by Joy Fielding
“Maybe. Who’s asking?”
Bonnie closed her eyes in defeat. “Bonnie,” she said. “Bonnie Wheeler.”
“The name is familiar,” the woman told her. She brushed her hand across her lap, knocking the magazines to the floor.
“Is it?”
“Maybe. Who’s asking?”
Bonnie retrieved the magazines from the floor and deposited them on Elsa Langer’s bed, glancing furtively at the woman buried inside the crisp white sheets. A lone tear was running the length of Elsa Langer’s cheek. It curved toward her lip, dribbled down her chin, like drool, then disappeared into the pillow. “Mrs. Langer? Mrs. Langer, can you hear me? Did you hear what I said before? Can you understand me? Can you talk to me, Mrs. Langer? Is there something you want to tell me?”
“She won’t talk to you,” the woman in the wheelchair said.
“But she’s crying.”
“She’s always crying.”
“Is she?”
“Maybe. Who’s asking?”
Bonnie exhaled a deep breath of air. “Don’t cry, Mrs. Langer,” she told Joan’s mother. “Please, I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m going to go now, but I’ll leave my phone number with the nurses in case you ever want to reach me.” She leaned forward, touched the woman’s soft gray hair. “Good-bye.”
“It’s been nice meeting you,” the woman in the wheelchair said.
“It’s been nice meeting you too,” Bonnie told her.
“Liar, liar, pants on fire,” the woman sang out as Bonnie fled the room.
14
As soon as Bonnie got home, she called the office of Walter Greenspoon.
“Dr. Greenspoon’s office.” The secretary’s voice was husky and smoke-filled, as if Bonnie had caught her in midpuff.
“I’d like to make an appointment to see Dr. Greenspoon as soon as possible,” Bonnie told her, trying to understand what she was doing. She hadn’t intended to make this call. She’d spent the better part of the drive home from Sudbury convincing herself to let the police deal with Joan’s murder, to stay out of it. Except how could she stay out of it when she was right in the middle of it, when she and her daughter might be in mortal danger?
“Are you a patient of Dr. Greenspoon’s?”
“What? Oh, no, no, I’m not.”
“I see. Well, then the first appointment we have available for new patients is on July the tenth.”
“July the tenth? That’s more than two months from now.”
“The doctor is very busy.”
“I’m sure he is, but I can’t wait that long. I have to see him right away.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible.”
“Wait a minute, don’t hang up,” Bonnie said, sensing the woman was about to. “I have an idea.” She did? “When is Joan Wheeler’s next appointment?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’m Joan’s sister,” Bonnie said, hearing her voice crack under the weight of the lie.
The secretary’s voice also changed, becoming softer, even deeper. “We were all very shocked and saddened by what happened,” she said.
“Thank you,” Bonnie told her, amazed by the things coming out of her mouth. “I know that Joan thought very highly of Dr. Greenspoon, and I’m having a pretty hard time right now dealing with everything, and I just thought maybe I could use Joan’s next appointment….” She stopped, the lie too heavy on her tongue to carry further.
“I’m afraid we’ve already filled that time,” the secretary apologized.
Bonnie nodded, about to hang up. You see, her conscience whispered, lying gets you nowhere.
“But we have had a cancellation for this Friday,” the secretary continued quickly. “I guess I could give you that, although I’m really not supposed to. Can you come at two o’clock?”
“Absolutely,” Bonnie agreed quickly.
“Fine. May I have your name, please?”
“Bonnie Lonergan,” Bonnie said quickly, temporarily resuming her maiden name, finding it an uncomfortable fit, like a too-small shoe. Why had she picked Lonergan, for God’s sake? Hadn’t she been all too eager to leave that part of her life behind? She hung up the phone before the secretary could change her mind. Two o’clock, Friday. She’d have to miss her final class. That was all right. She’d tell the principal she had an appointment with a therapist about Sam and Lauren. Which was the truth. Or at least not a complete lie. She did have an appointment with a therapist. At some point during the session, she would no doubt mention the puzzle that was Sam and Lauren. In fact, she might speak at length about them. So she wasn’t really lying at all.
