by Susan Conant
I had no luck in reaching Barbara and George, and reluctantly decided to make a quick trip to Ted’s. I didn’t ask Caprice to accompany me. It was her idea. She insisted. “After what happened last night, Wyeth won’t be there. Really, I don’t mind. I want to go with you.”
I filled a couple of heavy-duty food-storage bags with dry dog food. In case Barbara and George were out of town and Ted insisted on keeping Dolfo with him, I also took two stuffed Kong toys from the freezer to keep Dolfo happy in his crate. On the drive to Ted’s, I stopped for milk and, on impulse, also got eggs, bread, and cheddar cheese; for all I knew, the housekeeper wasn’t the only one who’d failed to show up, and if the milk had turned, Ted might be short on other perishables, too. When we arrived, one of the three parking spots in the paved area next to Ted’s house was empty. Instead of pulling into it, I backed into a space on the street, as if to remind myself that I was just dropping off supplies and not really paying a visit. Caprice helped me to carry everything in. We left our shoes on the porch, of course. When I rang the bell, I heard Ted call out, and Dolfo barked, but no one came to the door, so Caprice used her key.
The house reeked of urine, and I made the mistake of putting one stocking foot on a dark carpet only to feel moisture seep through. Dolfo greeted us by running madly up and down the stairs to the second floor, but at least he didn’t manage to jump on either of us. We found Ted on a couch in the family room. His hair was greasy, and his skin was pale and waxy. I was used to seeing Ted in the kinds of trendy clothes that Steve would never have bought, and he’d always looked as if his clothes were brand new or fresh from the cleaner. Now, he wore an unfashionably wrinkled lime-green shirt with a coffee-colored stain on the front. Instead of trousers, he had on baggy maroon shorts that he must have chosen because he’d been able to pull them on despite the cast that covered most of his right foot and extended up his calf. A pair of crutches lay on the floor beside the couch.
“Hey, thanks for coming,” he said in the weak, groggy voice I’d heard on the phone. His eyes looked heavy and unfocused. “Wyeth would’ve helped me, but he’s at his mother’s.”
Caprice and I exchanged a glance. In spite of her cynical and suspicious attitude toward Ted, she had the frightened, bewildered expression of a child forced to confront parental weakness.
“Ted, you can’t be here by yourself,” I said.
“It’s the pills,” he said. “You ever broken a bone? It hurts like hell, and this, uh, thing, the cast…I can’t get ice on my ankle, and it hurts like shit. Can you help me get up? I need to go to the bathroom.”
For building strength, big dogs have it all over health clubs. Ted outweighed my malamutes, but I didn’t have to take his full weight, and I easily helped him off the couch and onto his crutches. At my direction, Caprice leashed Dolfo to prevent him from barging into Ted. Through the big glass doors of the family room, I caught sight of Barbara, who was in her backyard with Portia.
“Ted, Barbara’s home. She’s in the yard. I’m going to ask her to take Dolfo,” I said. “Don’t argue about it.”
Ted began to work his way toward the kitchen and presumably toward the powder room where we’d once discovered Dolfo. He managed the crutches surprisingly well. I opened a door to the deck and called out to Barbara, who readily agreed to take Dolfo. “Just bring him over,” she called.
“Let’s just get Dolfo to Barbara before Ted comes back,” I said to Caprice. “Could you walk Dolfo over there right now? I’ll put the milk and stuff in the refrigerator, and then I’ll be right over. I want to talk to Barbara about Ted. At a minimum, someone should keep checking on him.”
“He’s stoned,” Caprice said.
“His judgment is clouded.”
“Permanently.”
“Take Dolfo out the front door before Ted has a chance to see him leaving. I don’t want him looking out and seeing you in the yard, or he’ll give us a hard time.”
“Dolfo, let’s go! Go visit Barbara and Portia? Good boy!” She patted her thigh and led Dolfo toward the front hall with the self-confidence of a dog person. You know those total immersion programs for people who want to learn foreign languages? The ones where you live with a family and have to communicate exclusively in their language? It occurred to me that Steve and I could take in people who needed to become fluent in dog. Converse with native speakers! No boring grammar drills! Rapid mastery guaranteed!
