"Interesting idea, maybe a little too complicated, too conspiratorial. But, hey! don't sweat it, Mace."
"Thanks, David, but I'm sure I will. So... see you around the courthouse," he says.
15
Mr. Potato Head: Something about him rings a bell. But how could that be since I have no idea what he looks like?
Waiting for Pam in Waldo's, I draw several empty head-shaped ovals. Then, sick of that, I turn on my stool and start sketching faces of people in the room, portrait studies of my colleagues — exuberant, cynical, jabbering, tongues loosened by liquor, faces animated by bonhomie.
"You make it look like fun," says Tony, standing behind me, peering at my heads.
In fact, having negotiated a fee with Sophie's editor, I'm delighted to have something to keep me busy at the bar.
Pam shows up. "Sorry I'm late. I had a meeting with a source." She leans toward me, whispers into my ear: "Don't tell Harriet, but defense presentation's going to be quick. This whole shooting match should be over in a week."
"Good! Finally we'll be getting out of here."
"Up to the jury, but if I were you, David, I'd stick closer than usual to the court."
She scans my sheet of media faces. "What a bunch of clowns. I think you’re a cartoonist at heart."
"Cartoonist, courtroom sketch artist, forensic artist, all-around hack. Sometimes I think I'd be happy illustrating children's books."
"Yeah, kiddie noir. How ‘bout getting some dinner? I hear there's a good Thai place out near Indiana Circle."
* * * * *
On the way, I tell her Mace's ultra-complicated theory about Tom being the Flamingo target. Pam's skeptical, but she likes the way Shoshana's tale fits so perfectly with Susan's.
I tell her Thistle Ridge is only five miles or so out of our way. "Mind if we head over there? I'd like to find the site of that burned-out house."
I find Thistle Ridge Road after a few wrong turns. It's twilight by the time we get there. It's a classic suburban street with mailboxes at the entries to driveways leading up to nice-looking contemporary houses set back on one-acre lots. There aren't any streetlamps, just ambient light from the rapidly darkening sky and light cast out through the windows of the homes.
1160 Thistle is at the crest, last lot on the street. A hedge screens the house and yard. There's a carriage lantern atop a post and a sign on the mailbox, THE HERRONS.
I pull a little past, then back my car into the driveway so we can scan the residence. It's a single-story ranch that looks like a rebuild, not surprising since, according to The Times-Dispatch, the original house nearly burned to the ground.
"Lonely up here," Pam says. "End of the street so nobody's likely to drive past, and the house is well set back. Good place to make dirty films. Probably shot them in the rec room."
"Sinister, isn't it?"
"If you're asking do I like being up here, I don't. What did you expect to find?"
"Just wanted to sense the mood."
"So you can draw it?"
"Yeah, something like that."
* * * * *
At the Thai restaurant, I tell her that ever since Shoshana Bach's revelations, I've felt empty, disinterested in Flamingo.
"I know what bothers you," she says. "If Mace's retaliation theory is correct, if Flamingo was about the Steadmans and Tom Jessup was the target, then it doesn't cut so close to home."
She's right, of course. The notion that Dad committed suicide out of guilt because he'd murdered his favorite patient cuts a good deal closer than if he jumped out his office window merely because he was depressed.
But Pam challenges me again. "Is it really about which explanation is more meaningful to you, David, or because all your life it's been in your head that Barbara brought your family to ruin? I think you've had a love-hate thing for her for years, turned her into your personal femme fatale. From the way you describe her at that Parent's Day, it's clear you've been besotted by her since you were twelve. So you come back here and find out all this stuff, and now that it looks like she might not have been the killer's target, you feel empty because that undermines your ‘family romance.’
"Know something? You sound just like a shrink."
"Is that a compliment?"
I smile. "Maybe you're right, maybe a part of me always did hope that Dad played a role in Flamingo. Otherwise I'd feel all the emotion I'd invested in it was a waste."
"Okay, but don't forget — real people were killed. Even if Flamingo isn't the key to your life, it's just as important as your Zigzag murders."
