Line of Vision

by David Ellis

  “You should’ve finished law school.”

  I grimace. The last thing I’d ever do now. “So then I knew that this caller was part of something with Rachel. I mean, of course, wearing the blinders like I did, I still didn’t make out Rachel for being evil. But I had a pretty good idea that this caller had something going with Rachel. So I hired an investigator, he followed Rachel, and he got them on video.”

  “So that was you who sent the tapes.”

  “Sure.”

  “One more question,” says Jerry. “Something that doesn’t fit.”

  “Okay.”

  “Why does Rachel let you talk to her psychiatrist? I mean, at that point, the abuse doesn’t help her. There’s no self-defense argument. She’s better off denying the whole thing, or at least not making a point of confirming it.”

  “Yeah, I thought about that,” I say. “I think what it comes down to is this—if there was one thing that Rachel had to be sure of, it was that I was under control. She probably considered the possibility that I could’ve caught on to Rudy. I don’t know. The shrink confirmed the abuse for me, in case I had started to doubt it. I mean, who lies to a shrink, right? I think she was just making sure that my strings were pulled tight. That, no matter what else I might suspect, I would always have sympathy for her.”

  “I need a beer.” Jerry heads for the kitchen. I do a slow exhale. This is actually therapeutic, spilling it all to Jerry. I stretch out my legs, let out a soft groan.

  “Here’s what I think.” Jerry has a beer for me, too, and he taps my bottle in a toast. “I think my friend Marty Kalish wasn’t nearly so dumb and blinded by love as he makes himself out to be. I mean, sure, like you said—you repeatedly cut her slack while she was turning the screws on you. Definitely, that’s pathetic.” He smiles, then points at me. “But all the while, as you’re rolling along to trial, thinking the best of Rachel, blaming yourself, you’re getting ready for payback if necessary. You’re making videos, planting evidence in Rudy’s house, making all those phone calls to Rachel from Rudy’s home and work. My guess is, you didn’t plan on using that stuff unless Rachel pulled the trigger on you. But she did, and you were more than ready to respond.” He takes a swig. “So give yourself some credit.”

  I raise my bottle. “Flashes of potential, what can I say.”

  Jerry shakes his head, a mouthful of beer delaying his response. “What I’m saying is, beat yourself up all you want for having a blind spot, but you had one foot on the ground the whole time.”

  I smile at my friend. This sounds more like a parting message, a keep-your-chin-up pep talk. My eyes fill; instinctively, I look away, but I want to say this to his face. “You were the only one, you know. You never left my side.”

  Jerry shrugs it off, typically him. I don’t know if we’ll ever see each other again. If we do, it will be on his visit. After tonight, after one more good-bye, this city has seen the last of Marty Kalish.

  82

  HIS WIFE HAD A SHOWING AT HER ART GALLERY every Thursday night, didn’t get home till midnight. That’s what the police report, the neighborhood canvass I peeked at during the visit to Paul’s law firm, said about Mrs. Sprovieri. And Dr. Reinardt performed surgery every Thursday night. A perfect arrangement for Rudy and Rachel. Both spouses gone. Let the show begin.

  I am standing in Rudy’s bedroom, where Rudy used to stand, looking through binoculars like he used to, at the same house he used to watch. Every Thursday night. Ten o’clock.

  There she is, through the darkness, the line of vision that Rudy and I shared. Maybe it was love; I’m not sure I’ll ever understand that word. It was more like a promise, hope, the dream of something so disarming, so consuming, so addictive that it took complete control of me.

  I can’t really speak for Rudy. Maybe he didn’t feel it. Maybe it was just an affair, just sex with a gorgeous woman. I prefer to think otherwise. Maybe it’s easier for me to believe that Rudy was as taken as I.

  Oh, the laugh the two of them must have had when they realized I was standing outside Rachel’s house, that I was watching, too. Does that make me a voyeur twice over, peeping on someone else’s Peeping Tom show? I know one thing it made me—a pawn in their plan. They had me on remote control, as long as they pulled their caper on a Thursday evening.

  It was August of last year when I decided to pay her a Thursday night house call. I knew the doc wasn’t around, working late and all, and I thought maybe-just-maybe she’d be up for a visit. We had been together a few times at that point; I still wasn’t sure how Rachel viewed things between us.

  I didn’t drive. I walked a walk that became a ritual, through the woods into her backyard. I stood out there in the backyard for about an hour and a half, the old insecurities rising to the surface, mustering up the courage to knock on the door, cursing myself for my pathetic state. Telling myself to turn back, move on, but knowing in my heart that I wouldn’t.

  Then the curtain slid open.

  I figured she saw me out there, all wishy-washy, and decided to give me a reason to smile. What else was I supposed to think? I didn’t know there was another guy, a block away, with binoculars. Oh, well. It’s not the worst I’ve been humiliated.

  The room, like every other in the Sprovieri house now, looks different from any time I’ve been here. Boxes scattered, most shelves empty now, some even gone, leaving the brackets jutting nakedly from the wall. Rudy’s wife is selling the house and moving; until then, she is living downstate with her mother. What Rudy will do now—what Rachel will do, for that matter—is anyone’s guess but mine. I won’t waste the energy.

  I raise the binoculars again. She is upstairs, walking around in a white undershirt and sweatpants cut off at the knee. Her hair is up in a ponytail, something I’ve never seen on her before. It suits her. She walks into the master bedroom and flicks on the light. First she pulls down on the sweats, wiggling out of them. I feel the adrenaline, that familiar rush. Then the underwear. She reaches her arms behind her back and pulls the T-shirt over her head, facing me, naked. For a moment, just one deluded moment, I think she will start swaying side to side, will move her hands along her body, will even whisper to me.

  Are you ready, Mr. Kalish?

  I think maybe I am.

  Now she is applying some lotion to her face. She pauses and looks into the mirror, her hand dangling in the air, her long neck craning forward. What she sees in her reflection, I don’t know. I guess I never did.

  What was it? What was it that drove them? What made her not only want to cheat, but kill her husband? What made my mother stray from Dad, from Jamie and me? I always blamed it on sex. Stupid me, never a fulfilling relationship in my life, I thought sex was the poison in the drink. I never allowed for any other factors—trust, security, friendship, intimacy, communication, shared experiences, unconditional commitment.

  Oh, why didn’t I give you the chance to explain? I could have forgiven you. How could an ignorant eight-year-old, a naïve teenager, understand what was happening between you and Dad? I’ll never know the answers. I have to live with that. Jamie will never know the questions—she will remember her mother as she always has. I will try to see her through Jamie’s eyes, too.

  I gather my jacket and head for the door. It’s time for me to go.

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