She reached for a tissue from her oak table, took a moment to dab her face, turned to Harry and said, almost without emotion, “He killed her.”
FIVE
I t was not a script; it was real life. In the make-believe world of theater, Harry had dealt with death, murder, suicide, all sorts of criminal and disruptive behavior, but in his own sphere of personal experience, he knew nothing, had never faced such a serious life-scenario. How ought he to respond to Juliet’s chilling disclosure?
He held onto her hand as she torturously laid out the details of the previous day’s tragedy.
She ended with, “So the police are looking for him, though they aren’t sure they have enough evidence to file charges. I saw her at the morgue. She looked grotesque. The early diagnosis is that she drank or ate something that fouled her blood. Results of the autopsy are due tomorrow.” She turned her head and stared at Harry, no more than six inches from his face.
“You think he poisoned her,” Harry said, edgy about their proximity, but eager to offer support.
“I know he did. No question. He has a history of drugs and knows a lot about the psychedelics as well as the toxics. I don’t know how he managed to slip whatever he used into whatever she consumed. He’s clever, and I’m sure he planned it to look like some kind of illness, the heart or a stroke or something. But I think he tripped himself up here, because his poison of choice is not something she’d take by accident, or that would color her green the way it did.”
“She was green?”
“Like a toad, and her skin was corroded as well.”
“I’m so sorry, Juliet. This has got to be devastating.”
“Doesn’t matter if you’re alienated from someone, its hard to handle this kind of violation. Imagine, your sick father killing your sick mother!”
“I can’t imagine it.”
“And I can’t recall in all our theatrical literature a case of father killing mother. Maybe in one of the Russian writers, Chekov or Turgenev. Even in Hamlet, it was the evil brother who did the murder in order to gain the throne and the bride.”
Harry was off balance. She seemed cerebral and suddenly analytical, the grief of a moment ago now evaporated. And she maintained that close face-to-face posture as well, her eyes and her breath capturing him, stirring him.
He was stuck, didn’t know what to say, and finally squeezed out, “I hope they find him. I hope they figure out what happened.”
Juliet pressed his hand hard, kept her gaze on him, leaned forward, and kissed him on the mouth.
He had a fleeting urge to pull away, was unsure how to handle a show of affection that was real, tried to imagine he was on stage, in a role, this delicious gesture simply one segment of the playwright’s creativity.
When she pulled back, he said, “Oh,” in a small voice.
Juliet smiled and said, “Oh yourself.”
“I mean that was nice.”
“Yes, I liked it.”
“It’s a hard time for you. I don’t want…”
“You didn’t. I kissed you.”
But…”
“No buts. I did it because I wanted to.” She stopped, smiled again and said, “Would you be okay if we took it to the next level?”
“You mean…”
“Yep. That’s what I mean.”
“But your mother.”
“She’s dead. No approval needed.”
“I didn’t mean…”
“I know. I’m doing okay. Now and then I get dramatic. After all, they are, or were, my parents, nutty as can be but still the only ones I’ll ever have. Anyway, that doesn’t keep me from trying to scratch out some pleasure. In fact, I think because of their rotten parenting, I’ve become somewhat of a hedonist, screw the consequences, go for the gold ring.”
Ah, now the greatest dilemma of his young life: this jewel of a woman was offering herself to him, in the soup of a tragic event, the heaviness weighing in with a stop sign, while on the other side, his long-dormant passions urging him to grab hold of what was clearly an astonishing opportunity. It was as if he had been offered a juicy part in a wonderful play and had to decide if it was right for him.
Another oddity: he found himself probing with his tongue for the early stages of a cavity in his lower right, back molar—now why does one do that? He was aware, too, of the ticking of a saucer-like, black and white timepiece on the wall, resembling a public school clock, unadorned, large-lettered, noisy, and wondered if it was Juliet’s choice or a gift from someone. A neighbor’s nervous dog yapped in the distance.
