Punish Me with Kisses
Page 12
"It was black, leather-bound, unlined pages crowded with her tiny scrawl. She kept it hidden, of course. I remember looking for it a couple of times when she wasn't there. I wanted to read what she'd written about me, but she must have hid it pretty well." Cynthia paused, then shook her head. "I never found it anyway—"
Why do I worry sometimes I'll die very suddenly, be hit by a taxi crossing Fifth, be murdered by a madman in Central Park, then someone, Child perhaps, will stumble across this book and learn the secrets of my heart? Don't care. Couldn't give less of a shit. But then why do I leave out certain things? Why do I hide this journal every night? Compulsion? Busywork? Fear of what it tells me about myself? Surely this book is not the key to my secret garden. I don't own that key myself. The garden is surrounded by insurmountable walls, its vines and flowers mysterious, unknown—
The idea that there'd been a diary and that it might still exist someplace was so tantalizing she couldn't let it go. She thought about it as she taxied uptown from Cynthia's, tried to imagine where it might be and the sort of information it might contain. After Suzie died, she remembered, she'd gone through all her things, first in Maine, then in Greenwich, where she'd holed up with her mother after withdrawing from Wellesley College. She'd found a few letters, various papers of various kinds, but nothing like a diary, nothing personal at all.
Back at the apartment she detected a glimmer of interest when she told Jared what Cynthia had said. "Maybe the police found it," he suggested. "They must have combed the cottage pretty well."
"I don't think so. Remember how they bungled everything? If they'd found it they would have had to turn it over. Robinson would have had to show it to Schrader because it might have been exculpatory, with all those other guys' names and everything."
"Yeah, well maybe they just deep-sixed it, then." Already he was losing interest.
"I doubt it. Someone would have talked. There were reporters crawling all over the place. No, I don't think the police found it, and I don't think my parents did either. They stayed completely away from the poolhouse. I was the one finally who packed up all her stuff."
"Then maybe Cynthia was right," he said. "Maybe it was inside one of her speakers or someplace."
Penny sighed. "We got rid of everything—her clothes, the remnants of her waterbed, even her stereo. There was this ghoulish atmosphere, people coming around looking for souvenirs. My father asked me if I wanted anything, and when I said I didn't, he said pack it all up and have it hauled away and burned."
Jared shrugged. "In that case I guess it's gone."
"Yeah, guess so," she said.
But even after they went to bed she couldn't shake off the idea that somehow the diary might have survived. She tried to sleep but couldn't. She kept thinking of the house in Maine, its rooms, its grounds. If Suzie had kept the diary regularly, writing up all her lovers as Cynthia had said, then she would have had to keep it fairly nearby, so the cottage was the logical place. But where? She imagined her way around the room, and then, suddenly, a memory came to her, first vague, then sharp, like pulling an image into focus through a lens. She shook Jared awake. "I think I know where she hid it," she said.
When she and Suzie had been little, she told him, before they were allowed to go off bicycling by themselves, they'd often been stuck for weeks at a time on the estate, especially when their father was working in New York. Usually their mother took them up to Maine in the middle of June, and they stayed there through Labor Day, more or less ignored. Their father, obsessed with building up the business, flew up on occasional weekends and then took a brief vacation the last two weeks before they left. So they were stuck on the estate, and since there weren't any other kids around, and their mother rarely ventured out, they were forced to amuse themselves. They played all sorts of games, indoor games on foggy days (Scrabble, which she'd loved and Suzie had loathed, and Monopoly, which she'd hated and Suzie had adored), and on the good days outdoor games, hopscotch and tag, hide-and-seek and treasure hunts which became more and more elaborate as their mutual boredom increased. One time, she remembered, Suzie had hidden the "treasure," a paperweight from their father's desk, in a metal cookie box she'd painted aquamarine, then placed at the bottom of the pool.
