Praise Her, Praise Diana
Page 18
“I’ll take your word for it. I have no intention of finding out on my own.”
He nodded again and stood at the door a moment longer, seeming to be lost in his thoughts.
“I think sometimes he enjoys his job too much,” Smalley said. “It can be a problem for all of us.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
The following morning a copy of The Portal, with Heather’s card stapled to it, was hand-delivered to Jane’s office. In the Femme section, the next segment of Maggie’s book appeared along with an article about the demonstration at the 24th Precinct and the actions of the “frenzied mob” of women. Accompanying the article was a picture David had taken of Jose at the point when he first realized he was surrounded. The fear in his eyes was quite real as women’s hands and arms reached toward him, some with fingers curled like claws. The faces of the women around him were frozen into angry, contorted shapes. They could almost be heard screaming, “Where’s my sister?” and “Diana!”
“It’s a great picture, isn’t it?” Heather asked, obviously excited. She had called early Thursday morning soon after Jane had settled in behind her desk with her first cup of coffee.
“Very nice,” Jane said, trying not to sound too grudging as her eyes returned to the disturbing image. Its skillfulness reminded her of what had drawn her to David in the first place.
“Did you see the caption?” Heather continued.
“‘One man feels the new power of Diana,’” Jane read aloud. “Just a little over the top, huh? Sounds like Harry, making it up as he goes along. ”
Jane had awakened in a bad mood that was lingering past the first jolt of the caffeine. She knew she had dreamed, vividly, but only scraps remained in her consciousness, nagging at her, and she was powerless either to summon them up or to banish them.
“Actually, Harry wanted it to say, ‘the strange power of Diana.’ I told him there was nothing strange about it and we went with my wording. Diana has struck a sympathetic chord with too many women to label it strange.”
“Which Diana?” Jane asked, again with an edge of sarcasm in her voice. The dream had included David, she believed, but the details remained indistinct, like faces just beyond the dark edge of a campfire’s light. “The fictional one in Maggie’s book or the real one who’s going around killing actual people?”
“Killing men,” Heather said, correcting her. “It’s not just random. It’s killing with a purpose. I don’t pretend to understand it all, Jane, but I think the two Dianas complement each other. When you get a chance, try to read the selection of letters and e-mails that we included in this edition of Femme. Almost all of them begin by a woman saying that she had never written to a magazine or newspaper before—ever—but felt moved to write now.”
“I did skip most of the letters. I figured Harry had someone make them up, the way they do at Penthouse.”
Heather laughed, pressing onward, ignoring Jane’s mood.
“No, these are all real, and I don’t think I could have written them if I’d wanted to.” The tone of her voice grew serious. “You know, Jane, I expected letters from women who have been raped, and didn’t get the sort of justice they felt they deserved. But the reactions and letters Femme has received go well beyond that.”
“In what way?”
“It’s like you said the other night on the radio. The reality of a woman attacking men this way is such a reversal. For a change, it’s the guys who have to worry about a sexual predator. And that twist on things has made many women realize the toll that sexual violence, or just the threat of sexual violence, has exacted from their lives. The freedom to take a walk in a deserted part of town. To be alone in a public place. One woman lost out on a promotion because she didn’t want to have to work late in a lonely building. Others wrote about how they never took a hike in the woods or camped out without a companion, or if they did venture out by themselves, the experience was dominated by constant worry. Another said she paid more than she could really afford for an apartment in a ‘safe’ neighborhood. Many talked just about being afraid late at night walking down the street, returning to their apartment, hearing the sound of footsteps behind them. We’ve all felt that one, right?”
Jane took a sip of her coffee. Martha had always told her to be fearless wherever she went. And she certainly put on a good front, a mask of intimidation on her face, strides strong and purposeful. She made a point of jogging alone and at all hours. But she knew it was not always possible to keep fear at bay.
“I would say ‘yes’.”
“It’s like they feel they’ve been cheated, Jane. And after years of keeping quiet they’re pissed off and they’re latching on to Diana with a kind of bitter glee. It’s as if, when she lashes out, they are lashing out as well. One woman said it just that plainly. She said when the knife was plunged into the guy in Maggie’s book, she just closed her eyes and thought of a bunch of men she would have liked to stab herself just to see the look in their eyes when they realized they had become the hunted, not the hunter. We didn’t print that letter.”
“I’m surprised Harry showed such restraint.”
“That was my call too. He and Anthony are giving me a lot of the decision making. Harry is a little afraid to interfere. He thinks I’m either a genius or really lucky, and he doesn’t want to screw things up. That’s actually why I’m calling.”
“I don’t follow.”
“I spoke to him about David. He said it’s up to me if I want to use him or not. He said he wasn’t even aware that you two had broken up. David didn’t tell him. Harry actually thought he was doing you a favor.”
“The world keeps getting odder and odder,” Jane said.
“Not really. This whole Diana thing is like a huge present to him. And you helped dump it in his lap.”
“As I said ... odder and odder. But somehow I don’t think you called to tell me that Harry is full of gratitude toward me.”
Heather hesitated. The conversation was not going as she had planned.
