by Susan Isaacs
In that instant of self-congratulation, I glanced away from her mouth. If the shade hadn't been pulled down, I might have looked out the window, leaned back and watched the moon on the rise. But since there was no night sky to admire, no stars, I looked elsewhere and noticed the tautness of the nylon shorts stretched between her legs.
If we'd been characters in some porno cartoon, the God of Passion would, at that moment, have hurled down a bolt of lightning; it would have slashed across the sky, forked into two jagged spears and, at the exact same moment, zapped each of us, right in the pubes.
Just as my breathing deepened, Bonnie reached behind her, took the pillow and placed it in her lap. It was one of those unconscious gestures of self-defense. But without realizing it, she began fondling the edge of the pillow, rubbing the protruding corner with her thumb. Oh, God, I thought, she could be doing that to me. I got more and more excited. I could almost feel the soft pressure of her thumb.
I tried to picture Lynne, use her as a magic charm against what was happening: auburn hair, I said to myself, and big brown eyes, peaches-and-cream complexion. The waist, the gorgeous long legs. But I couldn't get the parts to add up to anything. I couldn't break Bonnie's spell.
But she could. Either she suddenly realized what she was doing or she simply sensed the change of climate in the room, because she tucked the pillow behind her again. "What else would you like to know?" she asked, all perky, cheerleadery, like she was going for the Miss Teenage Ogden title.
"Why did you lie to me?"
"You mean, when you first came to my house?"
"I came in, asked a simple question: When was the last time you saw Sy? You said you weren't sure, but you thought a few days before, at the set. I asked when you'd seen him before that, and you were kind of vague, but you thought it was about a week before, when he gave you the fifty-cent tour of his house. You said you hadn't spent much time with him."
"For someone who can't remember, you have a great memory."
If I looked at her, I'd see her crotch, or her breasts, or the hollow of her collarbone where the neck of her stretched-out T-shirt drooped. So I looked right past her and concentrated on the weave of the crappy wood headboard. "I asked if Sy had visited you at your house. Again, vague, but then you said maybe he had dropped by. Real casual. Just two old pals working on a movie script together. So what I want to know is, did you construct an alibi before I showed up? Or were you winging it?"
"Aren't you going to give me one of your warnings? You know: 'If you don't tell me the truth, I'll bust your head open.' "
"No. It's I'll bust your fucking head open.' Now, can we get on with it?"
"What's wrong?"
Just because I was making major eye contact with a headboard, she thought something was wrong? "Nothing's wrong. I asked you a question. I'm waiting for an answer."
"I had an alibi, but I was winging it too." She took a deep breath. "After Sy called, I drove over. He showed me the house, and—big surprise—we ended up in bed."
"Yeah, big surprise." I could picture him, his arm around her, leading her from room to beautiful room, the 'This could be yours again' unspoken. I could see his hand on her ass, guiding her into the guest room, closing the door. "When did you start screwing and when did you finish?"
She snapped: "Why don't you just come right out and ask me exactly what we did and how it was?"
"Why don't you shut your mouth? Understand something: you're here to work. I didn't bring you over for the pleasure of your company or to get off on hearing about your sex life." Thwarted desire is great for the disposition. "Now, from when to when?"
"From about one until two-thirty. Do you want to know if it was good for me?"
"I'm sure it's always good for you, sweetheart. Otherwise you wouldn't do it so often."
Well, I'd said it to hurt her. And it worked. Nothing like a deep, wounding insult to snap a woman out of enticing you, put her on the verge of tears. Works like magic. "It wasn't necessary to say that." Her voice quavered; it was costing her to fight back.
"Did anyone see you while you were at Sy's?"
"Mrs. Robertson. She's the cook." She spoke to the green blanket.
"Did you have any conversation with her?"
"Yes. Sy went to call California for a minute, to make sure all his meetings were in place. She and I talked."
"What about?"
"About our families, Sy's family. She'd begun working for us the second summer we were married. I hadn't seen her since the divorce."
"Was that before or after you got laid?"
"Don't talk to me like that."
