saying, thoughtfulness, patience—­”

  “Shut up, Courtney!” I snap.

  Helen raises an eyebrow. “So how long have you two been married?”

  I grunt in response. Stare down at my phone. “Okay, I’m gonna call now, alright? I really can’t wait on this.”

  “Alright,” Helen says. “But put it on speaker so I can help you through it, and talk slowly so you have time to think things over. Keep calm, keep in control.”

  I bite my lip, pull up Greta’s number and hit dial. I turn on speakerphone and set the cell phone on the coffee table. Four rings, five rings. Voice mail.

  “Fuck,” I groan, hanging up and dropping my head into my hands.

  “What’s the matter with you,” Courtney cries. “Leave a message!”

  “I’m not leaving a goddamn—­”

  “You probably should have, Frank,” Helen says as gently as she can manage. “You know, so—­”

  We all go silent as my phone starts vibrating. I take a deep breath, look at Helen. She smiles at me. Goddamn, I miss her. Being around her makes me feel safer than I have in a while.

  “Hello?” I answer. Courtney and Helen lean in close.

  “You have it?” The deep voice makes me shiver. Helen flinches. But I feel a flood of relief. She hasn’t disappeared. I have what she needs. This might all work out.

  “Let me talk to my daughter,” I say.

  Heavy, expectant breathing.

  “Do you have it?” she repeats with more edge to her voice. I look up at Helen, who nods.

  “Yes,” I say. “I have it.”

  “Describe it.”

  Again Helen nods. I take it out of my jacket pocket, open the case and turn it over in my hands.

  “It’s a Sony,” I say. “Beneath Sony it says, Type normal position. On the other side it says, CHF60 on it, I guess that’s the model number. And in the spot where you write a description it just says, Kanter, 07/08. 33 Rutgers Lane.”

  Silence on the other end. For a second my heart screams, thinking she’s hung up, it’s the wrong tape.

  “Hello?” I say.

  “Where are you?” the voice asks, now with a totally different edge. Now alive, tinged with tortured desperation.

  “Let me speak to my daughter,” I say.

  Ten seconds of silence. I look from Helen to Courtney; eyes wide, they both give me looks: calm down, you’re doing fine. I hear something muffled, a scratching sound, and then:

  “Dad?”

  I lose it. Slap a hand over my mouth to hold in the sobs. Choking on tears. Courtney wraps his arm around my back, trying to comfort me.
>
  “S-­S-­S . . . Sadie?” I gasp. “Sadie, it’s Dad.”

  My fingers are practically ripping out my hair.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “Sadie.” My heart feels like it’s going to burst out of my chest, my lungs are going to collapse. “Tell me, are you okay? Have you been hurt?”

  “I’m okay—­” she starts, and then the phone is ripped away from her.

  “Where are you?” Greta demands.

  My hands are clenched into tight, shaking fists, my face burning with blood. I’ll kill her. I’ll kill her. Gnashing my teeth, body wound tight, eyes pulsing.

  Helen is out of her chair, hand on my shoulder, whispering in my ear, “It’s fine, Frank. It’s going to be okay. It’s okay. Tell her you’re in the city.”

  “I . . .” I stammer into the phone. “I’m in Manhattan.”

  “Where?”

  I swallow a stream of curses. Helen squeezes my shoulder tightly. My voice comes out warbled. “Doesn’t matter. Let’s meet tonight.”

  Long pause. Blood screaming in my eardrums. I think I can hear her muttering, debating to herself, then she finally says, “Tomorrow night. That was the arrangement. At nine. I’ll call you a half hour before to tell you where.”

  “Tonight!” I shout, slamming my fist on the table, but she’s hung up. I close my eyes. I taste blood, realize my nose is bleeding. Helen has a paper towel up to my nostrils.

  “Lean your head back,” she instructs.

  “I can’t wait any more, Helen,” I whimper. “I can’t.”

  “If it makes you feel better,” she sighs as she dabs at my nose, “she hasn’t hurt Sadie. If she had, she wouldn’t have let you talk to her.”

  “Don’t patronize me. You can’t know that.”

  “Psychologically speaking, it’s a near certainty. I’ve read about it several times. The worse they treat the victim, the more under wraps they keep them because they’re scared of the deal falling through.”

  “Helen,” I say. “Does this woman sound like the kind of person who’s scared of anything?”

  ABOUT TWENTY MINUTES later, as I stomp around Helen’s apartment trying to compose myself, Courtney involuntarily passes out on the couch. Helen suggests we let him sleep and go eat something at the diner around the corner. We leave him a note.

  We’re seated in a red leather booth. Without consulting me, Helen orders coffee for both of us, two broccoli feta omelets and an order of pancakes to share.

  “You gotta eat,” she says.

  I rub my temples and try to block out the ambient noise of this place: clatter of silverware on cheap ceramic, laughs, screaming babies, brain-­dead eighties music.

  “I know,” I say. Look up at her. “You live alone, don’t you? You couldn’t keep the place that clean if you lived with a man.”

  She doesn’t answer. That’s a yes.

  “You dating anyone?” I ask.

  “Ha.” She ties her long brown hair up into a bun with a rubber band. “Not right now.” Then she adds, “I’m divorced.”

  “Oh.” I nod, not sure whether this is good news or not. “Kids?”

  “No.”

  I take a long drink of ice water. “It’s good to see you, Helen, even under such unpleasant circumstances. I mean that.”

  “I–”

  I hold up a hand. “Don’t humor me. I know this is an unwelcome intrusion. Nobody could be happy having smelly Courtney passed out on their couch.”

  She smiles a little.

  I tap the tile tabletop, look around the restaurant for a moment just to collect myself, then turn back to her. “Aren’t you going to ask if I’m dating anyone?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Are you dating anyone, Frank?”

