“With all due respect, Ms.Ellis, you can’t believe everything you read in the press,”McTeer says.“There are more writers out there than you can shake a stick at, and some ofthem are putting groceries on the table by writing a lot ofdamn foolishness about O.J.Simpson.”
“Okay,”Jim Klein says.“Let me ask you something, Kate Ellis.You’ve been perceived by some as O.J.Simpson’s most potent enemy in the press, and there have been a few—and I’m sure you’ve heard this, so I’m not saying anything you haven’t dealt with, and I’m certainly not trying to imply any agreement with this statement—but some have said that your articles about the case…”Klein picks up a thick, glossy magazine and holds it up to the camera:the cover is a portrait ofO.J.,his skin sev-eral shades darker than its actual color, posed on a dark street, grinning, holding a pair ofleather gloves in one hand, with the other hand hidden behind his back.“Show a certain insensitivity to the racial implications of the case against Mr.Simpson.”
“There are no racial implications, Jim.None that matter, anyhow.”
“Mighty easy for you to say, Miss Ellis,”McTeer says with a laugh.
”This is a murder case, Mr.McTeer,”Kate says.“Not a debate about civil rights.”
“Are you a lawyer in your spare time, Miss Ellis?”McTeer asks.
”No.But, ifit matters, I happen to live with a lawyer, and a very fine lawyer…”
Instinctively, Daniel grabs the remote control, but then is unsure whether he wants to turn the volume up or down.He points it toward the set without pressing any buttons.Behind Kate, not quite in focus, is the fireplace, the mantel covered with framed snapshots ofthe three ofthem.
“I fell asleep.”
Startled, abashed, as ifcaught with pornography, Daniel looks at Iris.
She, too, is naked, with one hand massaging her eyes and the other fig-leafed over her middle.
“A woman has been brutally murdered,”Kate is saying,“and there is at this point a good chance that the man who is clearly responsible for her death is going to go free.All the talk about racist cops…”
“What is this?”Iris asks, sitting next to Daniel, draping her leg over him.
”TV,”says Daniel.
”Who is she talking about?”
“O.J.Simpson.Who else?”
“I don’t know.”
“That this man has become some sort ofrebel-hero to theAfricanAmerican community,”Kate is saying,“is completely ludicrous, and of-fensive.That rappers and other prominent blacks are wearing‘Free O.J.’ T-shirts is also ludicrous and offensive.We have to ask ourselves:Are we a nation oflaws, or aren’t we?”
“We are a nation oflaws,”McTeer says.
”Who’s that freak?”Iris asks.
”Reginald McTeer, a lawyer.”
“And the foundation ofour legal system,”McTeer continues,“is a man or a woman is presumed innocent until proven guilty.Without that presumption, there is no justice.And without justice there is no peace.”
Kate rolls her eyes.“I don’t know anyone who doesn’t believe that O.J.Simpson murdered Nicole Brown and Ron Goldman.”
“I know plenty ofpeople who have grave doubts about that, Miss Ellis,”McTeer says.“You should get out more.The whole world isn’t in the editorial offices ofsome fancy magazine.Go into the kitchen in some of the lavish restaurants where you eat and ask the people who have been cooking your food, ask them what they think, or ask the woman who cleans your house.”
“I’m the woman who cleans my house, Mr.McTeer, and I say he’sguilty.”
“She’s in your house,”Iris says.
”I know.”
“Look at the windows.It’s light out.When was this?”
Daniel puts up a hand to silence her.“Wait.”He has surprised himself.A few months ago he would have gone to practically any lengths to hear the sound ofIris’s voice and now he is shushing her.“I just want to hear this,”he adds softly.Then, still nervous that he may have hurt her feelings, he further adds,“It was videotaped earlier today.”He pats her knee reassuringly.
Iris grabs his hand, ferocious yet playful.She kisses the back ofit, turns it over and kisses his palm, and then puts first one finger and then a second into her mouth, and sucks on them, and then, when he lets out a little involuntary whimper ofpleasure, she slides offthe sofa, positions herselfbetween his legs, forces his knees apart—not that he resists her in any but the most perfunctory way—and buries her face in his lap, kiss-ing his cock until it rises, at which time she moves her head back a little and accepts him into her mouth.
