And then she cried again.
50
Langley Has It Out with Belinda
It was over. Whatever it was that had been holding him back from “telling” on Belinda—shame, guilt, protectiveness—it was gone now. It was over.
At least that’s what Langley hoped as he watched Alexandra open “DBS News America Tonight” from London. He was sitting in the den of his apartment with Cordelia, who was doing some kind of needlepoint, and with Big El, who was eating a dish of vanilla ice cream. (Big El, five days away from Hilleanderville and his sneak drinking with Lucille, was spending less and less time in his wheelchair. His favorite activity had come to be walking to the kitchen after dinner to bother pretty little Carmen for things to eat, and to say things like, “I’m sure this ice cream could not be sweeter than you, Miss Carmen.”)
The knowledge that it was time for him do something about Belinda’s pill taking made Langley’s chest feel a little tight. He was scared. Christ, he had been scared for years already, hadn’t he? Only then he had thought it was hopeless. He had thought Belinda was just going crazy and there was nothing he could do about it.
Strange how much scarier it was to think that there might be something that could be done.
Strange.
Strange.
But then, it was very strange to find that all of Belinda’s drugs were coming from doctors, extremely expensive doctors who were supposed to be the best in their fields, and that, of the four doctors he had talked to, all of them were violently appalled at the suggestion that they might have prescribed something for Mrs. Peterson that she didn’t need. When Langley explained that Belinda apparently had other prescriptions from other doctors, that what this doctor was prescribing for her was also being prescribed for her by another, it was explained to him that it was not that doctor’s business what another doctor did, any more than it was his job to do anything more than treat Mrs. Peterson for the ailment for which she had come to see him. Three of the doctors were treating Belinda for anxiety, stress and sleeplessness, and one was treating her for an aching back.
They weren’t being unkind, Langley realized. Behind their indignation he imagined they were scared too. The implication of maintaining a drug habit for Belinda Darenbrook Peterson was scandalous, but the idea of confronting Belinda Darenbrook Peterson with the possibility that she might have a drug problem was impossible. If she took it the wrong way, a woman like Belinda Darenbrook Peterson could damage their practices severely with a single word to her friends. The problem, if she were indeed abusing prescriptions, the doctors said, lay with her. And they strongly recommended psychiatric help.
Yeah, right.
The real problem, in terms of the doctors, Langley knew, was with Dr. Balakudian. Belinda’s dependence on him over the years was not just emotional but clearly and without question tied to drugs too. Balakudian’s response to Langley’s visit, telling Balakudian what he had learned thus far, pleading with him to help, was to assure Langley that he would. That he was shocked and troubled to hear that Belinda was acquiring tranquilizers from other doctors, in addition to those he was prescribing for her himself—for anxiety, stress, depression and sleeplessness—and that he would take care of things, not to worry. But
Langley was also to understand that Balakudian was the only person whom Belinda truly trusted, and he had to be careful not to panic her into fleeing his care.
Langley and Belinda had a hell of a fight after she talked to Balakudian, and she insisted (and actually made a very convincing argument) that any pills she took were absolutely necessary. But as she continued to talk, Langley realized that Balakudian had not told her everything that he had told Balakudian—that Belinda thought Langley had only gone to see Balakudian about the drugs he was prescribing for her, and that she didn’t even know Langley knew there were other doctors and other prescriptions.
In any case, what Belinda did know made her angry enough to tell Langley he could go to hell and that, if he had a problem about her, then fine, he should divorce her, “But everybody knows you won’t,” she said, “because everybody knows you married Darenbrook Communications till death do you part and, as long as you want it, you have to be married to me!” And then she had fled to Greenwich, not to return until the family reunion, at which time she seemed to be fine—which gave Langley this weird sensation that he might have made the whole thing up in his head. Could it be that Belinda was right, that it was the pills that prevented her from going crazy? But if that were true, why did she have so many secret prescriptions and why were there stashes of pills all over their bedroom and her dressing room?
