Skin Deep

by Gary Braver

  “Looks like you had more than pizza.”

  Baffled, he looked at Becky, who indicated his face. Her lipstick was all over him. Immediately he pulled his hand out of hers and began wiping his mouth. Lila shot Becky a savage look.

  “It’s okay. I can walk home,” Becky said.

  “You’re not walking home,” Lila growled. “It’s nearly midnight.”

  “But I can call my parents. There’s a phone booth at the gas station up there.”

  Lila said nothing and roared past the Gulf station.

  For several minutes they rode without speaking. Becky kept glancing at him, but he just kept his face out the window, feeling mortified. The lights from the street flickered and silence filled the car like toxic fumes. When they reached Becky’s house Lila slammed on the brakes. She said nothing, as Becky jumped out. “Thanks for the ride. Good night.”

  He got out to walk her to her door when Lila said, “Where do you think you’re going?”

  He tried to tell her, but the words had no air. “G’night,” he muttered, and watched Becky walk up the path and go inside. He wanted to get in the rear seat, but he knew Lila would object. With his heart slamming he slipped into the front. Without a word she jammed the shift into drive and peeled away. After another minute, he couldn’t stand the tension any longer. “What’s wrong?”

  “What’s wrong?” she snapped, and turned to him. “Your little friend is a goddamn little slut is what. Your face is painted with her.”

  “W-what’re you—” But before he could finish, she backhanded him in the mouth, the diamond of her engagement ring catching his upper lip and splitting the skin. He grabbed some tissues from the box on the dashboard. “I’m bleeding,” he said in disbelief.

  “Good for you.”

  “What’s your problem?” he yelled, outrage burning through fear. “It’s just makeup. We weren’t doing anything.”

  Through her teeth she snarled, “I don’t want you seeing her again.”

  “How come?”

  “Because she’s a slut.”

  “No, she isn’t.”

  “Don’t tell me she isn’t. She’s a little slut, and everybody in town knows it.”

  “What are you talking about?” His mind scrambled for something solid to land on. Did Becky Tolland have a reputation that he knew nothing about? Maybe some kind of secret parent network that shared dark rumors about kids? That didn’t make sense. If there were a buzz about Becky Tolland, it would be all over Franklin High. He’d know about it. There was no such buzz. It was Lila’s own paranoia. She was jealous, and the realization hit him like a hammer.

  After a brittle moment, she brushed back her hair. “Are you fucking her?”

  It was the first time he had ever heard her use that word. In fact, it had crossed his mind that Lila may not in her entire life have ever uttered that word, imagining her uncorrupted by such a vulgarity because she was so proper and didn’t want to offend Jesus. “W-what?”

  “You heard me. Are you fucking her?”

  This time she pronounced the word with such violence that a jolt shot through him. Her face was white and drawn, the flames of her hair rising like fire from her skull, her eyes crazy-askew in the streetlights. He could barely recognize her as the same woman who just hours ago applauded him with tears of joy. It was if some dark malevolence had taken possession of the woman who had raised him. “Don’t talk that way,” he whimpered.

  “Don’t go stupid on me. I know what you kids do. Answer me: are you fucking her?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “No, I’m not lying.” His voice was a thin warble. Whatever came over her made him wonder in terror if she was losing her mind.

  She nodded. “After all I’ve done for you. After all the sacrificing, trying to bring you up right.”

  Against his will, he began to cry. “What did I do wrong?”

  In a flash she snapped down the visor mirror. “Look at your face and shirt. Just look at you.”

  “We were just fooling around. Everybody was.”

  She continued nodding as if in private conversation with a voice in her head. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Did she go down on you?”

  He wasn’t even sure he knew what she meant, but the suspicion was appalling. “What?”

  “Is there lipstick on your dick, too?”

  “You’re sick, you know that? You’re sick.”

  She tried to swat him again, but he blocked it. “You shamed me and you shamed yourself, you know that?”

