CONNIE ZIDE ONCE said to me, “Solly can’t stand me. He thinks I’m deceitful, neurotic, self-centered, lazy, vain, demanding, greedy—if you wonder why I have that list down pat, like the Boy Scout oath in reverse, it’s because I hear it all the time when he’s around. If he can’t control someone who’s close to him, he has to destroy them. Lately he’s mixing alcohol with cocaine, so he gets really nasty. A couple of weeks ago, when we were arguing about Neil, he hit me.”
We were having a drink that evening at Ruffing’s, which was halfway between the courthouse and home. Connie would call, tell me she was in the neighborhood. Just a drink, she would say. She just wanted to hold my hand, look into my eyes. And usually she meant it.
My fists clenched in anger—how dare the son of a bitch hit her? —and I knew I had to be careful. Her life with Solly and Neil wasn’t my business. But it’s someone you care for, another of my voices said. You can’t pick and choose what will move you.
“You remember when I didn’t see you for a whole week? That was because I had a big bruise here.” Connie touched her cheek. I saw a faint blue tinge that I’d noticed before but ignored out of politeness; you didn’t comment on the changes in the face of a woman of forty-seven.
“Neil saw it next morning,” she went on. “I told him the truth, and he went straight to the office. Apparently he called Solly a few names that even Solly had never heard.”
If it was true, it was the best thing I’d ever heard about the light of her life.
“Since Neil turned thirteen,” Connie said, “and started writing poetry and taking photographs of flowers, Solly’s let him know that he thinks he’s a sissy. And when Neil began to realize how his father abused me, he began to despise him.”
“They work together, don’t they?”
“Neil’s a glorified gofer on starvation wages. Why do you think he lives at home?”
That made no sense to me. There was a missing element to the equation.
“Why don’t you stake Neil to a place of his own?”
“He won’t take anything from me. He thinks I should leave Solly, and if I did, he says, I’d need every penny I’ve managed to save. I signed a prenuptial agreement—Solly was way ahead of his time when it came to protecting his financial ass. I can live well, but only if I’m in residence.”
“You said that Neil was a good photographer.”
“He’s brilliant. But he lacks the confidence. It will come—with time.”
I concluded that Connie had less than a realistic view of her son. I had met Neil at one of the charity luncheons. The young man had Connie’s full-mouthed sensuality, but there was a cold, appraising look in his eyes that may have been a paternal legacy. He was soft around the jawline, nervous, and arrogant. He knew what I did for a living, and at one point in our conversation said, “Well, what good luck to meet you. If I ever get caught speeding or holding a bag of coke, I’ll give you a ring.”
“There better be a five-carat diamond in it,” I said, “or you’ll get short shrift.”
“Oh? Are you bribable? What a revelation! My mother always talks of you as the essence of probity.”
“Piss off, Neil,” I said quietly.
Neil was wearing Gucci shoes and an Ermenegildo Zegna black silk sport jacket draped over his shoulders like a bullfighter’s cape. When he left, he kissed his mother hard on the lips, then waved to a few people and cried out, “Ciao!” He drove off in a Lamborghini with silver wheels.
During the seven months of what I came to think of as my period of primal madness, I took care not to fall in love with Connie Zide. Like an immune system that battles against infection, my defenses battled against emotional involvement. I knew it could lead to the destruction of my marriage, my family, maybe even my career. And I didn’t want that.
Struck by the thunderbolt, I’d veered off course, sailed into treacherous waters. The harmony of my life was close to foundering on the reefs of sexual infatuation. You could see them sticking up from the frothy surf.
But the winds pushed you there, anyway.
A while later, in that summer of my ongoing derangement, for part of a weekend Connie and I managed a second time to get to the cabin on Cumberland Island. On Friday afternoon we were sailing a borrowed cutter offshore in the Atlantic chop, when Connie turned to me in the cockpit and said, “Neil knows about us.”
She saw the expression of dismay on my face.
“It’s all right. He approves. Thinks you’re the strong, silent type. ‘A Jewish Gary Cooper on the short side’ is how he put it.”
