“Well, it’s Gina’s day with me.” He whispered, “We’re separated. My wife probably thinks I ought to spend the day with Gina exclusively.”
“Daddy! I need skates.” Gina made her request in a nasal whine, quite different from her father’s deep melodic voice.
“I’ll get them for her,“ I volunteered.
While I helped Gina get into the skates, I said casually: “Played a trick on your dad?”
“I wanted to come.” She folded her arms and set her chin defiantly.
“Good for you,” I said, and patted her head; like Naomi’s, it was a silky top, smooth and healthful.
My back was to the rink while I fitted her. When I stood up and turned around I got a shock. Ben had come out from the back room. He and Tony Winters were together, having an animated conversation. They watched the girls, commenting and smiling, apparently friendly. I knew a few things about Tony Winters—he was sort of the class parent celebrity. His mother was the famous television actress, he had a comedy running on Broadway, and he wrote movies. Wendy often spoke of him, his wife, and their very expensively furnished town house. She disapproved of their parenting (she disapproved in one way or another of everyone’s parenting—and she was right), especially his. According to Wendy, Tony was away from home a lot, supposedly researching movies or seeking isolation to write; she predicted their marriage would end eventually. I hadn’t heard anything about a separation, but I had never been that interested in Wendy’s school gossip and she might not have bothered to tell me. Or perhaps it was recent. Tony’s handsome eyes had unsettled me. I was single again, and if he was really separated, why not flirt? Especially with someone so self-confident: he was completely at ease with Ben.
“I always lose money in the market,” Tony was saying to Ben when I reached them. “I even lost money because of when I signed the separation agreement. I signed four days before the crash and I had agreed to pay her half of the stock value on the day of—”
“Wow. You got screwed,” Ben said, and laughed with delight.
Tony noted that bit of sadism with a glance—very fast, eyes flashing bright for a moment, and then returned to the duller, somewhat vacant, but still playful look he wore when he shook my hand. It was as if a video camera had turned on, taken some film, and then shut off. “Yes sir. That’s the word for it. So what do you think? Is it temporary? Should I wait it out?”
Ben spoke in a rush, unleashed, pleased to be restored to his old stature as market analyst: “Oh no. Get out. It was the first gong. A little warning. Black Monday’ll be forgotten soon. Six months, a year. Then wham!” Ben slapped his two hands together. “I think it’ll start in Japan next time: kind of a reverse of the twenty-nine world collapse with Japan substituted for Europe.”
Tony nodded at Ben’s speech, but his mouth was in a puzzled frown. He caught my eye and smiled again, eyes gleaming. “I have no idea what he means,” he said to me in a mock-conspiratorial manner, “and I don’t want to know. But I’m calling my broker Monday and selling.”
Ben didn’t like this cleverness. “If you’re smart you will follow my advice,” he grumbled.
Tony straightened defensively. He was tall (Ben’s height) but thin, and his gray-black hair was full and long. He brushed it back with one hand; his face smoothed out, pleasant smile evaporating into impassiveness. “I will,” he said curtly. I thought him even handsomer like that, offended, embarrassed, and slightly pissed off.
“Ben,” I suggested in my cheeriest tone, “weren’t you going to do some taping of the girls?”
Ben gestured helplessly to the ceiling with both hands: “Excuse me for relaxing! I’m sorry I had the nerve to enjoy myself for a second.” His sarcasm thudded in the rink, amplified by its echoing acoustics.
I glanced at Tony. He looked down at the floor, embarrassed to be caught feeling sorry for me. For a moment I experienced shame, the kind Wendy must have often suffered, until I remembered that I was not Ben’s wife and his disrespect was no comment on my life. “You said you wanted tape of them skating.” I tried to be casual, but a wife’s resentful hurt crept in. “That’s all I meant. They’ll be done soon.”
“Would you like me to do it? What kind of camera do you have?” Tony addressed this to both of us.
“I’ll do it,” Ben grumbled, and shuffled off.
Tony watched him go (again the light turned on, recorded, and went out), then glanced at the girls. He smiled thinly: “I wish I were young,” he said with a wistful pleasure that was almost sinful. “I hope it’s okay I’m staying. Since I should be with Gina, I feel better hanging around.” He looked at me; again my body tingled with girlish excitement. “Is it okay?” he asked.