Bonnie suddenly became aware of music vibrating through the kitchen ceiling from Sam’s bedroom. Well, not music exactly, she thought, taking some vegetables from the fridge, preparing to cut them into a salad. Rhythmic noise was a more accurate description—loud, insistent, relentless.
Bonnie pictured Sam lying on his bed, shirt unbuttoned and falling open, staring at the ceiling, thinking…what? Bonnie had no idea. Despite her repeated efforts, Sam never confided his thoughts to her. Or anyone. Not to Bonnie, not to Rod, not to the principal or the vice principal, not to the guidance department or the social worker or the school psychologist, all of whom had tried to get him to open up. It was useless. Sam came to school, did his work, hung out with his friends, played his guitar, fed his snake, smoked his cigarettes, and said nothing.
Lauren was much the same, refusing to accept professional counseling and keeping mostly to herself. In the time since her mother’s death, she was, by turns, hostile, passive, aggressive, and weepy. The last few days, she had lapsed into a kind of inertia that bordered on the comatose, barely making it out of bed in the morning in time for Sam to drive her to school, unable to concentrate, to apply herself to the task at hand. Perhaps it was too early for her to be back in school, Bonnie had suggested, but Lauren had been adamant. She’d be all right, she insisted, if everybody would simply leave her alone. Only Amanda seemed able to bring a consistent smile to her face. And Rod, whom she always waited up for, no matter how late he got home.
Perhaps they should take a few days and go away somewhere as a family, Bonnie had suggested to Rod, a few days to try to really get to know one another. Bonnie was beginning to feel like an outsider in her own home. All she wanted was for Rod’s children to give her a chance. Perhaps they might go into therapy together. As a family. As a unit. But Rod said he couldn’t afford a few days away right now, nor could they afford extensive therapy. What they needed was time, he insisted. Sam and Lauren had already taken Amanda into their hearts; it was only a matter of time before they allowed Bonnie in as well.
I hope you’re right, Bonnie thought, quickly dicing through the carrots, then on to the English cucumber and tomatoes, to the beat of the latest in teenage angst, wondering how Sam could bear to be in the same room with anything so loud. She supposed she could go upstairs and ask him to turn it down, but she didn’t want to do that. She’d never been allowed the luxury of loud music as a teenager. Her mother’s health had been too precarious, her migraines too frequent. Bonnie and Nick had never been permitted to play their radios above a whisper. Not that Nick ever listened to what he was told.
Besides, the loud music was curiously welcome. It had a way of taking over, of banishing everything else to the back corners of the mind, of outlawing anything even approaching serious thought. As long as drums were pounding through her kitchen ceiling, she didn’t have to think about the insanity of her recent actions—her visit to Caroline Gossett yesterday afternoon, her visit to Elsa Langer today, her scheduled visit to Dr. Greenspoon on Friday. What was the matter with her anyway? Did she really think her amateur sleuthing was going to accomplish anything? Did she seriously think that by assuming an active role in the investigation, it meant she was still in control of her life? Was the illusion of control so necessary to her well-being?
Bonnie threw all the vegetables into a wooden salad bowl and tucked the bowl i
nto the refrigerator, checking her watch. It was almost five o’clock. Rod was going to be late again; Sam and Lauren were in their respective rooms; Amanda was at a birthday party and wouldn’t be home till close to six. Bonnie could afford to take a few minutes to relax, put her feet up, read the newspaper. Or she could finish getting dinner ready and put away the laundry.
She opted for putting her feet up. She lifted the newspaper off the kitchen table, where it had been lying since the morning, and after a cursory glance at the front page, turned quickly to the Life section and Dr. Walter Greenspoon. Homework, she told herself. Research.
Dear Dr. Greenspoon, the first letter began. I’m afraid my husband might be gay. He has shown no interest in me sexually for some time, and lately, he’s been increasingly distant emotionally as well. Also, I found some gay literature at the bottom of his drawer. I’m just sick about this, although it would go a long way toward explaining a lot of things. We haven’t had sex in some time, but I’m still worried about AIDS, which I understand has a long incubation period. Am I at risk? Should I confront my husband about my suspicions or say nothing? I love this man, and it would break my heart to lose him. I don’t know what to do. Can you help? It was signed, Adrift.
