by Susan Isaacs
“That was it,” she said. I believed her. Nancy’s memory is excellent. She can interview a celebrity for an article and recall the entire conversation without referring to her notes. Slowly, stretching, talking casually, we left the office and walked downstairs, the sparkling white rooms more glaring than bright sunlight after a movie matinee.
“I wish,” I said, as I sat in a plexiglass kitchen chair, “that I could have asked Cupcake a few questions.”
“Why not? Give him a call, a little sweet talk. He likes tits.” She stood at the refrigerator, holding a bottle of Chablis. Expertly, she extracted the cork.
“Before noon?” I asked, eyeing the wine.
She put the cork on the white formica counter and turned to me. “When are you going to stop trying to reform me?”
“It’s just that it bothers me to see you drinking so much. It can’t be doing you any good.”
“How do you know? Do I seem miserable? Sick? Deranged?”
“No. But have you ever wondered why you drink so much?”
“No. I know why. I enjoy it. And I enjoy writing and fucking and nice clothes. Just accept it. Accept me. As I am. As I accept you. Do I ask you why you’re in such a twit over this murder?”
“No, but I’ll be glad to talk about it. I mean, if you really want to hear...”
“But I don’t. I accept the fact that you find this murder very interesting. Now, what are you going to do about it?”
“I don’t know,” I answered.
“Why don’t you just pay a call on some of the people involved. Ask questions. If you want to be a detective, be a detective.”
“Come on, Nancy. How could I? What excuse could I give?”
“Are you smart, Judith?”
“Yes. Very.”
“Then you’ll think of something.”
Chapter Nine
I needed time. I had to concentrate on the murder, determine how to reach the principals in the Fleckstein case. There had to be a way for me, me, who had spent the four weeks preceding my qualifying exams in French and German reading a bookcase full of whodunits. Me, who devoured mounds of Dorothy Sayers and John Dickson Carrs, piles of Christies, mountains of Stouts. But the weekend was too hectic. Saturday morning, Joey climbed into our bed at six-thirty, cuddled in the crook of my arm, and threw up on the quilt. He said: “I don’t think I feel so good.” A mere stomach virus, but I spent the day trailing after him with a glass of ginger ale and peering closely to look for blotches or pustules or rashes. By evening, he was well. I was enervated. But at Bob’s insistence, we kept a date with his newest client.
We met them at a local seafood restaurant. Walking from the parking lot, I noticed Bob’s head lowered, as if to protect his face from the wind—but there wasn’t even a breeze.
“I know how you feel,” I said warmly. “It’s no fun giving up a perfectly good Saturday night for strangers.”
Bob stopped between a Seville and a BMW. “He’s not a stranger. He’s a client and a damned good one too.” He sniffed and strode toward the entrance, with me two lengths behind, teetering on too-high heels that Bob claimed made my legs look better. I hadn’t asked better than what. Or whose.
The latest superstar in the Singer Associates firmament was a buck-toothed toy manufacturer. His wife was a large-boned, matronly child psychologist. Bob had told me she worked with disturbed children. She looked as if she could cure autism by merely clutching a child to her shelf of a bosom. She and I smiled over drinks, beamed over menus, proclaiming that we had heard wonderful things about the other. The men discussed a survey on consumer trust and faith in the toy industry, shaking their heads at the cynicism of the American consumer. As we reached the end of our clam bisque, I excused myself to call and check on Joey.
“He’s okay, darling,” Bob hissed. “Stop worrying.”
“That’s all right,” Sylvia the psychologist said. “I think her concern is very touching.”
“Listen to my Sylvia, Bob,” ordered Lou the Toy Tycoon. “She’s a real pro when it comes to mamas and kiddies.”
Bob obeyed. Lou was good for a fifty thousand dollar a year retainer; he needed all the favorable publicity Bob could get him. His overadvertised leading line, a doll called Saucy Suzette and her black soul sister Lovely Laverne, was in frantic demand. But their limbs tended to break easily when youngsters took off their Naughty-Nighty Negligee to change them into their Peachy-Beachy Bikini, leaving the kids with ten-inch, ten-dollar amputee dolls. The Federal Trade Commission was not amused.
