by Marge Piercy
“I thought …” Actually she realized she had known Cathy was not Jewish. It was the dead husband, brother of the annoying Zak, who had been Jewish.
“Because of the name. My husband was brought up Jewish. I am not much of anything, but my family were Congregationalists. We had the prettiest church in town. Like a postcard. Mostly we went to hear the choir and the organ.”
“What was Sam brought up?”
“He was bar mitzvahed—my husband insisted. He said it would shock his family not to. Then a year later, he was dead. I felt like my life had stopped. I couldn’t function. If Zak hadn’t taken over, our lives would have disintegrated. I just couldn’t cope!”
“I understand.… Zak doesn’t have a family of his own, obviously.”
“He was married. He had a kid. You have to understand, his family has the worst luck in the world. They’re always dying. His wife and his baby daughter were killed in a fire. She was a musician. She was gorgeous and all that, but they lived out in L.A. and we only saw them maybe four times. They seemed very glamorous to me, I can remember.” She shook her head at the idea of Zak being glamorous. “Even Mike was a little jealous of his younger brother. Once I got to know Zak, that made me laugh. He’s a dear soul but antisocial. He tries to be a part-time daddy. And he’s helped us.”
“Helped you out with money?”
“That and dealing with the bank and doctors and lawyers. I just get lost in what they tell me. My boyfriend helps me too. I’m not supposed to mention him in court, but I can’t see why. He’s in construction. He was married to a first-class bitch, but he’s been divorced for years—”
“Does Sam feel close to his uncle?”
“Sam changed. He was very close to Zak. But I think that Becky took him over body and soul. He got weird. He started lying a lot.” Cathy sighed, leaning her elbows on the table top. “I’m easy to fool. I never think somebody’s lying to me unless it hits me right between the eyes.”
“What did he start lying about?”
“Where he was, what he was doing. He met her at a local theater company. His high school English teacher encouraged him to get interested in community theater, and so did I. We thought it would be good for him. Ha!”
“Theater companies seem to spawn romance,” Leila said sourly. “It comes with the territory, I guess.” She did not bother saying that her husband was in theater. Cathy distracted too easily.
Cathy snorted. “I can remember how happy I was when he joined. He was making new friends. First he was painting scenery and fetching and carrying. Then he started acting. He gained so much confidence, I had no idea it wasn’t coming from doing Agatha Christie in the old Masonic Hall.”
“When did you become aware they were involved?”
“I was suspicious a couple of times something was going on. It would seem to me he was out a lot at odd hours. But rehearsals drag on, and who could tell when they finished at ten and he pretended ten-thirty or eleven? I guess I’m the trusting type.” Cathy fluttered her lashes. Leila realized there was nothing personal involved. It was a mannerism she attached to that statement. It was part of Cathy’s image of herself. “But Sam’s always been a good conscientious boy.”
“Did he talk about Becky?”
“He kept saying how she was good to him, how she was teaching him so much. I thought he had a crush on her, but I never dreamed they were having an affair. After all, he was in high school and she was a married woman! I’d have as soon suspected … you.”
“But she wasn’t that much older. Not old enough to be his mother.”
“She’s eight years older. At his age, that’s a huge difference. When I married Mike, he was four years older than me, and believe me, I was a kid compared to him. I was fresh from college and he had been out in the world.”
“So they met in a community theater?”
“The Canal Players. In the winter, we go because it’s something to do, and in the summer, the tourists go.” Cathy bounced up and looked at her bulletin board. “They’re putting on The Glass Menagerie now. You could see it.”
Leila fervently hoped she would not have to. She was not overly fond of Tennessee Williams even in the productions Nick mounted, although one of his early successes in summer stock had been playing the Marlon Brando role in Streetcar. “If you were me, which of the regulars would you talk to?”
Cathy frowned, raising one shoulder. “Well … Mr. Berg, Sam’s English teacher—Sam confided in him some. He’s the one who suggested that Sam might enjoy theater. I don’t blame him. He thought it would help Sam overcome his tendency to be shy. It did give him confidence, but I guess it was the wrong kind. Really, how was I to know?”
“You naturally encouraged him. It must have seemed like a nice hobby for a boy his age, much better than hanging around getting into trouble.”
“That’s it exactly—you understand, because you’re the mother of a teenage boy too. Right, you worry they’re going to get into drugs. I know there are drugs in the high school.”
She remembered how she had worried herself, and then felt hypocritical, because Nick and she and all their friends had smoked dope when they were scarcely older than David. It had been part of the national underground youth culture, as common as the current fad of baseball caps.
“I fretted about drinking. Every couple of years some of them wreck up a car and kill each other. I worried that when he didn’t go out with girls, maybe he was gay. Then I worried when he started seeing a girl, that he would have sex with her and make her pregnant. I was always worrying. I was actually looking forward to Sam going away to college. Then bang! the police.”
It made Leila nod. “It starts when you’re pregnant, doesn’t it? You’re scared the baby will be born with two heads or webbed feet. Then you’re afraid he won’t start walking on time, he won’t start talking. Is he smart enough? Can he read early enough? Developmental obsession.”
