Is he?
I walk around the store a little longer. I go to the self-help section looking for a book on how to be your best fugitive. Instead I see Dr. Ledyard’s latest book, The Way: Part Two. Catchy title.
I don’t even want to pick the thing up, but I’m curious. I had heard that this guy wasn’t really a doctor. He got some sort of advanced degree from the University of Phoenix, a.k.a. the Internet. I look at his picture to make sure that he’s the same guy I saw on TV. He is. He’s incredibly unattractive, which may explain why he was able to cure his own homosexuality. Everyone knows that women are more forgiving in the looks department than men. If Ledyard had been a hot, popular gay man, he might not have wanted to cure himself.
I look at the book. There are no chapters. Just a quick author’s note and pages of “reader” questions. The author notes that “We don’t intend for The Way: Part Two to be a sequel to The Way, but rather we intend for it to be an appendix.”
Wow. A $33.95 appendix. And who is “we”?
I open the book to the first “reader” question.
Dear Dr. Ledyard:
I engaged in a homosexual lifestyle, but then I read your book and I changed my ways. I am now happily married to a very nice woman. But sometimes I see my old boyfriends out and about. Do I say hello to them? It is very awkward.
Bruce C.
Dayton, Ohio
Dear Bruce:
Congratulations on your incredibly successful marriage. And I thank you for your letter. I have received many letters asking the very same question. I see no problem saying hello to or even socializing with a person from your past as long as that person is married or is in a serious relationship leading to marriage. Social interaction with a pre-Way single of your gender may be dangerous and tempting. But not if that person is with someone else. Then, he is cured.
Good luck, Bruce.
Dr. Michael Ledyard
I guess his advice isn’t unreasonable. If I ever got married, I’d probably feel more comfortable with my husband’s ex-girlfriends if they were already married. But that doesn’t really cure a gay person. It’s more of a way to repress them. And frankly, Dr. Ledyard isn’t the first in the field of gay repression. But I do admire his marketing technique.
I’m surprised that someone who seems as hip as Ted Swinton would have fallen for Dr. Ledyard. But we all have our secrets.
I suddenly have a new thought. Maybe Ted has a bigger secret. Like Preston Hayes. He didn’t thank Preston in the book because he didn’t want the world to make a connection between the two of them. Then again, he did thank Dr. Ledyard. It’s only logical to believe that he’s a “recovering” homosexual.
But what if the absence of Preston’s name from that list was not Swinton’s idea at all, but instead it was Preston’s? He’s an author, after all, not an actor. It is not career suicide to be a gay writer, but it can be catastrophic for an actor, especially a male romantic, straight lead. The actor will have to go to lengths to maintain his heterosexual image. So he finds a girlfriend. She’s pretty, nice, and completely outside the showbiz machine. And best of all, she has the worst judgment in men. This, I begin to think, is the situation between Preston Hayes and my ex–best friend Jean.
Okay. I’m getting way ahead of myself. Just because the author looks a little effeminate and he thanks a gay healer in a book acknowledgment doesn’t mean he’s gay. Just because his best friend is instantly involved with my best friend, but they have no physical relationship, does not mean that he’s gay. Maybe he just wants to take things slowly.
But it does seem really suspicious, doesn’t it? I’m not surprised Jean hasn’t had this thought. She’s so bad at this stuff. I think of Bram. Not that I’m an expert. I’ve been, I know, pining for someone for fourteen years. At least Jean actually gets involved with these guys. At least she accrues some experience. All I have is a nervous feeling in my stomach from time to time. And anyway, this isn’t really about me. It’s about Jean, and I guess my question is, do I tell Jean? She may think I’m making this all up because I’m angry with her about telling Preston.
And worse, she could decide she doesn’t believe me and then tell Preston my whereabouts. He may rat me out. It would certainly help his image. I can see the headlines.
STRAIGHT HEARTTHROB NABS MOVIE KILLER.
What do I do?
