by Sarah Dreher
Gwen and Sherry?
It had to be a mistake. A misunderstanding.
Then why had Gwen taken her night shirt? She'd obviously done it voluntarily. Their room was locked, and only their keys fit. Gwen must have done it. Deliberately and deceitfully.
Wait a minute, wait a minute. If Gwen was setting up a night on the town and a toss between the sheets, she wouldn't need to take her night gown. She could buy something special and filmy and sexy in Bangor. Or go with nothing at all.
So was the taking of the night gown for Stoner's benefit? Like a message, maybe? Like "I'm tired of you," or "Shape up," or whatever obscure messages lovers left for each other to figure out?
But that wasn't Gwen's style, either.
On the other hand, she only knew Gwen's style in relation to herself. Maybe she had a very different style with other people. Maybe who she was with determined her style. So, if she was with someone who was subtle and sleazy, maybe she'd be subtle and sleazy, too.
This was ridiculous. She'd known Gwen too long for her to change suddenly like that. If she kept on thinking this way, she was going to drive herself crazy.
But she couldn't stay here in this room. It was too small, and too quiet. It made her thoughts bounce off the walls and back at her.
Maybe she should take Gwen's car and drive in to Bangor.
And what? Make the rounds of the motels, checking out the parking lots like some stalker?
And suppose she found them. Break down the door shouting, "I caught you, you cheating little worms!" and beat their brains out with a tire iron? That would certainly be cool. Very, very cool. It would certainly make the Bangor papers. And probably the Boston papers, having that local interest of her being from Boston. She could see the headline on the Herald, that bastion of conservative righteousness and prurient appetite: Lezzie Love Nest Murder.
No, driving in to Bangor wasn't a good idea.
Go down to the living room. Maybe someone else will be there, someone you can talk to, someone else whose lover has taken her night shirt and gone into Bangor with Sherry Dodder...
She bathed quickly, threw on her pajamas and robe, and headed for the stairs.
The living room was dark as the bottom of a coal mine, the only light coming from the night lamp that always burned on the registration desk. Stoner flicked on a table lamp.
So much for finding someone to talk to. She sighed and paced a little.
Look, she told herself, even if Gwen is momentarily taken in by Sherry, it's obviously just because Sherry is probably one great manipulator and trouble-maker, and Gwen is trusting and a little naive. It doesn't mean anything.
Well, not much of anything. There's always the missing night shirt.
She felt shaky inside, like a wall that's starting to crumble.
Somebody had to be up. There had to be someone she could talk to.
She went upstairs and prowled the hall, looking for light. Nobody was up.
What was the matter with these people? Didn't anyone stay up past ten, for God's sake? Didn't they realize the dark night hours were the best for doing all kinds of creative things? For intimate conversations? For listening to near strangers who are freaking out and obsessing themselves into psychosis?
Maybe on the third floor. Maybe there'd be a sane person up there, reading or having a thought.
She scurried up the stairs, and knew before she even got to the top that all she'd find was darkness.
All right, the rooms on the first floor, then.
But they were dark, too.
She went back to the living room.
The stupid night light was still glowing, just the way Sherry left it every night.
Damn Sherry Dodder. And damn Marcy's ex-lover, that Jennifer-rat who was responsible for all of this, who had arranged for Marcy to stay home in the first place.
But maybe there hadn't been a call from Marcy's ex-lover. Maybe Sherry had made it up so she could take Marcy's place on the Bangor trip. Marcy hadn't talked to her herself, she'd gotten a message. And it was Sherry Dodder who had given her that message. The sneaky, conniving...
And maybe, just maybe, Sherry and Gwen had cooked this up together right from the start, so Stoner would go off happily to Green Lake with Divi Divi. Gwen knew Stoner would be wary if she said she was going with Sherry, they'd already had awkwardness around their impressions of Sherry. The only awkwardness there'd been between them in forever, as far as Stoner could remember, had been around Sherry.