“The way it is, my boyfriend can’t stay over. I just wouldn’t feel right about it with a teenage boy in the house. It’s asking for him to get into trouble. So what with worrying and trying to make ends meet and not having enough hours in the day, I admit I was looking forward to having some time to myself I haven’t had since my daughter Miri was born.” She grimaced, fluffing her hair. “It feels funny without the ponytail. I miss it.”
“But it looks nice this way too,” Leila said diplomatically. “It costs so much to send a kid to college, I still can’t believe it.”
“Tell me about it. He got a scholarship. Zak was going to pay the rest. Now I suppose they’ll take the scholarship away from him even if he gets off.” Cathy’s face screwed up and she looked as if she were going to cry.
“It’s a sad situation.” Leila took her hand.
Two large drops ran down Cathy’s face, blurring her eye makeup. “I don’t see how it can ever work out again! It’s all a mess, no matter what happens! Zak’s raising bail, so we’ll have him home soon. I don’t know how that’s going to be, frankly.”
“He’s young,” Leila said. “And so really are you. You have your home. You have your friends. I hope the lawyer is good.”
“I just don’t know what’s going to become of Sam. When he wasn’t wanting to be a vet like Zak, he wanted to be an astronomer. He even had a telescope Zak gave him. He showed me the rings of Saturn. Now he’s going to be on trial for murder. I feel so ashamed, and I’m scared sick for him!”
As Leila drove back to Cambridge, she thought that she had never had a book to work on where the circles just kept widening. She supposed that from one murder she could interview people the rest of her life. She could interview all the people who’d ever known Terry, Becky, Sam, Sam’s friend—what was his name? She had forgotten to ask about him. All the families. Those who had worked with them, gone to school with them. She had imagined murderers as solitary beings. These people trailed nets of connection. She felt overwhelmed and also intrigued. Ordinary lives, but how often did a project give her a lic
ense to prowl through other people’s families and social webs?
She was not sorry to have the house to herself. She had enjoyed David’s visit and, during the last day, Nick’s company; but while they were present, she was aligned toward them, meeting their needs, paying attention, making nice. Her gaze came to rest on the pile of clippings on the coffee table. She had promised Nick she would read them. That meant turn them into something acceptable to him. She suddenly remembered she had also promised to make up her mind whether to go to New York. She must decide if she wanted to look over the competition or wait for his return. Sheryl had sounded demanding on the phone; that would alienate Nick quickly. Nick had had enough of her energy for a while. She had been neglecting her students. Besides legitimate needs, some students wanted her in the mentor or the mommy role, both of which she filled comfortably. Everyone needed attention. Perhaps even herself. But Melanie was dead.
She sank into the couch. Vronsky climbed into her lap and stared into her face, putting his paws on her shoulders. What’s wrong? she imagined him asking. Nothing, really. Nothing that mattered.
Saturday morning about eleven as she was going over the notes from her interviews, the doorbell rang. Jehovah’s Witnesses? She had not seen a door-to-door salesman in ten years. Express Mail? What could possibly be delivered on Saturday? Someone soliciting for something, political or charitable? Her friends called before appearing; they were trained. Some over-eager, over-pushy student who had wormed her address out of a secretary?
Slowly she stalked over, sure whoever was at the door had little right to be there. She looked out through the narrow window that flanked it. It took her a moment to recognize the man, in bulky parka because it was snowing and quite cold. His collar was turned up and a furry trooper hat was yanked over his ears. His hair was unmistakable around the base of the hat, as was his thick curly beard. It was the brother-in-law—Zak.
She groaned and thought of pretending to be away, but she was looking at him through the window and he was looking at her. He had a great deal of influence over Cathy; she seemed dependent upon him for money and for doing tasks she considered beyond herself.
Reluctantly she opened the door. “Hello … Zak Solomon.” She emphasized stumbling over his name. “I remember you from Sandwich. Cathy’s brother-in-law, isn’t it? It’s a good idea to call first, since I’m frequently away, and you had quite a drive.”
“I was in town,” he said shortly. “May I come in?”
“Of course,” she said politely. “May I take your coat?” She intentionally did not hang it up, as she did not want to encourage him to stay long. She simply folded it over the back of a rocking chair.
When she turned he was busy examining the items on the coffee table. “Your husband is in theater?” He wore a dark green turtleneck and chinos. His hands were shoved in his pockets as he canted forward, peering.
Sometimes people knew who Nick was, sometimes not. Fame was a specialized commodity, not exportable past the natural barriers of different interests. She couldn’t name a famous golfer or soccer player. However, she could produce a bibliography on violence against women dictated without notes. She knew which U.C.L.A. sociologist had just left his colleague-wife for a graduate student of twenty-three, and which Russian sociologist had just been unmasked for faking statistics on urban crime, which colleague had almost won a Pulitzer for his study of Asian gangs.
She contented herself with saying, “A director. He has a play in New York that just opened, but usually he works in regional theater. He’s mounted plays at the Los Angeles Theater Center and the Mark Taper Forum—I believe you lived in L.A.?”
He sat in the chair she usually took, refusing her offer of coffee or tea. “May I ask why you’re interested in this case? You must turn down book offers. Why did you take this one?’