“We have witnessed a travesty ofjustice,”Kate is saying.
Daniel, his eyes closed now, gropes for the remote control and turns offthe set.
Iris leaves shortly after.Daniel returns to his bed, which is full ofthe warmth and aromas ofsex.He tries to sink into it, but sleep seems to have turned its back on him, and he gets dressed and drives into the vil-lage for a drink or two (or three or four—who cares?) at theWindsor Bistro, though it is after midnight.As he nears the Bistro and sees that its dark-red neon sign is still lit, bleeding its deep, pleasantly lurid colors into the black air, he feels a little swoon ofpure gratitude for the place and everyone who makes it run:how monstrous the night can be with-out a place to go.
It’s crowded at the Bistro, more crowded than he’s ever seen it.Is the entire town wracked with desire, unable to sleep? Daniel stands near the entrance, next to the coatroom, which, now that it’s summer, is filled with elaborate arrangements offlowers.He looks in on tonight’s crowd, he is not quite ready to venture further in.It’s not as ifthe people here tonight are strangers to him—everyone in Leyden is familiar, to a cer-tain extent—but they are not people he really knows, not people he can confidently call by name.They’re a boisterous bunch, gathered together in groups ofsix, seven, or eight, with wild laughter being the order of the night.Tonight’s customers are acting as ifthey were having their last manic round ofgrog on a sinking ship.The owner’s normally saturnine boyfriend, rather than playing from his usual repertoire offolk-rock torch songs, is leading some ofthe customers in“Rainy DayWomen.”
And I would not feel so all alone / Everybody must get stoned.
Daniel thinks ofhimself as one ofthe original customers ofthe Bistro, one ofits founding fathers, but whatever favoritism Doris Snyder, the Bistro’s owner, used to show him is not available tonight.She works feverishly behind the bar, mixing margaritas with one hand and filling bowls ofpretzels with the other, and when Daniel makes a little implor-ing gesture in her direction her eyes are as expressive as thumbtacks.
He finds a small, empty table in a distant corner and sits down, resigned to a long wait before he is served.He scans the room, looking for Deirdre, Johnnie Day, Calliope, or any ofthe other college-aged girls who have not yet managed their way out ofLeyden, and who supple-ment their lives ofpottery, yoga classes, organic garden design, and whole foods catering with employment at the Bistro.However, the first person with whom he makes eye contact is Susan Richmond, who is holding a beer mug and swaying to the music, like a shy person all alone who wants to appear to be enjoying herself.
An hour ago, she was back at Eight Chimneys, lying in her own bed, unable to sleep, and her mind in that vulnerable state had been seized with a desire to see her husband—it was as ifwakefulness had compro-mised her mind’s autoimmune system, made it easy prey to resentment and longing.The jealousy was like rabies, it commanded her, the infection ofit made her want to sink her teeth into something.She felt helpless against its power.She paced through the vast gloom ofher sighing, creak-ing house, turning on lamps, going into rooms she hadn’t visited in months, surprising the visiting Bulgarian folk dancers who were drinking gin and poring over old maps in the library, and then coming in on the busy chipmunks in the ballroom, the circling bats in the kitchen, and even braving a peek into Marie’s little cell.
Susan has agreed to let Marie stay on at Eight Chimneys.It seems less humiliating that way.The girl can s
tay but whatever happens between Ferguson and his blind whore must remain private, not only from Susan herselfbut from the outside world—particularly that, particularly the outside world.Yet despite the agreement, Susan knows that sometimes Ferguson and Marie slip offthe property, and the Bistro is one ofthe places they go.Susan has come here to find them, and has not, though she has remained here for over an hour, partly to prolong the charade that she is simply out for a bit ofnight air and a couple ofdrinks, and partly because those drinks have made her drunk.
Her face lights up at the sight ofDaniel.She has never held any particular fondness for him—in fact, his association with Ferguson and Marie, and then his so catastrophically injuring Hampton on her land, withherRoman candle, has put him in her“bad news”category.But tonight she responds to the sight ofhis familiar face with a wave and a broad smile ofrelief, because for her entire time in the Bistro she has not seen anyone she knows.
“Hello, there,”she says, seating herselfheavily at his table.The scent ofalcohol wafts offher skin.“What a crazy place!”
