by Susan Isaacs
Since I couldn’t completely abandon my cousin, I put him and the boys at the kitchen table. I kept busy making whole-wheat dough and cutting out five-inch circles to freeze for future pizza nights. Now and then Scott and I would exchange a few sentences on how Cousin Kay, researching the Rabinowitz family tree, had discovered a branch of rogue Rabins in Indianapolis, or how it would take years for the IRS to remake the enforcement division after what the Bushies had done to it. Most of the time, though, the boys kept him too busy to make conversation. A good thing.
Suddenly, Dashiell began yelling at Mason for hiding some green LEGOs in his room. As the two of them stomped off to search, Evan sat quietly, ignoring us, balancing LEGO pieces on the backs of his outstretched fingers. Scott got up, looked in my refrigerator, and asked, “Don’t you ever eat unhealthy food?”
“Of course. If I kept it in the house, I could eat pounds of it.”
“But you don’t really desire salty pretzel rods, do you? I mean, like, you want one so bad you would go out at three in the morning to a 7-Eleven . . . except they’d probably only have those twisty ones that don’t crunch.”
“Listen, you pick your poison. If someone said, ‘They’re selling English florists’ bulbs from the Wakefield and North of England Tulip Society on a street corner in the Bronx at three A.M., but you’ll have to fight off a gang of crackheads—trust me, I’d be there.”
“Bulbs for planting, not eating, right?” Scott asked.
“Right. People don’t generally . . . Well, onions are bulbs.”
Times like this, I missed Jonah even more than I did at night when I was alone. I could cry then over my loneliness, though I’d be so exhausted from the day that no matter how bad the desolation was, sleep knocked me out. Talking about pretzels with someone who was nice enough but could disappear off the face of the earth and I might not remember he’d existed or been nice to the boys was a worse kind of loneliness.
Right after dinner, I sent Scott time-to-go thought waves, but he didn’t receive them. Instead, he came upstairs while I bathed the boys—the fast bath, which meant they all stood in the tub while I soaped them, sprayed off the soap, dried them, and gave them each a star stamp on their separate Clean Guy charts, then did the hurry-up toothbrushing with all three around the sink at the same time, which got them another star stamp because they kept to the no-spitting-toothpaste-or-water-at-your-brothers rule.
“How do you do it night after night?” Scott asked after we put them all to bed. “Aren’t you completely wiped?”
I took his question as a positive sign, that the boys had worn him out. So I censored “Not completely wiped, just your basic wiped,” and offered him what I hoped was a weary smile as I led him downstairs. I made the mistake of turning on a lamp in the living room. He took that as an invitation to stay, plopping down in a club chair, leaning his head back, closing his eyes, and letting his arms dangle over the sides.
In defeat, I grabbed a fringed throw from the arm of the couch, wrapped myself in it, and sat in the corner of the couch. The throw had a pleasing verbena smell from a delicate-fabric wash I’d forgotten I’d bought.
Scott lifted his head and opened his eyes. Then he realized he had nothing to say but couldn’t very well close his eyes again. So I told him, “You put on your sincerest voice and say, ‘Tell me, Susie. Really. How are you doing?’ Put a lot of concern into the ‘how.’”
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll know for next time. So?”
“So, I don’t know. Up, down, up, down. Never really up, actually. There’s just low-key down and deep down.” He nodded, which was fine because there was really nothing to say. “Sometimes I think it can’t get any worse, but then I realize it can and probably will.”
“Scary.” He rubbed his nose with the back of his index finger. I pictured his knuckle hair rubbing against his nose hair.
“Scary on its own,” I said. “But with the boys . . . and don’t tell me I’m stronger than I think I am. I’m afraid I’ll be in the middle of a normal moment a few months or a year from now, doing whatever but thinking about Jonah, and I’ll break from the cumulative effect of all the memories.”
“When people break down—”
“I’m not talking about breaking down. Breaking, period. As in shattering. Like a champagne flute.”
