Maggie Terry

by Sarah Schulman

  No, Maggie reasoned. This was not the place. It was too social. Jamie would want something quiet, anonymous, and manageable. She would seek out a bar where she could watch TV without being bothered. Where she could be alone in public with her suffering. She would go out to be alone.

  Maggie stepped onto the curb again, looked back up and down the block.

  There it was.

  Right next to the tailor’s. So beaten down and out of sorts that the window wasn’t even illuminated. It was hidden, wounded and endangered. Like Jamie.

  Maggie walked over, confidently. There was no life, no activity. Only when her face was up to the door did she notice its name, The Keg, painted on the glass. When she pulled open the heavy door, she was hit with a blast of stale air. She walked into silence. The place was a crypt, a hole for the spiritually dead. It smelled of mold. The lights were low. The TV was on, tuned to a bad station. It was so sad, she could hardly breathe. Every dream and plan that had been hatched in this room had come to nothing. This was a den to stay in for all four seasons. The perfect place to live a lie, the lie that encases and controls life. This is the lie that makes a person repeat and repeat the painful decision that someone else who loves her was hurting her, that she didn’t have a right to a real life. Night after night Jamie came here so that she would never have to change, so that she could hold tight to the lie that she was not really loved.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  7:00 PM

  “So, she was midtwenties, attractive but depressed, emotionally transparent, a young—”

  “You don’t have to go any further,” the bartender interrupted. “There was only one young lady who ever came in here on her own. I know exactly who you’re talking about.”

  He was an old guy who had probably been a kid in this neighborhood when it was still Yorkville and filled with Irish and Hungarians and Germans, both Nazi and Jewish. He grew up surrounded by wurst shops and marzipan and paprika. Probably his father owned the bar, or his uncle, and by now they had all drowned in beer as this man soon would. These days he was exhausted, no matter how late he slept, too tired to fix this place up or advertise or even really clean. The only nod to present day was Sam Adams on tap. Otherwise Bud, Miller, Miller Lite. His top shelf was Johnny Walker Red, Gordon’s, and a bottle of Jack Daniels. He was a shadow and night was falling.

  “She came in all the time, after work. Three or four nights a week. Talked a lot. What a nutcase, a heart-breaker—you know, charming, sweet, really. Pretty. But scratch the surface and she was out of her mind, you know what pretty girls get away with.”

  Maggie examined herself in the cloudy mirror behind the register. “A damaged beauty.”

  “You said it.” He leaned on the bar for dear life. “Vodka and cranberry. Lonely girl. Very lonely. Really needed someone to talk to. She’d come in, have a few, and get very angry.”

  “At you?”

  “No, I know how to handle them. She was pissed off because some guy was bothering her.”

  “When did you see her last?”

  “She came in and got sloshed pretty fast, ordered another vodka and cranberry—which is a kid’s drink. For people who want Kool-Aid in their alcohol.”

  “Like cosmos,” Maggie added.

  “Exactly.” The guy warmed up to Maggie because she was a drunk, after all, and bartenders need drunks like firemen need fires.

  “What did she say?”

  “She was telling me about this guy, how she finally told him off big time, let him know she was going to call the police.”

  “Did you hand her the bar phone?”

  “Not at all.” The guy smiled at himself. All the things he’d seen, all the tricks he knew, how none of them mattered anymore. “I told her to call the cops when she was sober. It would be more effective. And she smiled and said, ‘I’m an actress, don’t forget. I can play sober.’ And she started acting out a pretend phone call.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know.” He mimicked talking on an invisible phone. “She held her hands to her face like she was holding a receiver, and in this kittenish voice, ‘Officer, sir. Please put my daddy in jail.’” Then the bartender changed his demeanor. He became dead serious. “That was the first time that I realized her problems were with her father.”

  “Yeah.”

  “See, I thought all this time she was talking about her boyfriend. So I said, Your father? And she got really upset. It was a slip. She didn’t want anyone to know. She said she was going to be a big TV star someday and she couldn’t have anyone knowing that her father was a predator.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I told her the truth. That I couldn’t care less. I only watch sports anyway.” He gestured over to the silent game on the ancient TV. “But she wouldn’t let it go. She got dramatic, hysterical; she got flushed and looked like the poor kid was going to fall apart. She was overreacting like mad, which was annoying, but she was so sincere about it, it was distressing. It made you want to comfort her any way you could.”

  “Could you?”

  “Nah, it was too far gone. She made me promise, so I promised. I swore, raised my right hand and swore to God. And here I am telling you. But she’s dead, so rest her soul.”

  “Did she believe you?”

  “Not really. Even after I promised, she wouldn’t let it go. She said, ‘If anyone finds out, she will strangle me. She said so.’”

  Wait a minute.

  “She?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Jamie told you that a woman threatened to strangle her and then she got strangled and you never called the police?”

  “Look, I figured out that sooner or later they would get their asses over here.” He shrugged. “And you did.”

  “I’m not the police.”

  “So, I’m not in trouble.”

  Maggie felt bereft. “She knew she would be strangled.”

