New York Echoes 2

by Warren Adler

  Stripping themselves of all inhibitions, they would engage in such enterprising sexual stimulants as cross-dressing, mutual and single performance masturbation, dirty talk, strip teasing on her part with all the bumps and grind movements, pornography accompaniments, vibrating sex toys and whatever sexual abandon they could think of.

  And why not, they both agreed. They had strong libidos, were healthy, devoted, faithful, trusted each other implicitly, loved the enhancement of their orgasms and such activity became a cornerstone of their private lives.

  “How lucky we are to have found each other,” Myra would tell Harry in those special heart-to-heart talks they would have in the afterglow of their sexual activities. This was always the time for mental unburdening as they assessed their relationship and their lives.

  They both had acknowledged early on that what they yearned for in a mate was total transparency, unconditional love and, above all, honesty and being true to their inner nature. Enhancing these conditions, they had established their fortress. Once inside, they could close the gate and let the outside world fulminate and fester while they danced to their private tunes, undisturbed and undeterred.

  For some reason on this particular Friday winter night, they found themselves unusually sexually energetic, even for them. Perhaps the martinis were stronger than usual or had metabolized too slowly. Or the week had been particularly difficult for both of them. They would reflect on this later.

  They went into the bedroom where Myra performed a particularly active strip tease while a naked Harry watched in full arousal mode. They then engaged in a number of acrobatic poses before a standing mirror. It was, Myra would remember, especially delicious and fulfilling and Harry, ever the willing participant, agreed.

  But it was later, after their usual after-play discussions, that Myra noted that the blinds that ordinarily covered the bedroom windows had not been closed. The idea had, at first, amused her. Perhaps they had provided a free sex show to the people in the apartment house on their level across the alley. She wondered if it had ever happened before, but wasn’t certain. In any event, she did not fret over it.

  The first signs that something was amiss came in subtle ways. Her colleagues and students looked at her differently. The change was barely perceptible at first, then strangely blatant. She would receive troubling glances from her staff. Students would look at her and jab their classmates knowingly, giggling and turning away, as if enjoying some private joke.

  It was confusing and, after a while, downright irritating, as if someone had deliberately put a sign on her back to ridicule her.

  But when one of the eighth grade students, a wiseacre black kid with wide droopy jeans, mumbled under his breath a remark directed at her with the word “ho” in it, she wondered whether she had heard correctly and asked the student to repeat what he had said. He didn’t, although his general attitude was oddly disrespectful. Because hers was an inner city school she was fully conversant with the various slang expressions of the African-American community.

  By the middle of the week, she became convinced that something had indeed changed in the atmosphere, something uncommon and mysterious and mostly manifested in the way people reacted to her. She had worked for years to build trust and respect among her colleagues and students and had carefully nurtured an environment of mutual respect and was considered by her superiors and peers as one of the truly inspirational educators and administrators in New York City.

  “Something is different,” she confided to Harry, “and I can’t put my finger on it.”

  “You will,” Harry reassured her. He was her chief cheerleader and was well aware of her dedication and commitment to her job.

  And she did. On Friday of that week, just as she was wrapping up for the day, filling her briefcase with work she would take home, her secretary, who had been acting strangely all week, came to her in tears. She was a middle-aged woman of Hispanic antecedents with whom Myra had a wonderfully supportive relationship.

  “What is it, Carmen?”

  The woman was highly emotional and had numerous difficulties with an errant husband. Myra had been a sympathetic listener to many of her domestic complaints.

  “Something terrible, Mrs. Schwartz,” she blurted. “I show you.”

  Wiping her tears with the back of her hand, she shut the door between their offices and sat down at Myra’s desk and fired up the computer that Myra had just shut down.

  Startled, Myra watched as Carmen’s fingers tapped the keyboard. Then she stood up and motioned for Myra to sit down and watch the computer screen.

