Close Your Eyes

by Amanda Eyre Ward

  2

  Alex’s landlord called and told me it was time to clean out his apartment. His lease ran only through the end of the month, she said, and if he wasn’t going to renew, she would have to find a new tenant. Gerry looked at our finances and said we could try to pay Alex’s rent for a few months if I was willing to eat cornflakes for breakfast and noodles for dinner. (We could forage the neighborhood park for berries and wild mushrooms, he noted.) But when I called Alex’s landlord back, she said she had already found someone who would pay more and move in ASAP. The deal was done—signed, sealed, delivered. This struck me as brutally unkind.

  When I refused Gerry’s offer to help me take Alex’s things to storage, he sighed and said, “Lauren, I need to talk with you. A serious talk.”

  “Oh, really?” I said. “A serious talk? Because what I need is a client looking to pay too much for a duplex. And another drink.”

  “I know you’re going through hell,” said Gerry. “But you need to stop drinking, and I want you to go back to your therapist.”

  “I told you what I need,” I said. “Are you pouring, or are you not?”

  “I’m not,” said Gerry. He folded his arms over his broad chest. “This is not an ultimatum, but I can’t watch you … sink. I’m here, Lauren, but I’m not going down with you.”

  I was in pin-striped pajamas, though it was a workday, around noon. I got back in bed and pulled the covers over my head. The pills I had taken let me fall asleep in the middle of anything. “I don’t need help,” I said from under the covers. “I need a snack.”

  When I woke up, there was a plate with a sliced apple on the bedside table, and a little bowl filled with peanut butter.

  The next day I went to clean out Alex’s apartment. Alex had been a meticulous filer. His apartment had two bedrooms, and one (“the office”) was lined with three enormous cabinets. I opened a drawer at random—it was Alex’s papers, grades one through nine. I am not joking—he’d saved it all: progress reports, watercolor paintings, essays (“Abraham Lincoln: An American Hero,” “What Democracy Means to Me,” “A Visit to My Father”). I pulled out the last and scanned it. Alex hadn’t gotten over our mother’s murder, to be sure, but he had learned how to mine the situation for good personal-essay material. I knew he’d written about visiting Izaan in jail to gain entrance to Exeter and later, Harvard. Unwilling to pimp our family tragedy, I’d written about releasing turtles on South Padre Island (“Holding a Warm Shell at the Edge of the Sea”) and had been rejected by both institutions and a long list of others.

  I closed that drawer, then poked through a few more. There were his physical fitness certificates, graduation photographs, tax records, and med school diplomas. There was a thick file about possible vacations, organized under alone, with L, or wife. My stack was fairly dull: cheese tasting in Vermont, honky-tonk motel in Port Aransas. By himself, Alex had wanted to hit India and climb mountains in Tanzania. With his imaginary wife, the destinations had been quieter: a bed-and-breakfast in Wimberley, “romantic gites in the French countryside.”

  Surrounded by photographs of faraway locales, I felt a wave of sadness. I went into the kitchen and got a Hefty bag from under the sink. Then I went back into the spare bedroom and began shoving brochures into the bag. “I don’t want to go cheese tasting!” I cried out, crumpling the image of a farmer milking a placid cow. “Why the fuck would you think I wanted to go cheese tasting?” I yelled. “And look at this stupid run-down shack!” I tossed the wife file, the alone file, the drawers documenting Alex’s academic tribulations. “Arrogant asshole,” I said.

  I left the tax info, because who knew. But I emptied all the rest until I stood shaking in the middle of the room. Then I hauled the Hefty bag to the trash can and dumped it in, wheeled the can to the front of the house for pickup, and kicked it for good measure.

  The woman who lived next door was sitting on her front porch in a lavender bathrobe, sipping a Lone Star. She regarded me without emotion. I went back inside Alex’s apartment and into the spare bedroom. It looked the same—there was little evidence of all my hard work. The clock on Alex’s desk read 3:02. The desk had been our father’s; Alex had driven all the way to New York with a U-Haul to get it out of storage. I remembered sitting on my father’s lap while he wrote longhand, the smell of his tobacco. My father had kept scraps of ideas for poems in the desk: Lauren’s hair or ocean at morning.

