Night Swimming

by Robin Schwarz

  “And what will that do? Make three people unhappy instead of one, and keep two from following their hearts? No. We did that already.”

  “You’re right, it’s just . . .” MaryAnn had told Charlotte that T. J. was going to propose to her that night. She had said she could feel it in her bones that tonight was the night. This conversation was going to be so horrible.

  “Please, T. J., please find her and bring her over here. I think we should all talk this out together.”

  “Okay. That sounds like the right thing to do,” he said, sounding unconvinced that there was any right thing to do. They embraced once again before he left, leaving his half-drunk whiskey on her kitchen table. Charlotte started to cry again as the door swung behind him. Her grief was physical. This was all her fault—she should have been honest with MaryAnn from the start, but she’d wanted so to protect their friendship. Now it seemed she’d destroyed it.

  It was less than an hour later when she got that awful call from MaryAnn. The call that would change everything. The call that would fill her with guilt and untold secrets for the rest of her life. She listened to MaryAnn, who seemed light-years away from her. She listened standing powerless in the middle of her kitchen floor, all the while staring at T. J.’s drink, wet where his lips had kissed the rim, the ice cubes still unmelted in his glass.

  CHAPTER 30

  SKIP DREW THE POOL NET across the top of the water as Blossom watched from her shady corner. He wore only his work boots and shorts; his blue T-shirt lay on the grass. His proletariat tan gleamed in the noonday sun. He was beautiful.

  Had he noticed that Blossom had lost twenty more pounds? How could he have noticed? How could anyone notice a thing under blankets large enough to cast up over Alaska and keep Nome warm? But Mrs. Feingold had noticed. They’d had tea just yesterday, and Mrs. Feingold had remarked that Blossom looked as if she’d lost weight.

  “Twenty more pounds, Mrs. Feingold.”

  “Are you on a diet, my dear?”

  “No, not really. The strange thing is, I hadn’t planned to lose the weight. It just sort of started happening. I began swimming, and it started coming off. It’s funny—you kill yourself on diets and nothing happens. Then you don’t care, don’t really think about it”— because you’re dying and what difference does it make? —“and then boom, the pounds start coming off. The swimming makes me happy right now, and I seem to be losing weight from it. Crazy.”

  “And that has to make you feel better. I mean physically. And when you feel better physically that just opens you up to so much more.”

  It did make her feel better. Every pound she lost brought her closer to someone who was dying to get out. Someone who had remained hidden for years under the weight of guilt and loss and having given up. Here she was in the last year of her life, finding a love she had never expected.

  The kind of love Skip offered was not romantic love but something else: something lighter, light as a feather. And now Blossom, discovering new and uncharted feelings, began to feel as light as a feather, too.

  CHAPTER 31

  MAKLEY WAS STILL IN NEW ORLEANS trying to find something more concrete than a hunch to help him. He had posted pictures, talked to every shopkeeper in the quarter, and at one point became frustrated enough actually to succumb and go to a fortune teller. It was not the same psychic Blossom had visited, but it was a reputable one according to the word on the street. Makley showed Ivan Borislavski the photograph.

  “A very large woman,” he said.

  No shit, Makley thought, a regular visionary.

  “She’s here.”

  Now, this got Makley’s attention.

  “She’s in the room,” Ivan continued.

  This bit of bullshit rocketed Makley back into his original cynicism.

  “Yeah?” he asked. “Where? I don’t see her.”

  “Shhhhhh. You will make her spirit weary of your presence. There is something not right between the two of you. She does not want to see you. She is running away from you.”

  “Well, then, I guess she’s alive?”

  The fortune teller paused. “It is strange, but there is a confusion here.”

  “About her being alive?”

  “Yes, she walks a fine line between life and death. She is in a cemetery looking for a place to lie down.”

  “Well, is she alive or not?”

  “I have never had such an unusual reading, but she is both dead and alive.”

  Oh, that’s really helpful, Makley thought. “Well, where should I be spending most of my time looking? In grocery stores or cemeteries?”

  “You make a joke, but it is not funny. This is a soul torn asunder. And I cannot tell you where she is, for she does not know where she is herself.”

  “Great. What do I owe you?”

