Mortal Friends

by Jane Stanton Hitchcock

  Poor Violet was always so vested in maintaining that she had an idyllic life. But now her so-called perfect marriage was over. Just goes to show you never really know how flimsy something is until you watch it fall apart.

  Chapter 22

  It took about a nanosecond for people to find out that Grant had left Violet for Cynthia. In Washington, communication between federal agencies may be like pulling teeth, but the gossip mill sure knows how to share information. Besides, it was the kind of story that offers welcome relief from political news and reminds us where so much of politics actually comes from—namely, the trials and wreckage of the human heart.

  When Violet got back from seeing Tee, she was more depressed than ever.

  “Tee says he hates the both of us,” she told me. “He doesn’t even want to come home on vacation. He wants to go to his friend Daniel’s house in Maine.”

  “He’ll get over it,” I assured her. “He’s a teenager.”

  “Yeah, just like his father,” she said sourly.

  Violet had a fairly complicated relationship with her son. While she had doted on him and catered to him when he was little, once he grew up and developed a personality of his own—in other words, started talking back to her—things changed. She grew distant from him, as if she were afraid of him. Even though I knew she loved him fiercely, they didn’t seem able to connect. She referred to him jokingly as her “little serpent’s tooth.” But kids have a way of seeing through jokes like that—not to mention adults. It was odd, but I always got the feeling that Violet was on stage with Tee, never quite herself for some reason.

  As far as Washington society went, Violet put on a brave face and tried to act as if the whole thing would blow over. However, this proved difficult. Though people generally agreed that Grant was behaving abominably, many were afraid to take Violet’s side for fear of alienating Washington’s newest power couple. Invitations dried up, and she was left to wallow in the shame of a very public humiliation.

  Aside from Tee, the hardest thing for Violet to deal with was the reaction of Grant’s parents. Violet told me that Rainy Bolton had called her to say how sorry she was. Violet was touched by her mother-in-law’s concern, and they apparently had a good talk. However, a few days later, she heard from Maureen, who heard it from Winston, the senior Boltons’ butler, that Grant had brought Cynthia over to his parents’ house for dinner.

  “Can you believe they actually fed that bitch?” Violet moaned to me. “So much for family loyalty!”

  It didn’t come as any great surprise to me that the Boltons sided with their son. As Violet had surmised, Rainy was secretly thrilled Grant was going out with Washington’s new philanthropic star. Rainy was a stealth starfucker, if ever there was one. While she pretended to shun the spotlight, she never missed an opportunity to step into it when she could, or at least catch its ambient light.

  Meanwhile, I had my own romantic problems. I hadn’t heard from Bob in over two weeks. Two whole weeks. Not one word. He’d beat a hasty retreat after a constant siege. The abruptness of his silence was jarring, to say the least. Every time the phone rang, I went on alert, hoping it was him, or even the officious Felicity, calling to arrange a date. But it never was. Still, I had faith. I wore the bracelet he gave me every day, refusing to believe I wouldn’t hear from him eventually.

  Rosina was sanguine about the whole situation. She’d never cared for Bob to begin with. Now that he wasn’t calling, she voiced her dislike of him more frequently and forcefully than ever, preparing me for the worst.

  I confess that I broke down and called him once. Well, maybe more than once. Maybe a few times. But his cell phone always went to voice mail, and I hung up quickly—except for one time. I left this message that was meant to sound breezy and spur-of-the-moment, but which I’d actually rehearsed for a good half hour before I made the call. I don’t know why I bothered, or what I hoped to achieve. Ever since one of my old admirers tracked me down to the roulette table in the Katmandu Casino in Nepal on New Year’s Eve years ago, I’ve known that when a guy really wants to get in touch with you, he will.

  I found a card at Just Paper and Tea, my favorite stationery store on P Street. It had a picture of the Lone Ranger on it. Inside, I wrote, “Who was that masked man?” and mailed it to Bob. I didn’t tell Rosina any of this. I couldn’t stand the fact that she might have been right when she observed that he was too ardent to begin with. Nor did I tell her that I’d driven by his house a number of times. I figured he’d gone away somewhere, because the Rolls wasn’t in the driveway. The Rolls was never there unless Bob was, because Maxwell garaged it near his own house in Rockville so he could look after it.

  Rosina told me the only thing she would regret if we broke up for good was that she would never get to ride in that car.

  I saw Gunner once during that period, ostensibly to tell him what had happened with me and Violet. I told him all about Violet’s and my little plan: Operation Mary Lou Lindsay. I said, “Let’s face it, life is high school with wrinkles.”

  I asked him if he could check out Cynthia for us. He kind of laughed without responding. I couldn’t tell if he thought my request was ridiculous or out of line or what. It was very hard to tell what Gunner was thinking.

  I asked him how his case was going, but he was evasive, as usual. He was more interested to know if I’d heard from Bob yet.

  “He’s probably still away,” I said. “I’m not worried.” I held up the bracelet and jingled it in front of him.

  The truth is, I was very worried, and quite embarrassed over Bob’s radio silence. However, I wasn’t going to admit that to Gunner. Nor was I going to tell him that I’d called Bob, driven by his house, and even staked out his office a couple of times. I didn’t want Gunner to think I was a stalker—which I kind of was.