I didn’t want to chase him away, but fair is fair. I said, “You don’t know what’s going on, do you?”
He blinked. “I never do.” He smiled when I laughed. “Your husband is cranky. Has that got something to do with it?”
“He’s not my husband. But his crankiness has something to do with it. Have you been out of town?”
“Yeah. I was working—if you want to call it that—in LA.”
I chuckled. “You and your wife are really not talking.”
He enjoyed this. “You’re right. Have I done something fabulously embarrassing?”
Ben was returning, so I mumbled, “You should give your wife a call.” Ben arrived, carrying the video camera sluggishly. He seemed especially drab compared to Tony Winters: his skin was white and puffy, Tony’s tanned and taut; his clothes sagging, limp with the depression of their owner, Tony’s alive with success and animation. Of course, the differences were superficial—Tony had been sunning in LA, bought expensive clothes, and wasn’t indicted for murder—but little things mean a lot. I signaled with my eyes toward Ben, and then shook my head slightly to indicate I couldn’t answer freely.
“Get them in a line or something,” Ben complained of the scene provided him. “This is boring.”
Tony mumbled, “As bad as Hollywood,” stepped up to the rail, clapped his hands to get their attention, and called out: “Everybody hold hands and go in a circle for the camera!”
That didn’t work—but it did. In the attempt, one girl slipped and all the dominoes collapsed, laughing, unable to get up easily, grabbing at each other, falling down again, giggling the trill of girls, excited, red-faced, and happy. It was a party. Tony was great with them, urging their silliness on, yet controlling it enough for the activity to be useful to Ben’s taping and to their own merriment. He even orchestrated a finish; he sobered them with a sharp word, got them on their feet, and, for one decorous moment, they held their balance and skated in a graceful circle—solemn and beautiful little girls sworn to eternal friendship and loyalty.
“Got it!” Ben said. Even he was flushed with pleasure. “That was great!”
I went over to Tony and squeezed his wrist. “Thank you,” I whispered. I looked my interest into his eyes.
Although he was uncertain and nervous now, he made the effort to play back the flirting; his language was certainly right: “My pleasure. I love having six pretty girls to direct.”
Ben butted my back with the camera, not hard, but unpleasantly, and, I was convinced, intentionally. I groaned, turned, and slapped at the lens.
“Sorry.” He backed away. “Accident.”
“That hurt,” I said. Again I felt ashamed that this was happening in front of Tony. But that was absurd.
“Come on,” Ben said, keeping his distance. “We’d better serve the cake.”
Things were pretty miserable in that drab green room, as I had feared. “Happy Birthday to You” clattered on the bare walls; the icing washed out under the fluorescent fixture. There was little or no happy babbling later, either, while the girls sat on the folding chairs, dangled their legs, and ate their cake monotonously, as if they were having lunch in a school cafeteria. Tony Winters was gone during all that, presumably phoning his estranged wife. When he returned I knew he had been briefed
about his host and stock market advisor, Ben Fliess. His walk announced the change. Tony entered in a soldier’s march, back rigid, legs stiff, moving with courage not desire; and though he smiled, his lips remained closed, the teeth reluctant to join in and show themselves.
“I’ve been bad. I’d better get Gina and spend some one-on-one quality time with her.”
Was he flip to conceal real sentiment, or was he flip to conceal real irreverence? I didn’t care; I enjoyed his humor. He was sexy and somehow (unlike me and Stefan and everybody) still young. Nevertheless, he was obviously appalled, and probably would have nothing to do with my situation. He moved past me before I could answer, determined to get out quickly. His daughter met him halfway, making some demand as he neared, I couldn’t hear what. Tony frowned and shook his head.
Meanwhile Naomi bounced over to me: “Can she, Molly! Can she, Molly! Can Gina and I go to my house and play?” Behind her Tony bent down to keep his voice low while arguing with his daughter.
“We could take them to a movie or something,” I said in his direction.
“That’s great! We’re going to the movies.” Naomi closed the deal.
“No, I’m sorry—” He tried to refuse.
Gina interrupted with a painful whine, a police siren revving up: “Why! Why not!”