“You’re right, Jane. Here’s the deal. If you want, I can use another photographer tonight at the exhibit instead of David. It’s not a problem. Harry wasn’t trying to push David on you.”
“Doesn’t matter to me at all,” Jane said quickly.
“It’s not that I’m ... interested in him personally or anything, if that’s what you think.”
“Heather, it’s all right. Use whomever you wish.”
“You’re sure? I mean, if I had my choice I would use him. He’s good. He’s really very good.”
The tone of her voice betrayed her, Jane thought. But she didn’t care.
And then the central image of her dream came back to her. She had been in her living room, dressed for work in a gray suit, a white blouse with many small buttons, and a huge pink bow at the top. David had his shirt off and was kissing her along the side of her neck as he unbuttoned her blouse, exposing her chest. Behind him stood Maggie, and when Jane tried to tell him, her tongue was paralyzed. David kept saying, ‘come on, come on, she doesn’t care. Ask her, she doesn’t care.’
Then the memory of the dream evaporated, leaving her irritated again.
“Use him if you want to,” Jane said. “By all means. It’s up to you.”
* * * *
That night, Jane and Maggie had a light dinner at Jane’s apartment before taking a leisurely walk down Madison Avenue to the Iphigenia Gallery, gazing in the front windows of the antique and high-end clothes stores, scanning menus at each of the restaurants with tables on the sidewalk. The sultry weather that had begun the prior weekend had intensified over the course of the week. The weatherman had been promising a cold front with thunderstorms to ease the heat and humidity, but so far there had been no relief. As Thursday came to a close, the air was particularly thick and oppressive, and Jane and Maggie walked slowly in the twilight to avoid perspiring.
As they strolled along, Jane told Maggie about her conversation with Heather and the dream she had had of David
.
“Sounds like you’ve cast me as the disapproving friend,” Maggie said with a laugh. “I’m not, you know. Disapproving, I mean.”
“You think I should get back with him?” Jane asked.
“If you love him, you should.”
“Well, I don’t. And that’s the end of that.”
“How are you so sure?”
“I’ll tell you how.” Jane paused. Her dark eyebrows rose into delicate arcs. Her gaze became fixed on some distant point. The rest of her face was relaxed. She was one of a very few women, Maggie mused, who looked most attractive when she was thinking.
“It occurred to me,” Jane continued, “as Heather was talking, that she and David were lovers, or would soon become lovers; certainly if Heather had anything to say about it. And the point is I just didn’t care one single bit. I really didn’t. No jealousy. No regret. No nothing.”
She turned to Maggie and lifted her hands, palms up in a gesture of nonchalance.
“You know what I think?” Maggie asked.
“What?”
“I think the lady doth protest too much.”
Maggie smiled.
“Oh, why don’t you just go to hell then,” Jane said in an irritated voice, but when Maggie held out her elbow, Jane linked arms with her.
As they crossed 79th Street, an open view to the West revealed a bank of clouds high in the sky, mushrooming into fantastic shapes of pink, purple and yellowish-white in the diminishing light. At the base of the clouds was a streak the color of gray slate and a breeze was starting to push accumulated bits of paper and assorted garbage across town.
“Looks like we’re finally going to get a storm,” Jane said.
They paused to take in the view, watching the play of light change as the sun set further.
“I wish we were in the country right now,” Maggie said. “Sitting on the front porch and watching a thunderstorm approach is an amazing thing. Rows of clouds stretch across the sky, pure white on the tops, black on the bottom, flashes of light exploding as they march toward you.”
“I wish we were too.”
The breeze had increased measurably by the time they reached the Iphigenia Gallery. A small table had been set up in the vestibule where a young WPW volunteer sat to collect tickets. Ellen and Susan stood at the open door to the sidewalk greeting guests, and they both waved to Maggie and Jane as they approached. Then Ellen’s gaze fixed on the sky with such anger that Maggie and Jane both turned to look themselves. What had been a distant line of gray was now much closer and the clouds seemed both lower and darker as they rolled forward. Gusts of wind sent debris whirling in miniature twisters. Ellen’s arms were folded across her chest like Rodin’s statue of Zola, her long white dress flapped like an unfurled sail.
“Goddamned weather,” she said. “Thirty minutes is all I need. Forty five tops for the late comers.”
“You’ll make it,” Susan said. Her tight fitting top and skirt were unaffected by the wind. Her hair had been arranged by a stylist and gelled into place. Her makeup also was professionally applied for the occasion.
“Are many here yet?” Maggie asked.
“About a third, I would guess,” Ellen answered, distracted by the sky. “Ari did her usual good publicity job.”
“What about me?” Susan asked in a mock-hurt voice. “My show created a lot of buzz.” She leaned confidentially toward Jane and Maggie. “I’d like to do another one this coming week. But Tommy hasn’t given the ‘okay’ yet.”
“He’s thinking about it,” Ellen said.
“Is he coming tonight?” Jane asked.
“Of course,” said Ellen. “He’s sure we’re looking at a major disaster tonight, and he wants to be the first one to tell me he told me so.”
“And he’s going to be wrong,” Susan said. “We’re in for a big night for WPW and the Iphigenia Gallery. I know some of the names Ari got to come. The press will follow.”