  “Nothing. I cannot accept money for such a reading.”

  Makley was taken aback. He thought all these mumbo jumbo voodoo wackos would take a buck from the blind when they weren’t looking. “You’re kidding—not a cent?”

  “No, no money. I cannot tell you anything that feels sure. Your friend is floating; every night I feel her floating, but I don’t know where. She is between worlds, and if you find her, it will no longer be who you are looking for.”

  Whatever that means, thought Makley.

  “Okay, well, thanks, Kreskin, you’ve been a big help.”

  Makley’s next step was checking and rechecking different hotels, motels, and B and Bs. He had already crossed many off his list from his previous trip. He made his way down Royal Street and finally arrived at the Cornstalk Hotel. Mr. Garnier was behind the desk in the reception area when he entered.

  “We’re all full until next week,” he told Chief Makley.

  “Don’t need a room. Just need to ask you a couple of questions.” This was always suspect in New Orleans. In Garnier’s experience, “a couple of questions” always led to a dead body somewhere. Makley pulled out his police ID and flashed it too quickly to give Mr. Garnier a chance to see that it was from out of state. He followed up with a picture of Charlotte.

  “Seen her?”

  Mr. Garnier hesitated, then said, “Yes.” Monosyllabic answers were better than blathering on. He’d learned that much.

  “When?”

  “Oh, about two months ago, I guess.”

  “Where?”

  “Here. She stayed here.”

  “For how long?”

  “I’d have to look back at the guest registry, but I guess it was somewhere around two weeks.”

  “Was she alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did she pay?”

  “Cash, I remember that. Cash on the barrel.”

  Makley smiled. “Can I see the registry?”

  Sure enough, Charlotte Clapp had been in New Orleans, reaping the benefits of what Makley was sure was the two million dollars in stolen money. She had paid the hotel in cash. And there was her signature in black and white.

  “Did she happen to say where she was going when she signed out?”

  Mr. Garnier’s wife had now come in and was catching up with the conversation.

  “He’s looking for a woman who stayed here back some two months or so ago.”

  Mrs. Garnier looked at the picture. It was not hard not to recognize Charlotte. She was ever memorable in her girth.

  “Oh, yes, yes...I remember her. Very nice lady. As a matter of fact...”

  Mr. Garnier shot his wife a look that said, not too much information. But her mind was on other things. She was remembering something.

  “Yes?” Makley asked hopefully.

  “When I changed her room, I found a book she’d left behind. It’s still here in the lost-and-found. I figured she’d call for it, and I would mail it to her. But she never did call.”

  “Could you get it for me?” Makley asked.

  “Yes, of course.” Mrs. Garnier disappeared into the back room. You could hear her rummaging through a box.

  “A
hhh, here it is!” she yelled victoriously, as if she’d found the missing piece to a puzzle. She handed the book to Makley: Where to Stay and Where to Play in Hollywood, California.

  “Ah-ha,” Makley said, taking it from Mrs. Garnier.

  “Did she say anything to you about going to California?”

  “No,” Mr. Garnier said, his wife nodding in agreement. “We really barely spoke to her. She was in and out of her own accord mostly.”

  “I’m going to keep this, if you don’t mind,” Makley said, holding on to the book.

  “Yes, yes, keep it,” Mr. Garnier said, anxious to get Makley moving.

  “What’d she do?” Mrs. Garnier asked. Mr. Garnier was annoyed. Too much information.

  “She went over on her credit line,” he said as he was leaving.

  “That doesn’t sound so bad,” Mrs. Garnier said. “I do that all the time.”

  “Yeah, and how many times have I told you to stop buying from every catalog you get? Maybe now you’ll listen.”

  Oops, Mr. Garnier thought, she got me so mad, I said too much.

  Back at his hotel, Makley called the station.

  “Well, she’s alive.”

  “Really?” Officer Hobbs asked. “I’ll be.”

  “Yup. Got a confirmation from a hotel that she stayed at. It was the eye-witness account I was hoping for.”

  “What now?”

  “She left a book behind in her room. Something about Hollywood, California. I’m wondering if she ever spoke to any of her friends or colleagues about wanting to go there. I think we should get them in again and start asking some more questions.”