"Before or after? Hurry up, Bonnie. There's a time bomb ticking. Robby Kurz is out there looking for you."
"Before."
"So you talked with Mrs. Robertson, went upstairs, had sexual intercourse ... Is that better?" She didn't answer. Just then I got another picture of Sy, with his tight cap of short gray hair, climbing all over her, petting, fondling, squeezing, feeling her skin. "And then what? Come on. Any conversation?"
"Only about the three actresses he was seeing. Who I thought would be best for the part, and why. He said he'd call me from L.A. and give me a report."
"That's it?"
"Pretty near."
"What else?"
"He said he loved me."
"Did you believe him?"
"I believed he believed it for that second."
"Did you believe him?"
"No."
"Any signs he was under pressure?"
"Not really."
"So you kissed goodbye, and what?"
"He went to shower and pack, I guess. I went down to say goodbye to Mrs. Robertson, but she wasn't in the kitchen. So I went home."
"Did you speak to Sy again?"
"No. Never again. The next thing I know, I was out in the backyard, cutting some dahlias. The phone rang and it was Mrs. Robertson, telling me what had happened, that the police were there. I was just ... I don't know what I was. What she was saying wasn't making any impact: it was like dialogue that doesn't ring true. Then Mrs. Robertson said, "They asked me if he had anyone with him, and I told them no. What they don't know won't hurt them, so keep your lip zipped.' And I thanked her."
"That was some favor."
"She meant it to be. Please, don't hold it against her."
Like I'd really arrest Mark Robertson's mom, impound her rolling pin, throw her into a cage with a bunch of hookers and crack dealers. But I just said to Bonnie: "Go on."
"I was too upset to cry. I put on the news. And then I began to think: What if the cops question me? I read police procedurals. I'm a natural: the ex-wife. I didn't sit down and plan anything, but during the night—I couldn't sleep—I realized my fingerprints would be in his house and his in mine, so I shouldn't lie about that. And also to say I'd been to the set—although I didn't realize anyone had heard me mouth off to him."
"So you decided to tell the truth and just fudge a little on the details."
"Yes. That's right. I thought I'd be smart, not mention that I'd been sleeping with him, avoid a lot of embarrassing questions. But I wasn't sure about saying I hadn't been in his house that afternoon. There was no reason not to admit it: I certainly had no motive to kill him; I wouldn't be a suspect. But Marian Robertson had already said I wasn't there, so I thought: Well, if worst comes to worst, I'll tell the truth, but if not, I'll keep quiet—for her sake and mine."
"But worst came to worst, and you didn't tell the truth."
Bonnie stood, pulled the shade back about an inch so she could see out into the night. "I opened the door the next morning and..." She turned, leaned against the wall, faced me. "Please don't interrupt now. It's going to be hard for me to say what I have to say." I nodded. "I only spent that one night with you, but it was significant. Well, significant is an understatement. I fell in love with you. When you didn't call, I tried to call you. Your home phone is unlisted. And at your office, I left my name fou
r times. I assumed the Homicide Squad is geared up so that its detectives get phone messages and either they answer them or ... they don't.
"I was in pain beyond anything I want to talk about. And so ashamed. It took me a long time to get over it. But I did.
"And then there you were, five years later, on my doorstep. I didn't recognize you for a second, or maybe I just couldn't believe it, and then ... I was so happy! I mean, Sy had been murdered the night before, a shocking, horrible thing. I'd lost a good friend, or at least an ex-husband, a lover, a producer. But all I could think was: Stephen is back! But instead of showing any ... affection, you showed me your badge. It suddenly hit me why you were there. And you were so correct. So I got myself together. I figured this must be as awkward for you as it was for me. But the odd thing was, you didn't seem awkward. You were businesslike but nice. Every once in a while I saw a flash of the man I'd known that night. You have a wonderful smile, which you use to great effect. And I..."
Again she turned to the window. I kept quiet, because she'd asked me to and because I didn't know what to say. "I wanted you to want me again. I wanted your good opinion; I didn't want to be a tramp."
