The Murderer Next Door

by Rafael Yglesias

  My face was loose from the brandy, my cheekbones asymmetrical, my jaw heavy. I swallowed hard, trying to sober up. “What are you saying, Wendy? Say it straight out, okay? Is he hitting you? What are you scared of?”

  “No, no!” She waved a hand at me. “I knew you’d get overexcited—”

  “I am not,” I tried to protest loudly, but the words lumbered out, sliding, not exhaled.

  “He throws fits. You know. If he weren’t so big, it would be funny. He throws things on the floor—”

  “What things?”

  “He broke an ashtray when I told him about the lice. Threw it on the floor. Or, like last Saturday, he was sweeping up and I teased him about something and he broke the broom. Smashed it on the table, sent the dishes flying, and snapped the handle off.”

  I was so sleepy and heavy from the cleaning and the drinking that I had to lean on the coffee table and prop my head up. “He wasn’t always like this…?”

  “Not…not, you know”—Wendy also was able to speak only with great effort—“this often. Every once in a while, he’d get frustrated. It’s happening a lot now because of the crash.”

  This was early November 1987, a few weeks after the stock market collapse. Everyone we knew had lost something, but the damage was to their pension funds or savings and would have no effect on their comfort. Ben had told us that he expected there would be layoffs on Wall Street; however, he was a securities analyst, and he thought most of the cuts would be retail brokers. He believed his job was safe. I asked Wendy if that had been a lie.

  “No, but—you have to promise not to let Ben know I told you this. And please, don’t even mention it to Stefan. Especially Stefan. Ben would be particularly embarrassed if Stefan knew.”

  “Really? Of course I’ll shut up. But why Stefan?”

  “Some male pride thing.”

  “What is it? He lost money in the market?”

  “He lost a lot of money. He was buying options, writing them or something. I don’t understand it, I’ve never understood that stuff. He did very well for a long time. That’s why we could buy the house. And now it looks like we have to sell it.”

  The year before they had bought a country house on the New York side of the Berkshires. Wendy thought Naomi should have regular access to nature, with its supposed benefits. You can imagine my feelings about that. Besides, I resented the purchase because it robbed me of my Saturday outings with Naomi; I couldn’t take her to the movies, or ice-skating, or just to lunch. Also, along with work, marriage, and children, Wendy’s weekend country house was another distraction from our friendship. In addition, Stefan had been concentrating on his book when he wasn’t seeing patients. Lately, life had been lonely. I was drifting more and more into my work, making money without need, a kind of work-ethic decadence, puritanism without spirituality. Selfishly, I didn’t sympathize with Wendy’s tragedy. “I can lend you money,” I offered.

  “No, no. That’s a great way for us to end up not being friends anymore. Anyway, I have money, the money from Uncle Manny.” She meant her parents’ insurance money, the money that her uncle had managed until his death the previous year. “I don’t want to use that—we need the income and it’s—” She put her head to one side and paused, her pale eyes sad.

  “It’s what you have left of your parents,” I said.

  “You better tell Stefan to watch out,” she said. “You might take over his practice.”

  “Ben wants you to use your money?”

  “He’s always spending my money in his head. He wanted to put it in the market last year when Uncle Manny died. Thank God I said no.” Because the couch’s pillows were airing out, we were both seated on the rug, our arms spread on the black marble coffee table, hands supporting our heads. She slid on her elbows in my direction, lowering her voice almost to a whisper: “Do you think Ben might be having an affair?”

  I was flabbergasted. Why? Because I thought he was unappealing. I had accepted Wendy’s original attraction on the basis that she was desperate for marriage and children, but I couldn’t imagine a woman having an illicit romance with him. Ben was hardly a candidate for passion—although there was that night of the red panties, a suggestion he had some sort of appetite. After a moment’s reflection, I supposed that there were enough unhappy women in New York to cast even Ben Fliess as Romeo.

  “No, I don’t. Do you?” I asked.

  “His schedule has changed. He stays later at work. An hour later for the past six months.”

  “Have you asked him why?”