  Puzzled, Myra obeyed. What she saw came as a physical shock. Her breath came in gasps. Perspiration rolled down her back. She watched, mesmerized and disbelieving. There she was in her own bedroom doing a bump and grind strip tease until she was naked, then having oral sex with Harry before their mirror and finally intercourse in varied positions. There was no mistaking their identity and the video was clear, complete with zooms and close-ups.

  “I don’t believe this. I don’t believe this,” she cried. She felt on the verge of hysterics. “How could they?”

  “I don’t know, Mrs. Schwartz. People do bad things. I think it’s all over the school. Everybody knows and many have seen it.”

  “Oh my God.” Myra tried to rise, but she couldn’t muster the energy.

  “We forgot to close the blinds. Obviously, someone in the other apartment house…” Her anger became acute. She must call Harry, prepare to do something, sue, call the police. It was a violation of their rights, their privacy. Something must be done. She felt helpless, violated.

  “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Schwartz,” Carmen said. Despite her secretary’s obvious concern, Myra could detect an odd change in her attitude, a false note, as if this intimate view of her boss in sexual abandon had recalibrated their relationship.

  When she stood up, her legs began to wobble. Then she called Harry on her cell phone.

  “I need you, Harry. Come home. We have a problem, a big one.”

  She told him the story in halting, tearful gasps. He held her, obviously astonished, disturbed and angry. Then he went to his computer and sure enough, by putting in the address of the school he was able to view the video. He couldn’t believe his eyes.

  “We’ve got to get that bastard who did this,” he said, marching into the bedroom. He looked across the alley at the window directly across from theirs. By then it was early evening and the blinds were drawn, although light seeped out of the corners, but it was apparent to her that this was where the video was shot.

  “We don’t have much of a choice, I’m afraid,” Myra said. She had begun to calculate the fallout from the episode, remembering the word “ho” that had come from the eighth grade student’s mouth. There was no getting away from the fact that this could be the prevailing attitude of everyone who had viewed the video. To most people it would qualify as a pornographic video. Of that, she was certain.

  They pulled themselves together as best they could and went downstairs and around the corner to the apartment house that backed up on theirs. It was an older rent-controlled building without a doorman and a buzzer system for entering. Calculating that the apartment was on the fifth floor, as was theirs, Harry rang each buzzer on all the fifth floor apartments to gain entry by a ruse, pretending to be a FedEx delivery man.

  Someone buzzed them through and they took the elevator to the fifth floor, quickly assessing which apartment was the one that looked over theirs across the alley. They pressed the door buzzer and a woman about forty opened the door. She was attractive, well groomed, and wore jeans and a sweatshirt.

  “Who is it, Molly?” a man’s voice called from the apartment interior.

  “We’re the Schwartzs,” Harry said. “We live in the apartment that faces yours across the alley.”

  The woman assessed them, obviously puzzled.

  “I don�
��t understand,” she said.

  “We need to talk,” Harry said. “It’s rather serious.”

  “May we come in?” Myra asked.

  “Serious?” the woman asked, obviously confused.

  “Very,” Harry said.

  Frowning, the woman stepped aside and let them in. As they entered, a man came in from the dining room, a tall, pleasant-looking man with graying curly hair.

  “We’re in the middle of dinner,” the man said.

  “They’re from across the way,” the woman said. “They tell me it’s a serious matter.”

  “Really,” the man said, holding out his hand. “We’re the Alperts. That’s my wife Molly and I’m Bill.” Harry took his hand and exchanged glances with Myra. “Come on in.” They followed him into the living room.

  “Can I get you a drink?” Bill Alpert asked, pointing to the couch. “Won’t you please sit down?” He was affable and easygoing. Molly Alpert struck Myra as more cautious and wary.

  At that moment a teenage boy came out of the dining room and observed the two couples. Myra’s eyes drifted toward the boy and their eyes met. From her long experience with teenagers, she knew immediately by the sudden change of complexion and the aversion of his glance that this was the culprit.