I believe that Mother will not call the cops. And I also believe that she will force Barnes to hold off, as I had asked, for forty-eight hours.
I have forty-seven hours to find Mona’s and Polly’s killer.
But I don’t know who it is.
Ralston Brown, the vindictive insider trader, is looking good to me. He had a very strong reason to kill Polly. Moreover, as far as I know from Kovitz’s conversation with Charlie, he has no alibi. But why would he kill Mona? Did he realize that the police were onto him, and so he just picked someone involved with Polly’s husband’s movie so that he could appear less guilty?
It doesn’t sound right.
Besides, how would he know about me?
So what about the Polly lover angle? I’ve eliminated Suspect Number Three, her young lover, the soul patch. He just didn’t seem passionate enough about her. He looked enamored, but not obsessed. And the fact that he wanted to do a threesome with her and some girl from his office—it just doesn’t seem as if he has the requisite passion in his blood.
But would he become murderous if he learned that she was pregnant?
I don’t know.
Of course, it’s likely that there are other candidates for the baby’s daddy. Ian Leighton, for one, and any of the other hunks that she may have taken in, so to speak.
I’m baffled. I feel powerless.
I decide that the best thing for me to do is to tell Jean. Even if I end up behind bars, she will be spared a portion of the devastation of an inevitable breakup. I won’t tell her that Preston Hayes is gay, because that is not an actual fact. It’s merely a conclusion that I have come to based upon the facts Jean has given me, and my discovery of Ted Swinton’s book.
But maybe I’ll just ask Jean if she has considered the possibility that Preston Hayes is a homosexual who’s using her to appear straight as his breakthrough movie is wrapping. She told me that I should tell her when I think she’s involved with an inappropriate partner, didn’t she? Even though she hates me now and she may not want to hear what I have to say, I have to do what I have to do. After all, I may be going to jail in forty-seven hours and then I will have to stop thinking about my friends and focus instead on who can help me out of this disaster.
But it’s still too dangerous to go to her house. I head to an Internet café on Second Avenue and Eighty-third Street. I can send her an e-mail. So far, I think my handle is still secret. Maybe instead of telling her that I think Preston is gay, I’ll simply give her the information and let her reach that conclusion herself. I know what you’re thinking: Jean already has most of this information and it still hasn’t occurred to her that Preston is gay. True, but she doesn’t have this information served to her cold. She only has it in the context of the fun time she has been having.
I go into the café. I’m afraid that they’ll ask me for a credit card or something so that I don’t walk out with the computer, but a girl in a floppy hat with a lip ring merely points me to the back wall. I ask her the cost of getting online. She opens her mouth to tell me that I pay at the end. I see her tongue is pierced, too.
I head to the back corner. I log on to CNN.com’s news headlines to make sure that there have been no new developments in my case. There’s always the chance that Barnes will take offense at Mother’s newly discovered defiance and call the cops on me anyway.
I’m clinging to my freedom for at least a few hours. But for the first time since New Year’s Eve when I ran from the fifth precinct, I don’t feel particularly attached to the notion of freedom. I had my time with Charlie, and I blew it. My best friend hates me. And, even though I feel a certain weightl
essness from having confronted Mother and Barnes, I don’t long to spend any time with them.
I want to help Jean. Even though she may hate me, she’s still my best and dearest friend.
I log on to the computer. The computer asks for my username. I type in T-H-E-F-O-L-L-O-W-E-R. It asks me for my password. Easy. C-H-A-R-L-I-E. The computer indicates that I have mail. I click Read Mail hopefully, only slightly expecting a come-back-to-me note from either Charlie or Jean. But no—it is just some unpronounceable series of letters and punctuation marks offering me discount vicoden, which they should have at least spelled properly. I click on Write Mail.
To: [email protected]
I’m not sure if Jean went into the office today, but I choose to send this sort of personal note to the office because I know she gets office mail at home, whereas I don’t know if she gets personal mail at the office. I try to make the mail sound as impersonal as possible.