  “But how? It was only a little kissing.”

  “Yeah, with Becky Tolland, who does it for any boy who looks at her.”

  “That’s not true.”

  She turned the wheel hard, then braked. With a jolt they were home.

  Without a word she got out of the car and slammed the door. He sat there for several minutes, trying in vain to compose himself, trying to make sense of what had happened. Then he got out and slouched from the driveway, into the house, and up the stairs to his room, grateful that she had receded to the family room and that his dad was in bed.

  He did not see her the next day because she slept late, and in the afternoon she drove to Boston to audition for a movie. Three days later, she returned, her face strained with disappointment. She did not get the part. When she showed up, she went right to her room without speaking.

  It made no difference if it was the failed screen test or the Becky thing. Lila was miserable and didn’t emerge from her room the entire next day. Meanwhile, his father flew out the first thing Saturday morning for a golfing weekend in Myrtle Beach. Anxious about Lila suffering in her bed, he spent the day cleaning the house and doing laundry, alert for any cue that she was emerging from her gloom. By evening she still hadn’t emerged, and his worry peaked. She had not eaten for more than twenty-four hours, so he made a tuna sandwich and heated a can of soup. He assembled the plate and bowl on a tray with a small bunch of daffodils from the garden and waited for nearly two hours until he heard her flush the toilet.

  Trembling with each step, he carried the tray up the stairs, not knowing if she would be normal or still fuming hatred for him. He could take anything but that. Anything. No matter how irrational she became—and she seemed to be getting worse—he could not suffer her rejection. It was the one thing that could extinguish his will. And he’d do anything to win her back.

  For a long moment he stood by the door balancing the tray, his blood throbbing throughout his body, uncertain if she’d let him inside, dreading that she would. He tapped the door. “Mom?” No voice. No sound of movement. He tapped again, this time a little louder. Nothing still. He tapped a third time, saying, “Mom. I’ve got some dinner for you.”

  Nothing.

  “Mom, please, you’ve got to have something to eat.” He could hear the echo of her own words when he was sick in bed.

  With relief, he heard some movement within. Then faintly her voice, “It’s unlocked.”

  He opened the door. The room was dark. But in the hall light he could see her sitting up in bed. He turned on a small lamp. She was dressed in her nightgown with her hair pulled back. Her face was blank as he approached. A sour odor laced the air. “I made you some tuna. It’s all I could find, but I put chopped tomatoes and green olives in the way you like it.”

  He placed the tray on her lap with relief that she accepted his offer. But she said nothing. “I didn’t know what you wanted to drink so I brought water. You want milk or tea?”

  “Water is fine,” she said, her voice flat.

  “Want me to open the window?”

  She nodded.

  He pulled up the shades and opened the window. The sky was purple in the sunset.

  “I don’t want the soup.”

  He removed it and she took a sip of water. He watched her, struggling to come up with something to say, desperate to get her talking normally. “I’m sorry you didn’t get the part.”

  “Makes no diffe
rence.”

  Her words made him sadder still. “There’ll be other roles.”

  She took a bite of the sandwich. He watched her, wondering what was going on inside of her. Wondering what it was like being her. Wondering if she would ever be happy, truly happy. If her ship would ever come in.

  Without looking at him, she said, “You can leave.”

  “No, it’s okay.”

  “I prefer to eat alone.”

  “Okay.” He moved to the door. He started to close it behind him but stopped halfway, his hand still on the doorknob. He took a deep breath. “You still mad at me?”

  She turned her face toward him and studied him for a moment. Her face was blank, her eyes flat. His heart pounded so loudly that he was certain she could hear it across the room. Then in a clear voice, her eyes trained on him, she said, “I don’t want you to see Becky Tolland again.”

  “Okay,” he said, knowing at that moment the syllables rising up from the bottom of his soul were like a pledge to Jesus.

  45

  Steve lay in bed and stared up into the black.