In the meantime, between Belinda’s trip to Greenwich and her return for the reunion, Langley had discovered that Dr. Balakudian had no intention of returning his phone calls or of seeing him. As some woman said who finally did return his call, “Dr. Balakudian is Mrs. Peterson’s doctor and must honor the trust between doctor and patient.”
Son of a bitch! was all Langley could think, feeling betrayed and abandoned. Balakudian with his degrees and smoothie European accent and two hundred dollars an hour fees—how the hell had Langley let Belinda fall in so deep with this guy? Six years this had been going on! And Langley knew—he knew—that Belinda’s problems, periodically “going off,” had started right around the time she had started seeing Balakudian, when she had started staying in the New York apartment more and more, and returning to Richmond less and less, after Barbara died.
Sunday night, after the board fired Jackson and voted Langley in as chairman, Belinda had fled to Greenwich and Langley had let her go. He asked Cordelia and Big El to stay on for a few days, to help sort things out in the wake of Jackson’s dismissal, but the truth was, he wanted Cordelia to stay because he wanted to tell Cordelia everything and ask her what she thought he should do. Or maybe he was hoping Cordelia would take matters into her own hands. He didn’t know. It wasn’t as if he didn’t want to do something himself, it was that there wasn’t anything definable and clear about what it was he was supposed to do. If there were, he would do it. But there wasn’t, and there was this mess at Darenbrook Communications, and if Belinda refused to even acknowledge that she had a problem, what was he supposed to do? He had talked to her doctors, discussed the problem with her psychiatrist, talked to Belinda about it—what more could he do when his wife had sixty—three million dollars and was quite free to go anywhere she wanted and go to as many doctors as she wanted and, hell, could buy a whole goddam drug company if she wanted?
And then Belinda had come swaggering in tonight while they were eating dinner, parading around the dining—room table, growling at Langley that she could have died out there in Greenwich and he wouldn’t have cared—that he cared more about brown-nosing Cordie and her father because he was the big shot of the whole shooting match now, wasn’t he? Then she had disappeared into their bedroom, slamming and locking the door.
And so Langley was sitting in the den watching the news with Cordelia and Big El, pulling his thoughts together in preparation for telling Cordelia what was going on.
Gary Plains, the weatherman, was now on the television screen, saying, “Well, folks, we know Alexandra will be home in America as soon as she can be—particularly since the biggest rain clouds in the western hemisphere are moving toward London as we speak.”
“This guy’s sort of a jerk, don’t you think?” Big El said to Cordelia. “Reminds me of ol’ Murky Dirk Bablachek, who used to run the Triple H Five and Dime—always goin’ on and on about the weather.”
“I believe that’s his job, Daddy,” Cordelia said, looking up and winking at Langley.
Big El grunted. In a moment he turned to Langley. “I don’t want us spendin’ an arm and a leg on this,” he said.
“No, we won’t,” Langley assured him. “Cassy’s pretty sure Alexandra’s demands will be reasonable.”
“I like Cassy,” Cordelia said. After a moment she added, “And Alexandra still doesn’t seem the type to me who
would go in for blackmail.” She broke a piece of thread with her teeth and then sighed, shaking her head. “Jackie just uses anybody to get his way. I suppose we should count ourselves lucky that Alexandra has any say in it all. Jackie’d just pull the whole place apart in a tantrum otherwise.”
“I don’t think so,” Langley said.
Cordelia sighed again. “And these stories in the press are terrible. Make us all sound like lunatics.” She looked up. “Did you see that piece in USA Today this morning?”
“Yeah,” Langley said.
Cordelia clucked her tongue, resuming her needlepoint. “You’d think we were the ones who tried to shoot the girl.”
“Good for ratings,” Big El said. “Isn’t that right, Lang?”
“Sad but true,” Langley said.
“Well,” Cordelia said, “I for one would like to get out of vaudeville and back into news.” She paused and then added, “Course, Jessica’s doing nicely and she’s not part of the news division. And she seems very grateful to be with Darenbrook Communications, Jackie or no Jackie.”
Langley started to say, “Well, she doesn’t have any choice,” but refrained from doing so.
