I frown. So fast? Alex wasted no time bragging his tidbits; they’re flying. Moore’s toast, really! We’ve got him! I can imagine him saying vague things like that, getting his name into the gossip mill, shaking up Moore’s lawyers without a hint of specifics, I hope…or God help him. No, he wouldn’t do that.
I turn up the phone so Mel can hear.
“…because you stuck it out, kiddo,” Renata is saying. “It looks like you’ve already won. Oh, there’s something else. Believe it or not…”
My old Street Beat producer called her, talked about rebooting the show and my role, only now I’d be a senior detective. Would I be interested? Gossips are saying Moore could even be headed for prison. I could suddenly be hot again. Isn’t the biz disgustingly fickle?
“It’s TV,” Renata says almost apologetically as Mel listens, her eyes wide. “Not a major film, but the money’s super and you’d be working here as opposed to locations in God-knows-where.”
“I’d prefer here to God-knows-where.”
“Seriously? Which would you choose if you won both roles?”
“Here, definitely. Better plumbing. I get homesick.” I take a breath. “Tell him yes about Street Beat.”
Renata gives a hoot. She’ll line up that audition too, “just to run through the lines, they know you’re terrific.” She adds that in minutes she’s leaving for the Hamptons. “In this weather!” she says. “Crazy, it’s going to pour and their old roof leaks so I guess we’ll have to huddle. Oh well, there’s always booze!” She laughs. “Call me Monday, okay? Let me know how the audition went and have a great weekend!”
I disconnect feeling unreal, feeling the strangest sensation start to bubble up. It takes me a moment to realize that it’s jubilation. Long time.
“Awe-some,” Mel grins and peers back into the store’s interior. “Cripes, what’s Joe going to do if we both move on?”
“His own accounting,” I smirk, testing my new, surging, good feeling.
God, these mood swings.
I feel alive again. Generous. Ready to share my energy with the world. I even go a little crazy and cheer Mel, who’s bouncing around announcing the hell with law; can I find her a spot as an extra?
We laugh…and then reality stops me.
I peer again down to Chloe Weld’s brownstone, and bite my lip. My role in her death still hurts. The cops are nowhere. I might have an inside track, and that sobers me.
Brings me back too to thoughts of Peter, and fretting.
By five-fifteen business picks up: a giddy, just-got-engaged couple stops for sweetheart roses; a man places an order for orchids; tired faces starting to come from work just want something to brighten the gloom. It’s eerily dark. Streetlights are on early. A few raindrops fall.
I’m down the line of pots helping a kid pick a bouquet for his mother, and my phone chirps again. I check it; blink at the screen.
Chrissy Greer.
Seconds stretch as I stare at it, realizing that I’m not surprised. I knew she would call.
Don’t get involved, rings in my head. A tiny sentry in there jumps up and down, warning, Stop! Stop!
I don’t listen.
The boy chooses, walks back to Mel to pay.
I hold my breath, and answer.
40
I greet her and she whispers. Hopes she hasn’t disturbed me. Sounds like she’s speaking from a closet. She’s hard to make out over the rumble of traffic and almost six o’clock crowds.
I’m compelled to know what’s on her mind. I take the phone further down the sidewalk and put my hand over my ear. The store’s interior would be quieter, but I want to duck questions.
“…need to get out,” Chrissy whispers. “Need to escape…everything. You’re an inspiration. You’ve gone through trauma. You keep going.”
“It’s an art form,” I say, edging through pedestrians. “You put one foot in front of the other.”
Not even a grim chortle from the other end.
“I’m afraid of becoming a complete agoraphobe, and I need to…get away from someone.” Her voice is shaky, tentative. “Would you ever be free to get together?”
“Sure, any time,” I say sympathetically, picturing the pills pushed at her, shuddering to imagine life under the same roof as Nick Jakes. “I’m free most of the time, no social life, ha.”
“We have to drop off the children at Peter’s tonight. I’ll be in the neighborhood. Would you be free to grab a bite?”
Who’s we? I think, and cringe. Please don’t let it be Nick.
“Of course,” I say, and brace myself. “You’ll be coming with your brother?”