I checked the luff of the mainsail, then looked at her darkly. “How did he find out?”
“We have no secrets.”
“Connie, you told him? That was dumb.”
I could imagine all kinds of scenarios. Neil—if he despised his father as much as Connie told me he did—in a fit of pique, or out of revenge, laying it out at the dining room table for the paterfamilias. Then Solly, in a rage, confronting me in the state attorney’s office in the Duval County Courthouse. Or at home in front of a wide-eyed Toba.
I needed this like a hole in the head. Get Toba angry, and the hole might be more truth than cliché.
Connie sat cross-legged on the teak deck, clasping her hands around her ankles. She seemed oblivious to these possibilities. “Neil said to me the other day, ‘Con, is it possible that about nine months before I was born, you might have been messing around in California? With Gregory Peck, for example? Even Chuck Heston? If you say yes, even if it’s Right-Wing Chuckie, I’m going to jump for joy.’ I almost hated to disappoint him. I had to tell him again that in those years I was young and hopeful and faithful.”
I brought the cutter through the wind, hauling in the sheets and turning the bow into the Atlantic chop. My thoughts may have shown on my face. Connie rose in one motion and moved midships to deal with the jib. She was sure-handed with all the lines that had to be bent around cleats. She glistened from head to toe in the afternoon sun, and a freshening breeze brought the scent of coconut oil straight to my nostrils. The job done, she came aft, stalking toward me across the deck. A lovely predator. She never lacked a plan and the confidence to implement it.
In the cockpit she untied the top of her bikini. The nipples stiffened in the breeze. Her African nipples, she called them, because of the way they protruded. She stroked them with her fingertips, which always roused me. Sometimes in motel rooms she insisted that I watch her masturbate; she would start with her nipples and work her way down. She had narrow hands and long fingers, and on occasion she used a vibrator. In St. Augustine Beach one rainy Monday, just before my birthday, she hired a call girl named Sue Ann. In the late afternoon, the heartbreakingly pretty nineteen-year-old knocked on the door of our motel room. Sue Ann was from Cairo, Georgia; she had just graduated high school. At first I couldn’t believe what was going on.
“A birthday present,” Connie said.
“I don’t want it,” I replied, which was an outright lie.
“I do,” she said.
After a while I began to laugh, and I joined them. Thus she purposefully gave to me the gift that she had always denied her husband.
As she settled to her knees now on a cushion in the cockpit of the cutter, her sea-green eyes were weighted with purpose. She worked my bathing trunks down to my ankles while I leaned on the tiller to keep us on a close reach toward open ocean. The sails fluttered a little, like my heartbeat. Leaning forward over me, Connie clasped her hands together in the pose of an eager child.
“Pretend it’s Sue Ann,” she whispered.
As intended, at least for the moment, her indiscretion with Neil seemed beside the point.
That evening in the pine cabin by the inlet, she sautéed chicken fillets in a mushroom sauce with Spanish sherry—a dish she claimed had no name or recipe, like everything she cooked. She cooked quickly, singing Broadway show tunes while she worked. The endive salad and a vinaigrette dressing seemed to appear in a matter of a few
minutes. I poured the wine. This domesticity, as opposed to the domesticity of my home, had a forbidden flavor to it: a spice. As if she read my mind, she said to me, “Ted, when I met you, you told me you were a happily married man.”
“Yes, I remember saying that.”
“You lied to me, darling.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“How about trying ‘maybe’?”
“I didn’t lie.”
“All right, you lied to yourself. Is that better?”
We began to eat but had little to say. I praised the sauce and the salad, then cleared the table and brewed coffee.
Connie said, “Ted, tomorrow will be six months since that Cuban kid mugged me in the parking lot.”
“I know.”
“Ted, I love you.”
Those three words had not been used between us before.
“I told Neil that I loved you,” she said. “If I could, I would tell the world.”
“Connie …” I tried to speak her name with unalloyed tenderness, but something else clawed its way into my tone. My eyes may also have betrayed me; I sensed that a spark of warning flickered in them for half a second. She saw it. But she was a stubborn woman—much that she had achieved in life had been against the prevailing winds.