She paused, glancing at Jane.
“What’s the matter?” Jane asked.
“Well there’s a reporter here from The Portal,” she said. “Heather Blake, I believe her name is.” Her tentative words were meant to convey concern but her eyes were fixed on Jane, looking for a reaction. “Did you know she was coming with David?”
“I did,” Jane said, trying to keep the annoyance out of her voice. “He’s free-lancing. And there’s no need for alarm, or worry of any kind. He’s a big boy. I’m a big girl—”
“She doesn’t care,” Maggie said, interrupting Jane with a stage whisper.
“Just go fuck yourself,” Jane said.
Susan laughed, but her questioning gaze now moved back and forth between the two women.
Ellen glanced impatiently at the sky again and then down Madison Avenue.
“Ari said she would be here early. I’m expecting Sheila will arrive soon to make trouble, and Ari said she would help me with her.”
“Maybe the rain will keep Sheila away,” Maggie said.
“No such luck,” Susan replied. “Sheila just arrived.”
A battered white rental van pulled up to the curb in an open spot a few yards down the block from the gallery. Through the front window, they could see that Judith Frazier was the driver. Beside her was Sheila Majors. She had to notice the four of them standing by the door, but did not acknowledge them with any sort of gesture while Judith came around to help her out of the van and unfold her walker. Meanwhile, four other women emerged from the side door. They were all young, and with their cut-off jeans, t-shirts and long hair held loosely by rubber bands, they appeared to be students of Sheila’s or at least the denizens of a campus somewhere. Two of them carried long down coats over their arms.
“I swear to God, I will kill them both,” Ellen said. She started to walk toward them, but Susan put her hand on her arm.
“Careful,” she whispered.
Maggie seemed to cringe at the sight of them.
“Are you okay?” Jane asked.
“I just have the worst feeling inside whenever I see them with those costumes,” Maggie said.
A car pulled up behind the van and another three young women got out and helped the first group unload a table and two folding chairs from the back of the van. At Sheila’s direction, they began to set up on the sidewalk directly in front of the Iphigenia Gallery building.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Ellen demanded, approaching them. “Get this stuff out of here.”
“It’s a public sidewalk,” Sheila said. She leaned heavily on the walker. She had begun to sweat from the pain of standing, but her jaw was set stubbornly.
“This is a WPW event. It’s the biggest fundraiser of the year. Why are you interfering like this?”
“We’re not interfering,” Sheila said.
“Bull shit, you’re not!” shouted Ellen.
Judith stepped forward.
“We have no intention of blocking anyone who wants to go into your precious exhibit. We just want to give them our views on the event and hand them some literature. The photographs pander to men and someone has to say so.”
Two placards were placed on top of the table. One said, “WPW is an embarrassment to women” and the other “Women Protecting Women NEEDS PROTECTION.”
One of the young women emerged from the van with a megaphone. Judith turned it on, tapped a finger on the end to be sure it was functioning, and raised it to her lips.
“Sheila! You can’t allow this,” Ellen said.
Sheila seemed to waiver. She looked away, grimacing with pain.
“Wake UP!” Judith said, and her amplified voice echoed up and down the avenue. “Wake up, women, you are being exploited!”
Meanwhile, guests continued to arrive and were ushered upstairs after their tickets were checked. At the sound of Judith’s voice blasting through the megaphone, some turned to stare and the line began to back-up onto the sidewalk.
“I’m not going to let you ruin everything,” Ellen said.
“Help me!” Ellen shouted. Jane started toward her as did Susan, a half step behind. At that point, everyone stopped as a black sedan with tinted side windows double-parked beside them. A red light on its dashboard flashed along with the front and rear brake lights.
Detective Smalley came out of the passenger side, dressed in a dark suit and tie. Charlie Glaser had been driving. He was in his usual detective garb—a well-worn sports jacket and pants that could use a pressing. Behind the sedan, a blue and white police car also stopped, and four police officers in uniform emerged.
Smalley approached the table, his face displaying not a hint of emotion.
“Whose table is this?” he asked mildly.
“It’s hers, Sheila Majors,” Ellen said when silence met his question. “She’s in charge.”
Sheila tried to stand straight without the aid of the walker, but after a few seconds she leaned heavily forward again.
“That’s correct,” Sheila said.
“You’re going to have to move it,” Smalley said, in a firm but mannerly voice.
“We have a constitutional right to protest,” Sheila said, looking him in the eye.
“And you can do that from across the street,” he replied. “Where you will not be blocking the sidewalk, which you do not have a constitutional right to do.”
“And if we don’t?” Judith asked angrily.
Smalley made a gesture of resignation with his hands.
“Then you will force us to arrest you.”
Sheila’s hands grasped the bars of her walker. Sweat dripped from her face as she glared at Smalley, her chin jutting forward. Then she turned to the young women and nodded. They quickly went to work folding the table and metal chairs.
“Sheila!” Judith’s voice pierced the air like the exasperated appeal of a teenager.
“We have no choice,” Sheila replied. She nodded again to the young women.
“I have a choice,” Judith said.