Scott laughed. “A champagne flute?”
I got up, pissed at how he’d pronounced “champagne” with a French accent, as if my mere use of the word was pretentious. But I tripped on the long fringe of the throw, and I wound up right back on the couch. “Dammit! I was talking to you, one human being to another, opening up.”
“Susie, listen, I know. I’m sorry. Honestly, I was listening, one human being to another. But we’re Brooklyn human beings, and ‘champagne flute’ was never a word combination in Flatbush.”
“Your part of Flatbush.”
“Like your parents knew from champagne flutes. Anyway, it just struck me. Believe me, I wasn’t—you know—making light of your troubles. Your pain.”
“It’s okay, Scott. Forget it.”
“When I said ‘breaking down,’ I wasn’t talking about you having a nervous breakdown and going to a psych ward or anything. For all I know, that could happen. Except you really are so strong. I was thinking that you got to be what you are not from marrying Jonah, who was a wonderful, wonderful guy. You know I always thought that. He was so nice to me. But you didn’t become what you are now just through your looks or your talent or marrying a doctor. Look, I’m a tax examiner. I deal with some rich people. You know what I see? Some of them got where they are through inheritance or brains. Or dumb luck. Or embezzlement, tax evasion. There are loads of ways to make it. But you: You got what you wanted because you had a powerful vision of how you wanted to live. And you got there because of whatever gifts you have—and your strength. You didn’t sit around eating bonbons and fantasizing. You worked your ass off. You built a business. You kept up with that fertility business for years, and everyone is in awe of how you deal with the little guys. You were a huge asset to Jonah in his practice.”
“Then why would he . . .” I didn’t even bother to finish.
“I don’t know,” Scott said. “But if you’re clueless, maybe there’s a reason. Maybe it had nothing to do with you.” I shrugged. He went on, “What? It sucks if you can’t blame yourself? Listen, you’ve always been the creative type. If you’re looking to blame yourself, you’ll invent a way. But come on. Was Jonah a shit who always screwed around?”
“No. Of course not. Well, it’s possible, but it’s so totally against everything I knew about him. He was so dependable. And moral. Also, I can’t see where he could have found the time.”
“Maybe he had some secret kink he managed to hide from the whole world, including you, that he could satisfy in five minutes.”
I had to laugh. Maybe I even did. “Scott, give me a break.”
He scratched his jaw. Even though he was in his early thirties, a pear-shaped man in unfashionably baggy jeans and loafers with black tire-tread soles, I still saw him as my kid cousin, so the rasping sound of his fingernails on his five o’clock shadow surprised me. “I don’t know if I should be saying this,” he began. “Probably not. But anyway, about being duped: People meet some slicko with a ton of hair gel and a bullshit story, and they say, ‘That guy is a con man.’ But that’s not a con man, that’s a loser with too much crap on his hair. The successful con man, white-collar criminal, guy who leads a secret life—someone with a big sex secret, or a spy—gives off waves of normalcy. They’re nice guys, but not so nice that it calls attention to their niceness. I’ve been with the IRS for ten years, and you know when my antenna goes up? When someone comes in, tells his story, and my reaction is ‘Whoever looked at your returns made a big mistake. I apologize that we wasted so much of your time and energy.’”
I leaned back to mull over what Scott had said. I tried putting my feet up on the coffee table, but Bernadine had moved it farthe
r from the couch, where she believed it belonged, and my heels slipped off the edge. I sat straighter and said, “You’re right, and it’s the perfect viewpoint for someone working for the government looking for really clever tax cheaters. But it’s different living with somebody. I know there are lots of wives who go into shock when they find out their husbands have been fooling around with another woman, or with a guy, for that matter, or that they’re involved in some giant fraud. They’re always saying, ‘I can’t believe it!’ But almost all the time, if they’ve missed the signals, it’s because they didn’t want to pick them up.”
“So you’re saying you’re not that way,” Scott said. He sounded more matter-of-fact, as if making an observation, than doubting.