  One night, when I was feeling low and sorry for myself, I took a look at the book Gunner had given me, The Book of Five Rings. Gunner had written his name inside the front cover: G. A. Gunner. When I saw this, I realized I didn’t even know his first name. I read the translator’s preface, which described the book as a military manual that applied Zen principles to the martial arts. More correctly entitled The Book of Five Spheres, it was written in 1643 by a disenfranchised samurai named Miyamoto Musashi, a legendary figure about whom very little was actually known except what he wrote about himself in the book. The translator pointed out that a samurai with no master like Musashi had to become his own protector, forced to live by his wits and his skill as a swordsman. In essence, the book was a testament to the power of the individual against a hostile world.

  The pages were well thumbed. Gunner had highlighted several passages throughout the text in orange: “Understand the harm and the benefit in everything”; “Learn to see everything accurately”; “Become aware of what is not obvious”; “Be careful in small matters”; “Do not do anything useless.”

  One little section he’d marked rang a bell with me: “Let there be neither insufficiency nor excess in your mind. Even if superficially weakhearted, be inwardly stronghearted, and do not let others see into your mind.”

  I took this to heart, since my mind was always careening between “insufficiency” and “excess,” and because I rarely had an unspoken thought.

  After I’d read the book, Gunner struck me more like a warrior on a quest than just another detective doing his job. He seemed to be following the principles of a higher order. He clearly felt some deep affinity with the book’s seventeenth-century author. He had underlined the part where Musashi states he killed a man in a duel at the tender age of thirteen and written the words, “Redemption through action.” I wondered if Gunner had ever killed anyone.

  I hadn’t heard from Bob in exactly eighteen days when Marge Horner came into the shop. She never came into the shop, except if someone dragged her in after lunch. But if she wanted to enrich my coffers, who was I to argue? Marge’s day look was a tweed suit that looked like a horse blanket, a jangly charm bracelet, and
pair of ingot-sized gold earrings. I was polite to her—well, civil. She walked around picking up small items—boxes, candles, books, that kind of thing. She surreptitiously glanced at the price tags. If something cost more than twenty-five bucks, she immediately put it down like it was burning her hand.

  “Looking for something special?” I finally asked her.

  “A wedding present,” she said with a curt smile.

  I inquired how much she wanted to spend. She said she’d like to keep it under fifty dollars. I told her that was a little tough, but she could get a really nice scented candle in a pretty china cup for fifty-five.

  “No candles. I’d like to get something a little more personal.”

  I asked very innocently who the gift was for, thinking that if I knew them or knew something about them, I could help her better.

  “Oh, it’s for Bob and Melody,” she said casually, as if I already knew it.

  “Bob and Melody?” I heard myself repeating. I say “heard myself,” because right then I felt like I was in an echo chamber in some alternate universe.

  “Yes, isn’t it amazing? After all this time? They just snuck off to Virginia and tied the knot. So romantic—eloping at their age. I just found out about it last night because they’re giving a big reception at the Hay Adams. I think I need to get them just a little something, don’t you? Nothing too lavish if there was no formal wedding. You agree?”

  I nodded like an automaton. No wonder I hadn’t heard from Bob. That son of a bitch was married? To Melody? It didn’t seem possible.

  I stared at Marge as she jabbered on about Bob and Melody’s on-again, off-again courtship and its “thrillingly happy ending.” Out of all the antique joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine? Fat fucking chance. She knew exactly what she was doing coming in here, hoping to be the first to bring me these tidings of discomfort and joylessness. I kept my cool, I’m happy to say—in part because I was able to recall Samurai Musashi’s sage advice: Be inwardly stronghearted, and do not let others see into your mind.

  I advised Marge that I thought the newlyweds would just love a book on Victorian houses, knowing full well how much Bob loathed anything cluttered and old-fashioned. Marge was hesitant. She’d obviously seen his modern, minimalist abode. When I insisted it was the right choice, she said a pointed, “Well, of course, you would know.”

  God, I hated that woman.

  Rosina watched us the whole time, no doubt waiting for me to crash into the guardrail. But I just cruised around the shop, slow and steady, wrapping the book, ringing up the sale, telling Marge, “Have a nice day!”—a loathsome, overworked catchphrase I only use with people I really detest.

  The second Marge was out the door, I ran upstairs to my office, fighting the urge to cry. I stood staring out the window with my arms crossed, looking back on my relationship with Bob like it was a movie I’d seen rather than something I’d lived through. I was more stunned than upset. The shock of it was just beginning to sink in.

  Rosina knocked softly on the open door and entered.

  “Can you believe he did this to me?” I asked, turning to face her.

  “Definitely,” she replied.

  “I knew you’d say that.”

  “You want the truth now, or you wanna wait until you feel better?” she said.

  “Might as well hit me with it now. I’m down, and I’m not getting up again.”

  “Okay. Since I’ve been working here, you’ve had a few boyfriends, right?”

  “Right.”

  “And they were all different, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Wrong,” she said firmly.