“No, with Mary. Nick…” Chrissy sounds strangled, suddenly in a rush. “It’s him I want to escape. And his controlling, and the pills. You inspired me when you said you quit yours, so I’ve started…trying to quit. I only pretend to swallow them. When he leaves I spit them out.”
“Good for you,” I say, frowning, leaning harder into my phone. “Only don’t quit too fast. If I may say, you sound a little shaky.”
“Yes, it’s terrible. I’ve just taken half a dose. I feel jittery, but don’t want to feel sleepy either. I am so, so tired of that. I have to get out.”
“And will,” I say. “The apartment is yours. The door is yours to open and go through. Just lay down the law.”
“Yes, yes…”
I hear a sharp intake of breath and she falls silent, as if suddenly afraid. I feel my brow crease.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes. False alarm. Thought I heard someone coming.”
Someone? As opposed to Nick specifically?
I remember Mary ushering me in on that day of my visit. “We would prefer you not mention the headlines…”
So it’s both of them controlling?
The other end is silent.
“You there, Chrissy?”
“Yes…in my bedroom. The door is closed.”
I walk slowly, not sure how to ask the next thing.
“You’ve mentioned that Mary is protective. Is she controlling too?”
“Well…no, she’s mainly just protective…I think.”
“Does she know you’ve cut back on your pills?”
“I’ve said I was going to try, and she wasn’t in favor. I don’t want to say I’ve already started, because she’ll scold; get all hovering like…”
“Nick?”
“Yes. But you’re right, maybe I’ll take a tiny bit more just this once, because I’m shaking; they’ll see.” Chrissy has switched subjects, and pauses. “There. I’ve taken another half dose so they won’t notice.”
They won’t notice? Even if Mary is truly maternal and devoted, she’s still an employee…and Chrissy’s worried she’ll scold?
She has started to ramble.
“…also wish I could talk to you about Peter. He seems different, and Nick has seemed so dour these past few days…angrier than usual.”
I stop and stiffen. Nick angrier?
I feel chilled; quickly suggest a favorite place called Rosie’s, on West Fourth. “Very cozy,” I say. “Dark wood walls, snuggy booths, candlelit, looks like an 1890s saloon.”
“Sounds wonderful!” Chrissy’s breathy voice goes up, excited as a little girl’s.
I add, “I’ve got a bit more work to do. Would seven be a good time to meet?”
“Oh yes, perfect, because…” She pauses. “Teddy won’t put on his shoes. Even Mary can’t deal with him anymore.” Her voice starts to slow. That second half dose pill (making a whole dose) must be starting to work. “I hope Peter won’t be angry we’re running late. He leaves work early on Fridays to be with them…but what can I do? Teddy can’t find his shoes.”
That child is four. Chrissy is beyond helpless.
“He will, and I’ll meet you there at seven,” I say, turning, heading back for Cooper’s. “Rosie’s on West Fourth.”
“No, no…”
To my surprise, she says they’ll pick me up. Arrangements s
uddenly get complicated: the car will be out in front at seven, then they’ll drop off the children at Peter’s – Mary will go in – then the car will drop us off, then Mary will go back in it to Fifth.
“All those teeny one-way streets down there,” Chrissy sighs. “It will be easier for Rafe if he picks you up first. You’re closer to Hudson, is that right?”
“Yes.” I pass noisy Régine’s. “Who’s Rafe?”
“Our driver.”
Then Chrissy gets confused about the West Village street map; re-puzzles the “logistics” of approaching me first via Hudson and cutting into West Eleventh. No, that’s one way. Maybe it would be better to drive down Greenwich and drop the children off first?
“I’m not sure, Rafe will know,” she says, fretting about going just a few blocks from where I am to Rosie’s.
“I’m excited,” she finally says, brightening. “So looking forward.”
“Me too. See you at seven.”
I disconnect and blow air out my cheeks. Go back to say ‘bye to Mel who’s leaving.
Minutes later, I’m in the bathroom changing my Band-Aid, and my phone rings again.
The readout is blocked. I tense, answer anyway. “Hello?”
“This is Nick Jakes;” quick, annoyed.