Jean:
I’m not trying to retaliate with this note. I’m worried. I need you to consider these factors about the new b-f.
1. Has not mauled you—and you (as we both know) are maulable.
2. He’s in Hollywood and needs a certain image.
3. Best friend is Ted Swinton.
4. Ted Swinton thanks Dr. Michael Ledyard in book.
5. Dr. Ledyard claims to cure gays by encouraging them to lead straight lives.
6. And why didn’t he sleep with Polly Dawson?
7. Just a feeling…
Please, oh please, be careful. Me
I click Send, and I wait a minute or so. I’m hopeful that I will receive the following message.
My Dearest Friend:
Thank you. Although I’m somewhat disappointed, I appreciate your saving me from a greater sadness down the line. And how thoughtful to think of me when times are so tough for you. You really are the best.
Me
The screen, though, remains blank. Do I send an e-mail to Charlie? I could write “I’m sorry” nine thousand times, but I know my betrayal has been too recent for him.
My work here is done.
I leave the Internet café. It’s starting to rain.
I have this fear. What if Preston’s at Jean’s house? What if she has left her e-mail visible? What if he’s nosy? After all, I’m nosy.
I’m not far away. It’s cold, but it’s bearable. I’ll just let myself into Jean’s apartment, turn off her computer, and hope that she sees the e-mail while Preston is not around.
It’s less tricky getting into Jean’s apartment than you might think. Jean lives in a swanky, overpriced Upper West Side edifice along with dozens of other well-paid cool urban types who need a roomy granite kitchen to store their myriad takeout containers and that one box of baking soda. The security in the building appears tight: There is a doorman and a concierge, but they are more interested in their epaulets than in keeping out the wanted murderess lurking at Eighty-third Street and Columbus. Jean’s neighbor runs a nanny employment agency out of her apartment, so there are always a slew of women showing up in the building lobby asking to be allowed to go to the eighth floor. The elevator requires the doorman to unlock each floor.
I go in and announce myself. “Hi,” I say with a little youth in my voice, “I’m looking to go to eight B. My name is Celia.”
I thought Celia sounded child friendly.
The doorman isn’t even looking at me.
“Go on up,” he says. “She’s expecting you.”
Remind me to put him on my security team.
I take the elevator to the eighth floor. I get out, wave to 8B’s front door, and head over to 8A.
I turn the knob. Jean always leaves the door open. She, for some reason, is under the false impression that her building is secure. Jean’s computer is in her bedroom. I have to walk through her hallway and past her kitchen to get into the bedroom. I peer into each of these rooms as well as the living room to make sure that I’m alone. I hear a rustling in the kitchen. I tiptoe in. It’s empty. There are, however, two coffee cups in the sink, in addition to a couple of empty wineglasses. There are three bottles on the counter.
Jean loves to drink.
Once I’m confident that nobody is there, I head over to Jean’s bedroom. The computer is shutting down as I enter. I would normally find this very odd, but I’m momentarily distracted by a pile of photographs casually lying on Jean’s shelf. I pick them up. The first one is of Jean standing in front of her Wall Street offices wearing a sexy but conservative Tahari suit. She really is beautiful. She has that 1940s starlet look in photographs; pale, thin, and sharp.
Oh my God. Why does Jean have a picture of Polly’s young lover, a.k.a. Happy Camper? Not just one picture, but two. I know Jean’s standards run the gamut, but I would have thought she would be repelled by the ambivalent chin hair. I would recognize that soul patch anywhere. His rubber-band body is another giveaway. Yes, it’s definitely Soul Patch. And she’s in the pictures with him. They were taken months ago. I can tell. Jean was still wearing her fall clothes. Happy Camper isn’t even wearing a jacket, but he is wearing his cargo pants and hiking boots. The ones he was wearing when I saw them in Mee-Hop the same day I saw Charlie eating with Kovitz. Ooh, here he is in Jean’s office. Happy Camper is going through Jean’s filing cabinet?