When I’d finished putting the milk, eggs, and cheddar in the refrigerator, I glanced down the corridor toward the powder room and saw that the door was still closed. Although I felt a duty to see to it that Ted was safe, I had no desire to spend yet more time with him. Consequently, I grabbed the dog food and the Kong toys I’d brought with me and hurried to the front door and out to the porch. Caprice, who was wearing running shoes, must have stopped to tie them. As I was slipping on my own shoes, she and Dolfo were beginning to walk along the sidewalk in front of Ted’s wide driveway, which lay between Ted’s house and Barbara and George’s. This off-street parking area was beautifully paved in cobblestone to create what looked like a patio. The space nearest Ted’s house was occupied by the silver Lexus SUV that Ted and Eumie had driven on the night I’d first met them. Parked next to it was a silver BMW sedan. The third space, the one closest to Barbara and George’s property, was empty, as it had been when we’d arrived. As usual, the neighborhood looked more suburban than urban, and at the moment, it was exceptionally quiet: no lawn mowers, no leaf blowers, not even a passing car.
As I was starting down the front steps, Dolfo stopped to sniff one of the tires of the BMW. Sounding eerily like Leah, Caprice said, “Not there! No man-made objects! Fire hydrants excepted. And that’s not a fire hydrant. Good boy, Dolfo. This way!”
As I descended the steps, I looked down to avoid losing my footing. At the precise moment I reached the bottom, when Caprice and Dolfo were on the sidewalk in front of the empty space next to the BMW, a big, shiny black SUV came tearing down the street, slowed abruptly, turned, and headed directly for that same parking space, which is to say, directly at Caprice and Dolfo.
“Caprice, run!” I screamed. “Get out of the way! Run!”
I had a clear view of the driver: Wyeth Green. Even if he somehow hadn’t seen Caprice and Dolfo, he’d have heard my desperate warning in time to put on the brakes. As it was, he ran that gigantic car into Caprice. His expression left no doubt that he had deliberately hit her. By the time he came to a halt, I was banging on the driver’s side window of the monstrous vehicle, which reminded me all too much of a hearse: long, wide, black, and deathly.
I’m unsure of the exact sequence of my next actions, and my memory of the details has a weirdly kaleidoscopic quality. I wrenched open the car door and must have thrown myself on top of Wyeth as I made sure that the transmission was in park and as I yanked the key out of the ignition. Logic suggests that I first prevented the car—and its driver—from doing further harm and only then knelt on the cobblestones next to Caprice, who lay in a fetal position and was groaning in pain. Amazingly, she retained a tight grip of Dolfo’s leash. I took it from her.
“It’s just my knee. I’ll be okay,” she managed to say. “Dolfo broke my fall. I fell on him. Is he all right?”
I remember that Dolfo was leaning over Caprice and licking her face. I had to push him aside, perhaps before she spoke, perhaps after. I have a vivid image of the front wheels, the massive tires, and the oversized chrome bumper of the car, and of Caprice on the beautiful stone paving only a few feet away.
“He’s fine.” I pulled out my cell phone. “I’m calling an ambulance.”
I know that she told me that she didn’t need one. “I just have to catch my breath,” she said.
After that, the sequence is clear to me.
A small beige sedan pulled off the street and parked behind my Blazer. Out of it stepped a familiar-looking fine-boned woman with short blond hair and pale skin. She wore beige linen pants and a pale linen top. I recogn
ized her as Johanna Green not only because she fit the description I’d been given of Ted’s ex-wife but because I knew that Johanna had a papillon, and this woman had one tucked under her left arm. The little dog’s bright, eager expression was in marked contrast to Johanna’s. The woman had dark circles under her eyes, and her whole face seemed to droop.
“Mom, it wasn’t my fault,” I heard Wyeth say.
Only when Ted replied did I realize that he was on the front porch of his house. “What the hell is going on?” he demanded.
“Wyeth,” said Johanna, “has apparently had a little incident. We were coming here to get his belongings.”
“Mom got me my Land Rover,” Wyeth said, “and I’m not all that used to it. I accidentally bumped into Caprice.”
Ted’s voice was suddenly strong. “Johanna, did you buy him that car?”