  “No, I’m not actually. Thanks for asking.”

  She cocks her head. Her voice gets a little too pleasant. “We’re not going to date again, Frank. I’m sorry. It took a little while, but now I realize that we weren’t really right for each other. That whole little mess was for the best.”

  I look at the table and nod, like I was expecting this. “Sure, sure . . .”

  The waiter interrupts just in time. Refills the coffee and delivers platters of steaming food with a smile. I can’t stomach the omelet, but being around Helen actually stimulates my appetite enough for me to choke down a few bites of pancake smothered in syrup.

  “I’m pretty sure I loved you, you know.” I throw it out there, like an unbaited hook. Who knows, maybe one of these days you’ll catch something with it.

  She laughs sadly. “No you didn’t. You’re misremembering. You’re just being nostalgic.”

  I sigh. She’s probably right.

  “Can I sleep over tonight?” I ask. “I’ll sleep on the couch. I just don’t wanna go home. It will feel too empty. Without . . . you know.”

  She waits till she finishes a bite of omelet before answering. “Fine.”

  “Scoot over.”

  I look up, and Courtney’s standing beside our table, frowning intensely, massaging his temples.

  “What the fuck, man?”

  “Scoot over,” he repeats. I roll my eyes and oblige. I think Helen is actually pleased with the interruption, even if it comes in this dour form. He sidles in next to me, gives Helen a cursory smile, then turns to me.

  “How could you let me sleep?” he asks. “There’s no time.”

  “What are you—­”

  “We gotta go,” he says.

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” I snort.

  He lowers his voice. “Our deal with Orange, remember? We have to bring it to him before you give it to Greta. He said he’d let his girls go.”

  I laugh. “No way, man. No fucking way. You think we’re just gonna march in there, let him listen once, and then just march out of there with all our extremities? I’ve got to be alive to get my daughter back.”

  “Frank, it’s not just that. Think about it. We made a deal with Orange, and how did Greta find us in the first place? Through Orange. What if he hears that she got her tape back without him getting his listen? You think he’s going to be pleased? Or do you think he might feel like hunting us down and feeding us our own testicles? We simply have to take care of this or we’re going to be in some seriously hot water. You’re right: You have to be alive to get Sadie back. So give it to me and I’ll do it alone.” His boney hand starts toward my jacket pocket.

  “No, Courtney.” I slap away his hands. “C’mon, no chance. If we lose that tape, we lose Sadie. Think reasonably about it.”

  “I told you, I’d make sure—­”

  “Knock it off, both of you,” interrupts Helen, sipping on her coffee. “This is the guy you mentioned who runs the sex den out of the gym?”

  We both nod dumbly.

  “Why don’t you idiots just make a copy of it?”

  Courtney and I look at each other.

  “That’s not bad,” I say.

  “Yeah.” Courtney scratches his flaking scalp. “That’s not bad.”

  TAKES AN HOUR to find a machine that can copy cassette tapes. Finally a pawnbroker in K-­town cracks up when we tell him what we need but says he’s pretty sure he has something like that deep in the back. Sells us the machine plus a sealed pack of six tapes for a hundred fifty bucks.

  “It’s an antique,” he chuckles. “Collector’s item.”

  Take a cab back to Helen’s, pick up AA batteries in a CVS for the tape deck, and try to keep up with Courtney as he storms up the four flights to her place.

  “This thing makes me feel old,” Helen says as we sit around her stainless-­steel kitchen table. The kitchen has a killer view of another apartment building, a redbrick monstrosity. From just the right angle you can glimpse a sliver of Central Park.

  I crack open an orange-­flavored energy drink
and throw our supplies on the table. Courtney eagerly tears one tape out of the packaging and shoves it into the second tape deck, the one on the right.

  I pull out the original, carefully open the case, and slide it into the left tape deck.

  Courtney’s fingers hover over the play/record button. I smack them away.

  “I’m gonna put it in Helen’s bedroom, close the door, and let it copy,” I say. Then I take three packages of earplugs I bought from CVS along with the batteries out of the plastic bag on the table. “And we’re each wearing these, to be safe.”

  “Frank . . .” Helen starts.

  “It’s either my way, or we don’t do it at all,” I say and put in my own earplugs. Courtney puts in his, and Helen rolls her eyes but eventually relents.

  “And for me, who will be the only one going in there,” I say, digging back into the plastic bag and removing a thirty-­dollar set of headphones, which I slap over my budded-­ears and plug into my phone. Choose a heavy Nine Inch Nails song—­which until now I’d only listened to during my monthly gym expeditions—­and crank it up until it’s unpleasantly loud, screaming into my ears: “You let me desecrate you . . .”

  Courtney mouths something I can’t decipher. Perfect. I give them both a thumbs-­up and somberly pick up the tape deck.

  I carry it into Helen’s room and close the door behind me. Smells the same as her room did back when we dated: same fruity shampoo, same laundry detergent. A woman of habit. There are no frills in here: made bed with white comforter, desk and lamp from Ikea. It could be mistaken for a man’s room if it weren’t for a bra cup I see protruding from the top drawer of her dresser. I think it looks like the room of a woman who’s lonely, but maybe that’s just wishful thinking.

  As I place the tape recorder on her blanket, I can’t hear anything but Trent Reznor describing what he’d like to do to me. I crank the music up one more level just to be safe—­it now actually feels like it’s making my ears bleed, even through the earplugs—­turn down the volume on the tape deck, and hit play/record, ready to immediately dash out of the room and close the door.

  But my feet don’t move. Instead I watch, transfixed by the white plastic gears in the middle of the tape, spinning slowly through the transparent cover of the machine. Music and blood pounding in my ears.