The Mask of Sanity

by Jacob M. Appel

  Balint felt his stomach roiling. “You could say that,” he conceded.

  “Good. Because I need another eulogy for tomorrow’s memorial,” said the chairman. “I agreed to coordinate this damn thing for Jeanine’s sake—they were practically engaged, just so you know—but I’m having a doozy of a time lining up speakers. So far, all I have is Myron Salt from neurology. Can I count on you for a brief speech? It doesn’t have to run more than five to ten minutes.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Balint. “What about a surgeon?”

  “I tried. They all said no. I’d never say this in front of Jeanine, but that fellow had more enemies than I ever would have guessed. So can you help me out?”

  Balint agreed. What choice did he have? Unfortunately public speaking had never been one of his strong suits, and he stayed up another four hours churning out a draft of his remarks. Yet as he jotted down platitudes of praise, he cursed Sugarman’s memory. The bastard was having one last laugh, even from beyond the grave. When Balint arrived at Sewell Auditorium for the ten o’clock tribute, accompanied by Amanda, his eyes were bloodshot from exhaustion. According to the photocopied program, a graveside service in Elizabeth Lakes would follow the memorial.

  The turnout amazed Balint. For a man who’d so recently run short on eulogists, Sugarman attracted more than his fair share of mourners—or, at least, of the idly curious. Balint recognized many of his colleagues in the crowd, including Andy Price from hematology, Sid Crandall from endocrinology, and even Dr. Liao, the visiting Taiwanese pulmonologist who’d subbed for him at the free clinic. There were also faces he hadn’t seen in years: Allan Drevitz, the retired surgeon who’d directed the transplant program before Pastarnack; a social work coordinator with an artificial voice box who’d retired when Balint was still an intern. And there were countless mourners he didn’t recognize at all—including a disproportionate number of attractive young females. At the urging of Dr. Sanditz, Balint and Amanda settled into the second row. Myron Salt and his most recent wife—his much younger wife—sat to their right. In the front row, on the opposite aisle, Rabbi Steinhoff conferred with Gloria Sugarman/Picardo. The late surgeon’s son squirmed in his nearby seat and tugged at his necktie. Immediately in front of Balint, the chairman’s daughter wept softly into her mother’s shoulder.

  “I had no idea Sugarman had so many friends,” he said to Amanda.

  His wife looked at him as though she hardly recognized him. “There are lots of things you don’t know. As hard as that is for you to imagine.” Amanda didn’t sound angry, merely depleted. She’d hardly spoken to him since she’d learned of her lover’s death. Balint considered reaching for her hand—but he feared that she might pull away. He didn’t want to risk forcing their reconciliation prematurely.

  At precisely five minutes after ten, Steinhoff stepped to the lectern and welcomed the mourners. On this occasion, the young rabbi did not appear to be in any hurry; his cellular phone was nowhere to be seen. He offered a prayer—in both English and Hebrew—and then yielded the floor to Bruce Sanditz. As though the microphone were a hot potato, the chairman quickly handed it over to Myron Salt. Only then did Balint examine the program more carefully. He had not merely been billed as the final speaker, it turned out; he was described as Sugarman’s “lifelong friend.” Listening to Myron Salt tell stories of his boyhood antics with the dead man growing up in Bergen County—how they’d trapped a songbird and placed it inside their third grade teacher’s desk drawer, and how Salt had slept on Sugarman’s couch after each of his divorces—Balint’s own prepared remarks about the deceased man’s “collegial spirit” and surgical skills felt woefully inadequate. He wished he’d had Delilah beside him for moral support, rather than Amanda’s cool civility.

  “And our final tribute of the morning,” announced Dr. Sanditz after Salt returned to his seat, “is Warren’s closest friend both from college and from medical school, the chief of our own division of cardiology, Dr. Jeremy Balint.”