Be fair, she warned herself. You have absolutely no evidence that Sherry Dodder is anything but a perfectly nice, slightly strange individual. After all, what had Sherry done that was so bad? Happened to learn about Gwen's childhood love of pickle and pimento loaf, and provided some in case she wanted it. What was so bad about that? Been overly sensitive when she thought she was being criticized, and underly sensitive about Roseann's feelings? But they'd made up.
So she had some pretty bizarre habits around food, but that didn't make her a sleaze.
Nobody else thought there was anything suspicious about Sherry Dodder.
Just yours truly. The whole rest of the world thinks Sherry Dodder is a saint, and I don't trust her as far as I could spit her.
It was the loneliest feeling in the world.
Sherry, Sherry, Sherry.
Screw Sherry.
Which could be what Gwen was doing right this minute.
No! This was ridiculous. There was a perfectly logical explanation for it, she just couldn't think of it on her own. Besides, even if Gwen had decided on a romp with Sherry, it was her body, her life. Loving someone didn't mean you owned them.
She found herself over by the liquor cabinet and decided to have a drink. She hadn't had one in months. It would take the edge off her anxiety. Maybe even make her sleepy.
Except that Sherry kept the cabinet locked.
She checked anyway.
As luck would have it, tonight it was open.
Swinging the doors wide, she looked at the neat rows of bottles, all bright and shiny and business-like and eager to please. Mostly wine, which wouldn't meet her needs and would leave her with a headache and other ailments in the morning. What she wanted was a Manhattan. A Manhattan like she'd had back in Wyoming, in the bar at Timberline Lodge in the Tetons, where she'd gone to save Gwen from her husband.
She didn't want a Manhattan. She wanted Gwen, or all the Manhattans in the world.
Sherry, of course, wasn't supplied with pre-mixed Manhattans. Of course not. Pickle and pimento loaf, but no Manhattans.
It was the last straw. She closed the cabinet and sat down on the floor and cried.
I'm losing my mind, she thought as she pulled herself together and rummaged through the desk for a tissue. She found them in the bottom drawer, then decided to go through the rest of the drawers again, slowly, to see what she could find.
Nothing but loose pencils, paper clips, cheap ball point pens, pads of paper, anything the guests might need while checking in or out.
She found a roll of stamps and stole two, just for the hell of it.
The credit card machine sat on the corner of the desk. She thought about vandalizing it and creating untold complications for the elegant Ms. Dodder, but decided that was childish and would only inconvenience guests who wanted to check out.
Marcy's message was still in Stoner's box. She tore it into tiny pieces and was about to scatter them over the entire living room when she realized how much satisfaction that would give Sherry. Finding an envelope, she dropped the pieces in and sealed it and tossed it in the waste basket.
But Sherry might see that, and be curious and open it, and that would give Sherry even more satisfaction.
She fished the envelope from the trash, folded it up small, and slipped it in her bathrobe pocket. As soon as she got upstairs, she'd burn it.
This was getting crazier and crazier. She needed help.
The phone on the wall gave her an idea. She checked the time. One-for
ty-five. Chances were Edith Kesselbaum was still up. Edith was working on a paper for the Boston Psychoanalytic Society fall meeting, and always stayed up late when she was working on a paper. Sometimes she didn't actually work, but watched Infomercials—her current favorite was Jane Fonda's new treadmill ad. But staying up late, she insisted, was part of the creative process whether she actually did anything productive with the time or not. "Incubating," she would explain.
Stoner picked up the receiver and punched in Edith's home number. She thought of using her calling card, and charging it to her own phone, but changed her mind. Let Sherry Dodder pay for this call. It wasn't much, but it was a small act of revenge.
Edith had declared war on telemarketers and phone solicitors, and either monitored all her calls, or answered and let them give their spiel while she put the phone down and went into the other room. She liked to help them run up their phone bills. But sometimes she couldn't bear to do even that. Tonight was one of those nights, and she'd set her answerer to Call Screen Plus. She wouldn't even hear the ring. Stoner called again and entered her by-pass code. She listened through the message.
