by Robyn Carr
I wanted Nicole to work on my nails for an hour. I wanted to hear what she was on today. She was temporarily off the murder and on one of the deputies, Sweeny, who gave her a ticket for sliding through a stop sign right after she had waved at him.
“The son of a bitch,” she grumbled. “He’s your best friend one minute and the next minute he’s gotta be sure you know who’s boss. I’m gonna plead innocent.”
“You don’t have to enter a plea in Traffic Court,” I told her. “You tell the judge what happened, that’s all. In your case, I don’t advise you to tell the judge what happened or he’ll tell you to pay the fine.”
“Big asshole, that’s what that Sweeny is. Honey girl, when you wave at him like he’s your best friend, follow the traffic laws to the letter. He gave my boy Eric a ticket for going twenty-five in a school zone.”
“How many kids do you have, Nicole?” I asked her. I found out there had been seven; now there were six. She was forty-six; the oldest child was twenty- nine, soon to be thirty, and the baby was sixteen. Her husband, Lip, a county lineman for the phone company, was one of the men who hung out with Harry and the guys every morning at the cafe.
I was getting the daily bulletin. This is how a beauty shop is — you take what you get. I was going to accomplish one thing I’d set out to do. I had a simple plan; I would throw a few people off by changing my agenda. I meant to throw a wrench in the secret-trading business. I had told Tom I didn’t want the details of my son’s death to be known. If I told Nicole, the secret would be out; it wouldn’t belong to Tom anymore. I did not consider Roberta a player in the secrets game.
I scared myself a little. I had been thinking about Kathy Potter, and what Nicole had said. What was an “illegal” guy who could get a woman in a spot where she didn’t even tell her best friend she was “interested”? A preacher or married man? Or... how about a sexual athlete who had a secret past that he didn’t want anyone to know about? How about a guy who was a psychologist, with such a heavy-duty history that he just had to go low-profile? Would a woman who was lonely, vulnerable, tell him he was so good, so sensitive, he should go back to being a doctor? I was so unsure of Tom and of what was happening that I didn’t rule him out of Kathy Porter’s demise. This sweet and tender man with a medical problem. I worried that I would regret my obsession, but I proceeded.
“They’re a hoot, these kids. Too bad you never married or anything.”
“To tell the truth, Nicole, I did. I was married, briefly, and had a child. He was killed a little over two years ago. Hit by a truck in a crosswalk.”
“Oh, baby,” she sighed. “Oh, sweet baby.”
I felt terrible. I had used Nicole. Nicole was the kind of woman a person felt like cuddling up to. I could fall into her ample bosom and take all her comfort — and all I’d done was put into action my plan to throw the secret sharing off balance. I was getting out of the game. I was going to own the past I said I couldn’t bear to be pitied for.
“I wasn’t going to tell anyone. I’m not over it, not nearly. There’s nothing worse than pity. Nothing.”
“Oh, angel, ‘course there ain’t. There ain’t, you’re goddamn right. I lost my Jeff when he was seventeen. Car accident, too. ‘Course there was six others but that don’t matter I’ll never get over it. I had the others. You got no one.”
“Oh, not true,” I protested. “I have wonderful friends in Los Angeles. I thought I’d come out here and start over, change my whole life. I visit them, they’ll visit me as soon as I get a sofa bed, and we talk on the phone all the time. I’m getting some new friends here. I’m very lucky to have Roberta and Harry.” Didn’t I make it sound like we spent our evenings together? “And I’ve had a date with Tom Wahl — he renovated my upstairs bathroom.”
“Yeah, Mr. Tom.” She chuckled. “Now, there’s a good-looking man. Used to be tight with Elaine Broussard... She used to live here. I thought they was gonna get married. Been gone back somewhere — Detroit maybe — about two, I don’t know, over a year ago now. So... you and Tom hooking up?”
“No.” I laughed. “No, not a chance. I’m not looking for romance.” I shrugged. “Friendship is enough. He seems to have bigger ideas, though.”