  Balint stepped up to the podium. The stage lights nearly blinded him for an instant, but soon his eyes adjusted. In front of him, only inches from his feet, Jeanine Sanditz sniffled into a tissue. A few yards to his left, Gloria bore a stoic grimace. Amanda’s face remained an inscrutable blank. All at once, the cardiologist was struck by how much human suffering Warren Sugarman had caused. If he’d had any doubts about wiping out his rival, as his eyes panned across each of these betrayed, grieving women, Balint felt himself thoroughly and unequivocally vindicated. That was what he truly wanted to talk about: Vindication. Justice. With each passing second, the silence in the auditorium grew heavier. He removed his prepared remarks from his breast pocket and glanced over them; then he set them aside.

  “It is only fitting that our beloved friend and colleague, Warren Sugarman, was murdered by the Emerald Choker,” he declared, “because it reminds us that it requires an enormous evil to eradicate as powerful a force for good as was Warren.” His voice rose as his confidence grew. “I used to joke with Warren that if he had been born Catholic, they’d have made him a saint. His response was always the same: he warned me not to let his secret out of the bag. Because Warren’s modesty and deep humility kept him from publicizing his most generous deeds. For instance, many of you remember Warren’s ‘vacation’ in Peru last year. But how many of you know that Warren secretly donated all of the proceeds from his industry-sponsored lectures to free clinics in Lima . . . ?”

  None of them knew about donations to the free clinics, of course, because they’d never taken place. Nor had the nights in medical school when Sugarman allowed homeless former patients to crash on the couch in his dormitory room. For nearly half an hour, Balint rattled off his rival’s unheralded good deeds—his life-saving bone-marrow donations, the hours he volunteered recording medical journals for blind physicians, the many occasions when together they skipped their Columbia classes and served meals at a South Bronx soup kitchen. “The world’s indigent and downtrodden had had no greater ally,” avowed Balint, “than the late Warren Sugarman.” His portrait of the murder victim was complete nonsense, but nobody was in any position to object.

  “At the time of his death,” Balint concluded, “Warren had just told me that he planned on donating one of his kidneys to a complete stranger. What do I need with an extra kidney? he asked. And while, as we all know, Warren never had an opportunity to give that kidney away while here with us on earth, I’d like to believe he’s already had himself listed as an organ donor in heaven.” By the end of his eulogy, Balint had been so moved by his own words that he found himself wiping tears from his eyes.

  Gloria thanked him for his kind remarks. Jeanine Sanditz assured him that he’d captured perfectly “the essence” of the Warren she’d known and loved. Etan Steinhoff patted him on the back and reminded him that he’d make a fine rabbi. Balint also received handshakes and hugs from dozens of strangers.

  The interment itself was a far more intimate affair. Only a handful of friends followed the hearse to the cemetery. A bitter chill had dropped the temperature below freezing. Steinhoff said the mourners’ kaddish and the shema, then read the twenty-third Psalm. Balint took his turn shoveling soil onto the casket. By two o’clock, the body rested underground and they were headed back to Laurendale.

  Amanda didn’t utter one word on their drive home. He feared that she alone might have seen through his lavish praise of Sugarman—that his wife might even have interpreted his remarks as mockery. But time, Balint knew, was on his side. His rival no longer had a dog in the fight. Now that he’d eliminated the competition, Balint was ready to start rebuilding his marriage.

  AMANDA HAD taken a bereavement day at the library, but Balint was still planning to see patients in the late afternoon. He pulled up in front of their home and waited for his wife to exit the car. “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Dropping you off. I have a four o’clock patient.”

  She didn’t respond at first. After a pause, she said, “Woul
d you please come inside? I’d like to have a conversation with you.”

  “Can it wait until tonight?”

  “No,” replied Amanda. “It cannot wait until tonight.”

  So Balint shut off the engine and followed her into the house. He sensed she was displeased with his eulogy, but he didn’t see why their discussion couldn’t be postponed until after supper. Amanda keyed off the burglar alarm and hung her coat in the closet; then she climbed the stairs to their bedroom and slumped down on the bedspread. He stood opposite her, leaning against his exercise bike. Neither of them had turned on the overhead fixture, so a cloak of pale winter sunlight draped over the room.

  He decided to preempt her. “If you’re upset about something I said at the memorial, I want you to know that I did the best I could on short notice.”

  Amanda shrugged. “I’d like you to do something for me. Something important.”

