Southern Cross

by Stephen Greenleaf

  Loneliness.

  I don’t know anyone who isn’t lonely. Charley Sleet, my cop friend, has been lonely in every hour of his life since his wife died ten years ago; ditto Ruthie Spring, the detective, since her husband Harry was found murdered out in the valley. Clay Oerter, my stockbroker buddy, has a wife and two kids, but he seems eager nonetheless, and on occasion even desperate, to join our poker group on Friday nights and urges us to convene on Sunday afternoons as well. My former girlfriend, Betty Fontaine, is both pregnant and newly married, but she calls me twice a month at midnight to talk about Barbara Kingsolver or Jane Campion or Hillary Clinton or whatever else is on her mind because her husband doesn’t read novels or like movies or find humor in the nation’s madcap political machinery. Before he was killed, my friend Tom Crandall read history at Guido’s bar six nights a week while his wife did her turn as a big band chanteuse so he could keep loneliness from fostering an addiction to TV.

  And me. Whenever I stop to think about it, I conclude that loneliness is to blame for most of my afflictions. I eat out a lot, because a waitress at Zorba’s is often the only being I converse with in the course of a day, and as a result I’m twenty pounds overweight. I end far too many evenings at Guido’s, because the chilly cheerlessness of my apartment is a destination I increasingly defer, and as a result I spend too many mornings sparring with a hangover. I date too many women who neither interest nor excite me while allowing them to believe otherwise, just to have something to do and someone to touch. As a result, I cause too much pain to too many good people.

  Paradoxically, I’m often loneliest when I’m with someone: a colleague who reminds me how much I miss Harry Spring; a woman who reminds me how much I miss Peggy, my former secretary; a new client who reminds me how many former clients are long dead. I shed a tear for them, sometimes, the real people who are no longer around and the fantasy people who have never been other than yearned for, and on such occasions I’m overcome by the thought that my life is as empty as space and has brought me little I treasure. I think such things, then hurry to employ an antidote. Luckily, one was close at hand.

  It was Thursday night. My shoes were off and my feet were up and I had a bag of Oreos and a bottle of Ballantine’s within arm’s reach, all in prelude to a ninety-minute lifting of the load, courtesy of NBC. Eighteen minutes later, as I was imagining what an affair with a woman like Helen Hunt could do for my state of mind, I realized I’d omitted an essential element of my preparations—I’d forgotten to turn off the phone.

  I could have ignored it, of course, but that’s a pledge I made when I first took up detecting—when the phone rings, I answer it. So I pressed a button to silence the set, then picked up the receiver and uttered my name with such peevishness as the intrusion warranted.

  “Marsh?”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Peggy.”

  The name alone was enough to erase all thought of cookies or booze or even Helen Hunt. It was, to synthesize a bit, the voice I had hoped to hear every time I’d answered the phone over the past six years.

  “Peggy?” I repeated dumbly. “Peggy Nettleton?”

  Her laugh was quick and constricted. “You remember. I was afraid maybe you wouldn’t.”

  “No, you weren’t.”

  “Well, I was afraid you’d hang up. And I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”

  I considered it for a nanosecond. “Then I’d wonder why you called and it would be another six years before I got an answer.”

  “Yes, well, I’m sorry for that. And for everything else, as far as that goes.” Her tone tried to make it as light as a Thursday sitcom, a one-size-fits-all apology, but beneath the banter was a ledge of purpose and a plea for understanding.

  “There’s no need to apologize,” I said, even though I didn’t mean it. Even though I meant an apology wasn’t nearly an adequate eraser.

  “Yes there is. There was no reason for me to stay out of touch for so long. I should have done this years ago.”

  “Well, I’m glad you did it now.”

  “So am I. You sound good, Marsh.”

  I put the phone in the other hand and sneaked a sip of Ballantine’s. “Thanks. So do you.”

  It wasn’t true, quite. She sounded pressed and edgy and uncertain of her objectives, much the way she had sounded when she was under the spell of the predator in the office down the hall from mine, the man who had turned her life inside out and made everything she did and was seem seamy.

  I struggled to mount a strategy that would both prolong the conversation and intensify it. “Where are you? Here in the city?”

  “No. I’m home.”

  “Where’s home?”

  “Seattle.” She paused. “I thought you knew.”

  “I don’t know anything. I haven’t known a single thing about you since the day you left town.”

  “How odd. I just assumed you’ve been out of touch on purpose.”

  “I was out of touch because there was no other place to be.”

  She paused again. “I’m sorry. I assumed Ruthie told you where I—”

  Sweat traveled my brow like a spider. “Ruthie Spring knows where you are?”

  “Yes.”

  “For how long?”

  “I don’t … several years. I called her to … She didn’t tell you, I take it.”

  “No. She didn’t.”

  Peggy chuckled with a bitter curl. “Well, I’m sure she had her reasons. Figured it was for your own good, I expect. And who knows? Maybe it was.”

  “She didn’t have the right to make that decision.”