Hearing that makes me feel better. Anyhow, Mace's retaliation theory is just that — a theory. So if I want, I can hold onto my romantic belief that Barbara Fulraine was the key actor in my early life.
* * * * *
Back at the Townsend, after several nightcaps at Waldo's, we adjourn to Pam's room, then go at each other in our customary fashion — panting, grasping, working ourselves up, seeking heart-pounding, shattering release. But then something different starts to happen, our love-making turns sweet. We get romantic, start kissing and whispering endearments. It's more of a slow dance than a quick wheel around the track.
"Well, that was a change," Pam announces when we lie back. "I liked it."
"Are you surprised?"
"Gushy isn't my style. But then, being with a Calista boy, I guess all bets are off."
"For a Jersey girl, it must be quite the exotic experience."
"Uh huh... exotic," she agrees.
I wrap a towel around my waist, sit in her easy chair, then start sketching her as she watches me from the bed, chin propped by an elbow.
"Am I allowed to move?"
"Of course."
"You haven't drawn me before."
There've been so many unpleasant people to draw, I never got around to the good stuff."
She studies me while I continue sketching. To my surprise, I discover I'm executing a serious portrait. I work on her eyebrows, then her eyes. I don't want to idealize her, simply get her down handsomely on the page. I like the way she looks at me, the direct way she engages. She's relaxed, the intensity's still there, but without the overlay of ambition.
"Just can't keep your hands still, can you?"
"My drawing hand — no."
"Why's that?"
"I draw people to understand them."
"You told me that before."
"I also draw a lot because I'm always hoping my hand'll be take over by the planchette effect."
"Which is—?"
"A planchette's a drawing instrument on casters that slides around like a computer mouse. It can also be a pointing device, the heart-shaped gizmo that zips around a Ouija board spelling out messages from The Dear Departed out in The Great Beyond."
"So what's the ‘effect’?"
"That's when an outside force seems to take hold of my hand. Drawing becomes effortless. Of course, it's not an outside force, it's my subconscious guiding the pencil. Psychologists call it ‘ideomotor action.’ So, you see, I always keep my drawing hand busy hoping the planchette effect will take hold."
She gazes at me with perhaps a bit of admiration. "That's cool, like an athlete being ‘in the zone.’"
"Sure, that's it — being in the ‘zone,’ the ‘groove,’ the ‘flow.’ There's nothing sweeter. It's nearly as good as great sex."
When I finish the drawing, I hand it to her.
"Oh, I like this!" she says. "It looks lovingly drawn."
"It was."
"I like the way you make me look tender... not the way I am on TV."
"That's how I see you tonight."
She laughs. "I'm glad, because I wouldn't want you to see me like Mr. Potato Head — just an empty oval."
* * * * *
Early in the morning, when I return to my room to shave, I notice the message light blinking on my phone. I call down to the desk.
"There's a package for you, sir, left here around midnight," the deskman tells me. "I'l
l have the bellboy bring it up."
The package turns out to be a large envelope enclosing what appears to be manuscript accompanied by the following note:
Dear David:
I've been doing a lot of thinking since your visit, especially about your comment that maybe it's time to finally put the family nightmare to rest.
Yesterday I pulled out Mom's diary and tried again to read it through. Just as before, I didn't get too far.
Perhaps you will have better luck. Enclosed please find a photocopy, which is yours to read, study, do with as you like. I believe you'll find it painful to read, but, hopefully, not nearly as painful as it was for me.
Sincerely,
Robin Fulraine
My heart starts to pound as I glance through the sheets, several hundred pages of photocopy paper upon which are centered smaller handwritten pages. The writing on these is clear, inscribed in a fine hand, feminine, elegant, authoritative. I'm no handwriting expert, but the evenly penned forward-slanting script, the even rounding of the letters, and the nearly total lack of cross-outs suggest a writer in full command, inscribing carefully, perhaps even slowly, as she puts her thoughts to paper.