“He’s fine,” I said, returning from the telephone booth. At my place was a two-pound lobster and a small mountain of French fries.
“I told you he was all right,” Bob said. I smiled sweetly at Lou and Sylvia. They smiled back. We plunged into our seafood with an intensity bred from the realization that all small talk had been exhausted.
“Mmmm,” we said. “Delicious.” “Would you like to try one of my mussels?” “No thanks, but how about a clam?”
Sylvia looked up. “What a nice community this is. I mean, to support such a good restaurant.” I began to feel a real empathy for her; she was finding the evening as painful as I was.
“Shorehaven is a nice town,” I agreed.
“Didn’t you have a murder here recently?” Lou chimed in. He had refused a bib and had two blotches of butter on his tie.
“Yes,” I enthused. “It’s caused quite a stir around here.”
“Judith, dear, let’s skip the gory details,” Bob said, his mouth finding its way into a pleasant smile.
“You’re a psychologist,” I said to Sylvia, looking past him. “Let me ask you a question. It seems that the murdered man was a real Don Juan type, spreading joy to quite a few of the local ladies. What makes a man do that?”
“I’ll tell you what makes a man do that, little girl,” Lou chuckled, his heavy lips shiny from the butter.
“Well,” Sylvia said slowly, “that’s not really my field. I deal with children, and I’m not a Freudian, but...”
“Judith...” Bob began.
“But,” Sylvia continued, and Bob snapped shut his mouth, “from what I recall, a Don Juan type would have an unresolved Oedipus complex. He’d be seeking his mother in all women, but of course he’d never find her.”
“What do you mean by that?” I asked.
“You know what an Oedipus complex means, Judith,” Bob said.
“I mean,” I continued, looking at Sylvia, “how does that manifest itself?”
“I see what you’re getting at. Well, even though a Don Juan seem to be hypersexual, he’s not really looking for genital sex. He’s looking for self-esteem, which no one can really give him. So he’s doomed to disappointment with every woman he has relations with.”
“All right,” I said. “I’m with you so far. But this particular guy seemed to be toying with the women. I mean, initially he was charming, very pleasant, but later he became terribly manipulative. Why not just love ’em and leave ’em? Why the need to humiliate?”
“Because they disappointed him. They didn’t give him what he wanted. In a sense, he felt they let him down because they complied with his demands for sex.”
“What kind of woman would a man like this attract? Would he seek out any special type?”
“I really don’t know,” she said thoughtfully, rubbing her chin with her left hand. She was wearing probably the largest diamond I had ever seen, a stunner, a real sparkler. “But a Don Juan is very eager to have his needs fulfilled, so he’s going to do his best to enchant women. He could be very sensitive, saying just what he thinks the woman wants to hear. And because he’s essentially a blank, a cipher, they can read anything into him they want. So he’d probably be able to attract a fairly wide range of women, assuming he’s reasonably attractive.”
“You know, you’re right,” I said, full of admiration for her. “He seemed to have very catholic tastes and...” Bob kicked my ankle under the table.
“But you’ve got to understand,�
� Sylvia continued, “that this man would be terribly narcissistic. He has to continually prove his ability to excite women. He couldn’t settle down to a deep, mutual relationship.”
“Well,” I said, “he was married. Could he have a good marriage?”
“I don’t see how. People like this are generally quite troubled.”
“Does that mean his wife would have to be a sickie too?”
“No. Not necessarily. Unassertive, perhaps, or maybe...”
“Judith’s really interested in this case. We don’t have much excitement around here,” Bob explained. He waved his fork with apparent indifference and several strands of coleslaw fell on the table.
“Well,” pronounced Lou, “it’s not every day that a fella gets bumped off for trying to spread around a little sunshine and light. I mean, what kind of thanks is that for all his trouble?” Sylvia eyed her crab and exhaled softly. She knew she had married a buffoon, I realized. And she wasn’t going to do anything about it. A nice, bright lady, maybe a little too sweet, but very decent. And she would stick it out, a poor third after Saucy Suzette and Lovely Laverne, as long as Lou would have her. I ordered ice cream cake with hot fudge sauce for dessert.