“I don’t know why,” Cordelia said, holding her work closer to the light for a moment and then bringing it back into her lap, “but I like that girl. She can be positively blasphemous, but she has a good heart.” Pause. “She did tell me she had some Sunday school as a girl.”
“Whatcheeyall doin’, talkin’ about bizness?” Belinda said, waltzing into the den in a very revealing negligee. She twirled, drawing a piece of the negligee nearly under Cordelia’s nose with her hand. “Still trying to seduce my husband with power and prestige, Cordelia?”
Cordelia frowned at what her sister was wearing. “Go put on a robe, Belinda,” she said, returning her attention to her needlepoint.
“But Langley likes it,” Belinda said, moving toward him. “Don’t you, Langley?”
“You heard your sister,” Big El said, eyes on the TV. “Put on a robe or go to bed.”
Langley was feeling the icy fear creeping down his neck that he always felt when he sensed Belinda was about to go off. It didn’t matter that he didn’t think she was crazy anymore. It didn’t matter if he thought it was pills. It still made him feel sick and scared inside, panicked.
“What do you say, Langley?” Belinda asked him, standing in front of him, bringing her hands up to hold her breasts. Her eyes looked terrible, glassy. And there was this unpleasant sound in her mouth as she spoke, as if she were terribly thirsty and her tongue was sticking to the roof of her mouth. Belinda smiled a ghastly smile and dropped her breasts, turning to her sister. “Langley has a big dick, you know,” she said.
“Belinda!” Cordelia gasped.
Big El lurched around in his chair. “I don’t care if you are crazier than a bedbug, Belinda Cecile, I’m going to wash your mouth out with soap.”
Belinda only laughed, weaving out into the hall. Langley jumped up to follow her, just in time to see her back into a table, knocking over a vase of silk flowers. He caught the vase before it rolled off. “Come on, Belinda,” he said, grabbing her arm and pulling her down the hall. She was laughing; she fell down. He bent over to pick her up, she grabbed at his crotch; he slapped her hand away and pulled her up; she tried to unzip his pants.
“You know you want me,” she said, throwing herself against him.
“Belinda, stop it,” he said, pushing her away, and yet holding her enough to guide her down the hall.
Cordelia and Big El looked at each other in the den when they heard Belinda start to scream. Cordelia got up and went down the hall—and was soon back. “I’m going to call Jackie Andy,” she said, dialing the phone with a shaky hand.
“What’s happening?” Big El said.
“I don’t know, Daddy,” Cordelia said, bringing the phone to her ear and holding herself with the other. “Langley’s saying something about pills.” She closed her eyes. “I just don’t know, Daddy.” Her eyes opened. “Mr. Jackson Darenbrook’s suite, please.”
In their bedroom, Langley was sitting on the side of the bed, holding Belinda’s wrists, making her sit up against the pillows. Belinda was screaming obscenities at him and he was yelling back at her that it was over, this couldn’t go on, they were going to do something about the pills or the marriage was over—did she hear him? Did she hear him?
“I hate you!” she screamed, her head falling forward then as she started to sob.
By the time Jackson arrived Cordelia was crying and Langley was crying and Belinda was crying and nobody was making any sense. They were in the bedroom, and when Belinda tried to get up to go to the bathroom Langley practically got hysterical, yelling that they couldn’t let her go in there by herself because she would take more pills. “We can’t leave her alone—she’ll do it!” he said as Belinda got one of her arms free and was hitting him, trying to get away.
And then Jackson yelled as loud as he possibly could, “Shut up! Everybody shut up!”
Silence.
They were all looking at him, stunned, with their tear-stained faces: Cordelia on the bed, Belinda and Langley at the door to the bathroom, and now Big El in the doorway of the hall.
“Okay,” Jackson said quietly, holding his hands out. “Belinda and Langley, go in and use the bathroom. And then come out and sit down.”
Langley and Belinda looked at each other. Langley let go of her, dug in his back pocket for a handkerchief and handed it to her. She pressed it to her mouth and walked into the bathroom, Langley following her. The door closed.