"Edith, it's Stoner. If you're there, please answer. I need to talk to you."
"Stoner," Edith said immediately, "what's wrong?"
Just the sound of Edith's voice made her feel more sane. "I'm okay, I guess. How are things there?"
Edith declared that she was fine, though especially uncreative tonight, and was looking for a more inspiring Infomercial. "I'm almost desperate enough to call Psychic Friends, but I fear Hermione would never respect me again."
''You're probably right," Stoner said. "Have you seen the new Popiel Pasta Maker?"
"No, I haven't. But I'll certainly look for it."
"How's Marylou?"
Marylou was fine, too, not at all resentful of being left with the packing, and had decided to interview various movers, pretending they hadn't already settled on one. It had netted her two dinner dates already.
"They can't have been very good dates," Stoner said. "I doubt that movers go to very exotic places."
"On the contrary," Edith said. "These are teamsters. They have a great deal of money and don't mind spending it. Although I have to admit their taste runs peculiarly to overly decorated Italian restaurants."
"It's okay to wonder," Stoner said. "But it might be wise not to wonder out loud."
Edith was silent for a moment. "Oh," she whispered at last. "I see what you mean. Do you suppose any of them might know my husband from his old F.B.I. days?"
"Anything's possible. But I really wouldn't worry."
"I'm not worried," Edith assured her. "The only times Marylou has ever gotten herself in real trouble was when she was with you."
"Edith!"
"It's true, Stoner. I know you're insulted, but it's only reality. What's on your mind? Are you homesick, or merely troubled?"
She hated being coy, but found she couldn't bring herself to spell it all out. "I'm just frustrated by this case."
"I hear more than that in your voice. Is everything all right between you and Gwen?"
She withdrew a little. "Fine," she said with forced cheerfulness. "Great."
"That was very enthusiastic. Not your style at all."
She withdrew a little more. "No, really." Edith's silence told her more was required. "The case is driving me nuts."
"You're oblique. That's always a bad sign."
“We’re fine, Edith.”
"You are not fine. Whatever's wrong between you, I'm sure it's temporary and not really serious."
"There's nothing..."
"The important thing is not to panic. You know how you are when you panic, all sense and reason fly out the window."
"Edith..."
"Now, tell me what's wrong, without panicking."
''You don't have to be my therapist any more."
"Stoner, dear," Edith Kesselbaum said, "you once paid me a great deal of money not by today's obscene standards, of course, but a great deal for the times to be your therapist. You're entitled to a little extra help now and then."
She felt irrationally furious. ''You were my therapist. I didn't buy your prying services for a lifetime."
"Aha," Edith said in a satisfied tone, "we've struck a nerve. Now we're getting somewhere."
Her defenses were beginning to crumble. Edith Kesselbaum had an annoying habit of doing that to her. "Things are just strange. I mean, nothing's happening, but… I don't know."
"Not knowing," Edith proclaimed, "is a step up from knowing the wrong things."
"It's nothing I can put my finger on." She tried to keep her voice calm, but she felt very shaky. No way was she about to break down in the middle of the darkness in the middle of Maine, with no one for comfort but the overstuffed furniture and viscous dark and a few perseverating crickets on the patio. "It's just kind of… as if we're running on parallel tracks, but not the same track."
"You feel alienated from her?"
Right. Alienated. "Uh-huh."
"But not actively disagreeing."
”Uh-huh." She was beginning to sound like a child. She was beginning to feel like a child.
"Just kind of 'off,' as one might say?”
''Yeah, off."
"Have you talked about it?"
The helplessness she'd been keeping under wraps began to ooze to the surface. "I would, but I don't know how."
"I see.”
"Edith, I don't know what to do. Everything's okay... I mean, it seems to be… but there's this big… I don't know... windy space."