  On impulse, I went to the drawer. I reached out and touched the metal pull. I yanked, but it would not open. There was a keyhole, but I had never known the drawer could be locked. Certainly, my father had never locked it—who would want to steal his ephemera?

  I peered around the room, looking for a key. Though I had ten days to clean out the apartment, I felt frantic. What was in the damn drawer? Probably naked pictures of some old lover of Alex’s or Playboy magazines. Something racy, something private. I tugged at the drawer again, but it was shut tight. Then I ran into Alex’s bedroom (that sweaty smell of him—I loved him so much) and looked in his bedside table, his closet. I opened his underwear drawer, pulling out socks, boxers, a strip of condoms, some smooth stones. And then I saw it glinting at the back: a brass key.

  I knew I had to get out of Alex’s apartment. I was freaking out, this was clear. But first: the drawer. Leaving Alex’s belongings all over the bedroom floor (what the hell did it matter now?), I rushed into the office and inserted the key. I felt dizzy and could hear my heartbeat in my ears. The lock turned; I slid the drawer open.

  Inside, there was an accordion folder packed with papers and photos. It was labeled simply, horrifyingly, MOM. I picked up the mess of papers and shoved it into my bag. Then I drove home, walked to The Studio, and handed the folder to Gerry.

  “From Alex’s desk,” I said.

  He took the papers and regarded me soberly. He turned off his webcam and gestured to the beanbags in the corner of the shed where he’d told me he could “take meetings.”

  I sat down in the blue beanbag, rested my elbows on my knees. He sank into the red beanbag as I said, “I don’t want to know the details. Can you just look through this file and see if there’s anything important?”

  “I can,” said Gerry. He was well trained in this regard, having thrown away letters from Izaan for years. I wasn’t sure he agreed with the way I had cut my father out of my life, but he knew it was complicated, and he respected me enough to let it be.

  “I’m sure it can wait until tomorrow,” I said. “If he’s dead, there’s no real hurry.”

  Gerry bit his lip and did not speak. For this, I loved him.

  The next morning I got up and drank coffee, took a shower and went to work. “Well, well,” said Jonesey when he saw me sitting at my desk, checking the new listings. “What have we here?”

  “It’s me,” I said.

  He touched the top of my head. “I’m so glad.”

  At lunch, I went to the New World Deli, where I had a tuna melt, a Diet Coke, and only one Advil. I spent the afternoon visiting houses, taking notes, almost even enjoying my walks through others’ empty rooms and abandoned gardens.

  That evening I felt something in me unwind as I parked in the driveway of my home. Two large trees flanked the house: a Texas ash and a Mexican plum. In February the plum tree would explode in fragrant white flowers. I had made a special cocktail the night the first bud had appeared—I’d called it the Texas Blizzard after adding a bit of Baileys Irish cream to a vanilla milk shake.

  I paused on the pathway, trying to decide where I could plant geraniums come spring, and Handsome stood on the front porch and barked, happy beyond reason at my return.

  Prompted by Handsome’s bark, Gerry came to the door. “Welcome home,” he said. I smiled and walked to him, pulling him close. Gerry had made a pitcher of sun tea, and as I sat on a folding chair, he poured me a glass. “Thanks,” I said.

  “For dinner, paella,” said Gerry.

  “Whoa,” I said. I could smell garlic from the porch.
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  “I laid it all out in my office,” said Gerry. “Let me know when you want to see.”

  I sighed and sipped the sweet drink. I wanted to add some whiskey, but I decided not to. “So?” I asked.

  “Shhh,” said Gerry, sitting in the chair next to me, tucking my hair behind my ear.

  I breathed in the warm Texas night. The cicadas were out full force, and the air smelled like a river, though we were miles from the Colorado. “Okay,” I said.

  “Okay, time to make out?”

  I laughed and kissed him. We went inside our house, not turning to go toward the shed. We ate the spicy seafood, and then bowls of coconut ice cream.