“She’s taking some kind of pills, Langley said,” Cordelia whispered. “He said something about him thinking that that’s what’s wrong with Baby B.”
“Oh, God,” Jackson sighed, covering his face with his hands a moment. Then he dropped them, looking over at Big El and then back at Cordelia. “It’s okay,” he whispered, steadying the air with his hands, “it’s okay. It’s gonna be okay.”
In a few minutes Belinda came out with Langley, her face washed, and with a robe on. She looked at Cordelia, at her father, at Jackson, and then edged closer to Langley.
“We’re scaring her,” Langley said quietly, putting his arm around her. “Belinda honey,” he said, kissing the side of her head and giving her a squeeze. “I don’t want to scare you. I don’t want to hurt you.” He sighed, tears springing up behind his glasses again. “I love you, honey.”
She turned in toward him, hiding her face in his shoulder. After a minute he led her over to Jackson and handed her over to him. And then Langley left the room, came back in and tossed down a big red book with several pieces of paper in it. It was a copy of The Physicians’ Drug Manual. And then he walked over to the bookcase in the corner, took down a stack of books, reached inside and pulled out a small silver box and tossed it on the bed. And then he went to another shelf and extracted a vial of pills, and another from yet another place in the shelves. He went into the bathroom and then came out with a towel, which he dropped on the bed and opened to reveal some vials from the medicine cabinet. And then he went into the dressing room and came back with a jewelry box, opened it and poured a pile of pills on the bed. And then he went to Belinda’s bedside table, opened the drawers and pulled out two more vials and tossed them on the bed. And then he picked up Belinda’s pocketbook from the chair, opened it, reached in, took out a gold case and threw it on the bed. Cordelia picked this up and opened it. It was full of pills. Different colors, some capsules, some not, some round, some triangular.
And then Langley stood there, looking at his wife, who was clinging to Jackson—and who had, during all this, alternated between watching Langley and hiding her face in Jackson’s shoulder—and said, “I’m not going to try to find all of them, Belinda. I can’t keep them from you. I can only ask that you not take any more tonight so we can talk about what we’re going to do. You and me.”
Jackson then sat down in a chair and held Belinda in his lap—who sim
ply cried on his shoulder—as Langley told and showed Cordelia, Jackson and Big El all that he knew. That Belinda had several overlapping prescriptions for Valium and Librium and Ativan from doctors here in New York, but that he knew she had sources he did not know about, because she had lots of loose pills, stockpiled without vials, which he had looked up and found in the book: Xanax, Dalmane, Restoril and Halcion.
When Langley was through, they were all silent, looking at Belinda, who did not even have the energy to cry anymore but was simply cowering in Jackson’s arms. After a long while she finally said, hiding part of her face behind Jackson’s upper arm, “I have to have Valium and Librium to sleep, to calm my nerves. I only take other pills sometimes.” She looked like a child, an ill and frightened child in her father’s lap. “I have to take them, Langley. The Valium and Librium. The others I don’t, I admit it. But you have to believe me, if I don’t have my medication, I’ll go crazy. Forever, I’ll go crazy.”
After several moments of silence Langley sorted through the pills, looking at the vials, tossed four of them to the side and then wrapped the rest of the pills up in the towel and handed it Cordelia. “Why don’t you take these and you guys go on to bed or whatever you want to do? Belinda and I need to be alone.”
After murmured expressions of concern, Cordelia and Big El both went over to kiss Belinda and then left the room. Belinda climbed out of Jackson’s lap so he could stand up, and she held his hand while Jackson told them that he would stay over. And then he too left the room.
Jackson and Cordelia and Big El sat up, talking, and in a couple of hours, a little after two, heard Langley and Belinda in the kitchen, and Jackson went in to check on them. They were making hot chocolate, he reported back to Cordelia and Big El, shrugging and holding his hands up to indicate he wasn’t sure what was going on either. Big El went to bed then, the emergency apparently over, and after Langley and Belinda went back into their bedroom Cordelia and Jackson moved into the kitchen to make themselves waffles from scratch.
Alexandra Waring Page 64