“Well,” she said, “all this would have to relate to other things going on in her life.”
“Like what?”
“That’s where the development comes in.”
Silence, except for the soles of their shoes clicking on the sidewalk; Ivy’s that staccato high-heeled female click, Danny’s the more muffled male kind.
“I know you’ll come up with something,” he said. “The perfect screwball something.”
Ivy laughed. Maybe she really would come up with the perfect something; maybe she had it in her. Danny squeezed her arm. She squeezed back. A fancy block or two glided by. Then they were outside his place.
“Care to come up for a minute?” Danny said. “I could make coffee.”
Ivy hesitated, even rocking back and forth slightly. She felt strong, physical, hot. The whole city was urging her on. But how much did it have to do with Danny?
“Or tea,” he said. “Even hot chocolate.”
“Sounds good,” Ivy said.
And it was good; great, in fact, the first time, when those metaphors of lava buildups and eruptions or longtime dams finally bursting rang true. Months and months of not doing this couldn’t be good, had to pollute your personal ecology in some way.
“Wow,” Danny said.
Which reminded her that he was there, too.
The second time: not so good.
Although maybe that wasn’t true for Danny, who said, “Wow squared,” and cuddled up. But he was a very smart guy, noticed a lot, so soon she had a little space to herself. They lay there on the most comfortable bed she’d ever lain on, the lights low in his beautifully decorated bedroom, real art on the walls. She could feel him thinking.
“Something on your mind?” he said.
“Not much,” Ivy said. “Just…this is nice.”
“Yeah,” said Danny.
A boat hooted in the river, or out in the harbor.
“Some music?” Danny said.
“If you want.”
“What do you like?”
“Lots of stuff. What have you got?”
“Everything,” Danny said.
“Everything?”
“Well,” said Danny, “two hundred and seventy thousand downloads at last count. And wait till you hear the sound.”
“How about Elvis?” Ivy said.
“Presley or Costello?”
“There’s only one Elvis,” Ivy said.
Danny rolled over, flipped open a laptop, tapped a few keys. Then came “Are You Lonesome Tonight?”—and yes, the sound was great, like Elvis was one pillow over.
“I love how he does that talking part,” Ivy said.
“You do?” said Danny. “Isn’t it a little hokey?”
“I guess so.”
“But hokey can be good, right?” said Danny. “Is that what you’re saying?”
Ivy was silent. She didn’t feel like this sort of discussion.
“Something wrong?” Danny said.
He was so nice: What was the matter with her? But she was suspecting something: how exhausting his conscientious attempts to understand her completely, A to Z, would get.
“No,” she said, “nothing wrong at all.”
He patted her hip. Then his hand slid under her, came up between her legs.
“What was the other thing?” Ivy said.
“The other thing?” said Danny.
“You said you had two pieces of news. What was the second one?”
His hand went still. “It’s a little out of left field,” he said.
“Go on.”
“Felix Balaban’s wife wants to talk to you.”
Ivy sat up. “What?”
“One of her lawyers was in the office the other day. There’s lots to clear up, as you can imagine. I happened to mention I knew someone who’d seen him in prison.”
“Meaning me.”
“Did I do something wrong?” Danny said. “I had no idea it would lead anywhere.”
“What does she want to talk to me about?”
“The lawyer says she’s still very upset. She wants some closure.”
“How can talking to me give her that?”
“Who knows?” Danny said. “But look at it from her point of view. Her husband fiddles with some numbers—at the very worst—then gets whisked away behind walls and ends up with his head practically cut off by person or persons probably forever unknown. I think she just wants contact with a normal person who saw him in there.”
“I only saw him once,” Ivy said. “There really isn’t anything to say.”
“She’s not a bad person,” Danny said. “And of course she’s left with the kids.”
“He had kids?”
“Two girls—eight and ten, I think it is.”
“You know it is,” Ivy said. “And you’ve got their names in reserve.”
Danny laughed. “Casey and Tamara.”
His hand started moving again.
Ivy left before dawn. Danny didn’t wake up. She walked home, let herself in, climbed the five flights. Her message light was blinking.
Whit?
You have one new message:
“Hello. I had a technical question for you. Maybe some other time.” Click.
Ivy listened to it three times, just to make sure, but she’d known from the first syllable: Harrow.
She played it again. And once more.
Eleven
“I’m Natasha Balaban. Thanks for coming.”
Ivy shook hands with Natasha Balaban. She knew places like the Balabans’ existed but had never been inside one; a Park Avenue place with the kind of furniture and rugs you saw in quiet museum side rooms. Maybe from being in constant touch with all that luxury, the air itself was different: still, thick, even weighty.
“Please sit,” Natasha said.
Ivy took the nearest chair, small, gilded, delicate. It made an alarming little creak. Natasha sat opposite her on a velvet footstool. She wore black silk; Ivy had on jeans and her short leather jacket.
“Coffee?” said Natasha.
“I’m all right.”
“It’s no trouble.”