“Gina. We can’t. I’ve made other plans—”
“Hello.” Janet had appeared at the door to the private room. Behind her, a husband skulked. “Come on, Holly.” She motioned from the doorway, reluctant to enter the room. “We’ve got to go to Grandma’s.”
“I want to skate more!” Holly insisted.
“Me too,” said another.
“Could I skate some more?” Naomi asked instantly.
Another pair of parents arrived at this moment and their daughter hurled herself at them, her greeting an argument: “I want to skate! Everybody else is going to!”
Throughout Ben dumped the plastic plates smeared with frosting into a Hefty bag, an occasional fork skiing off and missing, causing him to duck and hunt on the linoleum floor. Normally this would have kept him unobtrusive, but all the adults watched him warily while they lied and insisted and explained to their daughters that they had to leave right now.
In all the confusion I sidled up to Tony. He was bent over, whispering bribes into Gina’s ear: “We’ll buy a toy, we’ll rent your favorite movies, and we’ll have two bowls of ice cream—”
“Okay, I’ll go,” I answered.
He had such a good sense of humor, he laughed, turned his head to me, and smiled. “My wife was ready to kill me before this. Now she’s actually hiring a hit man.”
“I can get rid of him for the day and we can keep the girls together. I promise.”
Both Gina and Naomi eavesdropped openly, solemn and interested. What did they understand of all this? “I can’t,” he pleaded. “Divorces—” He glanced at his daughter. Poor man, when he looked at the victim of his failure, the clever light in his eyes went out and there was unsophisticated pain. “I don’t know how it might be used.”
“I understand. Another time.” I touched Naomi’s head.
“No!” came out of her. Her little fists clenched, her mouth set in a pout, and she ducked away from my consolation.
I had prepared myself for Tony’s rejection. I put a business card, on which I had scrawled my home number, into his coat pocket. “I’m also separated,” I said as he watched me do this.
He nodded, but it was a polite reflex. “We have to go, Gina.” He spoke sadly now, without tension. “No more arguing.”
“Okay,” she conceded.
I reached for Naomi and pulled her to me.
“I hate my birthday!” she said into my stomach.
There had been a pause in the noise as she spoke; everyone appeared to have heard. Parents and children watched us limply, arms sagging, mouths drooping, pictures of helplessness. But I thought, they weren’t helpless. I’m sorry: I believe her unhappiness that day was their fault.
“That’s done!” Ben called out cheerfully. Busy with the cleaning, he was the only one who hadn’t heard Naomi’s despair. He twirled the bulging green Hefty bag in the air to make a closure at the neck. With a squeal of plastic friction he tied the loose ends into a knot and showed off the result, a look of self-satisfaction in his bland expression.
“Let’s get out of here!” one of the fathers said vehemently, and dragged his daughter out, almost doing violence to her. They all looked horrified. It was a half hour later when I realized why: I had forgotten, but they had not, the other use Ben had once made of a Hefty bag.
BEN AND NAOMI WERE BOTH UNHAPPY AFTERWARD, UTTERLY silent during the rough no-shocks cab ride home. With a half-eaten cake bouncing on my lap, I talked across their grim profiles. My voice screeched with false cheer. They seemed angry with each other. Every time Ben agreed with one of my suggestions—“Let’s go down to Chinatown for dinner”—Naomi said an outraged no to him, as if he were the instigator. “Fine. Then we’ll sit home and do nothing,” Ben replied.
At the apartment I suggested we watch the videotape Ben had made, hoping to show them their misery was unjustified—the party had been a success.
“I don’t wanna.” Naomi sulked. “I want my presents!” she demanded.
“Here.” Ben held the shopping bag full of her friend’s gifts at arm’s length, as if it oozed greasy leftover food. She carried them off to her room.
Ben groaned and lay down on the couch. He put his dirty shoes on the armrest. I stared at them, hoping that would alert him to his sloppiness. No result.
“Well…?” I said, grinning like a fool.
“What?”
“The tape. Aren’t you going to put it on?”
Ben blinked. A smile quivered on his lips. “No, I’m not.”
“Okay,” I said in my bouncy 1950s television Mom voice. I beamed with delight at him.