“Why did you bring up the murder?” Bob asked the next morning.
“I didn’t bring it up. Your client did.”
“But you didn’t have to go on and on about it.”
“I didn’t. I just asked Sylvia a couple of questions.” My hands were cold, so I put them in my bathrobe pockets. I felt a chewed piece of gum wrapped in a bit of cellophane and a piece of Kate’s tinker-toy set. “Why do you think she stays with him?” I asked Bob. “I mean, once you get past her sweetie-pie facade, she’s very nice. And he’s such a boob.”
“He’s not a boob. He’s a goddamn dynamic guy who built a twenty million dollar a year business from nothing.”
“Bob.” I reached for his hand. We were having a second cup of coffee after breakfast. “I can understand that he’s your client and you have to do a good job for him. But you don’t have to love him. I mean, he’s the antithesis of everything you’ve ever cared about.”
“You don’t just dismiss someone because he isn’t sitting in an ivory tower studying Mesopotamian art.”
“I’m not. But he’s so crass, so simplistic, and she’s so...”
“She’s what? A psychologist? Big deal. You don’t have to romanticize every woman who works. And did you see that rock on her finger? Could she have gotten that on a psychologist’s salary?”
“Do you think that’s why she stays married to him?”
“Judith, is it necessary to analyze every goddamned relationship you come across? In public?”
“I’m interested in people. What’s wrong with that? What should I have talked about? Saucy Suzette? I wouldn’t let Kate have one if it were the only toy in the world.”
“And why did you have to order ice cream cake for dessert?”
“Because I wanted it.”
“I ordered a fruit cup. And I’m not getting a double chin.”
“Are you trying to tell me I’m getting fat? I’m not.”
“But you’re going to get there if you don’t watch out.”
“I haven’t gained any weight,” I lied.
“Whatever you say, Judith. But, remember, obesity turns me off.”
“And charm turns me on.” I stood, put the milk back in the refrigerator, and walked out of the kitchen, not looking back.
But the next morning I did penance at the health club—two hours of exercise and swimming. I hate the place. Trim ’n’ Slim is a haven for local women who say things like “I want to feel good about my body,” and “I’m getting fat,” while they search their torsos for an imaginary roll of flab to squeeze. Each morning they arrive there in sleek droves to exercise, lie in the sun-room, relax in the sauna. Then they spend another hour reapplying their makeup and blow-drying their hair.
That morning I tried to make my peace with them, stretching and twisting in the midst of twenty bodies leaner and firmer than mine. “This one is for the inside of the thighs, girls,” the instructor said. After the final, agonizing, waist-slimming stretch, I lay in the sunroom for about a minute. It occurred to me there that by the time my skin was a glowing bronze I’d have terminal skin cancer from the ultraviolet light, so I stood up, wrapped my towel around me, and walked into the sauna. The intense pine wood smell was masked by the aroma of sweat, which in turn was disguised by the even stronger smell of perfume. Four women lounged on the three tiers of benches, all, I realized, older than I, and all with tenderly tended bodies. They stopped exercising only on Sundays and once every two or three years to check into the hospital for a little cosmetic surgery.
One of them, a woman in her forties who looked a little like Marlene Dietrich in Destry Rides Again had two thin, pale curved lines under her breasts, faint souvenirs of the plastic surgeon’s hands. They were ordinary-sized breasts, like two average MacIntosh apples, and I wonder if she had had them made larger or smaller. Another had a huge, fluffy tuft of brown pubic hair, as if she was wearing a wiglet. (“Order one of our special hairpieces,” the ad would say, “and get a snatch to match.”) A third had an elegant figure with a tiny waist, her absolute perfection marred only by two parallel incisions on her stomach, one straight up and down the middle, a smaller one on her right side. I peeked at her face to see if she was eighteen or forty and swallowed a gasp. It was Brenda Dunck, Bruce Fleckstein’s sister-in-law.