  I climbed into Gerry’s lap, and he kissed my forehead, then my neck. He unbuttoned my blouse and kissed my breasts. I started to cry, and he carried me into the bedroom. He undressed me, and his lips were soft on my stomach and my thighs. I stopped crying, swept up by the feel of Gerry’s tongue, his lips. My brain shut off and I was only skin. Gerry entered me and I was wet and hot, liquid. I felt like I was about to drown. I let go, I went under. When the waves receded, I was lying next to my boyfriend in our bed, looking out the window at the evening light on the leaves.

  “I love you,” I said. But Gerry was asleep.

  I got out of bed, put his T-shirt on, and went into the shed. I turned on the overhead light. Moths and mosquitoes filled the room—Gerry needed a screen door.

  He had marked a place in the folder with a pink Post-it note. I turned there and found lined sheets with Alex’s notes scrawled across them:

  6/16

  NY VISIT

  —Meeting with Detective Brendan Crosby (Holt police).

  —Doors and windows yielded no useful fingerprints due to rain.

  —One set of handprints found on Glenfiddich bottle—DID

  NOT match family or neighbors.

  —“Household items” found at crime scene, did not lead to any suspects.

  —Crosby will find items in storage.

  6/18

  —Called Brendan Crosby, left message.

  6/20

  —Visit with Dad. Dad says he did not serve any hard liquor at party, just wine and beer. But someone could have come inside and poured a glass; he wasn’t paying attention.

  —Dad’s lawyer saw household items, none seemed relevant.

  —Called Brendan Crosby, left message.

  6/22

  —Called Brendan Crosby, left message.

  6/23

  —Call from Brendan Crosby, found household items taken from house. Will fax photos.

  There were no faxes, but a last sheet was stapled to the folder. It read:

  7/31

  —POSITIVE MATCH with Harry Winston earring. Limited edition, number 1800942, sent to PAULINE HALL, c/o Tiffany & Co., Fifth Avenue and Fifty-seventh Street, NY, NY.

  EARRING = MURDERER

  EARRING = PAULINE HALL

  EARRING = FREEDOM for DAD

  8/20

  —Called all listings for Pauline Hall. (List attached—S for Spoke with, LM for Left message, CB for Call back.)

  8/23

  —See updated list.

  —Spoke to all but one Pauline Hall.

  —Left another message for last Pauline Hall.

  8/24

  —See updated list.

  —Reached every Pauline Hall and none know about earring.

  —Called Tiffany on Fifth Avenue. Pauline Hall worked there until February 1985. No further records.

  —Dead end?

  —Detective Crosby has case files in NY—go see them?

  Alex had gotten on a plane to Iraq the following month.

  I stood at the door of the shed and looked at the sky. Why had Alex decided to follow up with this clue now, after all this time? I wondered if he had known what would happen to him in Iraq. I narrowed my eyes at the stars. Was my brother up there? Was he anywhere? I clenched my fists, hoping without quite believing that my mom was floating above me, watching me, urging me on toward … what?

  All I had wanted was to move forward, as Gramma had instructed, to have a happy life, and yet here was the past, pulling me back again like a fucking tar pit. I could hear my father’s voice in my ear: “You’re a smart girl, Lauren. Figure it out.”

  My brother had written Dead end. But he had followed it with a question mark. Footsteps rang out behind me, and I turned around. “Do you want me to come with you?” said Gerry.

  “What?” I said.

  “New York.” He came to me and took me in his arms. He whispered in my ear, “I already found you a cheap ticket.”

  3

  On the plane to La Guardia, after the flight attendant had passed out peanuts and I’d ordered a six-dollar can of Budweiser, I took Alex’s folder from my bag. I put it on the tray table, next to my beer. I gazed out the window of the plane, seeing nothing but white, then cerulean, as we emerged above the clouds. It was amazing, the way we could graze the heavens inside metal birds. I had never been afraid of flying, not even after September 11. I always felt a rush of anticipation, thinking of the gleaming buildings of Manhattan, the sheer excitement of the city. I hadn’t been there since I was a child.

  I flipped through the SkyMall catalog, pausing to read about a scalp massager guaranteed to grow hair. I checked out the home hot-dog cooker and the life-size replica of King Tut’s sarcophagus, which could open to reveal fourteen storage shelves ($895). I returned the catalog to the seat back.