I say nothing, turn off the water.
“If you don’t mind,” he says stonily, “I would prefer that you not meet with Chrissy.”
Silence. I reach to push the door all the way closed.
“You have filled her with ideas that will harm her,” he growls. “We’ve had her stabilized; what you’re doing is not good for her.”
“How did you get my number?” I’ve started to tremble.
“From her phone,” he snaps.
“You go through her phone?”
“Do not cross me,” he shouts. “I repeat: what you’re doing is harmful to my sister. You’re a bad influence and have encouraged her to discontinue her medication.”
“That’s bullshit.” My voice shakes. “Were you listening outside her bedroom door? A bit controlling, don’t you think? That’s abuse!”
“I knew you were going to be trouble. I was not in favor of you coming. You’ve encouraged her to discontinue-”
“No, I said I discontinued; weaned slowly and carefully.” My heart is hammering. “You weren’t even in the room that day! Do you have her bugged?”
He shouts louder, “I am asking you nicely-”
“No, you’re not.”
“-to call her back and cancel.”
“You tell her to cancel,” I snap. “What are you going to do, fight with her? Provoke a psychotic break? One hour and a cheeseburger isn’t another family debacle. What are you afraid of?”
Silence stretches. There’s an ominous pause, and then: “What you are doing,” Jakes growls, “is the biggest mistake of your life. Do not intrude. Do you hear me?”
I’m silent for seconds, breathing raggedly.
Finally, through clenched teeth: “Tell Chrissy if I don’t see her, I’m sorry. If she does come, I’ll be waiting.”
The other end goes dead.
Nick Jakes has hung up.
41
No one has heard. Joe’s in front pulling in plants for the night. On wildly trembling legs I go to help him, try to calm.
Forget it. I’m incensed. Jakes’s violence on the phone has incited the crazy – yes, completely nuts - part of me that wants to poke the bear, dare the bear. I won’t be bullied! Will Chrissy come? I’m betting she will. She’s reached a turning point: fears becoming a complete agoraphobe, needs to escape, and wants to talk about Peter, he seems different.
Deep down, she also knows she controls the money.
And Nick knows he’s powerless.
A drizzle has started, pelting the front window. Helping Joe lay out a tarp, I think: she’s only malleable to Nick if she lets herself be. He can’t be crazy enough to really alienate her….
Though her comment about him getting angrier scares me.
I stare out at the rain.
He was raging violent on the phone. And that story of him beating a photographer…would he harm Chrissy? No, he can’t, I try to rationalize. He wouldn’t dare! Money matters most to him; he wouldn’t chance screwing himself permanently.
Would he?
I still feel troubled as we haul in dripping plants. Nervously, I keep peeking out, in too much of a hurry as – oh hell – one of the flower buckets tips and sloshes. I jump away from the puddle but too late: my right sleeve and one of my sneakers is soaked.
Great. The bandage on my thumb is soaked, too.
It had bled through anyway; I just pull it off. Joe protests about the importance of keeping it covered, and runs to get more Band-Aids.
“You really should carry these on you,” he says, coming back with several which he gives to me. “Plenty of occupational hazards here.”
“I’ll say. Thanks.” I pocket the little paper rectangles, then peel the wrapper off one of them. Handling the buckets too hurriedly has also roughed up my sad little thumb’s puncture; it’s bleeding lightly again.
Joe shakes his head.
Just as I finish taping on the new bandage, I look up, and there it is: the glistening, long black car pulls up under the lamp light, and double parks. Hey, atta girl, Chrissy! Nick was so furiously against her coming. She must have argued with him and stood her ground. I remember her saying, I used to be strong…
“Oh, lookee there,” I say casually, pulling on my slicker, explaining where I’m headed in few words.
Joe looks out. “You’re kidding,” he scowls, flicking off the lights. The air around us darkens. “Greer?”
“His wife. Told you I feel sorry for her. She just wants to talk, have a burger.”
“They’re all insane,” he says softly, dismayed. In the semidarkness, droplets slide down the door’s glass, reflect like tears on his face. “Why get pulled in?”
I pat his arm. “Don’t worry, Joe, I’ll be fine. Nite, nite.”