  Her ire leached toward compassion. “Don’t be hard on her, Marsh. She loves you like a mother and a sister and a lover all in one. It would crush her if you got mad at her.”

  I didn’t say anything because I couldn’t think of anything except the thousand nights I’d sat brooding in a dark apartment, wondering where Peggy was, wondering if she regretted leaving me, wondering if she would ever ask to reenter my life and what I would do if she did, wondering why I still seemed to be in love with her even after so many vacant years.

  “This must be quite a shock to you, then, me calling out of the blue like this,” Peggy was saying with forced levity. “Do you want me to hang up and try again later?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Good.”

  The ensuing silence was both comforting and terrifying. Comforting because she had returned to me in one sense; terrifying because it wasn’t anything like I had dreamed it would be.

  “I take it you’re not calling to get your old job back,” I said with as much savoir faire as I could muster. All of a sudden it seemed important to define our terms and keep most of my emotions out of earshot.

  “Sorry, I’m not in the job market at the moment. I’ve got a pretty good one, as a matter of fact.”

  “Doing what?”

  “I’m the executive assistant to the Dean of Students at the law school.”

  “What law school?”

  “University of Washington.”

  “Do you like your work?”

  “Most of the time. The dean is nice and he delegates a lot of responsibility so I feel like I’m contributing. The building is a nightmare, but you can’t have everything, I guess.”

  “That’s certainly been my experience.”

  Peggy forced a laugh that sounded like the one that had issued from the woman I’d hired some fifteen years before when I’d made a similarly inane observation in response to a question about the ethical predelictions of my clientele.

  “So how’s Seattle?” I asked lamely, now that the stakes were less immediate, now that a major portion of my hopes seemed doomed to lapse unnourished.

  “Seattle’s nice. It reminds me of San Francisco in the seventies—lots of music; lots of coffeehouse philosophizing; lots of smirky talk about the quality of life. And lots of traffic,” she added with a burst of balance.

  “So you’re staying put.”

  �
��For now, at least. How about you? Still in the same apartment?”

  “Yep.”

  “Same office?”

  “Yep.”

  “Still eating Oreos for dinner?”

  I glanced to my left. “Yep.”

  “You’ve got some right beside you, am I right?”

  “Yep.”

  “You need a personal chef, you know that? I’ll bet your cholesterol count is a thousand.”

  “Two-fifteen, as a matter of fact.”

  “At least you got it checked. Congratulations. Is Charley still working eighteen-hour shifts?”

  “On his light days.”

  “Are Ruthie and Caldwell still happy?”

  “Except when Ruthie quits drinking.”

  “So not much has changed is what you’re telling me.”

  “Not for the better, at least. How about with you?”

  She countered my question with a question. “Are you getting gray yet, Marsh? I am.”

  “I’m speckled on top but my beard would be white if I let it sprout.”

  “Maybe you should. You’d look formidable in a beard.”

  “I think you mean venerable.”

  Peggy laughed and then fell silent, as though she’d breached some sort of promise to herself. I didn’t want the conversation to end, but I didn’t want her to know how disappointed I was, either. She was keeping us at arm’s length, when what I wanted was a warm embrace.

  It was a while before she spoke. When she did, her voice dropped to a cautious buzz. “The reason I called is, I think I need your help.”

  “What kind of help?”

  “The kind you get paid for.”

  My stomach knotted and my tongue thickened. “What’s wrong? Are you all right? What’s happened?”

  “I’m fine,” she assured me quickly. “And it’s not me who needs the help, actually, it’s someone close to me. I’m not sure you can improve the situation, but I didn’t know what else to do so I thought … anyway, I was hoping maybe you could come up here, so we could talk about it.”

  “When?”

  “As soon as you can. There’s no rush, I don’t think; another week or two won’t matter. Probably.”

  “You sound upset.”

  “I am upset.”

  “Then maybe we should discuss it now. It’s cheaper than a plane ticket if I decide there’s nothing I can—”

  “But I’d like to see you, regardless. I’d like us to have time to catch up. I’ve missed you, Marsh; I really have.”

  “I’ve missed you, too.”

  Soaring on lust and implication, my mind took a tour of my calendar. “I could fly up the end of next week, I think. I’ll have to double-check at the office, but I think that’s clear for me.”

  “That would be great.”

  “Is there a hotel that’s convenient?” I asked, expecting she would ask me to stay with her.

  “There’s a bed-and-breakfast that—”

  “No bed-and-breakfast.”

  “Oh. Right. Well, there’s a motel not too far away. It’s centrally located, but I don’t know how plush it is.”

  “I don’t do plush. Book me for a week from Sunday.”

  “Great.”

  I mustered some good cheer. “This will be fun. I’ve never been to Seattle before.”

  “I’ll be interested to hear what you think. After we go over our business, I’ll give you the grand tour.”

  “Great.”

  “And Marsh?” Her voice dropped an octave and doubled in density.

  “What?”

  “There’s something you need to know before you get here.”

