“I just sort of blew in her mouth,” he said, “but the guy in the ambulance said I didn’t hurt her. He was the one who found the empty pill bottle in the bathroom. Phenobarbital. And there was an empty Scotch bottle that had rolled under the bed. The doc said if she hadn’t vomited, she’d have been gone. It was that close.”
Harry had ridden in the ambulance to Soames-Phillips, watching the attendant administer oxygen and inject stimulants.
“I kept repeating, ‘Don’t do this to me, Maddie,’ ” he said. “That’s all I remember saying: ‘Please don’t do this to me.’ Wasn’t that a stupid, selfish thing to say? Listen, Zoe, I guess you know Maddie and I are separating. Maybe this was her way of, uh, you know, getting back at me. But I swear I never thought she’d pull anything like this. I mean, it was all friendly; we didn’t fight or anything like that. No screaming. I never thought she’d …”
His voice trailed away.
“Maybe now you’ll get back together again,” Zoe said hopefully.
But he didn’t answer, and after a while she left him and went in search of Maddie.
She found a young doctor scribbling on a clipboard outside the Intensive Care Unit. She asked him if she could see Mrs. Kurnitz.
“I’m Zoe Kohler,” she said. “I’m her best friend. You can ask her husband. He’s right down the hall.”
He looked at her blankly.
“Why not?” he said finally, and again she thought of her gold bracelet. “She’s not so bad. Puked up most of the stuff. She’ll be dancing the fandango tomorrow night. But make it short.”
Maddie was in a bed surrounded by white screens. She looked drained, waxen. Her eyes were closed. Zoe bent over her, took up a cool, limp hand. Maddie’s eyes opened slowly. She stared at Zoe.
“Shit,” she said in a wispy voice. “I fucked it up, didn’t I? I can’t do anything right.”
“Oh, Maddie,” Zoe Kohler said sorrowfully.
“I got the fucking pills down and then I figured I’d make sure by finishing the booze. But they tell me I upchucked.”
“But you’re alive,” Zoe said.
“Hip, hip, hooray,” Maddie said, turning her head to one side. “Is Harry still around?”
“He’s right outside. Do you want to see him, Maddie?”
“What the hell for?”
“He’s taking it hard. He’s all broken up.”
Maddie’s mouth stretched in a grimace that wasn’t mirth.
“He thinks it was because of him,” she said, a statement, not a question. “The male ego. I couldn’t care less.”
“Then why … ?”
Maddie turned her head back to glare at Zoe.
“Because I just didn’t want to wake up,” she said. “Another day. Another stupid, empty, fucking day. Harry’s got nothing to do with it. It’s me.”
“Maddie, I … Maddie, I don’t understand.”
“What’s the point?” she demanded. “Just what is the big, fucking point? Will you tell me that?”
Zoe was silent.
“Ah, shit,” Maddie said. “What a downer it all is. Just being alive. Who needs it?”
“Maddie, you don’t really feel like—”
“Don’t tell me what I feel like, kiddo. You haven’t a clue, not a clue. Oh, Christ, I’m sorry,” she added immediately, her hand tightening on Zoe’s. “You got your problems too, I know.”
“But I thought you were—”
“All fun and games?” Maddie said, her mouth twisted. “A million laughs? You’ve got to be young for that, luv. When the tits begin to sag, it’s time to take stock. I just figured I had the best of it and I didn’t have the guts for what comes next. I’m a sprinter, sweetie, not a long distance runner.”
“Do you really think you and Harry … ?”
“No way. It’s finished. Kaput. He had a toss in the hay with his tootsie tonight, and then came home and found me gasping my last. Big tragedy. Instant guilt. So he’s all busted up. By tomorrow night he’ll be sore at me for spoiling his sleep. Oh hell, I’m not blaming him. But it’s all over. He knows it and I know it.”
“What will you do now, Maddie?”
“Do?” she said with a bright smile. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. The worst. Go on living.”
Out in the corridor, Zoe Kohler leaned a moment against the wall, her eyes closed.
If Maddie, if a woman like Maddie, couldn’t win, no one could win. She didn’t want to believe that, but there it was.
Dr. Oscar Stark called her at the office.