A door opened and a uniformed maid appeared. She served coffee in beautiful translucent china cups. Natasha added cream and two spoonfuls of sugar from a heavy silver serving set; Ivy had hers black. The coffee itself tasted like what you’d get in any bodega.
Natasha took a little sip, lowered her cup, and didn’t touch it again. “Danny Weinberg tells me you’re a writer,” she said.
“Trying to be,” said Ivy. But she thought: The New Yorker! Maybe they’d put one of those cute little drawings—a flowerpot on a stoop, say—somewhere in her story.
“He says you’re very talented,” Natasha said.
“I don’t know about that.”
Natasha gazed at her: something a little askew about that gaze, didn’t have to be a surveyor to see that.
“Oh, I’m sure Danny’s right,” Natasha said. “He’s very clever. Felix always said so, and he had excellent judgment.” She took a cigarette from a silver box, or perhaps platinum, from how solid it looked. The maid entered with a lighter. Natasha inhaled deeply, blew out smoke, and added, “About that sort of thing. In other ways, his judgment must have been not so good. To state the obvious.”
Ivy nodded.
Natasha took another deep drag. “What was he like?”
“Who?” Ivy said.
The maid refilled Ivy’s cup and withdrew.
“Felix, of course,” said Natasha.
Natasha was asking what her own husband was like?
“In that writing class of yours,” Natasha said, her voice sharpening with impatience.
“Oh,” said Ivy. “The thing is, I only saw him once. I’d just taken over the class when he—when…”
One of Natasha’s eyelids trembled. “Yes,” she said. “I’m aware of the sequence.” A cylinder of ash fell in her lap, unnoticed. Then came a silence, broken at last by Natasha. “Felix means ‘happy’ in Latin
. Did you know that?”
“Yes,” Ivy said.
“Not me,” Natasha said. “We’d been married for years before I found out—first marriage for both of us, if that matters.”
“Yes.”
Natasha gave her a sharp look. “Meaning you think it does matter?”
“Yes.”
Natasha took another drag, then dropped the cigarette into that lovely cup; kind of shocking, like an act of violence, and the sizzle it made seemed to fill the room. “Felix means ‘happy,’” she said. “But I didn’t know. You’re a word person. Tell me—are there lots of words like that, with secret meanings?”
“I don’t know about secret,” Ivy said.
“Hidden, then,” said Natasha.
“Yes,” said Ivy. “At least partly hidden.”
“I thought so,” Natasha said. She rose, looked out an enormous window. The top of the Chrysler Building seemed very near. “So what was your impression of Felix?”
A timid little wreck: the true answer, but why say it? “As I mentioned, there wasn’t really time to form an impression,” Ivy said. “Plus I’d never been in a prison before—it’s kind of overwhelming.”
“But writers notice things,” Natasha said.
Ivy said nothing.
“Well?” said Natasha. “Isn’t that true?”
“He seemed…quiet,” said Ivy.
“Felix was not a quiet man,” Natasha said. “He must have said something.”
Ivy thought back.
You calling me a liar, Felix?
Oh, no, no, no, no. Just that it was actually Cornell.
And:
What you say, amigo? I don’ hear you.
It’s nothing. Nothing at all. Sorry.
Sorry? He sorry.
“Nothing I can remember,” Ivy said.
Natasha made a dissatisfied sucking sound, tip of her tongue against her teeth. “What about his writing? Did you save it?”
I really don’t have anything today.
Felix don’ have nothin’ today.
“He didn’t actually write anything,” Ivy said.
Natasha turned, surprised. “Why not?”
“I don’t know,” Ivy said.
“Did the others write?” Natasha said. “The other prisoners?”
Gonna be real baaaaaaad if I’m blocked.
I’m sure that’s not the case.
“They did,” Ivy said.
A door opened again, but this time it wasn’t the maid but a silver-haired man in a three-piece suit. “Traffic,” he said.
“You’re just in time,” said Natasha. “Ivy here has been explaining that Felix didn’t write anything in their one class together.”
“Oh?” said the man.
“Ivy Seidel,” Natasha said, “Herman Landau, my attorney.”
“A real pleasure,” Landau said, shaking hands. He had a rich, warm voice, a gentle grip, and—big surprise considering all that menschness—an unfriendly gaze. “I hear nothing but good things.”
“From whom?” said Ivy.
“Danny Weinberg, of course,” said Landau. “A young man on his way.” He pulled up a chair like Ivy’s. On a tapestry behind him, a knight with too-close-together eyes held his sword high. “Any idea why Felix didn’t write anything, Ivy?”
“No.”
“He was an organized man,” Landau said. “Absolutely abhorred wasted time. So why would he bother to attend a class and not participate?”
“I don’t know,” Ivy said.
Landau sat back, crossed his legs; his pants made an expensive swishing sound. “Did the other inmates write?”
“She says they did,” Natasha said.
“And what did they write?” said Landau.
“Poetry.”
“Poetry?” said Natasha.
“Poems,” said Ivy.
“And what were these poems about?” Landau said.
“Different things,” Ivy said.
“Was Felix one of those different things?” Landau said.
“I don’t understand,” said Ivy.
Natasha made that quick sucking sound.