"We had such fun with those treasure hunts," Penny said. "We'd work hours figuring out ways to stump each other, and Suzie's ways were always best. She was ingenious about hiding things. She had a mind for that, secret stashes and passwords and codes. One time she loosened a tile inside the cottage. The floor there is tiled, just like the area around the pool, and there're tiles, too, like baseboards, running along the bottoms of the walls. She loosened one of them, and then she hollowed out the space behind it, and fixed some white cement on the edges so you'd never know it had been touched. I never found that one, so finally she showed it to me. I was just thinking, since she was living in there, maybe that's where she kept the diary."
"Hmm," said Jared sleepily. "Could be, I guess."
"Let's go up there tomorrow and see."
"Oh, come on—"
"Why not?"
"You got to be kidding. Don't you have to go to work?"
She sat up, turned on the light. "I'll call in sick. We can rent a car. It'll be good to get out of town."
He was looking at her strangely. "Hey, babe—let's not get carried away."
"Look," she said, "let's do something for a change. Let's get off our asses, and see if the damn thing's there."
The next morning she made breakfast while he called around to rent-a-car agencies. He finally made an unlimited mileage twenty-four hour deal with an independent on East Eighty-Fifth. They stuffed a few things into a knapsack—extra sweatshirts because she knew it would be cold in Maine—picked up the car, and headed for the FDR Drive. It was nine o'clock when they crossed the Triboro Bridge. Traffic was light, and half an hour out on the New England Thruway, barely a mile, she realized, from her family's Greenwich house, Jared stopped at a gas station and she went to a phone booth to call into B&A.
"Any special reason you want me to tell him?" MacAllister's secretary asked.
"Just say it's a family thing. I'll work next weekend and make up the time."
They lunched on clam rolls at a Howard Johnson's a little south of Boston, and she thought: We're in New England now; Maine is getting close. She'd felt anxious in the car as she'd contemplated what it would be like returning to Bar Harbor, returning to the house. She hadn't been in Maine since the trial. She'd resolved never to stay in the old house again, never even to return to the town after Jared was released. There'd been too many lonely, unhappy summers there, and after the killing and all the blood she had never wanted to go back.
Now she wondered if they weren't on a fool's errand rushing up there this time of year on the off-chance they'd find Suzie's diary in that old hiding place behind the tiles. For a moment she thought about turning around, going back to New York, leaving the past alone. But then she knew that wasn't possible. She had to try. She didn't have any choice.
Jared fidgeted with the radio, tuned into stations as they traveled up the coast so that they listened to the same top forty songs over and over again, and the chatter of DJs of varying talent and panache. He drove steadily, tried to divert her sometimes, chattering about the scenery, the people in the other cars, in an attempt to break her mood. But she felt grim and answered him in monosyllables. Finally he turned to her. "I feel kind of silly about this. It's so—I don't know—Nancy Drew or something," he said.
"First it was the Hardy Boys. Now it's Nancy Drew. It isn't, Jared. It's us. We're doing it, and that makes it real."
They crossed into Maine a little after two o'clock. They followed the coast road that ran along Penobscot Bay and then north toward Mount Desert Island. It was foggy and nearly dark when they reached Bar Harbor. She'd never been there off-season, had never seen the town in its pristine state. The harbor was nearly empty, no yachts, just a few fishing boats. Most of the stores were closed, eve
rything was dark and gray, and she felt a deep chill from the wind, the real cold of a Maine winter soon to bury the streets and fields and forests in snow. As they wound their way along the curving coastal road that encompassed Acadia Park and then turned onto roads they'd once ridden together on his motorcycle, passing the old houses boarded up by owners now snug down in Philadelphia or New York, she began to shake with cold and dread.
And then she felt the tension coming off him, too. He was as nervous as she. Something about his breathing betrayed him—it was too controlled—and the way he drove, the tight way he gripped the wheel. She'd been selfish, she thought, thinking he was lazy, thinking that was why he hadn't wanted to come. It was he, she now understood, who must feel the greater dread, returning to the scene of a killing which everyone still believed he'd done.
A hundred yards from the front gate of the estate he suddenly stopped the car. "Want to turn back?" She looked at him, but she couldn't tell if he was serious.