“Just checking on my favorite patient,” he said cheerfully. “How are we feeling these days, Zoe?”
“I feel fine, doctor.”
“Uh-huh. Taking your medication regularly?”
“Oh yes.”
“No craving for salt?”
“No.”
“What about tiredness? Feel weary at times? All washed out?”
“Oh no,” she lied glibly, “nothing like that.”
“Sleeping all right? Without pills?”
“I sleep well.”
He sighed. “Not under any stress, are you, Zoe? Not necessarily physical stress, but any, uh, personal or emotional strains?”
“No.”
“You’re wearing that bracelet, aren’t you? The medical identification bracelet? And carrying the kit?”
“Oh yes. Every day.”
He was silent a moment, then said heartily, “Good! Well, I’ll see you on—let me look it up—on the first of July, a Tuesday. Right?”
“Yes, doctor. That’s correct.”
“If any change occurs—any weakness, nausea, unusual weight loss, abdominal pains—you’ll phone me, won’t you?”
“Of course, doctor. Thank you for calling.”
She thought it out carefully …
Newspapers had described the Hotel Ripper as being “flashily dressed.” So she would have to forget her skintight skirts and revealing necklines. Also, it was now too warm to wear a coat of any kind to cover such a costume.
So, to avoid notice by the doorman of her apartment house and by police officers stationed in hotel cocktail lounges, she would dress conservatively. She would wear no wig. She would use only her usual minimal makeup.
That meant there was no reason for that pre-adventure trip up to the Filmore on West 72nd Street to effect a transformation. She could sally forth boldly, dressed conventionally, and take a cab to anywhere she wished.
She could not wear the WHY NOT? bracelet, of course, and her entire approach would have to be revised. She could not come on as “sexually available.” Her clothes, manner, speech, appearance—all would have to be totally different from the published description of the Hotel Ripper.
Innocence! That was the answer! She knew how some men were excited by virginity. (Hadn’t Kenneth been?) She would try to act as virginal as a woman of her age could. Why, some men even had a letch for cheerleaders and nubile girls in middies. She knew all that, and it would be fun to play the part.
There was a store on 40th Street, just east of Lexington Avenue, that sold women’s clothing imported from Latin America. Blouses from Ecuador, skirts from Guatemala, bikinis from Brazil, huaraches, mantillas, lacy camisoles—and Mexican wedding gowns.
These last were white or cream-colored dresses of batiste or crinkled cotton, light as gossamer. They had full skirts that fell to the ankle, with modest necklines of embroidery or eyelet. The bell sleeves came below the elbow, and the entire loose dress swung, drifted, ballooned—fragile and chaste.
“A marvelous summer party dress,” the salesclerk said. “Comfortable, airy—and so different.”
“I’ll take it,” Zoe Kohler said.
She read the weekly hotel trade magazine avidly. There was a motor inn on 49th Street, west of Tenth Avenue: the Tribunal. It would be hosting a convention of college and university comptrollers during June 29th to July 2nd.
When Zoe Kohler looked up the Tribunal in the hotel directory, she found it was
a relatively modest hostelry, only 180 rooms and suites, with coffee shop, dining room, a bar. And an outdoor cocktail lounge that overlooked a small swimming pool on the roof, six floors up.
The Tribunal seemed far enough removed from midtown Manhattan to have escaped the close surveillance of the police. And, being small, it was quite likely to be crowded with tourists and convention-goers. Zoe Kohler thought she would try the Tribunal. An outdoor cocktail lounge that overlooked a swimming pool. It sounded romantic.
Her menstrual cramps began on Sunday, June 29th. Not slowly, gradually, increasing in intensity as they usually did, but suddenly, with the force of a blow. She doubled over, sitting with her arms folded and clamped across her abdomen.
The pain came in throbs, leaving her shuddering. She imagined the soles of her feet ached and the roots of her hair burned. Deep within her was this wrenching twist, her entrails gripped and turned over. She wanted to scream.
She swallowed everything: Anacin, Midol, Demerol. She called Ernie and postponed their planned trip to Jones Beach. Then she got into a hot tub, lightheaded and nauseated. She tried a glass of white wine, but hadn’t finished it before she had to get out of the tub to throw up in the toilet.