“He’s sorta shy, ain’t he?”
Tom? Shy? In my mind I practically had him convicted of murder. Surely they would put me in a rubber room for this. I was tired, and this vacillating I was doing was a symptom of what I would do for months.
“He doesn’t seem shy,” I said.
“He don’t say much. Lip says he sort of keeps on the edges of things, doesn’t get close to the men.”
“Well, gee, Nicole, those men are a tight bunch.”
“Yeah, and Wharton don’t like him. Don’t make no secret about it, either.”
“Wharton? Do I know him?”
“He’s in the cafe with the men every damn morning. We’d get overtime if Lip didn’t hang out at the cafe mornings and Wolfs evenings. Wharton’s quiet, cranky, someplace over sixty and hard-used. Smokes Camel no-filters, ranches in the valley, and has a big old house on the lower ridge. Got four kids, all grown and moved on, and been widowed six, seven years. Can spit on his place from Tom’s road and I just bet that’s what Wharton hates: having to share a road with anyone.”
I hadn’t seen a house.
“They’re neighbors?”
“Well, sort of. From Tom’s east end you can look straight down into the valley and see Wharton’s ranch. They’ve argued over trash, fences, horses, roads, and whatever. Tom forked a road off Wharton’s to get to his place and they share the road to Sixteen. Somehow or other Tom pissed Wharton off. I figure that’s why poor Tom stays back from that crowd, ‘cause Wharton is bound and determined to be his usual jackass self. Those that know Wharton don’t take him serious. Tom, I think, takes him serious.”
“It takes a while to get to know people here when you’re a newcomer. Everyone is so established; everyone has their friends.”
“People are cautious, that’s all. Most of the people here have known each other all their lives and it don’t take no work. Somebody new you gotta work on. Build up all this stuff. Know what I mean? You won’t have no problem, angel. You’re such a sweet little thing. Who’d believe you’d go and be a lawyer?”
Who’d believe the lawyer was now keeping a gun in her purse because her toilet seat had been left up, I thought.
“Nicole, you by any chance see Dr. Haynes for anything?”
“I’ve seen him, yeah. Don’t like him much, though.”
“Why not? Isn’t he good?”
“We had Doc Rogers so long... He delivered my babies and cured a couple of the croup and always had time to visit and take coffee before he left. This young one, I don’t know, all business. Why? You sick?”
“No.” I laughed. I tried to picture the old country doctor. “I think I’m getting a bladder infection, and if I’m right, I need antibiotics. Can’t get those without a doctor; I want to catch it before it flares up.”
“Yeah?” she asked. “How do you know?”
Nuts. I had hoped she was one of those poor women plagued by bladder infections after intercourse. I wasn’t going to educate her and spill my guts all at once. This was only our second date, Nicole’s and mine.
“Well, I’ve had them before. Some women seem to get a lot of them. I used to keep antibiotics on hand... My old doctor in L.A. said I could tell the symptoms as well as anyone and shouldn’t let it get bad. It’s mostly a burning sensation when you go to the bathroom. If you don’t jump on it, it can be unbearable and cause some kidney damage.” I was working on memory. I’d never had a bladder infection; it was something talked about among my women friends.
“The yeast is what I get. I found me a douche that keeps me from getting the yeast. Angel, you let that get going and you got yourself big trouble. Nothin’ worse than the yeast.”
“Nothing, huh?”
She looked at her watch. “Gotta get you out of here before
‘All My Children,’” she said. She put the cap on the polish and got up to turn on the television set. Her favorite soap; she was done talking. “You’ll dry in a couple minutes,” she said, spraying some fast-drying spray on my fingernails.
***
I found Dr. Haynes to be an affable and qualified replacement for the old country doctor, which further illustrated how resistant people can be to change. He was forty, perhaps younger. He was friendly and had a warm bedside manner and a good sense of humor. He seemed unhurried and thorough. I could easily picture him taking a cup of coffee after a house call.