"You're not." I wished she would turn back again, but she just stood there, facing the drawn shade.
"It's my turn. You agreed. Fact: You picked me up in a bar. I came on to you; to put it mildly, I wasn't subtle. Fact: I brought you back to my house and, to use your terminology, got laid before I knew what you did for a living. Fact: I didn't even know what your last name was. I didn't know that until later, when you showed me your police ID. But all that didn't matter. I knew you were right. This was a miracle—and it was happening to me. So I just let go. I gave everything I had. Why hold back? It never occurred to me that you wouldn't understand completely, approve of me, rejoice in what we were doing, because we had this magic. You understood that.
"But five years after the fact, I was just some woman who felt you up in a bar, who couldn't wait to get you home. Then you asked me when was the last time I saw Sy. I wasn't going to say, Oh, yesterday afternoon, in his bed. Because I didn't want you to know I was still easy, that I'd dropped my drawers less then twenty-four hours before, for a man who was living with another woman: Lindsay Keefe, a world-famous beauty. You'd think that all I could possibly be was a quickie; I knew you'd assume that I had about as much value to Sy as I had to you, to any man: zero.
"I guess I wanted retroactive chastity. I wanted your respect. I wanted you to appreciate that my openness with you was exceptional, that you brought it out, that I wasn't a bimbo who'd do it for anybody. I never was like that. Well, maybe I'm not being totally honest. I don't know how many men I've been with: thirty, forty, maybe more." I remember telling the shrink at South Oaks that the women I'd had were into triple digits, but I didn't know whether it was two hundred or five hundred. Summers in the seventies and most of the eighties, I'd fucked my way from Hampton Bays to Montauk. Bonnie said: "You knew I was easy, promiscuous, whatever. You knew I had a past. But I thought: I have another chance now. Maybe he can come to understand that what happened between us was unique."
At last, she turned back. She was so tired; her face was puffy with fatigue. I thought: She's old and now she looks it. Lynne is so young.
"You know," Bonnie went on, "you never asked me what I did. The morning you came to question me and it came out that I was working with Sy, I was so glad. Because I wanted you to be impressed. I wanted you to think, Gee, she's a screenwriter. She's not a slut; she's an interesting woman. A good woman. She has worth." Bonnie stood tall and straight. "I wanted to be a woman you would be able to love. And that's why I lied to you."
A sharp breeze billowed the shade. It banged it against the windowsill. Bonnie jumped as if it had been the crack of a gun. I stood up and told her: "I know I've contributed to your unhappiness. I'm sorry."
She moved away from the window, until she was standing near the wood cube of a nightstand with its lamp, just inches from me. "How about this?" she proposed. "Instead of apologizing, why don't you just act with a little more decency? Stop talking about my fucking and screwing and getting laid as if I'm the Whore of Bridgehampton and you're a dumb, pig redneck in line for a gang bang. I'm a human being, and I'm in terrible trouble. If you're going to help me, why not be generous? Do it with a little kindness."
"All right," I said. The breeze was changing to a chilly late-August wind. I felt cold. "Sorry."
"Thank you."
Bonnie had goose bumps on her arms and legs. I went into my bedroom to get a sweater and some stuff for her. Moose trotted beside me. I tried to put a pair of socks in her mouth so she could bring them in to Bonnie, like a retriever. It would be funny. But Moose didn't get it; she let the socks drop out of her mouth and threw me an injured look, like I'd been leading her on to think she was getting a Big Mac.
When I turned out the light to leave, I noticed the red light flashing on the answering machine. Two messages. Loud ones: I lowered the volume. One was Germy, saying he had a good source for Yankee tickets. They were on the road, playing Detroit, but did I want to go when they got back? And Lynne: "Hi. I love you and I'm thinking about you. Honey, I know how busy you are, but could you call for just a second? I have to tell my mother if we want breast of chicken stuffed with wild rice or roast beef for the reception. You'll say it's up to me, but please, I want you to feel a part of this."