“Was Felix the subject of any of the poems?” Landau said.
“No.”
“Was he mentioned in them?”
“No.”
“Perhaps indirectly?”
“No,” Ivy said. But at the same time, the last lines of El-Hassam’s poem floated up in her mind: a knife in the drawer / The very very sharp sharp knife/ Dream of a man.
Landau sat a little straighter. “You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
He smiled; his teeth looked much younger than the rest of him. “I wouldn’t mind having a quick look at the poems if you’ve still got them.”
Ivy said nothing.
“Do you still have them?” Natasha said.
“Yes.”
Natasha came closer. “Then we’d like to see them,” she said.
“But why?” Ivy said.
“Why?” said Natasha. “Because they killed him, that’s why.”
“You’re saying someone in the writing group was responsible?” Ivy said.
Landau’s eyes shifted quickly to Natasha. “Not at all,” he said. “But I’m sure you can imagine how painful this lack of closure is to Natasha and the children—to everyone who knew and loved Felix, for that matter.”
“Closure meaning finding out who did it?” Ivy said.
“And meting out the appropriate response,” Landau said.
“But isn’t the prison still investigating?” Ivy said.
“In their way,” Landau said.
“Meaning they don’t give a shit,” said Natasha. “For which they will pay.”
Landau shot Natasha another quick look.
“You’re going to sue the prison?” Ivy said.
Landau held up his hands. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Right now we’re just hoping you can help us make things right.”
“I don’t see how,” Ivy said.
“By showing us the poems,” said Natasha. “We just told you.”
Ivy shook her head. “There’s nothing helpful in the poems.”
“Then why can’t we see them?” said Natasha.
Ivy rose. “It would be violating a trust.”
“What is she talking about?” said Natasha.
“I’m baffled myself,” Landau said. He turned to Ivy. “I can’t imagine you signed any nondisclosure contract with the inmates.”
“No.”
“Then?”
“I’m their writing teacher,” Ivy said. “Period.”
Landau gazed up at her.
“Tell her,” Natasha said.
“Tell me what?” said Ivy.
“That we’ll subpoena her fucking poems.” Natasha said.
“I’m sure we’re not headed to extremes,” Landau said.
“Are you?” said Natasha. She got up and left the room.
Landau sighed. “I believe she’s still in shock,” he said. “The children are devastated. Felix adored them. They wanted to visit him in prison, if you can imagine, but he wouldn’t allow it.” He leaned forward, patted the arm of Ivy’s chair. “Please sit.”
She sat. “I don’t see why you’re so focused on the writing class.”
“It’s just one area we’re looking into,” Landau said.
“But why the writing class specifically?”
“Felix called me after that class,” Landau said. “I was on his list, of course.”
“List?” Ivy said.
“The inmates have short preapproved lists of people on the outside they can call—collect and recorded.”
“Collect?” said Ivy. “You hear an operator first?”
“Yes.” Landau looked a little puzzled. “But the mechanics are beside the point. Felix found your class very upsetting.”
“He did?”
“He’d hoped it would be a brief refuge. Instead he felt threatened.”
“By who
m?”
“He didn’t say. That’s where your help comes in.”
“I’m not denying he felt threatened,” Ivy said. “But I didn’t hear any threats.”
“Please explain.”
“Felix wasn’t like the others.”
“In what way?”
“Softer, you could say.”
Landau nodded. “Although he was a very hard man in the financial world. But of course things are different in prison. Felix had a terrible time, right up to about a week or so before he died.”
“It got better?”
“They transferred him to a different block. He was being tortured by his old cell mate. I mean that literally. An obvious suspect in the murder, one of those Latin Kings, but the investigation is stalled for some reason. The new cell mate was different, took pity on Felix evidently, even to the point of confronting his tormentors. Felix was planning to bring him to the next writing class.”
“Did Felix mention his name?”
“The new cell mate?” Landau took out a leather-bound notebook, flipped the pages. “Harrow,” he said.
Just about everything Ivy had seen in the Dannemora library changed angles in her mind, forcing her out of the confines of writing teacher, period. “The man you want to look at,” she said, “is Hector Luis Morales.”
Back home, no new messages. Ivy checked that last old one.
Hello. I had a technical question for you. Maybe some other time.
No operator, nothing about calling collect. Ivy listened a few more times. Harrow didn’t have one of those rich warm voices like Herman Landau. Landau’s voice was about music and manipulation. Harrow’s had other properties, less governable, maybe, like magnetism.
Less governable? Magnetism? Surely she was reading too much into it. Ivy listened once more just to be sure.
Twelve
“Hi.”
“Hi, Danny.”
“How are you doing?”
“All right.”
“I’ve been thinking about the other night.”
“And?”
“Just thinking about it.” Danny’s voice thickened. “A lot.”
Ivy said nothing.
“And you?” Danny said.
In the background, a woman said, “Three and a quarter? Are they nuts?”
Danny lowered his voice. “Well?”
“Well what?” said Ivy.
“Have you been thinking about it, too?” he said. “The other night?”
End of Story Page 9