He gave me my antibiotics. He listened to me discuss the rigors of letting a bladder infection get out of control and asked me if I’d ever taken prophylactic antibiotics on a morning-after basis. I was momentarily stumped. As I thought about this I realized that he could tell, from his brief examination, that I had had a rigorous night, yet there wasn’t semen present. I was still touchy there. He asked me if I was sexually active and I replied, “Recently reentering.” The nurse lifted an eyebrow and didn’t make eye contact.
“Well,” he said, “if you find that bladder infections routinely follow intercourse, some doctors have been trying prophylactic medication.”
“I hadn’t noticed my infections doing that,” I said, blushing. I was going to have to practice this lying. I was lousy.
He did the Pap smear — nurse in the room — breast exam, and questionnaire. Here’s what I hadn’t figured on — but then I hadn’t figured on going to the doctor. Part of every gynecological exam is the standard questions about childbirth and birth control. I had to tell about Sheffie; the nurse had to hear. The doctor was very sweet. “I’m terribly sorry, Miss Sheppard,” he said. “I have children; I can’t imagine.”
I nearly wept. People tended to take this on themselves. It’s something to which any parent can relate and feel sympathetic pain. I remember the good old days, when I shuddered to think of the possibility of a child’s death.
After I was dressed and ready to leave I happened upon Dr. Haynes’s open office door and feeling like a supersleuth, whispered to him, asking about this inability to ejaculate. He motioned for me to enter and sit down in front of his desk. He did not laugh or act surprised.
“Is it chronic?” he asked.
“I’m told it is,” I replied, still whispering.
“I haven’t treated anything like that. I recommend the person see a urologist. Especially if there’s any pain involved.”
“He said it’s an enviable problem,” I put in.
Dr. Haynes didn’t smile. “Sounds like he has a good attitude about it, but it’s recognized as a form of impotence and most sufferers consider it a handicap. I was under the impression it’s usually painful. Do you know if this person has looked for medical or psychological intervention?”
“No,” I said. I noticed the pictures of Haynes’s wife and kids on his credenza; I imagined him laughing over this at dinner.
“I would recommend a complete evaluation from a urologist,” he said.
“Maybe I’ll pass that on.”
“You should if you’re affected by the problem.”
Who wouldn’t be? I thought.
7
“I got your message,” Tom said. “Sorry I couldn’t call you right back. I had to go over to Salida and pick up some lumber and I just got home. I’ve been busy as hell today. I sure feel good.” I could almost hear his smile.
“And I am up to my neck. Roberta didn’t come in today.”
It was seven, the sun beginning its downward path as the days grew shorter, and I was home with file folders that required attention I was too preoccupied to give. I was waiting for Bodge Scully to come over.
“That’s okay, Jackie. I’d love to see you, but I’d enjoy the time more if I could get some paperwork done.”
“Paperwork?” I asked.
“You wouldn’t think so, would you? Even a small business has its red tape. Receipts, contracts, ledgers. I’m going to make myself a sandwich, do some paperwork, and maybe later I can get this wood measured.”
“I’ve got a mountain of paper to shuffle myself. And I’m really tired.”
He laughed into the phone. “We’ll have to find a way to get together in daylight,” he said. “More time, more sleep.”
I shivered. Daylight dee-lite? With hours to kill, how long would he go? “Well, it’s a good thing we’re both too busy for the time being,” I said. “I have a slight problem; a couple of things. I... ah ... how can I say this?”
“Try saying it.”
“First off, I did enjoy myself, and being of sound mind and body, can honestly say I knew what I was doing. But, Tom, let’s not get too serious; let’s take it easy.”
“I disappointed you.”
“No. I’m thirty-seven and set in my ways. I’m interested in having friends, not interested in a hot romance. This has nothing to do with your behavior; you were a perfect gentleman. I’m not seeing any other man nor am I looking. I am adamant about independence and freedom. I feel that our friendship is moving too far too fast. I need space.”
“I’ll try not to crowd you.”
“I hope you can understand. I’m not ready to go steady. Besides, we enjoyed each other’s company before, without the sex, and I want to be sure that that part of our friendship isn’t lost.”