  My stomach churned again and the phone became hot and wet and evil. “What’s that?”

  She waited so long I thought she’d forgotten the point. “I don’t know how to … oh hell, I might as well just say it. I’m getting married.”

  “What?”

  “I’m getting married. In three weeks if our plans work out. To a man named Ted.”

  I should have expected it, of course, should have steeled myself appropriately, should have accepted the fact that my time with Peggy had fallen into history and that it didn’t matter what she was doing now or who she was doing it with. But I hadn’t done any of those things because I couldn’t.

  I grasped for a word and a posture. “Congratulations.”

  “Thank you. He’s a great guy.”

  “Good. Great. I’m happy for you.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “I … it’s relevant, sort of, me getting married, I mean. Because of the person in trouble.”

  “Why? What about him?”

  “Her. She’s my stepdaughter. Or will be. Ted’s daughter by a former marriage.”

  “What kind of trouble is she in?”

  “I’m not sure. That’s one of the things I want you to find out.” She paused. “Does my engagement change things, Marsh? Be honest. You can back out, if you want. You certainly have no obligation to me; I just thought you’d understand more than anyone why I need to help Ted with whatever he … but if you don’t want to get involved, I’ll certainly—”

  “It’s not that. I just … it will be hard seeing you with another man, Peggy.”

  “I know it will be. But you won’t actually be seeing us, I don’t think.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t want Ted to know you’re here.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he wouldn’t want me getting involved in this. He thinks he can handle it himself. But he’s a simple man, he’s lived a charmed life, he doesn’t have a clue to what’s out there, to what kind of trouble Nina might … This is difficult over the phone,” Peggy concluded lamely.

  She wanted me to say something supportive but I didn’t trust myself to try it.

  “Will you let me know by Wednesday?” she asked. “If you’re coming up?”

  “Sure.”

  She gave me her number at the office. “I’ll understand if you don’t want to get involved. I really will. Well, I guess I should go. You’re probably off to Guido’s, or something.”

  “Not tonight.”

  She inhaled sharply. “I hope you don’t have company. I didn’t think to ask, I just assumed—”

  “It’s not a problem.” I’d never wanted a woman at my side more avidly in my life, not even when I was in the Army and the nearest woman was a prostitute.

  “Well, anyway, it’s been great talking to you, Marsh.”

  “You, too, Peggy.”

  “I always loved the sound of your voice, you know. It’s very comforting. I don’t know if I ever mentioned it.”

  “No, I don’t think you ever did.”

  CHAPTER 2

  “More chin. That’s right. Raise the arm. More. Good. Now the leg. I want the tit—”

  “I told you not to—”

  “Okay, okay—breast I want the breast to brush the thigh. Just touch; no compression. Good. Now lean back. Back farther. Rotate the shoulder toward me. Leg up. Right leg, idiot. Sorry, sorry. Good. Now scrunch together. Make yourself as small as you can—a popcorn ball. Right. Smaller. Smaller. Good. Take five.

  “Want some weed?” he asks casually as he adjusts the barn doors on a flood then tilts a reflecting screen to provide for more backlight.

  “Not after last time, I don’t.”

  He shrugs. “Whatever.”

  That he doesn’t reprise his apology, or offer another reassurance, infuriates her. “Speaking of which, where are they?” she demands.

  “What?”

  “You know what—the negatives.”

  “You don’t trust me. Is that it?”

  “Bingo.”

  “Come on, Nina. It wasn’t that bad.”

  “The. Fuck. It. Wasn’t.”

  “Hey. No one locked the door. No one held a gun to your head.”

  “I wa
s doped and drunk; I could barely sit up. Not that it was a requirement.”

  “You make it sound pornographic.”

  “It was pornographic.”

  “You’ve been reading that MacKinnon bitch again. She’d say Mapplethorpe was pornographic.”

  “So you’re equating yourself with him now. Last week it was Weston. Time before that it was Friedlander. Next I suppose you’ll be Diane Arbus and I’ll have to put a lampshade on my head and a cigar in my ear.”

  “We’re photographers, Nina. We make statements with our work. It’s what we do.”

  “What statement was it when I was crawling around on all fours with my ass in the breeze and my nose in the rug?”

  “I’m trying to say something about censorship. About the untenable line between art and obscenity.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re not trying hard enough.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means you’re not saying anything that hasn’t been said a hundred times before. I get the negatives or I’m out of here, Gary. I mean it.”

  He shrugs and yields. “They’re in my bag. You’ll get them when we finish.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise. But you’re wrong about the session. The images are intense. They leap off that paper like you’re in a third dimension. It’s all there, babe, the whole eroto-fascist trip: the circle jerk of sex and power.”

  She closes her eyes and sighs. This isn’t the way it was supposed to be. They were supposed to make art together, probe deep into the miracle of flesh and form, but all of a sudden he seems to be going for shock and schlock, playing to the press and the perverts, pressing her toward the slime instead of letting her soar free of small minds and base urges, making her ever dirtier instead of helping her to cleanse herself.