  In the Middle Ages, people believed in the bifurcated soul. Unable to explain the mechanism of dreams, they were convinced that when someone slept, a spiritual double—a doppelganger—separated itself to go roaming on its own, oftentimes wandering into the world to do mischief. It was the same folk mind that created legends of werewolves, vampires, and other shape-shifters—monstrous doubles that acted out dark passions. But this was the twenty-first century, and nobody believed in doppelgangers. Yet, was it not possible that given the right combination of chemicals and psychic makeup he could have left that pub and under some brute autopilot driven to 123 Payson Road, rung the doorbell, followed her up those stairs, and taken a stocking to her?

  That, like Dr. Jekyll, he had created his own evil twin?

  At around two A.M., Steve was still rolling around in the sheets. So he got up and took two tabs of Ativan that knocked him into a black hole where he remained like dead until his alarm startled him at seven thirty. He took a shower and made a pot of strong coffee to flush the muck out of his brain. He was getting dressed in the bedroom when he heard his PDA ringing.

  It sat on the night table. He stared at it while it jangled, the pull of his Glock in the bureau drawer. The horse between two haystacks, as his mother used to say. He paused. On the fourth ring he reached for the PDA. The caller ID had a North Shore number that he didn’t recognize.

  “Lieutenant Markarian?”

  “Speaking.”

  “This is Alice Dion from the Kingsbury Club. I’m sorry to bother you so early at this hour, but I was wondering if we could talk.”

  “Okay.”

  “I saw the story about the suspect you’ve got, the English professor? So it’s probably nothing and maybe just a waste of your time.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Well, it’s been bothering me ever since last week. And, God forbid, that I want to cause any trouble or anything like that, especially since you made an arrest.”

  “I understand.”

  “But I don’t want to do this over the phone.”

  “Okay,” he said, thinking, You’re wasting both our time, lady. “Maybe you can just give me some idea what it’s about.”

  “One of Terry’s clients. I think it was more than a professional relationship.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “But the thing is you already made an arrest, so it’s probably nothing….”

  And you’re right. But he said, “Let me get the file with the client list.”

  “I don’t think you’ll need that.”

  After a long pause, he heard her say, “It’s Neil French.”

  “Neil French?”

  “Yes. But you may already know they were involved, right? I’m not telling you anything you already don’t know, am I? I mean, I don’t want to get anybody in trouble or anything.”

  “Sergeant French has made us aware that he and Terry were friends.”

  “I didn’t know. From what I could tell, they kept their relationship pretty quiet.”

  Steve felt his brain suddenly take focus. “What are you saying?”

  “It’s not just me. Michelle San Marco, another trainer, she knows more about it than I do because she and Terry talked a lot. I think maybe you should talk to her, too.”

  “Okay.” He jotted down the address and telephone numbers she recited.

  “I don’t mean to impose on you, but we’re wondering if we can do this pretty soon? I’ll be free after eleven this morning.”

  “I’ll meet you then.”

  “That would be great.” She hedged again. “It’s just that I don’t want to cause any problems.”

  “What kind of problem?”

  “I’m kind of nervous telling you this because he’s a police officer and you’ve already made an arrest, but you said if I knew of any personal relations she had to let you know.”

  She was worried about repercussions from Neil, possibly from a perceived notion of “blue wall” damage control specialists who might make her regret calling. “You did the right thing.”

  More silence of the open line. Then she said, “Except that…”

  “Except what?”

  “Well, it’s just that I think he’s got something of a temper.”

  “Uh-huh…”

  He could hear her hemming and hawing. “It probably means nothing, but I…well…they had a fight one day at the club. I didn’t even know they were seeing each other.”

  “And…?”

  “And…well, they had some words inside then went out to the parking lot. I couldn’t hear what they said, but I could see them through the window, and it got pretty heated because he said something she didn’t like and she slapped him in the face. Then he grabbed her by the neck and pushed her against a car. If someone hadn’t pulled in I don’t know what would have happened. He took off and she came in crying, didn’t say anything, just got her things and left.”