“Ted, you and I have joint custody. I’m perfectly within my rights to mother him as I see fit.”
“You are ruining him! He needs limits! Boundaries! He has to learn that there are consequences to his behavior! He threw his computer out the window and broke my ankle, and the consequence you’ve provided is a fucking Land Rover? Johanna, I’m going to see you in court for this. You are a vicious, destructive person and a terrible mother.”
“Don’t talk to her like that!” Wyeth shouted. “Shut up! Just shut up!”
Johanna ignored him and hollered at her ex-husband. “Ted, let me tell you something. What happened was that as usual, you blamed Wyeth for what was nothing more than an accident. He would never, ever have deliberately done what he’s accused of doing. He was heartbroken, and he was terrified. When he showed up at my door last night, he was shaking all over. I’ll see you in court, you abusive son of a bitch!”
Ted remained on the porch, and Johanna had now moved to the open door of the extravagant gift Wyeth had received for breaking his father’s ankle. Wyeth was in the driver’s seat. Johanna reached in and rested a hand on his shoulder. Had Johanna and Ted been right next to each other, their voices would have been raised. As it was, they were a considerable distance apart, so they were shouting to be heard as well as to vent rage.
“Johanna,” Ted bellowed, “you are a vain, selfish monster! I should’ve known! This is what I deserve for marrying the ultimate shikse! I’ve brought it on myself, and I’ve brought it on my son. Ai-ai-ai!”
“I’m a shikse? You’re calling me a shikse? What do think your precious Eumie was? Well, I’ll tell you what she was! A marriage wrecker! A conniving bitch! A dirty little sneak!”
With an exaggerated shrug, Ted said, “The truth comes out, Johanna. Holly, I hope you’re paying attention, because you might have to testify to what that woman is saying. She hated my Eumie. She was consumed by jealousy and envy. So she—”
“You are such a bullshit artist, Ted! She was a dirty sneak, and you know it. She knew all your little secrets, didn’t she? But you couldn’t trust her. Is that why you killed her? To keep her loud mouth shut?”
Caprice had pulled herself to her feet. She was resting one hand on the hood of the car, the other on Dolfo’s head. When I turned to her, I was horrified at myself. She should never have heard any of this fight. Tears were running down her face.
“We’re leaving,” I whispered as I took Dolfo’s leash. “I’ll be back in a second.”
In no more than twenty seconds, I was handing Dolfo’s leash to Barbara, who must have been next to her front door when I rang the bell. “Just take him. Please!” I handed her Wyeth’s keys. “Could you return these once we’ve left? I’m in a hurry. Caprice shouldn’t have to listen to what’s going on out there.”
“Of course not,” Barbara said. “Go!”
As I led Caprice to my car, Ted and Johanna continued to trade vicious accusations at top volume. They had returned to the dispute about which of them had ruined their son. The son, Wyeth, was, of course, right there. Although he was the subject of the fight, neither parent seemed aware of his presence. I knew that I was witnessing one of the final battles in an epic war between love and hate. The forces of love were in retreat; they were nowhere to be seen. Hate fought hate. There could be no victor.
CHAPTER 39
On that same Tuesday afternoon, Anita Fairley marches triumphantly out of Dr. Vee Foote’s office. Anita feels vindicated and liberated. No more of that trauma and healing shit! No more relationship addiction and no more making amends! All along, she has been depressed. Depressed! She has been suffering from depression! What a beautiful revelation! Rubbing the prescription between her fingers, she can barely contain her joy. Once she reaches her car and settles into the driver’s seat, she reaches into her purse, extracts the samples that Dr. Foote so generously gave her, and dry swallows one capsule. Then she repeats the action: a double dose.
She’ll fix that Ted Green! She’ll hire a private investigator and sue him for malpractice! He misdiagnosed and mistreated her. She’ll get him. She’ll ruin him. She’ll grind him into the ground.
Could the magic capsules already be at work? Now? Within seconds? She is perhaps the happiest depressed person on earth. She is delighted. She savors the prospect of revenge.