  “All right, I’m on it. Where did I put that initial list?” Makley could hear him shuffling through papers, opening drawers, moving chairs.

  “Has Kelly said anything further about the money or setting up a meeting with his brother-in-law?”

  “No, not yet. But I heard he got his lawyer involved.”

  “That a fact,” Makley said. “Ya know, it occurs to me that we don’t know the brother-in-law’s name. All we call him is the brother-in-law. Find out what the hell his name is, Hobbs, would you?”

  “On it, Chief,” and Makley heard Hobbs both writing and reiterating his task at hand.

  “Find...out... name...of...”

  Makley couldn’t stand it anymore. “Hobbs, listen... I’m gonna nose around here a bit more and probably book myself a flight to

  L.A. tomorrow.” “No shit.” Hobbs was excited. “Calm down. It’s not a vacation. I’ll call you when I’m settled

  somewhere. Do me a favor. Call the FBI and tell them what’s going

  on. Okay?”

  “Yeah, sure, boss.”

  “And check those lists of friends carefully. We don’t want to leave anybody out.”

  “Okay, Chief. Okay... Oh, here it is. I found the list.”

  “Good. Don’t read it to me; just get started on it. See if Charlotte

  ever talked to anyone about going to Hollywood. If she knows anyone there, etcetera, etcetera.” “Yeah, no problem. Right away, Chief.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow. And, Hobbs, this isn’t Dirty Harry. Stay professional, will you?”

  Hobbs hastily replaced the gun he’d taken from his holster and had been spinning on his trigger finger throughout their conversation. How could Makley have known that? Christ, he must have heard it, Hobbs thought, feeling like an idiot as he remembered the time he accidentally shot Mrs. Tretherow in the foot by showing off this particular maneuver. If only he’d remembered that damn safety. He now found himself hiding whenever he saw her limping out of the bank or the 7-Eleven. The local headlines didn’t help: OFFICER HOBBS SHOOTS NINETY-YEAR-OLD WIDOW IN FOOT. She was no ninety, Hobbs sulked, but all that was beside the point.

  “You hear me, Hobbs?” Makley asked again.

  “Of course, Chief, professional. All the way.”

  After hanging up, Hobbs made his first call.

  “Hello. May I speak with Mrs. MaryAnn Barzini, please?”

  CHAPTER 32

  COME ON, BLOSSOM, dear, we’ll be late.” Mrs. Feingold was pacing back and forth in Blossom’s living room. She was dragging Blossom to a day spa. “You must do these things for yourself once in a while. They make a world of difference to your psyche.”

  “My psyche’s fine, Mrs. Feingold.”

  “Oh, phooey. I can see your psyche’s in need of a salt scrub. And anyway, you deserve a little pampering. We all do.” “But this is too much.” “Can’t someone just give you something, Blossom?”

  Mrs. Feingold’s question sideswiped her. Why couldn’t she accept a gift? Maybe Mrs. Feingold was right. Maybe she should just accept this invitation graciously. It was okay for someone to give her something. She was deserving of a gift. In fact, it was nice.

  After the aromatherapy and the facial and the massage, Mrs. Fein-gold insisted Blossom have Franz do her eyebrows. He was a master at facial hair, and Mrs. Feingold said Blossom was in desperate need of a shape.

  “Now, just keep your eyes closed.” Rip. The wax tore across the bottom of her lower brow, forming the beginning of an arch. “Yes, already I see a difference. Much better.” Franz took out tweezers and began, with surgical precision, removing all the extraneous top hairs.: “Wunderbar. Wunderbar. ” Blossom only hoped that meant good. “When we are done, you may look.” Rip. Tweeze. Rip. Tweeze. Twenty painful minutes on each brow, and Blossom was ready for her unveiling.

  “How do you like it?” Mrs. Feingold was examining her with all the pride of a doting mother. But when Blossom was finally able to look in the mirror, she was horrified. Her eyebrows looked like Cruella DeVil’s. Her expression hovered between anger and amazement, and she couldn’t seem to wipe the look off her face. It had been irrevocably embedded. The arch was so high, trucks could pass under it.

  “I...I...”