Dear Adrift, came the immediate reply. You need to talk to your husband at once. A marriage cannot survive with secrets, and in your case, this secret could kill you.
“Great,” Bonnie said. “That’ll relax me.” She put the paper down, stood up, and headed for the laundry basket she’d left at the foot of the stairs that morning. “Might as well get this over with.” She lifted the heavy plastic basket into her arms and carried it up the stairs, the music growing louder, less melodic, with each step.
She put the freshly laundered bed sheets in the linen closet by the master bathroom, her underwear in the top drawer of her dresser, and Rod’s underwear two drawers down. Next came his socks—most black, a few brown, all knee-high. Bonnie opened the bottom drawer, prepared to toss the socks on top of the others, then stopped. I found some gay literature at the bottom of his drawer, she recalled instantly. “Don’t be silly,” she said, her fingers playing with the top of the pile. “The last thing I’m worried about is that my husband is gay.”
Then what are you worried about? a little voice asked.
“I’m not worried about anything, thank you,” Bonnie said, but her hands were already underneath the rows of socks, pretending to be straightening them, to be making more room. “Nothing but a lot of socks,” she announced. “No deadly secrets here.”
And then her fingers touched an unfamiliar fabric, not wool or nylon, but…a plastic bag, she realized. “A plastic bag full of socks,” she said, extricating the bright pink bag, noting the bold red heart painted on its side and the curving black letters that spelled out Linda Loves Lace across its side. “Not socks,” Bonnie said, peeking inside, slowly pulling out a delicate, see-through, lavender bra and panties, complete with a matching garter belt and stockings. “Everything but socks,” she said, extricating two lavender chiffon scarves, as she lowered herself to the floor, a wide smile creeping across her face.
Rod hadn’t bought her sexy lingerie in quite a while. He used to do it all the time, she recalled, especially when they were first married. He’d surprise her with a little package—bikini panties, black lace teddies, push-up bras, not unlike this one. She examined the underwire bra, turned it over, checking the size. “I thought it looked a little optimistic,” she said, noting that it was a size too large. “A bit of wishful thinking,” she said, wondering what the scarves were for.
The phone rang. Bonnie pushed herself off the floor, answered it on its second ring. “Hello?”
“How’re you doing?” Diana asked, not bothering to identify herself. “I had a few minutes and I thought I’d check in, see if the police were still giving you a hard time.”
“They’ve left me alone for a few days, but I’m not sure if that’s good or bad.”
“Anytime the police leave you alone is good. So, how are you feeling?”
“Okay, I guess.”
“Just okay? What can I do to make you feel better? Go ahead, ask for anything. Your wish is my command.”
Bonnie held up the lavender lace brassiere, her fist pushing against the half-cup. “In that case, I wish for bigger breasts.”
Diana didn’t miss a beat. “Bigger breasts coming right up. Tits “R” Us. Actually, you can have mine. What do you need them for?”
Bonnie laughed, telling her friend about finding the sexy lingerie in the bottom of Rod’s drawer.
“You’re sure he’s not a cross-dresser?” Diana asked.
“Oh God.”
“Just kidding. Anyway, I gotta go. I just wanted to touch base, see how you were coping.”
“Coping’s a good word. Listen, why don’t you come for dinner Friday night?”
“This Friday?”
“You have other plans?”
“No. You’re sure it’s not too much? I mean, you really have your hands full. I should be cooking for you.”
“You don’t cook,” Bonnie reminded her friend.
“This is true. Your place, it is. Seven o’clock?”
“See you Friday at seven.” Bonnie replaced the receiver, her fingers playing with the garters on the skimpy little belt, absently snapping each one open.
“Excuse me,” a voice said from the doorway.
Bonnie quickly stuffed the intimate items back into the plastic bag, turning to see Lauren, wearing the top of her school uniform over a pair of baggy jeans, hovering at the entrance to the room. “Hi, sweetheart. Is something wrong?” Bonnie asked.