Ben sneered at me. “You liked him, didn’t you?”
“Who?” My attempt at casualness was inept.
Ben snorted, laughed, groaned, then shut his eyes and sighed. Turning his body slightly, he nestled into the back of the couch. I waited. He made no move. “Are you taking a nap?”
“I’m tired,” he mumbled. His shoes pressed against the fabric. A sliver of gray-black sludge dripped off one heel onto the cushion.
“Lie down in your room,” I suggested softly.
He reared up to shout: “Who made you den mother? You’re not happy with us—go home!”
“Take it easy. I know it was hard for you.”
He paid no attention, he was haying a fit: “When I ask you something, a simple question, why do you lie to me? It insults me. You know? Like I’m not worthy of knowing your feelings. But I’m supposed to tell you everything!”
“You don’t tell me everything. Don’t hand me that.” I trembled, my outrage at the cremation, the rage I hoped to kill, coming alive.
Ben fell back onto the couch, defeated. “I don’t like him. He was interested in you. I didn’t like that.” He rolled toward the back of the couch, hibernating again, and grumbled: “Okay? Now you know.”
He was jealous? I wanted to laugh, but I was too scared to reject him. What was going on in his head—did he hate me or love me? Or was there any difference? I drifted into a trance, going over this point, standing there without really paying attention to anything. Eventually Ben opened his eyes, noticed I was stuck in place, and rolled onto his back, asking: “What?”
He startled me out of my reverie; I had nothing to say on waking. “I just don’t understand,” I said,
“I was jealous. What’s to understand?” He watched me, decided his glasses were an obstruction, removed them (with a contemptuous toss they skidded on the coffee table), put both palms over his face, and rubbed hard. When he let them down, he had transformed himself. The shelled, embittered animal was red and soft, his eyes worried and naked. “Never occurred to you, huh? You think I’m a dead person? You start livi
ng here—practically living here—taking care of me and her, and I’m…” His lips trembled. He didn’t finish, shutting his mouth, swallowing the emotion along with the words.
He was in love with me. Or at least that’s what he was pretending. It was a very good performance, if it was fake. A liar would have announced his feelings: this choked-off confession seemed authentic. I didn’t really think any of that at the time. I sagged into a chair, confounded.
“Well…anyway,” he said, his tone very low. “I hope to be able to pay back the fifty thousand—”
“I don’t want the fifty thousand back.”
“I want to pay—”
“I won’t accept it.”
He raised his hands in surrender. We were silent for a while. He shifted his legs onto the floor (I was relieved those shoes were finally off the fabric) and collected his glasses from the table, replacing them. They sobered his appearance, protected and matured him. They made him ugly, too.
“Have you ever gotten contacts?” I asked. Absurd, I know, but that was all I could think of.
He shook his head. “Can’t put glass in my eye.”
“They’re not made of glass.”
“No kidding. Whatever they’re made of, I don’t want to be putting something on my eye. Wendy was always scratching her cornea and writhing in agony.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“No kidding,” he said again, and smiled at me. “You’ve lost your sense of humor?”
“You should reconsider. Contacts might help.”
“Help what?”
“At the trial.” I wasn’t trying to be elliptical: my advice came out slowly because I was reluctant to give him good council. The notion thrilled him. Abandoning his depression, Ben’s mouth dropped open. He bounced off the sofa and dashed over to a small antique mirror hanging on the wall between the windows. Its thick glass and burnished oval wood frame converted any onlooker—even Ben—into a nineteenth-century portrait. Wendy had bought that mirror with me, on a Sunday stroll down to Hudson Street. She had to be talked into the purchase. At first, she turned away, complaining that Ben wasn’t handy and it took months to get the super to do anything. Of course, I had helped make traps for my father; I had done plenty of carpentry, even at my fancy boarding school. I told her I could do the job and I teased her for her helplessness about anything mechanical. Daring me, she bought the mirror. We went straight home, got out my electric drill, and hung it. That accomplished, we did all the other posters, paintings, and photographs awaiting the super’s pleasure. Ben and Stefan were impressed. Wendy put up the last two by herself. “We are women, hear us drill,” she told the men.
The Murderer Next Door Page 23