  “Is this your son?” Myra asked.

  “Why yes. This is Tommy Alpert.”

  Myra had studied the configuration of the apartment and there was no question in her mind that this was the right apartment and that one of the windows was directly across from their bedroom. Reaching out, she squeezed Harry’s upper arm, mostly to steady herself. Without another word, she rose and moved quickly to the room, which, she was certain, faced their bedroom.

  “What is going on?” Bill Alpert asked, turning to Harry.

  All Myra needed was one look into what was clearly the boy’s room. A video camera with a tripod stood on one side of the room. Then she came back and faced the boy.

  “Tell them, little Tommy dear, what you have done?” Myra said, her tone menacing.

  “Now wait a minute…” Bill Alpert cried.

  “Tell them, you little monster,” Myra said, raising her voice. “Tell them what you’ve done. Tell them about the disgusting thing you have done and deliberately caused us enormous harm.”

  “Now hold on…” Molly Alpert began.

  “Tell them, you miserable little shit,” Harry cried. He was tempted to rise and strangle the boy.

  “I was just having fun is all,” Tommy said, his voice a whisper. He shrugged.

  “Fun? Fun?” Myra raised her voice and confronted the boy directly. “Videotaping our private life? Is that your idea of fun? Sending it out over the internet?” She turned to the boy’s parents. “Can’t you see what he has done? He photographed the intimate details of our sex life and sent it out for anyone to see. I am the principal of PS 109. As of now, I am an object of ridicule, branded a whore or worse, because your son photographed us doing what most married couples do in the privacy of their bedroom. We have been violated, raped. Do you realize what your son has done?”

  “Christ, Tommy,” Bill Alpert said. “You did that?” The father was visibly exercised and embarrassed. “How could you do such an awful thing?”

  Tommy bowed his head and looked down at his hands.

  “I was only having fun,” he mumbled.

  “Fun?” Bill Alpert said. “You had no right…”

  “He doesn’t even go to your school,” Molly Alpert said. “He is a private school student.” She turned to her son. “How could you do such a disgusting thing?”

  “He does have friends who went to your school,” Bill Alpert said. “Not of the highest caliber and obviously a very bad influence.”

  “I wonder who the bad influence really is,” Myra muttered.

  “I didn’t mean no harm,” the boy whined. “I’m sorry.”

  “You stupid idiot,” Harry cried. “Didn’t mean no harm.” He turned to the boy’s parents. “Can’t you see what this little moron has done to us? I am certain that this is an actionable crime and I intend to pursue this to the fullest extent of the law.”

  “It was stupid, disgusting,” Molly Alpert cried, looking at her son. “How could you?”

  “I didn’t mean…” the boy whispered, bowing his head.

  “Didn’t mean. Didn’t mean,” Harry cried. He pointed a finger at the boy. “I intend to see that you are punished. I’m going to pursue this. Really. This boy has got to pay for this.”

  “Be careful on that score, mister,” Molly Alpert sneered. “We’re both lawyers.”

  “All I can say,” Bill Alpert said in a placating lawyerly manner, “is that we’re sorry this happened. Really sorry.” He looked at his son. “We’ll deal with you later, Tommy.”

  “Deal with him?” Myra said, her anger accelerating. “You should have dealt with the little shit years ago. It’s far too late now. He’s victimized us. He needs psychiatric help.”

  “That’s it. I won’t take these insults anymore,” Molly Alpert said angrily, “Tommy can’t accept all the blame. You should have closed your blinds. You want privacy, then that’s your responsibility. He’s only fourteen. Yes, he should have known better, but if you had the decency to close your blinds none of this would have happened.”

  Myra and Harry looked each other, shaking their heads.

  “So we are to blame,” Myra said. “Like parents, like child. Can you imagine how this little scumbag has hurt us?”

  “I won’t have this. Get out,” Molly Alpert shouted. “Get the fuck out of here.” Bill Alpert looked at her and shrugged helplessly. It was obvious to Myra who ruled the roost.

