I was wandering, in my head and on the street. That bothered me. I should be moving to get somewhere. I guess I wasn’t wandering. I was waiting. I found a coffee shop on the far side of the avenue of Riverside School and sat in a booth that gave me a view of its entrance. Again, there were no television cameras, no reporters. Mothers and fathers appeared from the two corners, little people by their side, some holding hands, some independent, some pairs silent, others babbling, but they all troubled my heart. In my overwrought state the sight of such pairings—lone parent and lone child—was sad and compelling. Holly and her mother, Janet, arrived. I had checked with Naomi and learned that Holly’s mother was Janet and Sarah’s mother, the big-boned redhead, was Pam. Janet lingered after her daughter went in. Soon she was surrounded by two or three other mothers and one father, obviously gossiping. After delivering Sarah inside, Pam joined them and there seemed to be a lively discussion going on.
Ben and Naomi turned the corner and walked slowly toward the school entrance. I saw them before the group of parents noticed. I left the coffee shop. My thought was that if they created a scene, or if Ben did, I could intervene and spare Naomi at least some of the resulting humiliation.
At the curb, a car door opened and Stoppard’s friend the lieutenant called to me from inside. “Ms. Gray? Could you get in for a sec?” He slid over to the driver’s seat to make room. I did and continued to watch Ben and Naomi. The other parents had finally spotted Ben. They scattered instantly, as if they had something to be ashamed of. Ben—I had to hand it to him—carried himself remarkably well. He would have made an impressive martyr. I didn’t know if he had marched against segregation or the Vietnam War; he would have been good at it. Ben came at them head up, holding Naomi’s hand, his wide pale face washed out by the sun. Smiling, he nodded at the sole parent who stood her ground, not the big-boned Pam, but the flouncy blond, Janet. She ignored him, instead bending over to talk to Naomi. Ben didn’t allow Naomi to pause, however; he led her up the first two steps and then kissed her, right on the lips. He usually did that, but everything had new significance for me. The papers were full of mad fathers assaulting their children. And I knew from Stefan that even the subtlest of gestures has meaning….
But I didn’t believe in Stefan’s Freudian religion, I had to remind myself. A kiss is a kiss.
The lieutenant’s car smelled of take-out coffee and stale cigarettes. He was also quiet while we watched Ben. That didn’t take long now that Naomi had gone in. Ben strode off briskly, heading downtown. The expressions on the faces of the parents Ben passed were comical. One woman stopped dead in her tracks until he was by her, then she put a hand on her forehead and bent over, apparently trying to prevent a fainting spell. Her son squatted down and cocked his head to look up at her.
“Going to the office,” the lieutenant mumbled about Ben. “He won’t be happy there.” The lieutenant’s brow was still lined by a row of little pimples. He rubbed them with the knuckle of his thumb. “Mr. Stoppard says you’re not gonna fight the custody thing.” I said that was true. He asked why.
“Because I’d lose. Either to him or to his cousin.”
“What have you got to lose by trying?”
“I don’t want to put her through unnecessary pain.”
He nodded sympathetically. “You gonna try and keep an eye on her?”
“Sure.” I shrugged. “I have to get to my office. What about you? Aren’t you following him?”
He smiled. “No, I just stopped by. I was curious if he was gonna bring her.”
I opened the door and then remembered: “Did the forensic report come in?”
“Yeah, I guess so. Not my case, you know. I’m just kibitzing.”
I knew from the impassive look on his face. “Wasn’t good enough, was it?”
“They got a strong case. But, uh, it would be helpful if you kept your eyes and ears open. Maybe the girl can remember something. Any detail might be good.…”
“They’re going to convict him, right?” I demanded. “If the case is weak tell me.”
“No, no, take it easy.” He tried a smile, but his lips were too thin, his mouth too wide, and he appeared sad and wan. “Not weak. Just…you never have enough…you never know what it takes to get a verdict. Everything seems simple, until you get in front of a jury.”
Nothing seemed simple to me. Does it to you?