  Her face was near. I noticed how much her skin had aged: there were lines everywhere, ghosts of the smiles and frowns of her youth. And of mine too, for that matter. Was Ben so arrogant that he dared to decide he could do better? Was he so greedy that he demanded youth? I had underestimated his acquisitiveness before. He was a man. Such things are commonplace, after all, the day-to-day evils of humanity.

  “Something about in-house meetings with the brokers. He says there’s a lot of pressure these days because of the crash—it sounds reasonable.”

  “How’s sex?”

  “We’re parents. Parents don’t screw.” She tried to laugh, but her shoulders sagged even more and her big round face, lined with worry, took on the exaggerated pathos of a sad clown.

  Her pain hurt me and I hesitated to ask, but I was too thirsty, after so many years in the desert, for more about her marriage. “Has it been a long time?”

  She was ashamed. “Yeah,” she mumbled, and averted her eyes.

  I remembered our quarrel so long ago, when I first met Ben. I was scared I had crossed that border again. Wary of her later regrets, of a sudden revocation of my visa, I said nothing, passive, waiting for her to go on. She didn’t. She sighed and looked off, giving in to her inward, suppressed hurt. The bottom of her eyes shimmered with water, and a big tear, like the symbolic tear of a clown’s makeup, ran down her face.

  Damn him, I thought, and all the rage from past offenses woke inside me. My long-buried wish for an end to their marriage was resurrected.

  There was a thudding on our front door, a fist pounding steadily, hard, but not furious.

  “That’s Ben,” she said, and scrambled to her feet. She was scared and guilty; her neck retracted, her body became frantic. She dashed toward the foyer, abruptly stopped, turned back, and said, “I’ll talk to you tomorrow in the office.”

  He thudded on the door. I got up, almost ready to tell him off. “Stay,” she said, a plea really. “Everything’s gonna be okay. Good night.”

  I heard his rage and disgust from the hallway as soon as she opened the door. “It’s almost three! What the fuck’s the matter with you!”

  She tried to shush him, went out into the hall, and quickly shut our door behind her. I hurried into the foyer and pressed my ear against its cool surface.

  “I’m coming home late tomorrow!” he scolded. “You’re gonna have to handle Naomi yourself.” Their front door squealed open.

  “I do that all the time—,” she protested, but the anger was sat on, steam squashed under a lid, only wisps escaping.

  “What the fuck were you talking to her about, anyway!” he said, full of contempt and fear.

  They passed into their apartment and I heard no more.

  DID I SAY NO TO THE CLIENT’S OFFER TO DROP ME IN HIS limousine because I hoped to see Ben? Did I choose to walk home, rather than take the subway, and stroll past the entrance to Ben’s office, because I thought there was a slight chance, a remote possibility of catching him?

  If so, I wasn’t conscious of it. I finished my meeting on Water Street, excited by the reassurances about the next satellite launch, and declined the limousine ride, thinking not of Ben, but of the cool fall day, the bright blue sky, the long gray streets, knowing Stefan would be with patients until eight-thirty, and wishing to make practical use of my machine-strengthened muscles—or at least substitute a long walk for that day’s session on the Life-Cycle bicycle. However, I chose to walk nor
th up Nassau, which would take me past Ben’s office, rather than the obvious choice, Broadway.

  The streets were busy with people on their way home at four-thirty—the Exchange closes at four. I felt so good, so grateful for Stefan and for my work. I rather enjoyed helping, if only in a paperwork capacity, to launch something into space, especially if we could manage not to lose this one. I was glad about little Naomi and for my friendship with Wendy. I was also thankful to New York, pleased by its concrete lawn, its brick forests, its curbside gardens of watches and scarves, its background surf of traffic, its animal kingdom of sidewalk people. Even the city’s public misery—wounded and shelterless people—seemed right to remind me that there would always be a challenge to my self-satisfaction: I was confident and felt strong.

  I saw Ben, from a block away, exit from the gleaming silver doors of his building, pivot eagerly on his heels, and make for the subway entrance on the corner. The previous night I had overheard Ben say he was going to be working late and yet he was leaving his office at the usual time. I knew something was up and I trotted after him without giving it a second thought.