  “When was this?”

  “About two months ago. Just before he quit coming to the club.”

  “Have you seen him or talked to him recently?”

  “Just to say hello at the funeral. All I’m saying is that they were friends, which is what you asked.”

  “I’m sure that it’s nothing more than what it seems.” They agreed on a place to meet and she said she would bring Michelle. “In the meantime I think it’s best to say nothing to anyone else.”

  “No, of course.”

  When he hung up he stared blankly at the photo of Terry Farina in the file on his lap.

  Jesus!

  46

  Steve arrived a few minutes before the women and took a booth at the rear of the restaurant, which was up the street from the health club.

  He didn’t know what they had. He didn’t know if this was a legitimate lead, implicating Neil French. He didn’t know if he himself had anything to do with the death of Terry Farina. What he did know was that he’d best shift into neutral, play detective as if he had never laid eyes on Terry Farina. If this turned out to be a dead end, then he’d go to Reardon.

  The place was called Fazio’s, vintage Italiana with red-and-white-checked tablecloths and basket-bottomed Chianti bottles, serving as candleholders. One wall was a mural of Pompeii, its streets glittering with shops and villas, the surrounding countryside an idyllic world of flowers, cypress trees, grazing sheep, and young men and women in idle play while in the distance rose the cone of Vesuvius, a dark curlicue of smoke rising from its vent like a fuse.

  The place was empty except for the staff preparing for the luncheon crowd. They saw him and joined him in the rear booth. Michelle, who gave her age as thirty-three, was petite and wiry and had black hair, dark eyes, and thin features. Something about her face made Steve wonder if he had seen her before. She didn’t recognize him, so he let that pass. They ordered coffee and pastries. The women were nervous, so Steve tried to put them at ease with small tal
k.

  When the coffee arrived, Michelle opened up. “I don’t think he knew she was dancing, at least not in the beginning.”

  “Did you know?”

  “Yeah, I got her the job. The general manager, Mickey DeLuca, is my cousin. He mentioned you talked to him the other day.”

  “Yes, we did.” He could see the resemblance in her face.

  “She said she needed the money and was looking for a waitressing job. Mickey hired her, and after a while she started dancing because it paid more. I think she had danced in the past. Neil joined the club and she became his trainer. Then, I don’t know, maybe after a few weeks they started seeing each other. That went on I think for maybe three or four months.”

  The waitress came with the desserts, but nobody made a move on them.

  “I think he took to her pretty fast,” Michelle continued. “And Neil was good for her. When she started at Kingsbury, she was in a bad relationship with a guy.”

  “Do you remember his name?”

  “Phillip something. I don’t remember his last name.”

  “Phillip Waldman?”

  “Yeah, Waldman. He played in a band and taught guitar on the side, but I think he spent more time watching TV and smoking dope. She got tired of him and wanted to end it. So she asked Neil to help get him out of the apartment, which I think he did.”

  “After Waldman left, did Neil and Terry continue seeing each other?”

  “Yeah. I don’t know all the details, but I think Neil started getting serious and wanted more of a commitment. But Terry wasn’t ready to settle down, especially right after Phillip.”

  “Did Neil know she was stripping?”

  Alice shook her head and deferred to Michelle. “Not until he began to push her to commit. That’s when I think she told him.”

  “Did she say how he took it?”

  “Pretty hard. I think for him it was a question of morals. Also he was worried about her being hit on by a bunch of creeps, maybe somebody slipping her a drug and raping her. I guess he was pretty protective.”

  “Yeah.”

  “They had a real blowout. He wanted her to quit, but she needed the money. Then she caught him going through her phone messages and mail and figured he was becoming like Phillip. That’s when she said she wanted to end it. That was a blow because he’d lost his wife, and now her.”