She was lying on her side on the top level of benches, her hair wrapped in a turquoise towel, staring at a knothole in the wood near the ceiling. I wanted urgently to do something, say something to her, but although my heart was racing and my lower bowel began signaling for relief, I couldn’t think of any way to approach her and dissipate the tension. What could I ask? Did your brother-in-law have a pleasant interment?
She sat up and stretched, her long, perfectly filed dark red nails pointing in ten different directions. What could I say? A mild, curious “Aren’t you Brenda Dunck?” sounded far too coy. She stood and daintily made her way down to my level, delicately weaving between the stretched-out bodies of the other women. Suddenly, she glanced in my direction and gave me a sweet, sad smile.
“Hello. Aren’t you Scotty’s friend? I’m Brenda Dunck.”
“Yes, of course,” I smiled back. “How are you?” I rose and put my towel around me.
“Well, as well as can be expected.” Her toenails were polished in the same deep red as her fingernails. She held the heavy sauna door open for me, and we stepped out into the chilly tiled hallway.
“Shall we have a cup of bouillon?” I suggested. I said “Shall” instead of “Would you like,” because it sounded more sophisticated, British almost, and I realized, having seen Brenda with Scotty, that she was trying very hard to be a lady.
“Fine,” she concurred, and we walked toward the lockers, me grasping my towel around me and she taking long, slow strides, like a nude bride walking down the aisle. Even her chin was raised, as though she were posing for the photographer who would be making her wedding album. Near the locker room, she took a bathrobe from a row of hooks. It was a white and turquoise terrycloth that perfectly matched the towel on her head. We walked silently into the lounge.
“How do you know Scotty?” she asked as we lay down on the leatherette chaises. The chaises were alternating colors of orange, turquoise, and yellow, and I noted she chose the turquoise one. Had she coordinated her robe with the health club decor?
“Scotty’s husband, Drew, prepped with my husband’s roommate in graduate school.” This was technically true, although we discovered it long after Joey and North had become friends. But I had gotten the word “prepped” in. It was one of those key words that would set Brenda’s heart aflutter. I considered working in a reference to my mother as “Mumsy,” but I couldn’t do it gracefully. “How are all of you doing?” I inquired instead.
“Pretty well. Norma, my sister-in-
law, was fairly controlled during the shiva—I mean the mourning period.”
“I know what shiva means,” I said. “I’m Jewish.”
“Oh. I thought you were. I mean, you look it. Not that there’s anything wrong with that; you’re just dark.”
I smiled. “It comes from centuries under the hot Spanish sun.” More bullshit. The closest my family came to being Sephardic was the three days my parents spent in Madrid on their guided United Federation of Teachers’ tour. My father took eight rolls of slides and my mother caught dysentery.
The tough, skinny lesbian who ran the locker room, Cookie, came and took our order for two cups of bouillon. Within a minute, she brought two steaming styrofoam cups back to us. Brenda took a delicate sip of the hot liquid and then glanced at me. “I’m terribly embarrassed,” she murmured, “but I forgot your name.”
“Please, don’t be embarrassed,” I soothed. “Our meeting was hardly under auspicious circumstances.” If I had clipped my consonants just a little more, I would have sounded like Judith Anderson. “My name is Judith Singer.”
“Now I remember. Of course.” There was an awkward quiet moment. I worried that she would ask me why I went to the funeral.
“I must tell you,” I declared, plunging in, “that I am absolutely appalled by the publicity this case has received. Heavens, it must be so terribly trying for the family.” Newsday had run a series of three enthralling articles on the case.
“It’s been awful,” she agreed. She drew her feet up close to her body and began to massage her ankles. “I never believed in censorship, but now I do. I mean, freedom of the press can go too far.”
I nodded, wondering if Brenda’s ankle massage was just a nervous habit, or did she think it kept them thin? “I agree with you. Utterly,” I lied. I’m one of those who believes that even to consider tampering with the First Amendment is a cardinal sin. Why am I wasting my time with this bubblehead, I thought, when I could be home working on my dissertation? And then I got an idea. “You know, Brenda, I’m writing my doctoral dissertation on that very subject, First Amendment rights. Maybe that’s why your family’s case made such a profound impression on me.”