  I ordered a Coke when the stewardess came back around and, with a sigh, opened Alex’s folder. I had never wanted to see all these papers, but if it was something I could do for Alex—and I could not think of one other damn thing I could do—I would read every word. There was the old crime-scene report, and there were the testimonies that sent my father to jail.

  HOLT COUNTY SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT

  Incident Report

  Investigating Officer: Det. Brendan Crosby

  Incident Reported: 8/27/1986

  Incident Address: 12 Ocean Avenue

  Victim’s name: Jordan Mahdian

  Age: 46

  Suspects: Izaan Mahdian (husband of deceased)

  DESCRIPTION OF INCIDENT

  Dispatch received a phone call from Izaan Mahdian, 12 Ocean Avenue, Holt, at 7:52 A.M. Mr. Mahdian had entered his bedroom to find his wife, Jordan Mahdian, on the floor. She was unresponsive with apparent head wound and “her heart not beating.” EMT was dispatched to 12 Ocean Avenue but was unable to revive victim. Officer Campbell McGuinness was on patrol at the time and reported to 12 Ocean Avenue. Mr. Mahdian led Officer McGuinness to the bedroom, located on the second floor of residence. McGuinness radioed for backup and secured the scene. I arrived at the scene at 8:30 A.M. I was notified that the victim’s children, Lauren and Alex Mahdian, were at a neighbor’s house. We notified next of kin (Morton and Merilee Wegman, Houston, TX).

  After photographing the scene, we canvassed for fingerprints and gathered all household items that could pertain to the crime. Forensics Officer Tyler Berman took all evidence to the lab.

  The victim was lying on her side at the entrance to her bedroom, wearing a white cotton nightgown. There was a visible contusion above victim’s right ear and a pool of blood underneath her head. The victim’s mouth was open and her eyes were closed. The coroner examined the victim’s degree of acute rigor and decomposition and estimated that she had been dead for several hours.

  Shards of glass were found surrounding the victim. There was no further evidence of a struggle, and there was no sign of forced entry into the residence. The husband of the victim was extremely agitated and was taken to the station for further questioning.

  INVESTIGATION

  I interviewed Mr. Mahdian, who said he discovered the body when he went into his bedroom to get his bathing suit. Mr. Mahdian was distraught. He said he and his wife had had a dinner party the night before. (Interviews with all guests to the Mahdian home attached.)

  Mr. and Mrs. Mahdian
had sexual intercourse at approximately midnight. Afterward, he went downstairs and watched television briefly, then slept in the living room located at the northwest corner of residence. The Mahdians’ two children spent the night in their tree house, located behind the home. Lauren Mahdian (8) said she had “very scary” dreams. When pressed to describe her dreams, she said she could not remember anything. Interview was halted when Lauren Mahdian said she felt dizzy and needed to lie down.

  Mr. Mahdian could not think of anyone who would want to harm his wife. A cursory investigation showed that nothing of value was missing from the residence. Several times during the course of the interview, Mr. Mahdian asked, “Are you sure she is really dead?”

  I put my head in my hands. Then I straightened and flipped through newspaper clippings: MURDER ON THE BEACH, THE END OF IDYLL, THE DECANTER OF DEATH. An enterprising journalist had even interviewed all the jury members after they had sent my father to jail. Alex had kept the transcripts.

  Jocelyn Clement, thirty-six-year-old administrative assistant No, I did not. I did not have a doubt in my mind. For one thing, no one else had been in the house. Nothing was stolen. There was simply no forensic evidence that anyone else had been inside—I saw the crime-lab report! A small fingerprint, but that could have been Jordan’s—I mean Mrs. Mahdian’s—own. Mr. Mahdian’s semen, his fingerprints everywhere. I mean, really, the defense argument was patently absurd: some stranger broke into the house, left no clues, smashed Jordan Mahdian’s skull, and left? It doesn’t make sense. But a jealous husband? Now, that I understand. That makes sense to me.

  That neighbor had given Mrs. Mahdian a present, and Mr. Mahdian went nuts. Adam Schwickrath. He gave her a pair of high-heeled shoes right in front of everyone. Were they having an affair? Who knows, but I’m sure Mr. Mahdian thought they were—why else would he have killed his wife?