My visceral reaction — speeded heartbeat, trembling hands — reminds me of how he felt when I first looked at Barbara's bare breasts n Max Rakoubian's Fessé photograph. It's as if I've suddenly been transported very close to this woman who has attained a mythical status in my mind.
I take the pages to my bed, lie down, and start to read. Barbara's journal, it's soon clear, is not merely a recording of events, but an extremely personal diary meant for no one's eyes but her own. No entry dates are given, though she always jots down the day of the week. Some entries are terse, while others are long and, sometimes, quite eloquent:
Monday
Bad dream. Went riding two hours then drove out to see J. Lousy time had by all!
Tuesday
Played tennis with Jane. Mopped up court with her! Lunch with W. Left him feeling empty and scornful.
Wednesday
First appointment with Dr. R.. He seems a gentle soul. Felt strange to lie on his couch. Felt at a disadvantage. Different than when we met at the school.
Laid everything out for him, all my insecurities. No idea what he thought. Probably hated me for being so troubled in my privilege.
Afterward rode for an hour, then spent an hour currying and cleaning tack.
Stupid party at L&D's. Dumb conversation. False laughter. We're all so bored with one another.
Hope tonight I don't dream the dream!
Thursday
W called early, dished L&D's party for half an hour. Couldn't stand talking to him, couldn't wait to get him off the line. Why do I put up with him? Basically we can't stand each other, so what inner emptiness drives us to bother?
Afternoon: screwed my brains out with J, then felt lousy. He picked up on it, said: ‘You know, cutie, we're two of a kind.’ Hate it when he calls me that!
Friday
Second session with Dr. R.. This time more relaxed. He asked for my ‘erotic history.’ Gave it to him no holds barred! Told him about J. No reaction. Then when I said I was afraid of J, I could feel him tense up.
Kids' cute new tennis coach turned up wearing short. Nice boy, nice legs, seemed lonely, also a bit in awe of how we live. Afterwards I brought down glasses and pitcher of lemonade. Kids worshipful toward him. What must he think of us? Important not to make him feel like a servant.
It's not hard for me to date these entries since I know from Dad's agenda that Barbara commenced therapy on Wednesday, April 23.
Her entries continue in this vein until Friday, May 9. Then something occurs that alters the scope of her journal, and justifies her hiding it inside one of her equestrian trophies:
Friday
Difficult session. Dr. R silent. Turned to him: ‘I need you to react!’ R asked why I needed that, what emptiness I hope he can fill.
‘Emptiness in my wound,’ I tell him. The word just popped out of me! I was really surprised. Still no reaction, so I raised the level of the game. ‘I need you inside me, in my—,’ and I touched myself down there. That got his attention!
Drove straight from medical building to Elms. Found J in office, grabbed his crotch, told him, ‘I want you to screw me till bells ring in my ears!’ J told me he was busy, I'd have to wait. ‘No way! I'm not waiting,’ I said, squeezing him hard. ‘Okay, okay, mercy, mercy!? But in bed I wasn't merciful at all!
Late afternoon, resting in my bedroom, I heard kids playing tennis with T. ‘Love-fifteen!’ ‘Love-thirty!’ ‘Love-forty!’ ‘Game!’ Hey, I thought, I could sure use some of that love!
I made up a pitcher of lemonade and took it down to them. Three guys, two of my own flesh, shirtless wonders all. T looked scrumptious. I changed into togs then we played a set. We hit the ball hard and sweated like beasts! Great turn-on. Hope kids didn't pick up on it. They're so innocent. ‘Watch out! He's beatin’ you, Mom!’
In the end, I took him 7-5. Afterwards we sat around, then I invited him into the house to shower. He was shy at first, then agreed. I showed him the guest room bath, handed him some towels, we looked at one another, and I couldn't resist. Two minutes later, we were all over each other. And all the time through the open window, I could hear the kids splashing around in the pool, their cries echoing ours!