Polly was sleeping with Jean’s paralegal. I start to remember everything. Jean telling me that her paralegal was an aspiring moviemaker. He was working as an intern on a movie.
He must have been working on Only at Sunrise. And that’s where he met Polly.
Things were good with him and Jean, but then he started to pull back. That usually happens with Jean. Just as she starts to really fall for someone who should be a fling, the guy pulls back. Or cheats. Happy Camper went for the latter with Polly. I know because I saw them together only days before Jean told me their relationship was souring.
But he did want to do a threesome with Polly with some girl from his office.
Jean?
Too much information.
I wonder if Jean knew about this. The only thing worse than getting dumped by a little boy is getting dumped by a little boy who prefers to be with Polly Dawson. That would have killed Jean. Did she have any idea? She must have. She saw him at the Barneys grieving bash. They looked at each other. I thought he was checking her out, but he wasn’t checking her out at all, he was acknowledging her—the way you do an old lover. So why didn’t she tell me? She knew I would be sympathetic to her. Polly had swiped her boyfriend. Maybe she was embarrassed. Maybe she didn’t want me to know that Polly beat her.
“She’ll get hers.” That’s what Jean always said to me. “Polly Dawson will get hers.”
And what a coincidence! She did get hers.
Maybe not such a coincidence after all. I don’t like what I’m thinking. Jean has always hated Polly. She hated her more than I ever did. Polly seemed to have everything Jean wanted, even Professor Jack Birnbaum. After college, Jean kept waiting for Polly to fail. But it never happened. She led a fairy-tale life. Then, when Jean met the guy she wanted to take home for Christmas, it was Polly who took him away from her. And Polly didn’t even need him. She was married to the perfect man. And she had another lover. The timing was perfect. When Jean learned that Soul Patch dumped her for Polly, she was ready to get even. This was exactly when Polly ended up dead.
Jean, a murderess?
I look at the picture of the two of them together. Jean is wearing a tank top. Her arms are in perfect shape. She’s very strong. She could probably carry out serious stabbing. I might not have the physical abilities to murder Polly, but Jean does.
Okay, so let’s say Jean killed Polly in a psychotic rage. What I can’t understand is how she is letting me take the fall. How she is letting me face a lifetime in prison for a crime she committed. I can’t reconcile that with the Jean who’s been my closest friend for almost fifteen years. Did she actually kill Mona to resurrect law enforcement interest in me? Charlie had told
us that Kovitz admitted I was looking less obvious as the killer, and then, what a coincidence, Mona ends up dead. Jean knew I hated Mona. Jean knew where Mona’s office was. And Jean knew that Mona Hawkins was murdered last night. “Preston told me.” She said it casually. But that was only minutes before she told me she couldn’t get in touch with me because Preston had taken her to a party where there was no access to televisions or newspapers. And when I pressed her on that information, she threw a bogus that’s-showbiz type of answer at me.
Jean was the one who said that Preston had given the police a tip that Humphrey was sleeping around. I had always assumed that Preston was lying. Maybe it was Jean. Maybe she made it up to make it look as if she were actually helping me.
I rush out of her apartment. I hop in a cab and spend my last seven dollars going to the only place I call home.
I go to the place where I feel best: my little campsite across from Charlie’s house. It must be after five now. It’s dark, and the rain is starting to thicken. If I can just make it to my spot without getting too wet, I can rely on the canopy for some shelter.
I’m here finally, and I’m pretty dry if you don’t count my feet. Felisha’s riding boots are just yards away from me, inside Charlie’s front hall closet. But they might as well be in Yangon. The shoes Charlie gave me are soaking wet, as are my feet. I remove the shoes and the socks, and am able to dry my feet with my wig. I stick both of my feet inside the little hat of hair. Hey. I’m not going anywhere.
I think I’ve been asleep for several hours. The rain, now that it isn’t coming down on me, is serving as a sleep aid. I’ve been dreaming of Charlie.
Following Polly Page 26