  “Things happen. Hey, you look upset.” His eyes were big red saucers of compassion. This man did not like to see others hurting. “Here, have a drink. On the house.” He poured a Sam Adams from the tap. The good stuff.

  Maggie looked at the glass of beer. She remembered Sam Adams. It was smooth and toasty. She could almost chew it but it was soft, a blanket around her cares, and sweet and cold. Like something someone’s mother was supposed to bring them in bed when they couldn’t sleep. But this balm was for adults who could never sleep because the person who brought them their milk was crazy.

  “No thanks,” she said. “I guess not.”

  “Oh, have it your way.” He took the beer for himself.

  She picked up her gift basket and started out the door, looking for another cab, wishing she had those things on her phone that made getting them so easy. She leaned back into the taxi’s soft seats and looked out as they traversed the city. Down Second Avenue, and then across Twenty-Third Street.

  In Manhattan every twenty blocks is a mile, and this stretch, from Eighty-Second to Twenty-Third had nothing to offer. Nondescript restaurants. Where was she going to move to? Did it have to be Brooklyn? It was so expensive. Maybe Queens. As soon as she and Frances started talking, Brooklyn would be the place, but if she moved there too quickly, the police might start calling. They had never tracked her down. Maybe Frances was bluffing or canceled the call. Maggie hoped so. Maybe they told Frances to go fuck herself and grow up and learn how to negotiate. That there were real crimes going on out there, like children being kept away from their mothers. That would be sweet. When should she move to Brooklyn? That was the question. Before or after Frances and she started to talk. It was inevitable, a healing. Sooner or later she would soften. Maybe someone had to die or something that put it all in perspective, but Frances had to grow up at some point. She couldn’t do the wrong thing forever. Could she?

  The big problem was Maritza, and there was no way around that. Every time someone made an intractable stand on immoral grounds, they did it because they had some cheerleader whispe
ring in their ear to “go get that bitch,” telling them that what was wrong was actually right. Without that person, Frances would be bothered by the truth. She would come around. But as long as Maritza was invested in Maggie being the one and only problem, Frances would be rigidly fixed on doing the detrimental thing.

  By the time she got home, she was in a frenzy of despair. Maggie paced back and forth, going crazy in her tiny room. The cactus, the fucking gift basket she had carried all over the city. There was hardly any space to pace. It was late. She was suffering. It was endless. It would go on forever, the injustice of the whole situation. When would it turn around?

  Her cell phone rang.

  Now what?

  What the fuck did Craig want now?

  “Hello?”

  “Maggie?”

  “Yes?”

  “Maggie, it’s Omar.”

  “Omar?”

  “I waited for your call for two hours. This time you did promise.”

  “Oh my God, Omar. I am so sorry.”

  He’s making me accountable.

  “I debated calling you,” he said. “But I know that we are both committed to being clear and reliable.”

  “Thank you so much, Omar. I really appreciate that.”

  She sat down on floor where the futon would go.

  “I am so, so sorry.”

  She started unwrapping the gift basket.

  “You were so right to phone me,” she said. “Something came up at work and I wasn’t being conscious and aware about my promises.”

  She unwrapped the cellophane, took out a papaya.

  “I want to be a person who keeps my promises.”

  She pulled out some tiny bananas.

  “Omar, I would love to keep talking for a bit now. Would that be okay?”

  “Sure, that’s okay.” He was nice.

  “Thank you.”

  She pulled out two mini pots of jam. One was sour cherry and the other was peach.

  “So, Omar. What did you do today?”

  “Well my partner Jacques and I went to Central Park this morning, just to do it. Now that we don’t drink anymore we have all this free time. Mornings and evenings. We want to fill it with experiences, like the gardens in the park in the early dawn.”

  She took out a fancy imported mustard.

  “That sounds great. Then what did you do?”

  “Well, Jacques is a nurse, so he went to the clinic. I used to be a teacher before I ruined it with my addictions, so it’s been hard. But now I have a steady job at Macy’s, which is good.”

  “He stood by you.”

  “I’m so lucky. People need a break.”

  “What kind of teacher were you, Omar?”

  “I taught Arabic language and literature at NYU. I was a grad student. I didn’t complete my work and stopped going to class. I was depressed and getting high instead of facing and dealing with my problems. My goal is for them to forgive me and allow me back into the degree program. What about you?”

  She took out a bottle of pure, organic maple syrup and one of Kirschwasser.

  “I’m a private detective and—”

  She gripped the bottle.

  “Hello? Maggie?”

  She stared.

  “Maggie? Are you there? Are you still there?”

  “I gotta go.”

  “Maggie? Maggie?”

  DAY FIVE

  SUNDAY, JULY 9, 2017

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  5:00 PM

  “The Music Box is the Broadway theater that every playwright yearns for. Small, sophisticated, welcoming, prestigious, and intimate,” said the young man clutching his Playbill outside the stage door.

  “Are you a playwright?” Maggie asked.

  “Oh, yes. But I haven’t had a production since 2007. It’s a terrible business. I write a play every year, but nothing. I keep writing them, though.”

  “Why do you keep writing if you can’t get them produced?”