It did to Stefan. I was in my office for only a minute, staring at the draft of the prospectus for the satellite, when he called, demanding I discuss what was going on, why I had become angry at him because he didn’t approve of my helping Ben take care of Naomi.
I said, “You seem to think it’s so easy—”
“No, I don’t.”
“Tell me. I want to know, what am I supposed to do? Forget that she’s across the hall, completely in his hands? I don’t know if he’s sane anymore, if he’s desperate enough to kill her and himself, if he’s going to molest—”
“Why do you think he might molest her?” Stefan asked with the shrink’s equivalent of a cross-examiner’s sharp tone, communicated not with speed, but emphasis. He imbued, “Why…?” with profound curiosity and skepticism.
“I don’t know…I don’t…but how do I know!” I was shouting. I had left my door ajar. I moved close enough to kick it shut. “Is that so crazy? I have to know! I have to absolutely know that she’s safe.”
I was freed by saying it. That was the point, that was what I needed. The rest—society’s feelings, the long-term, moral questions—had no meaning. Being assured Naomi was taken care of, at peace and safe, was the only justice I believed in.
“I understand.” He sighed. “I merely think you should be aware that if you appear in their household as a…replacement—”
“I’m not a replacement!” I was disgusted.
“Substitute, then. Choice of word is unimportant. The implication to Naomi is that you have validated whatever Ben says or does—”
“That’s nonsense—”
“No, it isn’t, Molly. It really isn’t. Think about it from her point of view. Her mother is dead, and you, her mother’s best friend, take care of her and Ben. How could he be truly guilty, truly bad, if you are willing to make him dinner, help him take care of her?”
I wished he would shut up. I wished it was simple.
“On the other hand, if you are vigorously fighting his custody and Harriet’s, then she knows that you don’t approve, that her father is not a victim, and when you finally win, or at least when she gains independence from him, she can face the truth with less conflict, less ambiguity.”
“And less guilt?” He had made a mistake. He was wrong about this part. I knew better, and he knew I knew better. “You’re wrong, Stefan. If I challenge Ben, I’m forcing her to pick sides and there’s no right choice for her if it’s between betrayal of her father and betrayal of her mother’s memory. I must make the choice for her. The guilt must be mine. Let her grow up to blame me—not herself.”
It was simple. Stefan had helped. After this conversation I was thoroughly convinced he was wrong.
THEY DISAPPEARED. I HAD RESOLVED MY DOUBTS, WAS prepared to mollify Ben, and they were gone.
Billy, the afternoon and evening doorman, told me as I entered. “He took her to the weekend house,” he said in a worried rush instead of a greeting.
In an attempt to catch up I had worked until seven and brought home a load in my briefcase. Even if I had quit early, I would have been too late to stop them. Riverside School dismissed at noon on Fridays to accommodate teachers and parents with country houses. Billy told me that Ben and Naomi had come into the building shortly after twelve and emerged in an hour with two suitcases. He saw them cross to University Place. “I left the door and went to the corner to watch. He took her into the Budget rental and they got a white Ford.”
“How do you know they went to their weekend house?” I hoped he was right, that Ben had no more distant or secret objective.
“I asked
. He wouldn’t tell me. But Naomi did. He didn’t like me asking.” Billy laughed nervously. “I don’t care. I’m not scared of him,” he added a little fearfully.
I called the Berkshire house number, informing Stefan of Ben’s departure while I listened to it ring unanswered.
“You’re kidding,” was his response and I thought him stupidly naïve, although Ben’s simply driving away hadn’t occurred to me either. “Don’t the police have him under surveillance?” The lieutenant had been at the school, but he hadn’t followed Ben to work. Stefan was right to wonder—why weren’t they tailing him?
There was no answer at the house. If that had been Ben’s goal, they would be there already. I called the lieutenant and suffered from Common Sense Silliness again, amazed to learn that Ben was allowed to travel, provided he didn’t leave the state. Of course he was obliged to show up for trial, but until then there was no basis to issue a warrant. Since he was entitled to Naomi, naturally there was no reason to object that he had taken her with him. I did learn one useful fact: the police had sealed the country house while they continued to gather evidence. Ironically, the only place Ben was forbidden was his own property. The lieutenant said he would have the local sheriff send a car to make sure that Ben hadn’t violated it.