"Of course not," she said, "but I am feeling a little creepy now."
He reached out for her and touched her cheek, breaking the tension. He started up again and pulled up in front of the gate. He got out, tried to open it, then shrugged and walked back to the car. "Damn thing's locked. Guess we'll have to walk in."
"I'll go get Tucker," she said. "He'll come down and open up."
"Want me to come?"
She shook her head. "He's going to be shocked enough when he sees me."
He gave her a boost over the gate, then she started up the drive alone. Tucker and his wife lived in the caretaker's cottage a hundred feet from the road. She was relieved to see his pickup truck parked in front, but there was no response when she knocked.
Damn, she thought, should have phoned from town. She knocked again, then walked around to the side. She could hear the sound of a TV, recognized the pause-filled rhythm of soap opera dialogue.
"Tucker," she called out. "It's Penny Berring." It was strange to use her old last name again. She heard the TV volume go down, went back to the door to wait. Mrs. Tucker opened up.
"Why Penny!" She didn't look particularly overjoyed. "We weren't expecting you."
"Sorry, Mrs. Tucker. Guess I should have called."
"Haven't seen you in a long time. Come in. I'll get you tea. Then I'll go fix up the house."
"That's not necessary," she said. "Just want to spend a few minutes. All I need is the keys."
"I'd better get Phil, then." She turned and started up the stairs.
"You don't have to bother him," Penny said. "I see them over there." She started toward a peg board in the hall where the keys, all neatly labeled, hung on little hooks.
"I need one for the gate and one for the cottage."
"You don't want to go in there," Mrs. Tucker said, poised halfway up the stairs.
"Yes, I do. That's why I came."
Mrs. Tucker stared at her. "I'll go get Phil," she said. She disappeared upstairs, then Penny heard them talking, their words muffled by the walls. She was about to reach over and take the keys she wanted, when she heard a heavy masculine tread on the stairs and knew Tucker was coming down.
"Kind of short notice," he growled, clumping over to where she stood. "Not so nice catching us off our guard this way, not giving us time to clean things up."
"I'm only going to be here a few minutes. You don't have to turn on the gas, or anything like that."
"Your father says—well, look who's here!"
Penny turned. Jared was standing at the door.
"Hello," he said to Tucker. "Remember me?"
Tucker grimaced. "I remember you, all right."
"We're in a bit of a hurry, Tucker," Penny said, "so if you'll please give me the keys we'll get on with our errand and out of your way."
The caretaker hesitated. His distaste for Jared was evident, his distaste for the whole situation. He looked at them, looked away, then went to the board and snatched up the keys.
"Here, take 'em." He handed them to Penny. "Your father says 'Tucker, don't let anyone in there, not unless you hear from me.' Then you turn up without notice. What the hell am I supposed to do? Well, you're in the family, though as far as I've heard he ain't in it yet." He looked hard at Jared. "Go ahead. It's your house. Lock up when you're finished. You can leave the keys on the porch."
He turned his back on them and walked stiffly up the stairs. She turned to Jared. "That's what they call New England crustiness," she whispered in his ear.
They walked back down the drive, unlocked the gate, drove in and parked in front of the house. They walked around it, then crossed the lawn. She felt the springiness of the grass and remembered the feel of it against her bare feet when she'd crossed it at dawn those mornings three years before. But now it was night, the wind was strong and the air was chilled. A loose shutter somewhere swung open and shut. She looked back at the house. Its Victorian profile seemed menacing against the blackness of the sky. She pulled the light switch outside the poolhouse, but the lights on the porch didn't come on. "Damn—the electricity's off. The panel's in the main house. We'll have to go in there and turn it on."
"Never mind," said Jared. "I brought a flashlight. I'll get it—it's in the car." He walked back across the lawn, leaving her alone at the poolhouse door.
He'd brought a flashlight—how intelligent, she thought. Then she remembered the flashlight beam, and was seized with foreboding. No, she thought, that's nonsense: it was the intruder who shined the flashlight at him. Getting mixed up. Sbouldn't do that. Mustn't let myself get freaked.