  “Because,” he fluttered, somewhat ashamed and somewhat proud, “one might get produced. I just can’t risk missing that chance.”

  “I understand.”

  Then she had another question.

  “How do you deal with Trump? With the confusion and the cruelty and the lies and the disintegration of a nation that had been trying for so long to get better? How do you put that into a play?”

  “Beats me,” he said. “I like musicals.”

  An older woman clutching a Playbill butted in. “I heard today that his son Don Jr. got caught lying about a meeting with some Russians. That could be a musical.”

  “I don’t know,” the young man answered. “It doesn’t really sing.”

  The crowd had been waiting for over twenty minutes, but they didn’t seem to mind. Many of them were stage-door veterans, and some were there every single night. If the public understood how many Broadway tickets were sold to obsessed fans with repetition compulsion, they might have a different view of the Great White Way.

  Finally, the door swung open and out came the supporting cast, including the former understudy, Kat Klarke, whose career had been launched by Jamie Wagner’s murder. Like her predecessor, she knew her place and quietly walked through the ignoring crowds, invisible. Her chance to be adored, projected onto, paid, and distorted by attention lay before her. What would it be? Sod or celebrity?

  Maggie knew that when looking at the big picture of a bad situation it always made sense to evaluate who had the most to gain from any crime. In this case, there was only one person’s life that would be materially enhanced by Jamie Wagner’s death. And that was her understudy. Instead of rotting backstage, had Jamie lived, Kat Klarke was now seen every night by everyone who came to see Lucy Horne. And that is what actors want to be, isn’t it? Seen?

  But the second important consideration when trying to solve a crime is to understand that people also do things that don’t benefit them. In that immediate moment, perhaps, there might be a catharsis, but the sad fact was that most serious crime is committed by people who don’t really think ahead.

  The crowd parted to facilitate Kat’s disappearance and went back to waiting for the object of their devotion. Finally, the stage door opened again, but this time the throng stood on their toes, they were so elevated by the in-person experiences that theater provided. It was the special evidence that they were alive, in front of each other, at the same time, together. This understanding was enough to have brought so many of them to New York in the first place—whether for the evening, the week, or the rest of their lives.

  Then Lucy Horne swept out. The crowd sighed. She smiled, fully aware of the cameras but never pandering to them. She signed five programs, flirted and withheld. She basked, she was loved, she gave and connected and looked into the eyes of people who had never been noticed before. She reached out and touched and she performed generosity, compassion, empathy.

  “Louisa,” the plainclothes officer called out.

  She looked up.

  We have her, thought Maggie.

  It was inadvertent, wasn’t it. The response. If she had been at all suspecting, the word Louisa would have had no meaning, but it had very much meaning because it represented everything about herself that she hated and wanted hidden. This was the name her mother had called her, and her horrible father, on the boat when they had come over as children. Little pitiful refugees, both of them born in the rubble of occupied Berlin, in a displaced person’s camp. Who knows what her father did during the war? It could have been anything. He was a sadist. And Louisa was what her very sick brother called her, until she’d beat it out of him—Lucy, Lucy, Lucy.

  And why in the hell did she ever give that girl a chance? It was Stefan, threatening and begging, following her, sending letters to every location. Help Jamie; Help Jamie. The girl was talented, and in a moment of fatigue and weakness, she said yes, she could audition. And then the director liked her, and she was fine, and only once the show opened did Lucy come to understand what a t
ime bomb she had on her hands. That this girl was sick. And she couldn’t keep anything to herself, and she spilled that Stefan, that they talked about inappropriate things, to a degree that was . . . scandalous. It was illegal! It was something that Disney would never understand. No one would understand. And then that stupid girl fell in love with of all things . . . a writer. And writers write what they see—Lucy learned that the hard way—especially when treated unfairly. And any fool could tell he was good for her, that writer, he loved her. And Jamie’s life had a chance, but she couldn’t bear the authenticity, she started acting out against him, and Lucy knew where this was going, that he would end up writing about her sick brother and the sick girl, and Jamie swore she hadn’t told him they were related, the same sick family. But then she started threatening that she would tell him . . . what did she call it . . . the truth. That she had to, if they were ever going to build a life, the fool, that she would take down the entire existence of the great Lucy Horne, her whole past and her whole future, and she was unstable this girl, and if Jamie ever let her boyfriend know that her sick, criminal father, and Lucy were brother and sister the writer would tell. He would tell the truth. She knew Jamie would make him crazy, and he would try to understand, that even if it took years, he would grapple with it and grapple with it, and finally, one day, just to have some peace from all her accusations and craziness and blame, one day the writer would tell.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  8:00 PM

  Maggie took the R train to Seventy-Seventh Street in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, and walked down Third Avenue. It felt like New York, if New York was a small town. An old-fashioned soda fountain that wasn’t vintage, but just actually still there. Some bars. An ancient dance academy that taught flamenco. Turkish food, Palestinian food, lots of dates and basmati rice. Down the side streets, Arab and Latino families were out playing cards in the heat, each one with a front yard and some had old porches. How long would it be able to stay this way?