  By the time I reached the subway entrance, he had disappeared down the stairs. I followed cautiously, my token already out. Ben wasn’t on line at the booth, or at the turnstiles. I went through and hesitated for only a moment before going down the stairs to the uptown side of the tracks.

  Several people took a second glance at me as I descended. I moved in a peculiar way, pausing every few steps, bending down to see if I could spot him before committing myself to a full appearance on the platform. Once I had satisfied myself that Ben was not at the bottom of the steps, I hurried the rest of the way, panicked by the sound of an approaching train. I didn’t see him. A train was coming on the express track and I maneuvered to peer about the back of the stairs to check the rest of the uptown platform. No Ben. The train now roared in. I looked in its direction and saw him across the way on the downtown platform.

  I ducked behind a post and then peeked. Ben was on the opposite side, looking, not at me, but into the tunnel, nervously shifting his weight from one foot to the other, obviously impatient. The arriving train cut off my view of him.

  I now felt justified that I was skulking about the station. Ben might have been innocently on his way home if he were on the uptown side of the tracks, but heading downtown he was probably up to mischief. His uneasy manner, running a hand over his bald skull, watching the tracks eagerly, also helped confirm my assumption. I rushed up the steps, attracting a bored look from a Transit Authority cop, and crossed to the other side, selecting a staircase that would put me on Ben’s platform but not near him.

  I was excited. Discovery, as any lawyer can tell you, is always a thrill when you are convinced it will lead to the truth. This information—where Ben was going—was power. It could arm Wendy against him. You know I hoped it would lead to divorce. But even if not, surely this would stop the fits, the demands for her money, force him to apply cosmetics to his ugliness.

  Doubts crept in while I leaned against a post, concealing all of me, except for a sliver of my face so that one eye could have a view of him—doubts born of arrogance. I assumed I would follow him into the arms of a woman. I worried that divorce might harm Naomi. Perhaps I should use the information against Ben, force him into marriage counseling, without informing Wendy? I was full of myself, scheming grandly, making life choices for my friend with the air of a finicky eater at a buffet.

  I boarded the downtown local when he did. I rode by the door, stepping out at each stop to see if Ben departed. I assumed we were Brooklyn-bound since there were only a few more stops in Manhattan. I was wrong. He got out at Rector Street and then it hit me. Then I knew where he was going, but didn’t know what it meant.

  I trailed him to his old building, his bachelor pad in Battery Park City, at the edge and bottom of Manhattan. Stefan and I had been there once, just before he and Wendy were married. We helped him move some books. Wasn’t that right? I asked myself. Ben had moved out his possessions, so naturally I assumed he had given up the apartment. That was eight years ago. Could he have kept the place all these years and Wendy knew and had never mentioned it?

  I stood on the plaza, the river beside me, surrounded by sightseers, by young parents with strollers, by frowning and depressed Wall Streeters, and looked at the Statue of Liberty, already illuminated for the night. I was disappointed. I didn’t like to admit it, but the possibility I had discovered nothing was crushing.

  I had to make this find important. I called Wendy.

  “Hi.” I spoke in a cheerful rush. “A young lawyer here is looking for an apartment and I was suggesting he check out Battery Park City. Does Ben still have the lease on his old apartment? Is he subletting?”

  “Wow,” Wendy said, hoarse, her speech slow. “Aren’t you hung over? Where did you get that energy?”

  “I sweated it out.”

  “No, Ben doesn’t—” She seemed to wake up a little. I heard the television on in the background. She had probably plunked Naomi down to watch, too tired to entertain her. “Why would he? You know he moved. You and Stefan helped, didn’t you?”

  I excused myself and hung up. My senses tingled. The city seemed to glow, highlighted by mysterious twilight pastels. It would be just like greedy Ben to keep that apartment for all these years, calculating that he could someday use it for adultery.

  I walked into the lobby, with a hurried step, right up to the doorman. “I’m seeing Ben Fliess. Is that twelve C?”