CHAPTER 40
That same Tuesday evening, I pinned Rita in her lair, which is to say in the newly renovated apartment that occupied the third floor of my house. Our house. It’s probably a good thing that I kept my original last name instead of taking Steve’s. If marriage can make such a hash of trivial little parts of speech such as personal pronouns, just imagine the mess that matrimony could make of big, important proper nouns. I mean, those things are capitalized! Anyway, my marriage—our marriage, Steve’s and mine—had meant a radical shift in living arrangements. To compensate Rita for the inconvenience of moving to the third floor and, in fact, to lure her into staying in the house at all, we’d done a thorough and expensive revamping of the top-floor apartment: The walls and ceilings were freshly plastered and painted, the windows and sills were new, the bathroom was a veritable spa, and the kitchen was all granite and wood and weird foreign appliances with unpronounceable brand names. The range, as the brochure had persisted in calling it, was so complicated that it had taken Rita two weeks to figure out how to use the oven and the broiler; until then, she’d used nothing but the burners. Far from complaining about this miserable stove, Rita had repeatedly expressed her delight with it. It was almost impossible to use, but so what? It was foreign and magnificent, like some European gentleman whose enchanting accent and continental demeanor more than compensated for a crabby disposition and an inability to hold a job.
Anyway, on Tuesday night after dinner, I climbed to the third floor, rapped on the door, protected my hearing from Willie’s barking by putting my hands over my ears, and subsequently distracted him from my ankles by tossing a rawhide flip chip across the room.
“Rita,” I said, “we have to talk. I respect your professional and personal ethics, I really do, but when a threat to life is involved, you’re allowed to make exceptions. Stop! I’m not asking you to say anything. But you do have to listen.”
“Cold sober?” she asked. “I’ve had a long day.” For once, she was less than perfectly groomed. Her navy linen suit was wrinkled, her face was shiny, and her mouth showed faded traces of lipstick. She had, I thought, been running her hands through her usually neat cap of carefully streaked hair. “I had emergencies with two patients. I just got off the phone.”
“Have you had dinner? We have leftovers. I’ll—”
“Thanks, Holly, but I had a snack, and I’m really too tired to eat.”
“Gin?” I suggested. “Gin and tonic? Scotch? Vodka? A Manhattan. Let me fix you a Manhattan. Or a Rob Roy.” In giving a precise report of what I said, I do not mean to suggest that Rita is some sort of lush. She isn’t. On the other hand, she’s no teetotaler, either.
“I’d keel over.”
“Hot chocolate?”
“Ugh. I’m not that far gone.”
“Wine,” I said.
“A little therapeutic glass of wine. I’ll go downstairs and get some. Red or white? Rita, I’m sorry, but this is important. Otherwise, I wouldn’t bother you.”
“You’re not bothering me. I’m sorry to be so frazzled. And I have wine.”
“I’ll be succinct. I promise. I’m not asking for advice. All I need is to pass along some information. I’m worried. I think that Wyeth is dangerous.”
Five minutes later, we were settled in Rita’s living room. In moving, she’d kept only her best pieces of furniture, mainly end tables and lamps. The upholstered couch and two chairs, all three new, were upholstered in fabrics that looked tweedy but didn’t itch. It occurred to me that if Sammy were locked in that living room, he could easily do $20,000 worth of damage in the first ten minutes.
Rita was stretched out on the couch with her stockinged feet propped up. Eager to show that I’d be quick, I perched on the edge of one of the armchairs.
“Wyeth,” I said. “You already know about the episode with the computer. Ted’s ankle is broken. If the computer or the monitor or the printer had landed on his head? In just the wrong spot? Well, the latest is that Johanna, Wyeth’s mother, felt so sorry for him after what he’d been through in that episode that she bought him a new car. A Land Rover. Brand-new, I think.”
“You can’t tell one make of car from another.”
“I can if I read what’s written on them. Anyway, Ted said it was a Land Rover. I think they’re expensive.”
“An understatement.”
“I’ll spare you the details. What happened late this afternoon is that Caprice was walking Dolfo from Ted’s to Barbara Leibowitz’s. Ted can’t manage anything. Barbara is taking care of Dolfo. So, Caprice and Dolfo were on the sidewalk in front of Ted’s driveway, an empty spot in this sort of parking area he has, when Wyeth came zooming down the street in his new car, turned in, and ran into Caprice.”