"It's called 'loneliness,' Stoner," Edith said gently. "It happens all the time, when people disagree or don't see things exactly the same way, or aren't in the same mood at the same time. It's uncomfortable, but it doesn't have dire meanings."
She felt tears burning behind her eyes and tried to make herself cold. "Are you sure?" It came out with a little hiccup.
"Positive. It's just that you're so afraid of being rejected, and so devastated by it, you're overly sensitive to the little ebbs and flows of human interaction. You've been like that as long as I've known you."
"I'm sorry," Stoner said.
"You should probably be glad. Some people are so insensitive, they don't realize there's anything wrong until it's too late. What I find truly amazing is that you're willing to care about people at all. It must take tremendous courage on your part."
"Not really. It just happens."
Edith Kesselbaum laughed in a warm and affectionate way. "Now I find myself in the embarrassing position of taking Hermione's viewpoint: it may 'just happen' to your conscious self, but your Higher Spirit is one of great valor."
Stoner didn't know what to say.
"I hope," Edith said, "that your silence means you're weighing the wisdom of my words and it's changing your life forever. But I fear you're either confused or chagrined."
"She went into Bangor with one of the other women," she blurted out. "She took her night shirt."
Edith's silence was suspiciously long by a half second. "I know what you're thinking. But you have to avoid jumping to conclusions."
"Why? You just did."
"That's my job," Edith said.
"It is not. You're always telling me a shrink has to keep an open mind."
"Well, that's true, but we always jump to conclusions along the way. We just let go of them easily."
"Edith..."
"All right, I think it's very strange behavior and not at all like Gwen, which makes me believe there's a large chunk of this puzzle that you don't have. So, until you find that chunk, I suggest you chill out."
"Chill out?" she said.
"Forgive me. I had that adolescent group out at HRI today. You know, the eating disorders one."
That reminded her of something. "Edith, did you ever run across anyone who made a sandwich by slicing the crusts off the bread and cutting the bread into four pieces and then slicing one in half sideways and throwing away the rest?"
&
nbsp; "Goodness! I probably have, but I don't remember at the moment. Actually, I'm sure I'd remember if I had. We're talking about an eating disorder, of course, but a pretty bizarre one." She paused. "Well, maybe not entirely bizarre in the run of things, but if this person did this in front of you..."
"She did."
"Then that is strange, and I would suspect there's something more going on. Something for your benefit."
"You really think so?"
"The majority of women with eating disorders are ashamed. They don't make a display of it."
"Maybe she slipped."
"You don't understand the depth of humiliation these women feel," Edith said. "They're not likely to make that kind of a mistake. Especially since control is one of their biggest issues."
It made sense.
"What else do you know about this person?" Edith asked.
"She's the one who hired me. The one Gwen's with tonight."
"Uh-oh. Stoner, you might be way out of your league here."
"No kidding."
"I hate to say it, but it really begins to sound as if your trouble-maker is a 297.3."
"A what?"
"That's a diagnostic designation. I really only use them for insurance purposes, but sometimes it helps to remember what you might be up against."
"What I might be up against?"
“Would you like me to come up there?"
It was tempting. She could bounce her ideas off of Edith, who would at least understand her frustration. And Edith would be comforting, and help her put things into perspective...
But it would also change the dynamics of the situation, and put people on their guard. She had a hunch she could get to the bottom of it better if she didn't do too much to rock the boat.
She said as much to Edith, who sort of agreed, with the qualification that Stoner keep in mind her own tendency to believe she had to go it alone.
"I know," Stoner said. "But this is one of those times I think I'm right."
"Well, you know how to reach me if you need me."
Stoner rested the phone against her shoulder and rummaged through the refrigerator beneath the mail boxes. She found a Dr. Pepper, and was about to open it when she remembered that Dr. Pepper was loaded with caffeine, and she might need to sleep for an hour or two tonight. She settled for a Ginger Ale instead.