“Hello, Susan,”Daniel says, giving her name particular emphasis.He likes to use her name frequently when they happen to meet, largely be-cause he is sure she is having trouble remembering his.“I must admit, Su-san, I’m a little surprised to see you here.”
“Why do you keep saying my name? My God, it’s annoying.”
“I’m sorry.Annoying Susan Richmond is surely the last thing I want to do.”
“Is it because you think I don’t remember you? I know exactly who you are.You’re Daniel Emerson and you ditched your perfectly lovely, smart-as-a-whip wife.You’re one ofthe boys.”She fixes her large, bleary eyes on him, and then raises her mug in mock salute.
Daniel wonders how to respond to this—should he just take it in stride, pretend it’s nothing more than a little rough kidding—or should he strike back at her?A waitress comes to their table.Susan orders an-other beer, though her mug is far from empty, and Daniel asks for a co-gnac, and decides on the path ofleast resistance:he’ll pretend she means no harm.
But before he can say anything, Susan breathes up a bitter snort of laughter and wags her finger in his face.“When do people around here start living up to their responsibilities?You’d think that almost killing a man would have brought you up short, but from what I hear you and Iris are still going at it hot and heavy.”
“Hot and heavy?”Daniel is reduced to this, pointing out little excesses in diction.
“Yes.It’s curious, isn’t it? On the face ofit, you and Ferguson couldn’t be less alike.He comes from all this historical tradition, and you come from nowhere.He’s all about contemplation and you’re all about work.But beneath it all, you’re both men, or aging boys, that’s more like it, and you’re carrying on in exactly the same revolting way.What my un-cle Peter used to call‘Letting the little head think for the big head.’May I ask you a question?”
“Look, Susan, this isn’t—”
“What gives you the right, that’s what I can’t understand.What gives you the right to cause so much damage, and to hurt people?To really, re-ally hurt people.And it’s the worst kind ofpain, worse than slapping someone in the face, or stabbing them.Because what are you doing, when you get right down to it?You’re making a fool ofsomeone.”
“Are you calling Kate a fool?That would be making a big mistake.”
“What would you think ifright now your wife was home and feeling so brokenhearted that she decided to drink poison? How would that make you feel?”
“Are you thinking ofpoisoning yourself, Susan?”
“Me? I should say not.”
“Then what makes you think Kate is?”
“Some people do just that.”
“Most don’t.”
“I just think that what you’re doing is very dishonorable, that’s all I’m saying.The whole thing is shabby.”
The waitress returns with their drinks and places them on the table.
“Doris sends these over with her compliments,”she says.
Daniel realizes that Doris is making up for the empty stare she dealt him when he first walked in, and then, quite without meaning to, he wonders ifshe would be making these liquid reparations ifhe were sit-ting with Iris instead ofthis bulky, somewhat ridiculous woman, with her blotchy white skin and fierce, entitled eyes.Iris has already given him the tour ofLeyden and pointed out the various shops in which she is rou-tinely treated like a thief, either physically trailed by an employee or con-stantly scrutinized by whoever is working the cash register.All the once benign spots ofhis youth.
The tour came last Saturday, when he dared to accompany her on an errand to theWindsor Pharmacy, where, in fact, the clerk treated her with friendliness and respect—since Hampton’s convalescence, she was a regular there and they’d come to know her.After she bought surgical gloves and a sheepskin mattress cover, they chanced a stroll down Broadway, with Daniel carrying her packages as ifthey were her books and he were walking her home from school.She would in all probability never have mentioned her run-ins with Leyden’s commercial class ifDaniel hadn’t sighed and gestured to all the little shops and said,“Such a sweet little place, isn’tit?”
“Depends who you are,”she said softly, because it depressed her to have to talk about all ofthe instances ofprejudice, the sheer rudeness that entered into practically every day ofher life.Iris did not care to dis-cuss the details ofher life as part ofthe long and terrible story ofRace inAmerica—she thought she deserved both more and less than to be counted among the victims ofracism.Yet there was something in Daniel’s voice when he called Leyden“sweet”that made her want to bring him up short.She wanted Daniel to know thathereis where she was forced to sit for fifteen minutes before anyone came to take her or-der, andhereis where she had to show three pieces ofidentification be-fore they’d take her seventeen-dollar check, andhereis where she would never buy a Danish backpack ifher life depended upon it because the bitch who owned the store had rubbed the top ofNelson’s head, and then whispered to a friend,It’s supposed to be good luck.