“The timing seemed right,” she said almost truthfully.
“You mean you expect the trial to attract as much attention as the case has. Reasonable assumption.”
“I thought you’d understand how long it takes to write a book. By the time my book is out, any interest in the outcome will have gone the way of last year’s fads.”
Vronsky had come in and was staring at Zak. Then he approached stiff-legged and sniffed at his trouser legs. Zak started scratching behind the cat’s ears and Vronsky suddenly jumped into his lap. Traitor!
“Oh, but if the material is juicy enough, or can be made to seem so—”
“Mr. Solomon, I sent Cathy one of my books. I thought you might look at it before allowing your suspicions to run riot. I don’t deal in the sensational—”
“Women in prison, sexually abused women, women who abuse their children—sounds like material for ‘Oprah,’ any afternoon.”
“Sodomy, father-daughter incest, fratricide, mass murder—all Torah. We’re a bloody lot, human beings. Everything depends on what you do with material. Even dealing with animals, you must run into sex and violence—no?”
“I’m treating companion animals. Unfortunately, you’re attempting to deal with my nephew, my sister-in-law, people I care about.”
“Mr. Solomon, I am not responsible for your nephew’s involvement in a murder case. I’m not responsible for the publicity this case is getting or how the media is handling it.” She stood and paced toward the windows, launching into a defense she had perfected over the years, with variations. “I’m responsible for a serious and in-depth study of the meaning of the case. If I don’t do it, someone else will. I have a son close in age to Sam and with similarities, so I’m programmed to be more sympathetic. Plus I’m Jewish, and I’m not a self-hating Jew who turns on other Jews out of unresolved identity problems. I’m as good as you’re likely to get, from Sam’s point of view.” Teaching was great training in speaking and arguing, one reason the local TV station liked to use her as an expert witness. She was not photogenic, but she came across as knowledgeable, kind, articulate. Now she moved closer and took a seat on the arm of a chair about ten feet from him. Closer, not too close. Change of voice. Pitched lower, more intimate. “Why be hostile? What advantage is that? If you persuade Cathy and Sam not to talk to me, it won’t stop Becky’s family and Terry’s family from serving as informants. Only the final product will be biased toward them, because they will have shared their experiences with me—and if you’re successful, Sam won’t have.” Her concentration was slightly spoiled by Vronsky, who was sitting in her enemy’s lap and watching her as if she were entertainment for both of them.
Zak leaned back in the chair and grinned. It was the first time she had seen any expression but hostility or anxiety on his face. “I take it you’re saying that I can’t stop this case from being written about, so it’s ultimately better for Cathy and Sam if I con you instead of fighting you.”
“You can try.” She smiled back, thinly. “You don’t have to like me. Just don’t try to keep me from talking to Cathy and Sam and others in their circle. You won’t keep me from writing the book, no matter what you do.”
“I understand. Some people pick up the garbage, some people write about other people’s misfortunes.”
“Perhaps you feel it is only correct to apply one’s intelligence to cocker spaniels and cockatoos, but sometimes people like to try to understand each other—whether it’s war, panic in crowds, the behavior of street gangs or murder cases that people are curious about because they strike some nerve. I believe I’ve had a small influence in legislation concerning the rights of women in prison vis-à-vis their children in three states. I’ve been able to make audiences understand something about the experience of incest in childhood and what happens to abused women when they are dealing with their own children. I think I’ve been able to give victims more sense of dignity.” She folded her arms.
“It’s hard for me to imagine, looking at you in your own setting, how you could drum up much real empathy for women who are poor, disorganized, confused, impulsive—for people with sloppy lives.”
“It’s ha
rd to judge someone’s life experiences by their living room, Mr. Solomon. I wouldn’t try, myself.”
He stood. “I suspect you’re a lot more judgmental than you let on. I’ll clear out. I’m sure I’m using up time you don’t have, in your busy and well-organized day.” He took his coat from the rocking chair and shrugged it on. “Do you know when your cat had that hematoma?”
“I got him from the Animal Rescue League about a month ago.”
“He’s three, I’d say, was intact for at least two years, had several serious fights. Well fed as a kitten but had a period of malnutrition.”
“Thank you.” She walked him to the door, mostly to make sure he was actually leaving. Then she raced up the stairs to look over the hedge. He had a loping stride. He drove a Toyota pickup, dark blue, high up off the road with four-wheel drive. He stopped at the stop sign at the end of the block, drove off neither too fast nor too slow, deliberately. She plumped down in her desk chair with a deep sigh.
Cathy wanted to talk to her, and she was simply going to proceed. Why was he so proprietary? If this were a neat who-done-it, he would be the real murderer, and she would clear Sam and Becky. He was going to be a nuisance. She’d run into men before who resented a woman professional researching in their backyard. She had simply detoured them.
She was disconcerted by his appearance at her home. This was the first time anyone from her researches had invaded her life. It made her feel vulnerable. No matter how she examined him, Zak represented trouble.
TWENTY-TWO
Becky
“I’m in love,” she told her mother in the kitchen. By getting up very early she caught Mama alone except for the baby in the high chair.