  I hated it when Rosina played these little games, but I was too upset to challenge her.

  “Go on.” I sank down on the chair behind my desk.

  Rosina sat on the couch, arranging her wide red ruffled skirt around her so it looked like she was sitting in the middle of a giant rose. That skirt reminded me of the bushels of garish red roses Bob had sent me in the early days.

  “All your boyfriends?” she began. “They look different, but they are all the same. I knew when I met Mr. Poll that he was just another one of them. More smooth, more sophisticated, but he is just like the others.”

  “In what way?” I asked wearily.

  “Because I can see he likes himself more than he likes you.”

  “How could you see that?”

  “First, because everything is so crazy and in a rush. All the flowers and the notes and the phone calls. They are not about you. They are about him and about how much he can impress you. A man who tells you he cannot live without you on the first date is already thinking about his freedom.”

  “I loved him.”

  “You didn’t even know him.”

  “I did so!” I protested.

  “No! What he has done now—going off and getting married without telling you—that is who he really is. Because that is an action. The rest is just a long date. You loved the idea of him, Reven. You loved the attention more than the man. I can see it when you are going out with him. There is no time for you to think about who he really is, or for him to think about who you really are. You saw each other a lot. But did you ever know each other? I don’t think so. You were both acting in a play. And now the play is over.”

  “He told me he loved me. He gave me this bracelet, didn’t he?” I said, raising my wrist.

  “You don’t even like that bracelet. I don’t know why you wear it.”

  “Yeah, well, now I hate it.” I took it off and offered it to her. “Want it?”

  “No, it’s ugly.”

  I flung it across my desk, where it disappeared into the clutter.

  “You wanna know when you really fell in love with Bob Poll?” Rosina asked.

  “When?”

  “When he stopped calling you.”

  She had a point. Rejection has often made my heart grow fonder. But I still had to defend myself.

  “Look, Bob Poll went on a campaign to make me fall in love with him. You saw it. Maybe he was only doing it to make Melody jealous. Maybe he thought he loved me, then realized he couldn’t live without her. But whatever the reason, he succeeded.”

  “No, he didn’t. You are not in love with him.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I know. I think you are more upset because he didn’t tell you. If he had called you and told you about this himself, would you feel so bad now?”

  I thought for a moment. I had to admit that Marge’s startling roadside bomb delivery had wounded me almost as much as the news itself. Finally, I said, “I don’t know.”

  “If you ask me, I feel sorry for Melody. This is not a man you want to marry,” Rosina said. “I’m gonna tell you something I wasn’t gonna tell you.”

  “Great. More bad news.”

  “This will make you feel better. Mr. Poll…he hit on me.” Rosina nodded knowingly.

  I was truly shocked. But I knew she wouldn’t make something like that up. She was very happily engaged to her contractor.

  “When?”

  “The one time he came into the shop to pick you up for lunch. And that’s another thing. He had no interest in your business. That detective is more interested in your store than Mr. Poll. Anyway, you were in your office. I buzzed you to come down. I was looking out the window at his car, and he asked me if I wanted to have a ride sometime.”

  “That’s not exactly hitting on you.”

  “He said, ‘I’ll take you for a ride if you promise not to tell your boss.’ I thought he was kidding. But then I looked at his face, and I knew he wasn’t kidding. Even though I love that car, I would never get in it with him.”

  “Were you scared of him?”

  She laughed. “For me, no. For you, yes. Trust me, he’s not gonna be faithful to her. And he will try and come back to you. You watch.”

  “You think so?” I said, unable to disguise a little feeling of hope in my voice.

>   Rosina sighed in exasperation. “I can’t believe it! Forget about this man! He’s not for you. He’s not for anyone!”

  Rosina was like a sprite, thin and lithe, with large dark eyes, pale skin, and a silky black ponytail. She was only twenty-four, and she didn’t have much formal education, but she was full of common sense and a bracing sort of compassion that enabled her to comfort and confront at the same time.

  I took to heart what she said, but when she left to make me a cup of tea, I had a good cry. Did I really not see the true character of the men I dated, or did I just willfully ignore it for some neurotic reason I couldn’t even begin to fathom?

  I dried my eyes before Rosina came back with the tea. She wasn’t a great one for self-pity.

  “What should I do?” I asked her, sipping the soothing brew.

  “If I were you, I’d call him up and congratulate him. Tell him to get his wife to register here for the wedding presents. We could use the business.”

  I told Rosina she was too young to understand that when you get to be my age and you meet someone who might be possible for you, you’re willing to overlook a hell of a lot. I still couldn’t imagine Bob as a serial killer—just a lady-killer. With one more lady down. Me.

  Chapter 23

  Violet phoned me later that morning. Her voice was somber. “Rev,” she began slowly. “I need to tell you something.”

  “If it’s about Bob getting married, I’ve already heard.”

  “Oh.” She sounded vaguely disappointed. “Who told you?”

  “Marge Horner came into the shop, ostensibly looking for a wedding present. She couldn’t wait to break it to me. Who told you?” I asked her.

  “I’m sitting here looking at a tacky invitation to the reception, hand-delivered by the Hunter Green Hornet. Did you have any idea about this?”