Her weakness was so bad that she feared to move without gripping sink or doorjamb. She was uncoordinated, stumbled frequently, saw her own watery limbs floating away like feelers. She was troubled by double vision and, clasping a limp breast, felt her heart pound in a wild, disordered rhythm.
“What’s happening to me?” she asked aloud, more distraught than panicky.
She spent all day in bed or lying in a hot bath. She ate nothing, since she felt always on the verge of nausea. Once, when she tried to lift a glass of water and the glass slipped from her strengthless fingers to crash on the kitchen floor, she wept.
She took two Tuinal and had a fitful sleep thronged with evil dreams. She awoke, not remembering the details, but filled with dread. Her nightgown was sodden with sweat, and she showered and changed before trying to sleep again.
She awoke late Monday morning, and told herself she felt better. She had inserted a tampon, but her period had not started. The knifing pain had subsided, but she was left with a leaden pressure that seemed to force her guts downward. She had a horrific image of voiding all her insides.
She dared not step on the scale, but could not ignore the skin discolorations in the crooks of her elbows, on her knees, between her fingers. Remembering Dr. Stark’s test, she plucked at her pubis; several hairs came away, dry and wiry.
She called the Hotel Granger and spoke to Everett Pinckney. He was very understanding, and told her they’d manage without her for the day, and to take Tuesday off as well, if necessary.
She lay on the bed, blanket and sheet thrown aside. She looked down with shock and loathing at her own naked body.
She hadn’t fully realized how thin she had become. Her hipbones jutted, poking up white glassy skin. Her breasts lay flaccid, nipples withdrawn. Below, she could see a small tuft of dulled hair, bony knees, toes ridiculously long and prehensile: an animal’s claws.
When she smelled her arm, she caught a whiff of ash. Her flesh was pudding; she could not make a fist. She was a shrunken sack, and when she explored herself, the sphincter was slack. She was emptied out and hollow.
She spent the afternoon dosing herself with all the drugs in her pharmacopeia. She got down a cup of soup and held it, then had a ham sandwich and a glass of wine. She soaked again in a tub, washed her hair, took a cold shower.
She worked frantically to revive her flagging body, ignoring the internal pain, her staggering gait. She forced herself to move slowly, carefully, precisely. She punished herself, breathing deeply, and willed herself to dress.
For it seemed to her that an adventure that night—all her adventures—were therapy, necessary to her well-being. She did not pursue the thought further than that realization: she would not be well, could not be well, unless she followed the dictates of her secret, secret heart.
It became a dream. No, not a dream, but a play in which she was at once actress and spectator. She was inside and outside. She observed herself with wonder, moving about resolutely, disciplining her flesh. She wanted to applaud this fierce, determined woman.
The Mexican wedding gown was a disaster; she knew it would never do. It hung on her wizened frame in folds. The neckline gaped. The hem seemed to sweep the floor. She was lost in it: a little girl dressed up in her mother’s finery, lacking only the high-heeled pumps, wide-brimmed hat, smeared lipstick.
She put the gown aside and dressed simply in lisle turtleneck sweater, denim jumper, low-heeled pumps. When she inspected herself in the mirror, she saw a wan, tremulous, vulnerable woman. With a sharpened knife in her purse.
The rooftop cocktail lounge was bordered with tubs of natural greenery. The swimming pool, lighted from beneath, shone with a phosphorescent blue. An awning stretched over the tables was flowered with golden daisies.
A few late-evening swimmers chased and splashed with muted cries. From a hi-fi behind the bar came seductive, nostalgic tunes, fragile as tinsel. Life seemed slowed, made wry and gripping.
A somnolent waiter moved slowly, splay-footed. Clink of ice in tall glasses. Quiet murmurs, and then a sudden fountain of laughter. White faces in the gloom. Bared arms. Everyone lolled and dreamed.
The night itself was luminous, stars blotted by city glow. A soft breeze stroked. The darkness opened up and engulfed, making loneliness bittersweet and silence a blessing.