She turned back to the poolhouse, peered in, felt the glass cold against her nose. She thought of herself that summer peering in at Suzie sprawled out with one of her lovers, their limbs entwined, the water bed undulating as they slept. Suddenly she stood back; the memory was too intense. She looked back at the main house, found her bedroom window, thought of herself sitting up there in her rocking chair, staring down, spying, imagining Jared and Suzie making love.
"Here—" Jared had the flashlight on and was shining it at the lock. She fumbled with the keys, found the right one, and opened the door. The air inside had a cold, damp smell.
Jared shined the flashlight around, probing all the corners of the room. There was no furniture; the floor was clean. No waterbed now, just the tile floor and the four walls. Once again she began to shake.
"Well?" He turned the light on her. She couldn't see him and suddenly felt unnerved.
"Why are you doing that?"
"What?" he asked.
"The flashlight."
"Oh. Sorry." He lowered the beam, handed the flashlight back. She took it, stepped to the center, and pointed it at the north baseboard where the tiles met the wall.
"There," she said, trying to hold it steady on a particular tile. "That's the one I think."
Jared went to the wall and knelt. "You're shaking the light," he said. "Better give it back." She paused, then handed it to him. Then she knelt beside him, feeling the cold floor through her jeans. She knocked gently at the tile and tried to pry it loose. When it didn't budge she tapped at it again. This time it fell out. She reached for it, caught it in her hand.
Jared held the flashlight firmly while she began to pull things out. The first item was a small bottle of Amazone. Opening it, sniffing at the stopper, she felt tears rising to her eyes. Memories of Suzie flooded back, the aroma of her body, the combination of this perfume and the essence of her skin. Inhaling the odor she almost felt that Suzie was with them in the room.
The next thing was a wallet, old and worn, the edges damp and decayed. There was no money inside, just some keys and old photographs sealed at their edges with Scotch tape. They inspected them: a picture of her mother with a tennis racket across her lap; one of her father in his bathing trunks about to dive into the pool. There was a smaller print, too, from the same series as the one she'd seen on her father's office wall, of herself and Suzie on the sailboat, Suzie in profile this time, looking out to sea, smiling
, her chin jutting out, while Penny stared at her with the same mixture of envy and admiration that had so struck her in her father's office the week before. Now it struck Jared too. "You always looked at her like that," he said.
"How do you know I did?"
"I remember from those times I came around." He raised the flashlight, shined it at her again. "You're looking at the picture the same way now." He paused. "It's as if—"
"What?"
"I don't know. Like you want to be like her, somehow."
Penny's face froze. Then she pushed away the flashlight. There was more in the hiding place, a small plastic medicine bottle and a pipe. Jared opened the bottle and dumped some of its contents onto his palm. "Incredible," he said, "this must be the same stuff we smoked."
"Here it is!" She pulled out a leather-bound notebook, the pages unlined, covered with tiny script just as Cynthia had described. They thumbed through it together. "Just can't believe it," she said. "It's as if it's been sitting here waiting for us all this time."
He hugged her. "Got to hand it to you. You're a genius, babe. What do you say we get the hell out of here? I'm starting to get spooked myself."
She nodded, began to put the perfume and other things back in the cavity, then changed her mind. She decided to keep them. They belonged to her now, she guessed.
To annihilate myself. Burn. Catch fire. Search the gutter. Screw and screw. The sweet object of my desire doesn't care a hoot. Brokenhearted I weep and rage.
Maybe cruelty is the answer. To give pain even as I suffer. Receive pain, pain of the flesh, to burn away the pain so deep inside.
"So you want to flirt with S&M, " Jamie says. And then in an ominous tone: "You can't flirt with it, you know. Once you start with that you never go straight again."
He loves the idea that he's jaded. He adores the thought that he can't get a hard-on unless there's a whip in the room or a threesome on the bed. Anything but love. "Love gives me a shrivel-on," he proclaims.