She said, “Let’s go for a walk on the beach.”
The ocean gleamed a silvery gray, and fish left faint trails of phosphorescence. The water was warm enough for us to swim in starlight. A wild turkey gobbled in the bush, and we could hear distant music over the speaker at the pavilion near the mainland town of St. Marys. When I stood naked in the shallows, the slow waves slapped my thighs. I looked up at the stars. The universe was indifferent— even to lovers—but nonetheless conveyed majesty.
Connie floated toward me and then stood by my side, gazing up. We were silent.
In bed later that night, she whispered, “Let’s just sleep. Cuddle me.”
She liked me to hold her from behind. One hand cupping the weight of a breast, I bent my knees into the crook of her knees. The globes of her buttocks pressed in rare innocence against my thighs.
We both drifted toward sleep, like seaweed swept out by a tide. It was when I did this that I felt most unfaithful to my wife.
At dawn we made love. The act lasted long enough for the sky to change from a flawed black to a pale blue that had the clarity of glass.
I had told her that I wanted to be back in Jacksonville by nightfall so that I could spend Sunday with my children. There was a boat to catch to St. Marys. In the early light, over coffee, Connie said, “If you were happily married, what exists between us wouldn’t be possible. There are things you’re not facing, Ted.”
I wasn’t sure what those things were. They ran deep in the blood. I’d never claimed to be perfect. I didn’t want to be perfect.
“I would leave Solly to be with you.”
“Connie, even if—” But I bit that off short. We had never gone in this direction before. It was a collision course.
I set myself to be honest. “Connie, I don’t want you to leave Solly for me. I will not leave Toba and my children for you. Maybe you and I have come to the end of our good luck. Maybe it’s time to quit.”
“How cruel you are,” she said softly. “If you were honest, you’d give in to your wanting me.”
Why was she doing this to herself? Each word pushed me farther away from her.
“Connie, my wife and family are engraved in my life.”
Her hair was matted with the sweat of the morning. Her eyes flared. “And you want to end this now? You’re telling me it’s over with us? You can’t truly love her!” she burst out. “Not if you make love to me the way you do! My darling, don’t you see that? Ted, you’re lying!”
She equated passion with love. But I didn’t.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” I said.
“You’re so goddamned cold!”
I was miserable. I hated what was happening. But I knew what I felt and what I had to do.
She let out a wail that made me shudder. “Is it because I’m older than you?”
“Connie, you’re not hearing me!”
“There isn’t anything I won’t do for you! I swear I’ll make you happy!”
This wasn’t the woman who’d called me “honey” when we first met. I got out of bed quickly. With my back to her, I stood at the window, looking at the blurred ocean, where a pair of ibis were in flight. She came up behind me on the planked floor and put her arms around me. Her hands were flat on my heart. For a moment I had the terrible vision that with her knifelike nails she wanted to tear it from my chest, rip it out as if I were some captive sacrifice to an Aztec god.
But that was not to be. I was not the one to be sacrificed.
A few mornings later, at dawn, I made love to Toba. Before the event began I closed my eyes and fantasized that there was another woman in the bed with us. She was Sue Ann, and she nestled behind my wife’s pale buttocks, stroking the suntanned muscles that flanked her spine. A milky light—dawn gliding across the curve of the Atlantic to awaken the southeastern shore of the United States—crept into the bedroom. Motes of dust danced in the air. Sue Ann’s hazel eyes smiled at me through the skein of Toba’s black hair. Toba twisted her body around so that I could take Sue Ann’s place and enter her from behind and grip her breasts. “Squeeze them,” she said. This happened in fact. In fantasy I imagined that my cock slid between the oiled copper globes of our guest, who became Connie. A form of adultery, I thought, but with consent. Therefore without pain or risk. Without guilt too? On the edges of old maps were legends that read: Beyond here are dragons. I now believed that I had journeyed in my life to the edge of the map. Not in fantasy. In reality.