Zoe Kohler sat quietly in the shadows and thought herself invisible. She was hardly aware of the gleaming swimmers in the pool, the couples lounging at the outdoor tables. She thought vaguely that soon, soon, she would go downstairs to the crowded bar.
But she felt so calm, so indolent, she could not stir. It was the bemused repose of convalescence: all pain dulled, turmoil vanished, worry spent. Her body flowed; it just flowed, suffused with a liquid warmth.
There were two solitary men on the terrace. One, older, drank rapidly with desperate intentness, bent over his glass. The other, with hair to his shoulders and a wispy beard, seemed scarcely old enough to be served. He was drinking bottled beer, making each one last.
The bearded boy rose suddenly, his metal chair screeching on the tile. Everyone looked up. He stood a moment, embarrassed by the attention, and fussed with beer bottle and glass until he was ignored.
He came directly to Zoe’s table.
“Pardon me, ma’am,” he said in a low voice. “I was wondering if I might buy you a drink. Please?”
Zoe inspected him, tilting her head, trying to make him out in the twilight. He was very tall, very thin. Dressed in a tweed jacket too bulky for his frame, clean chinos, sueded bush boots.
Thin wrists stuck from the cuffs of his heavy jacket, and his big head seemed balanced on a stalk neck. His smile was hopeful. The long hair and scraggly beard were blond, sun-streaked. He seemed harmless.
“Sit down,” she said softly. “We’ll each buy our own drinks.”
“Thank you,” he said gratefully.
His name was Chet (for Chester) LaBranche, and he was from Waterville, Maine. But he lived and worked in Vermont, where he was assistant to the president of Barre Academy, which was called an academy but was actually a fully accredited coeducational liberal arts college with an enrollment of 437.
“I really shouldn’t be here,” he said, laughing happily. “But our comptroller came down with the flu or something, and we had already paid for the convention reservation and tickets and all, so Mrs. Bixby—she’s the president—asked me if I wanted to come, and I jumped at the chance. It’s my first time in the big city, so I’m pretty excited about it all.”
“Having a good time?” Zoe asked, smiling.
“Well, I just got in this morning, and we had meetings most of the day, so I haven’t had much time to look around, but it’s sure big and noisy and dirty, isn’t it?”
“It sure is.”
“But tomorrow and Wednesday we’ll have more time to ourselves, and I mean to look around some. What should I see?”
“Everything,” she told him.
“Yes,” he said, nodding vigorously, “everything. I mean to. Even if I stay up all night. I don’t know when I’ll get a chance like this again. I want to see the fountain where Zelda Fitzgerald went dunking and all the bars in Greenwich Village where Jack Kerouac hung out. I got a list of places I made out in my room and I aim to visit them all.”
“You’re staying here in the hotel?” she asked casually.
“Oh yes, ma’am. That was included in the convention tickets. I got me a nice room on the fifth floor, one flight down. Nice, big, shiny room.”
“How old are you, Chet?”
“Going on twenty-five,” he said, ducking his head. “I never have asked your name, ma’am, but you don’t have to tell me unless you want to.”
“Irene,” she said.
He was enthusiastic about everything. It wasn’t the beer he gulped down; it was him. He chattered along brightly, making her laugh with his descriptions of what life was like at the Barre Academy when they got snowed in, and the troubles he already had with New York cabdrivers.
She really enjoyed his youth, vitality, optimism. He hadn’t yet been tainted. He trusted. It all lay ahead of him: a glittering world. He was going to become a professor of English Lit. He was going to travel to far-off places. He was going to own a home, raise a family. Everything.
He almost spluttered in his desire to get it all out, to explain this tremendous energy in him. His long hands made grand gestures. He squirmed, laughing at his own mad dreams, but believing them.
Zoe had three more glasses of white wine, and Chet had two more bottles of beer. She listened to him, smiling and nodding. Then, suddenly, the swimmers were gone, the pool was dimmed. Tables had emptied; they were the last. The sleepy waiter appeared with their bill.
“Chet, I’d like to see that list you made out,” Zoe said. “The places you want to visit. Maybe I can suggest some others.”
“Sure,” he said promptly. “Great idea. We don’t have to wait for the elevator. We can walk; it’s only one flight down.”
Third Deadly Sin Page 34