His hesitation spawned another, unabridged response from Juliet. “Shit, you aren’t ready. Sorry, I jumped in too fast. Another time, okay? I’m ready whenever you are.”
He nodded, no words appropriate, her manner and agenda too much for his untutored psyche to handle. Like any good thespian, however, he filed away the insight for future reference, surely to be needed in a Juliet-sponsored, bound-to-happen, unpredictable, upcoming tableau.
She kissed him on the cheek and said, “You’d better get out of here. I’m going to work myself back into my mourning role. It’s not fake, really, only exaggerated. Maybe someday I’ll have to check in with a shrink to work though my unfinished business with my mother. But for now, I only need to be with myself and think it out. Oh, and yes, I have unfinished stuff with my father too, as you can imagine.”
Again he nodded, and as he moved toward the door, said, “You’re kind of mysterious, kind of hard to follow. Maybe an ugly tragedy causes that. I wouldn’t know.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to.” She paused, gave him her best, loveliest smile, and concluded, “You’re too sweet a guy to know. Someday, when you’ve been crapped on too hard, you’ll get it.”
SIX
A few days later, Cody Marsh walked into the Normandy precinct police station and addressed himself to the sergeant on duty: “Saw my name on TV. Said you wanted to ask me some questions.”
In his estimation of the situation, he was clean, with no evidence to connect him to his ex’s demise, no libelous clues to make him culpable. Amateur that he was, he failed to gauge the advanced state of technology at the disposal of law enforcement.
At first, they questioned him, fingerprinted him, got a fix on his current address, cautioned him to stay close to home, and let him go.
As the lab findings began to tumble in, the lead investigative officer, a detective Carl Hartunian, pieced together some incontrovertible facts. It was not an accident. The death was from a lethal dose of drugs in the opiate family, the typical pattern causing opioid toxicity, including respiratory depression, heightened somnolence, skeletal muscle flaccidity and cold, clammy, discolored skin. There was coffee in her system, a drink with a strong flavor that could camouflage the taste of any added substance. No one, in Hartunian’s twenty-two years on the force, ever poisoned herself or himself in such a manner. It was homicide.
Along with that, on the deed for the contested house, which was left sitting like a flashing neon light on the table in the kitchen, saying “look at me, I’m the reason for all this,” was a clear middle-finger and thumb print. Analysis determined it was not the deceased’s print, though hers was also on the document. Further comparison confirmed that the second print belonged to Cody Marsh, recently fingerprinted—no question he had been in the home.
Finally, there was a bruise on Amalia Marsh’s left temple, which was not a consequence of the poison, but of a strong blow. The examiner also passed on to Hartoonian that the angle of the bruise made it highly probable that the perpetrator was left-handed. In discussions with Juliet, it was ascertained that Cody Marsh was a lefty.
It took only an hour to locate him and recite the standard ritual about anything he says being used against him in a court of law.
Juliet returned to class the next week, something of a celebrity, which she seemed not at all to appreciate. To Harry it was understandable; who in hell wants the world to know that one of your parents killed t
he other and is in the lockup, awaiting arraignment? He understood this, but was unclear on what to say about it.
Not a problem. Good old Galen Thurston, Mr. Handsome, stepped into the puddle with both feet. “Hey, Juliet,” he said with too jaunty an air, “you’ve got the makings of a hell of a screen play. Bet you could get any number of producers bidding for rights to your story.”
He said it with half the class listening, though Mr. Benjamin had not yet arrived. Juliet’s response, instant and equally public, was barbed and cynical: “Why don’t you write it, Tarzan, then you can cast yourself in the leading role.”
No one knew what role she had in mind, since the only male mentioned in all the stories was her father. Well, Harry thought, that casting choice might work very well: Galen the deserter, Galen the wife-beater, Galen the murderer, Galen the convict. He could see the man peering out through bars at the other inmates’ Sunday visitors, himself barren and alone, no one disposed to connect with him, a self-absorbed, tortured soul.