I pulled at my memory, yanking empty files. What places had they visited? What friend of his? What relative?
I tried Harriet and got rudely buzzed by her phone.
I couldn’t locate the other two cousins. They were probably married and used their husband’s names.
I went to the kitchen drawer where I kept the copies of Ben’s apartment keys.
“No,” Stefan said on sight, understanding my intention.
I continued through the hallway to our front door while Stefan, the nervous chipmunk, hopped along, rubbing an invisible nut between his paws, white teeth flashing from the center of his black beard, flashing a frantic Morse code of objections.
“You’ve been wrong about everything!” I stopped to tell him. “You were wrong about Ben from the beginning! You were wrong to tell me to keep quiet about his dressing up! You were wrong to tell me not to worry about her confronting him. You’re wrong now!” I shouted into his little dark worried face.
Stefan blinked at my vehemence. His eyes were sad and hurt.
“I’m sorry, Stefan, I love you, but you’re a doctor, you think everyone can be cured. You think deep down everyone’s good.”
“Molly.” He was soft-spoken and gentle, although the wound in his eyes had not healed. “I know you’ve done your best to learn nothing about psychoanalytic theory, but you should know that, if anything, just the opposite is true of a Freudian.”
Condescension is the worst insult to a yellow-haired lobsterman’s daughter. “This isn’t an exchange of letters in the New York Review of Books, Stefan. These are people’s lives. You’ve had a lot of opinions about all this, and you haven’t been right once.”
He gave up; turned away and marched to his study in a proud huff.
The Fliess apartment was hot, the air unbreathable. I had been unsuccessful in my many attempts to convince Wendy that she should turn off some of her radiators. You’re from the frozen north, she’d answer, normal people get cold in the winter.…
You miss odd things about a person you love. I missed nagging her and getting teased back.
What am I doing here? I wondered, waking from a vivid memory of Wendy kidding me. Sometimes I lost the real world, hallucinating her: not bad moments, but odd bits of conversation, slices of casual joy. I had wandered into the master bedroom. I decided to check the dresser drawers and closets. Ben hadn’t taken more than you would for a weekend, but that didn’t provide much solace. You don’t need a lot of clothes for a murder/suicide or an escape to Brazil.
I was deflated by going through Wendy’s clothes. Although inanimate, they still had possession of her, her perfume, even her shape. I wondered—without a laugh, without a chill—whether Ben tried on her clothes, now that he was free to do what he liked.
Why did he want to dress up as a woman? He was so much a man, so utterly unfemale—thick, rough, jarring. Or was that why? Were we so different that to him we might be aliens? Was he like a child who is scared of ghosts but loves to wear the costume, becoming the object of his terror in order to possess its power?
Now I was writing a letter to the New York Review.
I sagged onto their bed. I wanted to stay. I wished to inhabit my friend’s empty apartment, to keep her things company. I should find out about her body, when the coroner would release it—I wanted to bury her in that plot in Jersey, next to her parents. Cherished Mother & Father. I could visit her there.
The prospect of a real funeral crushed me. I lay down on their bed, exhausted, wanting to sleep.
I felt something bulky under the bedspread.
The lump was no more than a foot long. I pictured part of a human body under the sheets. I scrambled away, sickened. My heart pounded, my flesh wanted to flee.…
I willed myself to stay.
I watched the lump, nestled under the taut red bedspread, afraid it would move. I touched it. It was soft, not a body part.
That made me feel stupid. With my good sense recovered, I fearlessly pulled off the cover.
The lump was a crushed mass of lingerie. Black bra, black parities, black stockings.
I didn’t understand. What was it doing under a neatly made bed? I checked the sizes: they were the largest I knew of, not Wendy’s. What did he do, wait until Naomi was asleep, then…?
Ben was mad. His was a consuming obsession, not merely a sexual diversion, a kinky variant. It had made him kill. Even with the world watching him, his daughter in the next room, he was compelled to give in.