“I can’t find my purple T-shirt,” Lauren said, careful not to look directly at Bonnie.
“I washed it,” Bonnie told her, crinkling the pink plastic bag into a ball inside her fist, and returning it to Rod’s bottom drawer before reaching into the laundry basket for Lauren’s purple T-shirt.
“You don’t have to wash my stuff,” Lauren told her. “I can do it myself.”
“It was no trouble,” Bonnie assured her. Please let me do at least this much for you, she added silently.
Lauren walked slowly into the room, took the shirt from Bonnie’s outstretched hand. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” Bonnie said gratefully.
Their fingers touched briefly, and in the next instant, Lauren was gone.
“Sam?” Bonnie knocked gently on the door to his room. “Sam, can I come in?” She knocked again. What am I doing? she wondered. Did she really expect him to hear her timid knock over all the screeching and wailing that was going on inside his room? She knocked louder, banging her fists repeatedly against the door. “Sam,” she yelled, “Sam, can I come in?”
The door to his room suddenly opened, the music erupting into the hall, like lava from a volcano, threatening to swallow everything in its path. “I have your laundry for you,” Bonnie yelled over the sound, pointing to the basket in her arms.
“Oh great,” Sam yelled back. “Thanks.” He stepped aside to let her enter the room.
Bonnie hesitated briefly, then crossed the threshold, glancing around quickly to make sure the snake was in his tank, pleasantly surprised to find the room still in one piece. She put the laundry basket down on the sofa, then brought one hand to her ear. “You don’t find that just a little loud?” she asked.
Sam moved to the stereo, turned the volume down to a more acceptable level. “Sorry.”
“No problem,” Bonnie told him, wishing she knew how to reach him, to get him to open up, to talk about his mother. Their relationship had obviously been something less than loving. Witness his strange reaction after he’d been told of her death. Where’s her car? he’d asked. Ding dong, the witch is dead. But surely he’d been in shock then, surely he had to be feeling something now other than the total indifference he continued to display. “It doesn’t bother L’il Abner when the music’s that loud?” Reluctantly, Bonnie’s eyes traveled to the sna
ke.
“Not at all,” Sam said. “Snakes are deaf.”
“Really?”
“He can feel the vibrations, but he can’t hear anything.” Sam walked over to the tank, tapped his fingers gently against the glass.
Warily, Bonnie approached the tank. The snake stretched toward her, as if on alert. Bonnie swallowed, forced herself to look closely at the reptile. “He’s really quite beautiful,” she admitted.
“I think so.” Sam’s voice filled with almost parental pride.
“How big did you say he’d grow?”
“To about twelve feet, fifteen if he were living in the wild.”
“Amazing.” Bonnie wondered if she was talking about the snake or her close proximity to it. “What’s that on the bottom of the tank?”
“Western African coral,” Sam said. “Or you can just use gravel.”
Bonnie pointed at the other assorted paraphernalia in the tank. “And what’s all this stuff for?”
“The thermometer is so I can regulate the temperature inside the tank. It shouldn’t go higher than ninety-five degrees. Are you really interested in any of this?” he asked skeptically.
“Yes.” Bonnie realized it was true. “Please, tell me.”
Sam’s face grew instantly animated. “Well, the warmer snakes are, the faster they grow. At night, I turn the temperature down to seventy-two, but no lower than that, because snakes are cold-blooded and they wouldn’t be able to metabolize their food.” He pointed at the large rock to the far left of the tank. “That’s a heating rock. See the plug?”
Bonnie nodded.
“I keep the rock at eighty-five degrees. And these lights here are also for warmth.” He indicated a flood light on the top of the tank. “This one here’s a hundred watts, and this long one that runs the length of the tank is a vita light that mimics the sunlight and gives him vitamins. That’s his drinking water,” he said, pointing to a plastic red container filled with water. “He loves the water. Sometimes, he curls up inside it. I keep it at ninety degrees. And that log is for shade, and when he wants to play.”