I called Headquarters and got Carbone. No trace of Bonnie yet, he reported. I haven't found her either, I said. But I'd checked her house and it didn't look as though she'd left in a hurry or taken stuff with her. My guess was she'd gone out for the evening and would be back later. Meanwhile, I had my list of her friends and acquaintances and was going house to house, checking them all out. So far, no luck. I asked if Robby had gone home, and Carbone said no, he was still in the office, reading over the files.
I went back inside and gave Bonnie a set of sweats and some socks. Women usually look adorable when they put on your clothes, with the sleeves all floppy, but she just looked normal in mine; they fit. She tucked the socks into the elastic of the pants. I said: "There were a couple of calls on my answering machine. Did they come in when I was over at your house?"
She reached for the sneakers I'd brought from her house. "One did."
"Were you able to hear it?" She nodded. I recalled Lynne's sunny "Hi, I love you..." I felt blue, for Bonnie's sake. "So you know I have someone."
"Yes."
"I'm getting married."
"Congratulations." Direct. No bitchiness.
"Thanks. She's really a find. Teaches learning-disabled kids. Wants all the things I want, you know? Stability. A family. And she's Catholic. That's important to me." Bonnie double-knotted her sneakers. "Lately—I guess since AA—I've been feeling this need to return to the Church. To have a place to pray. And for the ritual too, I suppose."
I was really going on. But I wanted to tell her that the last time I'd been to church, I was eight, and the Mass had been in Latin. I was wondering what it would be like if you understood it, whether you'd wonder, This is what the big deal was all about? and lose your faith. I was a little worried about that.
And I wanted to tell her about how when my mother had married my father, she'd agreed to raise any children Catholic. She knew her obligations. She dropped me off once a week for confraternity class, but after I made my First Communion she'd said: Steve, dear, you're a big boy. If you want to go to Queen of Whatever, you'll have to go on your bike. I would take you, but I'm on my feet all week. Sunday is my day of rest. I'd gone every single Sunday from that May until right after Christmas, when it began to snow. It was such a cold winter; the roads became a solid sheet of ice. After the spring thaw I never went back.
I started to smile then; I'd gotten to know Bonnie so well I could almost hear her: You're forty years old. Stop blaming your mother.
But I wanted to tell her how my mother hadn't sent Easton at all. She'd pr
otected him from the killer Roman virus. Years later, when he was hanging out with the Southampton summer crowd, I'd heard him on the phone, going on about how his great-greatgrandfather had been the Episcopal bishop of Long Island. I had no idea if my mother had told him that or if he'd made it up, but I knew it was a lie. What kind of person would lie about a God thing?
I was jabbering again. "Listen, I know I'm going to feel ridiculous when I go in and say, 'Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been thirty-two years since my last confession.' But it's something I want to do, and Lynne's so supportive. Okay, I don't need someone to hold my hand and drag me over to the priest. But it's nice that the Church will be part of our life together." Bonnie turned away from me, braced herself against the wall with both hands and leaned forward to stretch out her calf muscles. I felt so dumb. I was babbling like a silly woman trying to make an impression on a man fast, before he could bolt, and I couldn't stop. "Lynne's young for me. Twenty-four. But she's a really solid person. And great-looking. Long dark-red hair—"
"Calm down," Bonnie said, taking one last stretch. "I'm not going to make a pass at you."
"I am calm," I said, trying to sound it. "I just thought it wouldn't hurt if you knew what the score was."
"The score was, and is, that you're not looking for a sterile, forty-five-year-old Jew. Believe me, I know I'm not a hot ticket. But since you're going back in the prayer biz, which is admirable, you might want to check out your conscience with your Big Three. Would you have told me the score if you hadn't thought there was a good chance I'd heard your machine?"
"I don't know the answer to that."
"If I hadn't found out the score, would you have made a pass?"
"I don't know that either. I think there's still a certain attraction between us."
"It's more than a certain attraction."
"Okay, it is more. A lot more. All I can say is I hope I would have had the strength to fight it. But now that it's out in the open about Lynne, I feel a lot better. A lot safer, to tell you the truth. Don't you?"