Toba’s lips were flushed. “Fuck her, darling. I won’t be angry.”
Hearing those words in my imagination, I soared to orgasm in a sequence of turbulent spasms. The force of it startled Toba, and her body arched to join me. The veins of her neck swelled with blood. She cried, “Ted!” and we clutched each other as if we were on a jet plane plunging toward jagged peaks.
Connie telephoned and told me that Solly had gone to Hong Kong on business. He would be away a week. “Please come over.”
“That would be unwise,” I said. I couldn’t believe those words had formed in my mind and left my lips.
“Ted, for Christ’s sake, haven’t we gone beyond that?”
I didn’t want to go beyond that. But I suddenly sensed that if I didn’t agree, I would be postponing the inevitable. And the inevitable had to be faced. If not, the dragons would eat me alive.
At five-thirty, when I had cleared my desk at the office and told Toba that I’d be in conference at the federal courthouse until late that evening, I drove south and then east past the Mayo Clinic of Jacksonville until I arrived at the iron gates of the Zide estate. I had been there only once before. The gray-uniformed security guards were just changing shifts. The older of the two men—his brass nameplate said Terence O’Rourke—leaned out from the guardhouse. I realized he was a former cop; they had that special way of looking through your eyes and beyond, making you feel they glimpsed every mistake you’d made and had a sense for ones you were capable of making in your corrupt future.
He looked up from his clipboard. “May I please see some ID, sir?”
Stupid of me. If I’d thought about it, I could have instructed Connie in advance, as I’d done the last time: “I don’t want him to know my name, so just tell him it’ll be a man driving a gray ‘75 Honda.”
From my pigskin wallet I extracted my driver’s license, cupping my hand over the wallet shield that identified me as an assistant state attorney. Terence scanned the license.
“Thank you, Mr. Jaffe.”
The electronic gate rolled open.
I parked near the front door, with its etched-glass panes and flanking stone lions. Two Lhasa apso puppies were playing on the gravel. Connie was waiting for me by a hedge of scarlet hibiscus. She wore wh
ite from neck to toe. With the puppies following, she led me on a paved walk and under some awnings to the swimming pool. “Let’s jump in and make love,” she said, running a hand up and down the front of my suit trousers.
“Connie …” I indicated a large black workman half hidden by a grove of banana trees. He headed toward the lawn, pushing a wheelbarrow.
“I pay their salaries,” Connie said.
“Which means they won’t gossip?”
“Ted, you worry so much.”
“Yes, lately I do.”
There was something portentous in my tone, and it quieted her. Infidelity was a cruel sport.
We began to stroll around the pool.
Hollow-hearted, stomach fluttering, the words tasting sour even before they left my mouth, I told Connie it was over. I was no longer at ease in the affair. I feared for my marriage. I told Connie that I would always cherish her as someone who had given me something of inestimable value. I suppose men the world over have made that speech for centuries, and plenty of women too. It has that hollow ring of truth. My voice seemed to come from an inner distance.
Connie, even in white, looked a little pale under the buffeting.
“There’s an alternative,” she said. “You could leave your wife.”
“I’ve been trying to tell you, that was never in the cards.”
“You’ve always told me your wife was a sensible woman—”
“That’s how I see her.”
“—and of course your wife has your best interests at heart.”
“I’m sure she does.”
“Then if there was someone else in your life, why would your wife want to hang on to you? Isn’t that demeaning to your wife?”
The repetitions of the words “your wife” were like darts inserted to pierce the skin. Make the beast feel. Make it stand its ground and fight rather than run away.
It’s a cruel sport.
“Connie, this is demeaning. Let’s cut it out.”
Shadows slanted across the pool from the banana grove and the royal palms. In her broad garden hat and sundress with its scooped neck and flaring skirt, Connie looked like a haughty and angry princess. I must have looked like a tired man in a wrinkled business suit who’d been sitting in crowded courtrooms since eight o’clock that morning.
Clifford Irving's Legal Novels - 02 - FINAL ARGUMENT - a Legal Thriller Page 18