  “Hopeless,” Harry muttered as they stood up and moved toward the door.

  “You haven’t heard the end of this,” Harry said.

  They said nothing until they left the building and started toward their own.

  “I don’t believe this. We are now the villains in the piece.”

  As they moved toward their apartment, they saw a crowd of people gathered at the entrance, some with obviously professional video cameras.

  “What’s going on?” Harry asked one of the people in the crowd.

  “We’re looking for the sex kitten principal,” one of the women said, obviously a reporter.

  Shocked and dismayed, they moved quickly through the lobby. But as they got to the elevator, the press and television people, alerted to their identity, swarmed after them, cameras clicking and voices raised with questions. They managed to get into the elevator by themselves. As they ascended they heard people pounding up the staircase.

  “How did this happen?” Harry asked. Myra shrugged. No logical answer came to her mind.

  “We are in deep doo-doo, Harry,” Myra said.

  Luckily they managed to get inside the apartment before the ringing and knocking began. Their answering machine registered that the messages were full.

  Disconnecting the phone, they did not listen to any of the messages. They felt trapped.

  “Go away,” they shouted to the reporters who pounded on their door. After a while, they stopped.

  They spent the night contemplating their situation, angered by the terrible turn of events that had impacted on their lives. They held each other all night as they tried to assess the situation and come up with some plan to face what they knew would be a troubled time.

  “I feel like I’m about to face a firing squad,” Myra mumbled before the effects of a sleeping pill eased her into slumber.

  “Fight or flee,” she remarked to Harry as she left the apartment in the morning. “I’m certainly not going to flee. I haven’t a choice.” Harry hugged her for a long moment. “I wish I was the one to bear the brunt, but who cares about a sexy accountant.”

  “I do,” she said, winking, steeling herself as she left the a
partment.

  She walked past a number of photographers and reporters as she entered the school, saying nothing, determined to keep her head high, remaining stoic and hopeful that she was looking unfazed.

  In her office, she noted that a number of messages were piled on her desk, one of them from a top executive of the Board of Education. She returned the call immediately. She was requested to come downtown today to discuss the situation.

  Before she could leave, a delegation from the Parent-Teachers Association awaited her. They had brought along a cleric.

  “We wanted to speak to you directly,” one of the mothers who was a spokesman for the group said. Many nodded agreement. Myra wasn’t sure about their motives until one of their number spoke up.

  “You’ve done such a wonderful job, Mrs. Schwartz. We hate to see this happening. The newspaper stories are awful.”

  Myra had seen the headlines, which held her up to more ridicule than scorn. “Principal Goes All-Out For Sex Ed,” the headline in the Daily News proclaimed. The Post was worse. “Principal’s Porno Flick Gets Wide Release.”

  “We just wanted to say how sorry we are, Mrs. Schwartz. There is nothing worse than invading one’s privacy.”

  “I just worry about the effect on the children,” Myra said, as if it were expected. Apparently, it gave the delegation exactly the opening that was desired.

  “That is our only concern, Mrs. Schwartz,” the woman who spoke for the delegation said. She exchanged glances with the others in the group, who nodded their consent. “Our view is that the impact on them is—I hesitate to use the word—unsavory.” The woman paused and glanced at Myra sympathetically. “We believe, despite the wonderful truly dedicated job you’ve done, that you must rethink your position here.”

  She knew, of course, that her status as role model was compromised and her level of respect had seriously declined. She had become an object of ridicule by the media, which greatly expanded the reach of her vilification. There was a great deal she wanted to say in rebuttal. She was tempted to lash out at them for the general malaise of parental indifference that was crippling their children, their reliance on overworked educators to stem the tide of their bad parenting and stupefying ignorance and appalling dysfunction. She had, she realized, fought the good fight for these people and it was obvious they were not willing to fight the good fight for her.