Galen’s lame response: “I just meant you knew a lot about it….”
Garth Benjamin entered carrying a satchel with notes and assignments, caught the gnarly tension in the room and said, “My beauties, our culture strays from its purposes. Instead of the birth of vibrant art being its penultimate enterprise, we have cruelty, violence, and death fouling our landscape. The canvas is spoiled. Humans violate humans. We are privy to treacherous times.” He turned to Juliet and said softly, “My dear, you have a deep talent. I hope that this brazen insult to your life does not deter you. I offer you my ongoing guidance and expertise. Let us make of you a star.”
There was a momentary hush in the classroom, then surprising himself, Harry said to all, “That was inspirational, Mr. Benjamin. If there is any way I can contribute to that goal, I volunteer right here and now.”
What seemed like unanimous approbation flowed out from the other students, and Juliet began to cry. After a pause, as on stage when the audience has absorbed the emotional tug of a deliberate silence, Juliet said, “I treasure your friendship, all of you. It is a dreadful time, but I will get past it.”
It was a powerful moment, although, for some nettlesome reason, given his experience at Juliet’s flat, Harry found himself forming the word, disingenuous.
SEVEN
N ot everyone in the theater program had the same drive to become a famous actor. Harry began to realize that as the semester progressed. There were two or three women in the group who seemed to be dilettantes, perhaps with wealthy parents, who wanted a degree from this prestigious school for cosmetic reasons, or, as is often the accusation about young coeds, to find themselves a splendid husband. Then there was Galen Thurston, the Gable-esque narcissist, who probably wanted to be famous, but certainly not as an actor. Juliet, he wasn’t sure about, would need to study her more carefully, scrutinize her manner, every sentence, each gesture, try to assess her commitment, as he viewed it, to being authentic, the genuine article.
He was hopelessly attracted to her, and did not want to find himself ensnared in some sort of close relationship if she proved to be, well, the only word that came to mind was, phony. The question he asked himself was, is she an actor, all the time?
One evening, in the classroom, Galen sauntered up to Harry. “Hey buddy, wonder if I could consult with you about something after class, if you’re free for a few minutes?”
It surprised Harry; there had been no verbal exchanges between them since that first night in the coffee house. Even then, if he remembered correctly, there was no direct communication—Galen had asked him to move on but before he could respond, Juliet had kissed him off.
“Uh, yeah, I’m in no big hurry.”
“Won’t take long. Bit of a dilemma I’m in. Thought I could pick your brain.”
Proud of his developing capacity for wit, Harry replied, “Hope you won’t find it slim pickings.”
When they were alone, in the patio, where a gusty breeze was creating gossamer dancers of the Mulberry leaves, Galen, himself proud of his histrionic self-image, said at once, “My father gave my portfolio of pics to a producer friend in Hollywood. The guy called me in, likes my ‘look’ as he called it, and wants to cast me in a film, not the lead, but the other guy, the one the girl falls for but in the end leaves in the lurch. Now, my problem is, I’d have to drop out of school, at least for now.” He perused Harry carefully for any show of judgment, then asked, “Do you think I’m nuts? What chance do you think I have in this business?”
Harry showed a kind of judgment, hard to read, not necessarily critical, more of puzzlement. He responded: “I don’t know why you’re consulting with me. I’m not a guru in this field. I hardly know my own direction, let alone advise someone else.”
“See, that’s it. I can get haughty, I know, and possessive, and sometimes hostile. But, under it all, I respect you and your skills. You seem to me to know what you want, to have a destination in mind. I don’t. I haven’t a clue what I want to be when I grow up.”
Harry laughed. “You’ve got me pegged wrong. I know what my parents want for me, but I don’t know what I want. Hey, I’m in my twenties. I’ve had a few breaks, and they’ve tipped me in a certain direction, but I’m not at all sure if this entertainment business is for me.”