  “That’s okay, darling, no need to thank me. The expression on your face says it all.” Franz was as clueless as he was talentless.

  “I think it looks good, Blossom. Fresh. What do you think?”

  “I look so... surprised.”

  “It opens your face right up, darling,” Franz continued, as if to justify his colossal mistake.

  “When will they grow back?” Blossom asked nervously.

  “Oh, don’t worry about that, darling,” Franz said. “It won’t be for a while, and you come right back to me when they do. I can maintain this shape forever.”

  When they left, Blossom insisted on stopping at the Beverly Center. There was no way she was going to walk around looking like the Joker. Especially in front of Skip. She would buy herself a pair of sunglasses the size of satellite dishes before assuming her position back at the pool.

  “What’s with the glasses, Blossom?” Skip asked, looking down at her on the chaise. Damn. There was a fifty-fifty chance Skip would have just ignored these ridiculous glasses that resembled Frisbees or dinner plates. She had a million excuses to give him, but she just didn’t feel like lying. It would be weeks before her eyebrows grew back. Just confess the whole stupid thing. She took them off.

  He looked at her and couldn’t quite figure out what was wrong. Like when a man shaves his mustache—you can tell something is different, but what, is a mystery. And then he saw it. Someone had shaped her eyebrows to look like one of those bridges that pull up to let tall ships through.

  “Oh, my God.” And he started to laugh, but immediately felt terrible for doing so. He covered his mouth and tried to stop. And he did. For a second. And then he started all over again. Blossom could have sat there, mad. But the truth was, it was sort of funny. Not hysterical—after all, she had to live with those eyebrows. But funny enough to make her laugh, too.

  “I’m sorry, Blossom.”

  “Hey, what can you do? Mrs. Feingold had this big idea that I’d enjoy a makeover. For the next couple of months it’s going to look like I’m leaning forward in a strong wind or about to start a race.”

&
nbsp; “You just look so...”

  “Surprised?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Angry?”

  “Kinda.”

  “Amazed?”

  “That, too.”

  “I know, I can’t seem to get that expression off my face.”

  “I’ll ask Jeannie who she goes to. I’m sure she knows someone who can help you.”

  No, not Jeannie. I’d rather go through life looking like this. “Thanks, Skip.”

  “She’ll be over later.”

  Oh, joy. Why? “She’s coming here?”

  “No. Over to the house. It’s my birthday on Thursday, and she says she bought me something two months ago and she wants to give it to me.”

  “Hey, happy birthday!”

  “Thanks.”

  “How old will you be?”

  “Thirty-five, Blossom—an old man.”

  Blossom laughed. “What are you doing to celebrate?”

  “Nothing. Jeannie’s giving me the present and taking off. She says she has plans. Should have figured. I might take off Thursday and go to the beach. No plans past that, though.”

  “Well, if you’ll allow me, I would love to make you dinner. No one should have nothing to do on their birthday.”

  “You don’t have to trouble yourself, Blossom.”

  “Trouble? It’s no trouble at all. It’ll be fun. Pick a night. If you’re really not doing anything on your birthday night, then we can do it on Thursday.”

  “Okay. Thursday’s great. What can I bring?”

  “Yourself.”

  “Good, then.”

  “Yes. Good.”

  Skip took Thursday off. Blossom imagined him at the beach. Mmmm. Her first order of business that morning was buying him a birthday present. She wanted to make sure it was appropriate this time—something that he would be glad to have and not feel he had to return because of its price or its meaning.

  There was a store on Brighton Way she had passed numerous times and always wanted an excuse to go in. This was the perfect excuse. Roth & Co. had a fine selection of art and antiques, mostly from the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Blossom had never seen such beautiful things. It was as if she were walking through a museum, only here you got to buy the pieces. She made several turns around the shop, but nothing jumped out at her. Except Gene Hackman. There he was again, buying something and waiting to have it wrapped. How could Gene Hackman appear again? In fact, she’d never seen any other actor in Hollywood. She contemplated going over to him. Would he remember her? Hello, Gene, it’s so nice to see you again. I see we shop at all the same stores. Per haps we could have coffee some time and compare purchases...Oh, Blossom, I don’t think so.