When we were done, just lying there, he got very tender with me, so tender I started to cry. ‘Whatsamatter?’ he asked. ‘oh, nothing. Just that you're so sweet and I can use some sweetness these days.’ He kissed my breasts like they were precious jewels. ‘I've dreamed of doing this since I first laid eyes on you,’ he said.
God! Till today I never thought of him as lover material, even though I did find him cute. We showered together and I went down on my knees on the tiles and took him in my mouth beneath the spray. ‘No one's ever done that with me before,’ he said. ‘Plenty more where that came from!’ I told him.
No wonder Robin couldn't get through hi smother's diary and didn’t want to show it to Mark! It's hard enough for me to read of Dad's growing obsession with Barbara in his truncated case study and to hear from Izzy Mendoza that he wanted to divorce Mom and run off with her. How much worse for Robin to read this. How could he bear to?
On May 16, my biting, indeed mean-spirited caricature of Mark Fulraine was published in our student newspaper, The Hayes Eagle.
On Monday, May 19, Mark, encountering me between classes in a corridor at school, called me ‘Jewboy’ to my face.
On Friday, May 23, before a hundred or so witnesses, we met to settle our differences in a grudge fight in the lower school gym.
Reading Barbara's account of that day brings back a jumble of warring feelings — anger, indignation, fury, pain, outrage over what Robin told me, and also a measure of regret. The latter makes me want to forgive everyone involved, including myself. This feeling, which I struggle to understand, is based on a conviction that all of us — me, Dad, Mark, Barbara, and Tom Jessup — were caught up in a web of conflicting passions that today, through the prism of twenty-six years, seem but tenderly trivial:
Friday
R arrogant today. Did he know our boys were to fight? If so, he didn't let on. But I had a secret and inwardly I reveled in it. T's been training Mark to box, and there probably won't be a fight anyway if I hadn't pushed Mark to call out R's son!
Unable to wait till Mark got home, I went out to The Elms. Afterwards J put on a robe, lit up a cigar, and said he wanted to see me prance.
‘Prance? Screw you, buster! This lady prances for no man!’
‘I could make you, cutie,’ he said. ‘Just you try it,’ I warned. Then we both started laughing. We're so ridiculous! In the end, I agreed to prance for him if he'd promise to jerk off in front of me while I did. ‘Deal!’ he said. So screaming with laughter, we both did our salacious thing.
Driving home in the rain, I suddenly thought about Belle and started to cry. Why did God take he
r away from me? Was it because I was bad like old Doris said?
Later: At six the boys arrived home with T. Mark had a black eye and cuts on his cheeks. He went straight up to his room. Robin told me he got a bloody nose. ‘But you should've seen the other guy, Mom. Mark knocked him out!’
T upset. ‘I'm ashamed I was involved,’ he told me. ‘Was it a fair fight?’ I asked. ‘Fair as I could make it.’ ‘Then you've got nothing to be ashamed about.’ He stayed for dinner, then, after A came by to pick up the boys for the weekend, we went upstairs and screwed to oblivion.
Afterwards he told me: ‘You know there's nothing I wouldn't do for you.’ I told him I appreciated that and that what I needed tonight was a warm body with maybe a little lust thrown in.
Prance for him! Reading this, I feel sorry for Barbara for the way she allows herself to be degraded by Cody. It's not hard for me to feel her agony over Belle or understand the desperation that drove her to seek out a new lover. I only wish Dad could have responded to her with more sympathy... though perhaps the coolness she describes is only in her mind.
Monday
R all too casual this morning. ‘You know our sons fought?’ I asked. R acknowledged he knew, wanted to know why this excited me so much. ‘Because we're at war here. Now our gladiators have fought, fighting's sexy, and I've won the first round.’ ‘Why's it so important for you to feel you've won?’ ‘Well, it's a war, isn't it?’
He wouldn't answer. Then we talked about blood and bleeding and horses and my dream. ‘For you sex is inextricable from blood,’ he said. ‘Well, that's nice,’ I said. ‘Now please tell me how knowing that does me any good.’
Dream of The Broken Horses, The Page 29