In one sense, Harry was confused by Galen’s pursuit of a sense of fraternity between them; in the few months they had been classmates, his annoyance with the man had grown. This reaching out for advice seemed out of sync with what he knew of him. He wondered, suddenly and frighteningly, if too many ambitious thespians were, as he suspected of Juliet, always “on,” unable to step out of their onstage affectations.
Galen said, “You’re a lot more focused than I am. I’m twenty-two and been accused by my father of being the playboy of the western world. He’s a big-time lawyer who stops at nothing to get what he wants, and he turns the screws without any sense of conscience. I know enough about what he does to see that he’s unscrupulous, and I ask myself if I should ride his coattails to see if they take me to some kind of top-dog status for myself. Would that make me unscrupulous too? He’s promoting me to this Hollywood guy. He thinks I’m wasting my time in college. Am I? Should I leap at this chance? Do some dudes make it without solid training? I mean is it possible to fall into it?”
“I’m sure it is. Probably everyone else in our class would go crazy if they could get a part in a film, a talking part at that, and, as you describe it, the second male lead.”
“Yeah, but what if they discover I can’t act? What if I quit school, latch onto this gift my father has, like, arranged for me, and the moguls find out I’m a stumblebum, clumsy, inarticulate.”
“You’re not those things. We all can question our acting talents, but in your case, you are plenty articulate. It’s a matter of fitting the part they cast you in. Maybe you’ll be perfect for it.”
“So you’re saying I should go for it.”
“I’m not telling you what to do. I can just tell you what I see.”
“My father is squeezing the writer of the script. Has something on him, I think. That’s how he expects to get me the role.”
He hesitated, trying to read Harry, though his reading skills for other people’s emotions were underdeveloped; part of what made him a poor drama student.
“Juliet thinks I’m lousy as an actor.”
“How do you know?”
“She frowns every time I read something or try to take on a role.”
“She’s been frowning a lot lately. It may have nothing to do with you.”
“No, she told me one day that I ought to look for another major. Even suggested accounting, or finance.”
At that moment three other students, including Juliet, emerged from the classroom, Juliet spying the two men and ambling over.
“What is this, a high level powwow of some kind? You two are an unlikely pair of consultants.”
Galen spoke first, “He’s okay, this buddy of yours. Got a lot
of smarts.”
“We were just comparing notes about our lives,” Harry said, “if theater was an end in itself, or a means to an end.”
“What did you decide?”
“We didn’t”
“Theater is a hypnotic,” Galen said. “It seduces, sucks you in, hi-jacks your passions. Thank goodness I’m immune to all that crap.”
Harry looked at him, bemused.
“That’s a lotta bullshit,” Juliet said, not at all certain why Galen, suddenly, was waxing philosophical. It was out of character for him. Must have been something Harry had just revealed.
The wind gusts ratcheted up in intensity, coercing the Mulberry tree into cracks and groans. As the young trio of artistes exited the patio, the sky lowered and fumed, as if its bones were cracking as well. They ran for their cars before a slanting rain, the first of the season, began to soak the arid campus.
EIGHT
R eading a script and plumbing the essence of a character, Harry realized, was a lot different than reading the motives and substance of a flesh-and-blood person. These two classmates had him bewildered. Juliet was so damned enigmatic, an ideal example of a woman, awesome as an actor, but unpredictable in a relationship sense. Galen was, as his early behavior showed, a pompous ass, an incompetent actor, but in his more recent contact, vulnerable—if his performance that blustery night in the patio could be believed—with a less-than-certain comprehension of life-goals and how he might access them. His vague condemnation of his father was laid out without deep emotion, but with concern that his deviant manner was contagious.
In the three weeks since her mother’s death, Juliet did not again raise the issue of taking their kiss to the next level. What in hell was that all about? An actual pain in his groin throbbed whenever he thought about a sexual adventure with her, but after a time, when it never came about, the intensity waned. He was left with confusion and a pesky discomfort when he was around her.
Famous Page 3