A broad figure in rain gear opens the car’s rear door. I slide in next to Chrissy, who smiles wanly, and face Mary the housekeeper. No kids; presumably they’ve been dropped off already. The small overhead light goes off when the door closes, and in the dimness Chrissy re-introduces Mary Burke, whose smile widens as she exclaims “pleasure” and “lovely” and “though you’re tempting Chrissy away from us!” Then it’s “Oh charming!” as she looks out at Cooper’s, its bouquet-crammed shop window awash with light. “What a delightful place to work!”
My sleeve and sneaker are soaked and my thumb’s throbbing again. I agree that I’m so lucky.
“Say hi to Rafe Russo,” Chrissy says. Her voice is a little girl’s, but she isn’t shaking. Her medication must be working.
I greet the driver, who turns back in his seat and gives a wave. I can make out his heavy, smiling features.
The car surges into traffic. Careful small talk flows; not a word about Nick Jakes.
Mary, who certainly must have heard them argue, says she’s sorry I missed the children. I inquire about Teddy: did he finally find his shoes? Not really, Mary says as Chrissy nods, her features drooping as street lights flicker past. She interjects a word here and there as Mary gabs about the Spiderman slippers Teddy couldn’t find and refuses to part with, but that’s really alright because their underground garage is dry and heated, and he was going straight into his father’s house.
“Peter wants more discipline,” Chrissy sighs; and Mary says, “Well, that’s his department. You stay calm.”
In the flickering light, Chrissy’s brow creases. “I could have taken them into Peter’s.”
“Honey,” Mary says, reaching across to pat her hand, “we can’t have you more upset.”
Upset because she argued with Nick? Well there it is and good for her. I try to smile encouragingly at her in the dimness. She looks out and misses it.
And Mary gabs.
As before, I notice that she takes
control, does the talking. The car is mostly dark but I can make out Chrissy’s black jeans and pretty brown anorak, Mary’s dark slacks and dark, puffy jacket. Her strong, square features watch me as she speaks, announcing how soon she’ll be back on Charles Street, helping unpack “all that stuff in the living room,” bringing down more of the children’s toys and winter clothes.
“Those two are so adorable,” she smiles at me. “I believe you saw them when you came to Fifth?”
“Yes, in the elevator vestibule,” I say.
Mary wasn’t there. Nick must have told her.
The protective we watching.
The rain gets heavier. We swish through wet streets until we pull up outside Rosie’s. Then tall, broad Rafe is out and around with an umbrella, opening the car door which again switches on the small overhead light.
Sliding out past Mary, I notice she’s wearing the same shoes she wore the day I visited: black-striped white Adidas. They’re heavily worn and scuffed, in contrast to her quilted jacket which looks new. She waves cheerily, wishing us both a “lovely time!”
Rafe sees us safely under his umbrella to the awning of Rosie’s, then goes back to the car.
I stand for a moment, watching his brake lights move off down the street.
“Nice way to get around,” I smile.
“Mary insisted on coming,” Chrissy says solemnly, watching the car disappear too. “It has to stop…them treating me like a child.”
42
I pull open the door. The wet chill of outside gives way to the warm blast of Rosie’s interior. Chrissy smiles.
“This is marvelous,” she says, turning slightly with her hands up. Her wrists are bony; the blue cashmere sweater under her jacket hangs too loosely. “I haven’t been out in ages. It feels so good-”
She stumbles slightly, and I catch her.
“Oh, the pill….dizzy.”
“You’re okay,” I tell her. She thanks me, embarrassed.
We head past the busy bar with its yakking patrons and rattle of blenders whipping ice cubes into margaritas. Friday night Happy Hour is almost over. People are leaving if they want to pub crawl or eat more than burgers, ribs and Mexican. In the dimly lit interior, two couples are just giving up their booths and we choose one of them, sit, remove our jackets. Chrissy smiles again as the waiter replaces the settings: paper placemats, mason jars holding red-napkin-wrapped silverware. She exclaims about the dark wood walls, overhead beams and fairy lights, glowing Tiffany lamps. She can’t thank me enough for getting her out, home has become so stifling.
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