  I had to repeat the name. Obviously the doorman didn’t know it. That made me wonder. “No,” he said, after a long study of his panel of names and apartment numbers. “Fliess is fourteen D. Your name?”

  “My briefcase,” I said to him, and tried to look blank.

  “What?”

  “I forgot my briefcase!” I rushed out and returned to my distant post on the esplanade by the water. For a long time I thought nothing. It was darker and cooler, almost cold, nearly winter. The Statue glowed.

  Was the doorman new? No, then Ben would have been obliged to announce himself only a little while ago to get past and the name would have been fresh. It meant that the doormen knew Ben by sight, knew that he lived in the building, yet didn’t recognize his name readily because no one ever visited. If Ben didn’t have people asking to be rung up, then what? What did he do, alone in that apartment, everyday after work—?

  He dressed in women’s clothes.

  I laughed. The wind picked up off the river and I was pushed a foot or so before regaining my balance. Vividly, I saw thick Ben Fliess, swollen inside a tawdry red dress, and I laughed.

  Quickly, it wasn’t ridiculous. He had kept an apartment for this activity, for this secret. He had planned elaborately and expensively to satisfy this taste.

  And Wendy knew nothing of it?

  And he had no need of sex with her?

  And he was Naomi’s father?

  And I was going to keep this secret with him, collaborate in his madness?

  No. I caught a cab and went home to tell her. Miserable though it might be, the information belonged to Wendy. Tell her what? I didn’t know he was cross-dressing. I only knew about the apartment. I would have to admit that for seven years I had withheld the story of seeing Ben from my pantry window. Besides, even if I did confess to my silence, so what? The only thing I knew for certain was the existence of the apartment.

  Then that’s what I had to tell her.

  I didn’t wait for a discussion with Stefan. I didn’t wait for a night’s sleep to think it over. I didn’t wait until Naomi was in bed. I have to admit now that I had no regret I was hurting poor Wendy, hurrying her toward divorce. No, I brimmed over with self-righteousness: Wendy was owed the truth.

  Wendy was giving Naomi a bath. She appeared at the door with a towel over her shoulder.

  “Molly! Is it Molly?” Naomi called from the tub.

  “I have to talk to you privately,” I whispered.
>
  Wendy’s clothes were damp, splotched with water, her uncertain curly mop of hair wilted, her pale eyes shrunken by dark circles. “Ben’s not here. What is it?”

  “Ma!” Naomi cried out. “Who is it? What’s going on! Will somebody please answer me! I’m not getting any younger here, you know!”

  I laughed at Naomi’s excellent imitation of her mother when she was exasperated. Wendy said, “One second,” went down the hall, and poked her head into the bathroom. “I’ll be back in a minute. You can turn the water back on and rinse your hair again. Turn on the cold first. Then—that’s right.” Wendy returned to me, not eagerly. Perhaps she didn’t believe that she was owed anything as grand as the truth.

  “I had a meeting downtown this afternoon, near Ben’s office. I decided to walk home and I saw him leave ahead of me.”

  “When?” She squinted at me.

  I held up a hand and spoke faster. At least I can report that I didn’t enjoy my role and wanted to finish quickly. “At four-thirty. He went into the subway and I followed. I thought we could ride together.” This lie embarrassed me and sounded obviously false. Wendy, however, nodded as though that motivation was a matter of course. “When I got onto the platform for the uptown side, he wasn’t there. Then I saw he was on the other side, going downtown.”

  She sagged against the wall. “So he is having an affair,” she said with calm, almost relief.

  “I’m not so sure. I ran over to the other platform and I followed him.”

  She squinted again, put a hand to her forehead, and massaged. “You called—”

  “Because he went to his old building. At least I think it is. Down at Battery Park. Anyway, I asked the doorman and he’s listed. Fourteen D. Is that his old apartment number?”

  “That’s crazy,” she said in a hushed tone, looking off with the absent expression of someone searching for a memory. “But he gave it up! Are you sure? You saw him go in?”

  I nodded. “I’m sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t have told you—”