Daniel has not been paying attention to what Susan is saying, and when he forces himself to focus on her, widening his eyes in an approx-imation ofinterest, his attention is seized by the sight ofKate winding her way through the Bistro on her way to his table.Her friend and edi-tor Lorraine DelVecchio follows behind her.Both women wear sum-mery black dresses, with spaghetti straps, and both women carry snifters ofcognac.Without any fanfare, Kate sits in the empty chair closest to Daniel, letting her breath out with a little sigh and allowing her shoulder to graze his for a moment.Lorraine, however, is left standing.
Nervously, his voice booming, Daniel introduces Lorraine and Susan, but Susan’s energy is turned onto Kate.“I was just giving your stupid man here a piece ofmy mind,”Susan says.
“Well, you have to be careful,”Kate says.“Daniel’s already oftwo minds about most things, and now ifyou’ve given him a piece ofyours, that might be more mind than he can handle.”
Daniel feels a nostalgic twinge ofgratitude toward Kate, for coming to his defense without seeming to, and for being so quick offthe dime: her playful caste ofmind, which was sometimes, during their time to-gether, numbing and de-eroticizing, turns out to be one ofthe things he misses most about her.
“I saw you onTV,”Daniel says.
Kate makes a little yelp ofdismay, covers her face, but spreads her fingers so she can peek out at him.
“Wasn’t shefabulous?”Lorraine says, pronouncing it so as to leave little doubt that she isn’t the sort ofperson who normally says“fabulous.”
“You were great,”Daniel says.“I loved the crack about cleaning your house.”
“That show goes on so late, I was sort ofhoping no one would see it.”
“And she lookedfantastic,”Lorraine says, again with comic, distancing emphasis.
“You really thought I was okay?”Kate says to Daniel.“That means a lot, coming from you.”She reaches for his hand, pats it as ifc
omforting him.Her touch is as warm as breath.Her perfume is a mixture ofmusk and orange.The lines around her eyes have deepened.She is wearing a delicate little cross that has halfdisappeared into her cleavage.“I didn’t even want to be home when they aired it.Lorraine’s here to distract me.”
Lorraine notices an empty chair at a nearby table, but as soon as she makes a move to retrieve it the doors to the Bistro fly open and three men, or boys, charge in, one ofthem holding a handgun and the other two carrying rifles.Their faces are covered by rubber Halloween masks: Frankenstein, Dracula, and Mickey Mouse.Frankenstein, who has the handgun, leaps onto the little stage behind the bar and holds a gun to the singer’s head.Dracula and Mickey Mouse push their way into the room, waving their rifles back and forth, shouting,“On the floor, on the floor, get your sorry asses on the motherfucking floor.”And even though the Bistro’s customers are plunged into a collective terror, it takes several long moments for any ofthem to comply.
Daniel and his party lie upon the floor.He and Kate both lie facedown, chins resting on left forearms to keep mouth and nose offthe boozy grime, and their right arms reaching toward each other, until their fingers touch.
“Don’t worry,”Daniel whispers.
Kate doesn’t make a sound, but she mimes the word“fuck.”
What was once a raucous crowd ofnightlife revelers is now fifty-eight extremely quiet men and women, all ofthem on the sticky floor, except for Doris, who remains standing behind the bar.Her boyfriend is wide-eyed, his face drained ofcolor, he is a corpse with a guitar.He remains in his folding chair, with a gun to his head, held by a robber disguised as Frankenstein.Sometime during the transition ofthis being a room full of drinkers to this being a room full ofpeople lying flat on the ground, someone has told Doris to open up the cash register and now she is hand-ing its contents to Frankenstein, who looks weirdly attenuated and grace-ful, reaching toward her to receive his bounty while keeping his gun pressed against her boyfriend’s temple.When he has the money, Dracula comes over and takes it from him, and drops it in a mesh laundry bag, at which point Frankenstein yanks the wires ofthe bar phone out ofthe wall.He grabs the singer by the back ofthe shirt, lifts him out ofthe chair.
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