“How could it be? ‘Enhanced’ would be better.”
“And, also, I have a bladder infection and am temporarily off limits.”
“No kidding?”
“No kidding. I might have overdone it a bit.”
“I could have sworn we overdid it—I thought it was great. And I thought you thought so, too.”
I noticed that his attention was focused on sex. I talked friendship, independence, freedom; he kept creating sexual innuendo. My regrets increased. “As I said, I’m not looking for a steady. Or a steady diet of sex either. It had been a long time for me and I think one should... ah... take it easy? Work up to it?”
“I’ll take that job.”
“Tom, please, this is a problem for me. I have to be careful. I’m too young to risk a life without kidneys. I’m sure the dialysis machine would get in your way.”
“Jackie, I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t hurt you.”
“No, of course not. It’s the bladder infection that hurts. And I’ve got a ten-day course of antibiotics to work off.”
“Sometimes I don’t know my own strength. Believe me, though, babe... I only want to make you feel good. I don’t like possessiveness either. Want to make some plans for the weekend? It’s not necessary.”
“Let me cook for you,” I said. “Since it’s going to be a platonic dinner, would you like me to invite someone else? Roberta and Harry?”
“What for? It’s not like we don’t have anything to talk about.”
“Okay, then let’s make it Saturday night. I’ve got a lot of work to do and will have to work weekends and evenings for a while. We have a lawsuit pending. So let me get back to this and you go eat and measure your wood.”
“Should I call you?”
“I’m going to be in court all day tomorrow. How about some evening later in the week?”
“Talk to you later, then,” he said.
I wasn’t sure how long I could carry this off. Duplicity was my enemy. There were certain things I had trained myself to do, like subdue my reactions in court or with a client. I could get information without appearing to dig or grill. I could pretend to be calm when I was afraid. What I had the most trouble with was pretending to like someone I didn’t like or pretending to believe something I thought was a lie.
This was a wrong guy.
I picked up the phone. I held it for a few seconds. I thought of an excuse for calling him right back; I had heard sounds in the background of his conversation that I hadn’t heard when I was at his house. It could have been his television or a radio talk show. It could also be he wasn’t calling from home. Less than a minute had
passed since we’d hung up.
Had I met this guy in L.A. and he’d given me these dubious impressions, I’d have canceled the next date. Got on with my life. Found another date. I could do that with Tom. I could decide, here and now, without telling him all the reasons, that I didn’t want to see him anymore. I could pursue the mysterious clock-radio and lifted toilet seat with Bodge. This would all go away. I hoped I’d feel silly after trailing this to a dead end, anyway. I didn’t get the right vibrations from the doctor of psychology turned low-profile carpenter, and I couldn’t figure out my position in this.
I dialed. “Hi, this is Tom. I can’t come to the phone right now...”
I hung up. He was going to make himself a sandwich, do paperwork. Would a reclusive carpenter who claimed to have only acquaintances and no real friends have any reason to screen his calls?
I bit on a pencil. When something like an abduction and murder happens in L.A. and you’re filled with ghoulish curiosity, you read the papers more thoroughly. In Coleman you look suspiciously at the postman, crossing guard, and carpenter. I began to wonder about Wharton. He was, after all, an unusual character. And, undeniably, there was that business Tom mentioned of being trailed to Oregon by the psychopath. That thought sent shivers up my spine.
I waited ten minutes and dialed again. Again the recording came on. I have a recorder. If the phone rings several times followed by a disconnect and the caller keeps trying, I answer. Someone doesn’t want to talk into the machine; they want to talk to me. The machine only kicks in for messages; it doesn’t record the number of hangups. I tried a third time. Recorder.
I tried a couple more times and, checking the time, left a message. “Hi, Tom. You in the shower? Workshop? Screening your calls? I wondered if there’s anything special you’d like me to cook Saturday night. Bye.” He didn’t call right back. Not in fifteen minutes, not in thirty.