  “Sure. Anything—if it’s that important.”

  “It is important.” Her eyes focused on her hands; Balint could hardly hear her voice. “I’d like you to move out.”

  That hadn’t been what he’d anticipated. He willed himself to remain calm—as he did on the rare occasions when a patient suffered a cardiac arrest in his office. “You’re upset. And maybe you have a right to be upset. But is this really what you want? Jesus, Amanda. Nine years is a long time. Once you’ve had a chance to think things over, you may see them differently.”

  “I’m not upset, Jeremy. I have every right to be upset, but I’m not. And I have thought things through. Now if you care about me the slightest bit—or even if you don’t—I’m asking you to pack your things and move out.”

  A shiver ran up Balint’s spine. His eyes darted around the bedroom—the room they’d shared for nearly a decade. On the carpet in front of the bookcase lay his wife’s valise, still halfpacked from their trip to Disney World. An unfinished latchhook rug rested on her nightstand. It seemed impossible that at the very moment he’d finally removed the chief obstacle to their happiness, his wife suddenly wanted out.

  “May I ask why?” he asked.

  Amanda nodded. “If what you said today at Warren’s service wasn’t true—and I doubt it was—then you’re a total asshole and I’m ashamed to be married to you. But if for some reason it were true—if Warren really did lead this double life as a saint and a bone-marrow donor, then that reminded me that I’m married to the wrong person. I don’t love you, Jeremy. It’s that simple.”

  “You mean you’re not in love with me. That happens. After seven, eight, nine years, marriages change.”

  “You’re not listening to me, Jeremy. I’m not in love with you. That’s true. But it’s not what I’m saying. I don’t love you. Period. The sad part is that I haven’t loved you for a very long time . . . If not for Warren, I’d have left you ages ago.”

  “Warren?”

  “Don’t pretend, okay? I’m tired of pretending. You know I was having an affair with Warren and I know you’re screwing some nursing student—and the only reason I didn’t say something sooner was that Warren preferred it this way. On account of Gloria, before they split up, and then for his son . . .” Amanda rose from the bed. “So now you see why I think that it’s best for you to move out.”

  “Why should I move out?” demanded Balint. He felt his anger mounting; he cupped his fist in his palm. “You were fucking Warren Sugarman so I should move out. That doesn’t make a hell of a lot of sense.”

  “Okay, I’ll move out,” Amanda replied without emotion. “I’ll move out and you drive Phoebe to her violin lessons and buy Jessie’s favorite brand of ice pops and call the water company next month to turn the sprinklers back on for the summer. Do you have any fucking idea what it’s like to run a house, Jeremy? Do you know how to prepare the estimated taxes for the accountant? Or how often the flue should be swept out so the fireplace doesn’t explode? My God, I bet you don’t even know the names of your daughters’ teachers!”

  “Mrs. Duncrest and Miss Grossman.”

  “That was last year,” Amanda corrected him. “I don’t think you have the slightest clue how to do what I do every day. Not a fucking clue. But if you want to try, goddammit, be my guest.”

  Balint realized that his entire future depended on what he said next, but he could no longer conceive of a path forward—at least, not one in which he persuaded Amanda to change her mind. Her offer hung in the air like poison. Balint’s body felt as frigid as ice.

  “I don’t want to try,” he murmured.

  “What?”

  “I said, I don’t want to try.”

  Amanda retrieved her purse from the bed. “I’m going to pick your daughters up from school and I’m going to take them to Animal Palace for dinner. Please don’t be here when I get back.”

  Again she’d caught him off guard. “You can’t really expect me to move out right now?” he asked. “Where am I supposed to go?”

  His wife walked to the door. “Where do you go when you’re claiming you’re at dinner talks and continuing education conferences?” she asked. “You’re a smart guy, Jeremy—and you have a gift for deception. I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”

  Amanda disappeared into the corridor, leaving him alone in the shadow-filled room. “What about the girls?” he called after her. “What are you going to tell them?” But she was already gone.