He scared me. A manipulative, selfish, evil Ben I could negotiate with—a monomaniac couldn’t be controlled. Threats and bribes would be useless.
Again I was tempted by what had been my lifelong moral infirmity: the weak muscle of my conscience. I can’t lift this weight, I thought. Let the fight happen in the courts. Whatever damage is done to Naomi’s psyche I would pay doctors to heal.
Run back to your apartment, to your comfort. I was ready to give up.
But God wouldn’t let me be.
A key was inserted into the front door. The top lock turned.
Terrified, I tried to remake the bed before Ben caught me. I had completed my frantic housekeeping when I heard a woman’s voice.
“Hello…? Is somebody here?”
I walked out into the hall. From that vantage point I could see into the foyer. A middle-aged woman peered back at me. Behind her, peering not at me, but off in the other direction toward the living room, was a couple in their late twenties, carrying briefcases, obviously having come from work.
“What is it? Who are you?” I asked.
“Who are you? This is ten B, isn’t it?” she parried. She was well dressed, a little too well for an office job: her hair had been done, teased, and sprayed to survive a tornado, and her leather briefcase was too thin and too elegant to hold anything substantial. She appeared to be a rich suburban wife. I knew at once that she was a real-estate agent.
“This is the Fliess apartment,” I told her. “Are you showing it?”
“Yes, I was told the whole weekend was good. Did I get it wrong?”
Like a joke—there’s good news and bad news. The good news is Ben and Naomi are coming back; the bad news is it’s only to move. My one consolation, my proximity to Naomi, was in jeopardy.
“No, no, not at all. Sorry. I’ll get out of your way,” I said, talking as I left, to prevent awkward questions.
I returned to my apartment, hoping Stefan would stay out of my way and continue to sulk in his study, his usual retreat when we fought.
But he poked his head out from the living room as soon as I entered: “Everything okay?”
“There’s a broker showing the apartment.”
“Really?” Stefan was thoughtful. �
��Needs the money…you think?”
“They probably fired him,” I thought out loud, remembering the lieutenant had commented Ben wouldn’t be happy when he got to his office.
“Listen, we can make the eight o’clock showing of Hannah and Her Sisters.” Stefan’s voice trembled a little, although he moved toward the hall closet and pulled out my coat, pretending casual self-assurance. “We’ll get a pizza after—”
“At Johns?” I asked, I admit with heavy irony. In case you—like Stefan—have forgotten, we met Ben for the first time at John’s Pizzeria.
“Sure!” He smiled with innocent triumph and pleasure.
I spoke calmly, my body composed, resolute, and rational. I hoped that would impress Stefan. I fancied I was rather shrink-like in my manner: “I need to know that Naomi is safe. I’m going to try Harriet again. If her phone is still busy, I think I’d like to drive out there. It would be a great help to me if you came along.”
Stefan had my coat by the collar. It sagged as I spoke, a hopeful flag falling sadly. He shut his eyes and sighed. I think he was fighting anger more than hurt, but I’m not sure. “Would you do me a favor first?” Stefan asked. He became alert, flipping my coat over his arm, his dark face smoothing, his bright eyes curious. “I’d like you to call Jim Reynolds and—”
“No,” I cut him off Dr. Reynolds was the psychiatrist Stefan had referred me to when we first met. “I don’t have time to be analyzed—”
“I’m suggesting you have a conversation, not analysis.”
“I know what you’re suggesting.”
Our tones had become openly hostile. He stroked his bearded chin, sighed again, and said, “What’s that? What do you think I’m suggesting?”
“You’re suggesting a surrogate to argue your position.”
“I haven’t talked to Jim. I have no idea what he’ll—”
“Stefan, that’s crap. You don’t have to talk to him to know he’ll take your side.”
“My side? What is my side, Molly?”
“That I should give up, let Prosser do what he can, let them find Ben guilty and hope to take care of Naomi later. You think I’m kidding myself believing that I can deal with Ben.”
The Murderer Next Door Page 14