  For the longest minute of his life, Balint stared at the spot where she’d been standing. Then he adjusted to his new situation and started packing clothes and toiletries into his suitcases. What other option remained? He’d have to rent a room at the Hager Heights Motor Inn until he could find an apartment. And once he was settled into his new lodgings, he’d have to murder again. Two more times. What a waste, he thought. What a nuisance. But it was far too late to alter his course, so he would still have to sacrifice two more lives for the sake of a marriage that could no longer be salvaged.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  From the outset, Balint had understood that he’d have to kill six times—now seven, counting each of the Rockingham slayings separately. He’d planned on three killings before Sugarman’s murder and two more after. Otherwise—even should the authorities never figure out that Sugarman had been his intended target all along—they’d likely focus a disproportionate amount of time and effort on the final crime. Yet the prospect of two more murders weighed heavily on him: if murdering strangers had been mildly distasteful before his rival’s death, now the prospect of stalking additional victims felt like an unreasonable burden to bear. But Balint steeled himself to the task. Even as he registered at the Hager Heights Motor Inn—surprising the night clerk when he requested a room for seven days, rather than merely three hours—his mind was already focused on putting the final two killings behind him. What mattered most, of course, was not cutting corners. He couldn’t afford to let Amanda’s poor judgment drive him toward negligence. That was why he’d seen his four o’clock and four-thirty patients that afternoon, despite his intense desire to drink himself into oblivion.

  Once he’d settled into the stark motel room—which, on arrival, he registered was Room 101—Balint telephoned Delilah and asked if she could meet him that evening. Urgently. His mistress had been scheduled for an overnight shift at her hospital, but when he emphasized the importance of meeting him, she agreed to request a sub. Ninety minutes later, she pushed open the unlocked motel room door. Balint felt overjoyed to see her. He’d already polished off half the bottle of Scotch that he’d brought with him from home—or what had once been home—and the furniture was beginning to sway around him.

  Delilah’s flushed face blazed beneath her jet-black bangs. Her knee-length cloth coat only accentuated her curves.

  “You look ravishing,” declared Balint.

  “Oh goodness, Jeremy. You’re intoxicated.”

  He felt ashamed and set down his drink. “Just tipsy.”

  Delilah tossed her coat and scarf on the bedspread. She approached him with professional a
lacrity—first appropriating both the glass and whiskey bottle, then insisting that he remove his shoes and socks. “What you need is a cup of hot coffee and a cold shower,” she announced.

  “Can we talk first?” he asked. “Please. Something’s happened.”

  Delilah looked indecisively from Balint to the motel’s coffeemaker and back. To his relief, she settled down alongside him on the bed. For a moment, she even nuzzled her face against his neck. “I’m worried about you, darling,” she said. “But please do me a favor: Next time, if something happens, call me before you get tipsy, okay?”

  “Okay,” he agreed. “But it happened so fast.”

  Delilah squeezed his hand sympathetically. “Tell me all about it.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll be mad,” he said. “You will be mad. And you’ll have every reason to be mad. I suppose what I’m really afraid of is that you’ll leave me.”

  The nursing student scoffed. “Don’t count on it, buster,” she said. “You’re stuck with me—whether you like it or not.” “

  “How can you be so certain? What if I told you I was a war criminal? Or the Emerald Choker?”

  “Then we’d deal with it. I may seem sweet and innocent to you, but I can be a stubborn bitch when I want to be.” She kissed him on each wrist. “I love you. And even if I didn’t love you, I’d still owe you for everything you did for me and Papa. I’m not only a stubborn bitch, but I’m a stubborn, loyal bitch. Now what is this awful, dark secret that you’re going to reveal that’s supposedly going to have me running for the hills?”

  The girl’s eyes never left his; her grip on his hands never loosened. How different this odd creature was from Amanda, he realized—how much better a human being. Not more competent or more presentable. But better in the moral sense. For all of the pain he’d suffered over Amanda’s rejection—and worse than pain, humiliation—he recognized that he’d have been far happier all along with Delilah Navare. It now seemed so obvious that if he hadn’t let Amanda wear down his resistance in medical school, he’d never have found himself murdering strangers. The last laugh, in other words, would still belong to him. If Delilah was willing to forgive him, that was. But he had to try.