“Scott, I’ve thought this through again and again, and I can’t remember any signals or signs of distress that made me draw back and tell myself, Uh-oh, I don’t want to deal with that because it would jeopardize the marriage or my lifestyle. And okay, maybe I wasn’t well-bred enough for him, or interesting on intellectual subjects, but I don’t think it was anywhere near a deal-breaker. Even if it was, does a guy who wants to talk about history cycles go to a prostitute for conversation?”
“No. If Jonah was hostile that you weren’t into history cycles, I can’t see him taking that route.”
“You know what I wish?” I said.
“What?”
“I wish there was someone who’d been Jonah’s best friend, someone he really confided in, and that guy could say to me, ‘Susie, I swear to God, that one night was the only time Jonah ever cheated on you. We told each other everything, and trust me, I would have known. It was just one stupid moment of weakness in a whole lifetime of love.’”
I could see Scott felt sad for me. Usually, that would have pissed me off, being the object of pity, but I didn’t feel any condescension of the “naive little fool” variety that had been coming my way since the cops found Jonah. “Maybe there’s something to say that would make you feel better,” Scott finally said, “but I don’t know what it is.”
“Thank you. Listen, your coming over, hanging with the boys because you have fun with them, not because it’s the decent thing to do—it means a lot to me. And so does your telling me how strong I am, even though I’m not so sure about that.” We sat in what I suppose was called companionable silence. I broke it by saying, “When I tell myself, All right, Jonah went to a call girl for sex, and no matter what my gut says, it’s a fact, I still hit a wall. I try and try, but I can’t imagine a scenario where his being murdered there could happen. How could Jonah set someone off to the point where she’d want to kill him?”
“Maybe . . .” He decided to let it drop.
“You mean maybe he did something awful to her, or asked her for something that was totally disgusting?” Scott nodded. I continued, “But prostitutes get asked to do disgusting stuff all the time. See, that’s what I don’t understand. Men beat them up or ask them to do dominatrix stuff. All sorts of things that you think, God, how could anyone be so bent?”
At that moment, it occurred to me that I had no idea what my cousin did for sex, that maybe he shared a bed with a blowup doll named Titty Rabinowitz and I’d offended him.
“Maybe it wasn’t anything Jonah did,” Scott said. “Maybe Dorinda was crazy.”
“She had arrests for cocaine. But nothing I heard from the detective or the DA’s office made me think of her as a violent person.”
“Did Jonah have a bad temper? Ever lose control?”
“No. He never screamed like a crazy person or anything. Once in a while we’d have a fight and he was really loud, but so was I. At his worst, he was overbearing, I guess that’s the word. A control freak: my way or the highway.”
“If she was really deranged,” Scott said, “that’s the kind of behavior that might have set her off.”
“Could be.” I guessed that made sense. At least it was an explanation, where none had existed before. I started with the Time for you to go thought waves again, but they were as unsuccessful as they’d been earlier.
“No,” Scott said. “I don’t think I’m right. Because if Dorinda was a total nut job, she would have—sorry to say this—killed him in a crazy way. He was stabbed, what? Twice?”
“Yes.”
“It seems to me a crazy person would have stabbed him a freakish number of times. That’s what happens if someone is wild with anger, out of control. Right? Doesn’t that make more sense to you than just twice?”
“Yes,” I said, “it does.”
Chapter Nineteen
My conversation with Scott was keeping me up. For the first time since I lost Jonah, I wanted to talk more. Not with my cousin, though.
I could call Andrea, who would welcome any excuse—“Susie needs to vent”—to escape the California king she shared with Fat Boy. But we’d talked so long and so often that before our first word, I knew where we’d end up.
I adjusted my pillows against the headboard and considered my best friend from high school, Jessie Heller. I called her my human resource; she’d been in HR at Goldman Sachs before she had kids. But even though she was smart and practical and had been at the funeral and the shiva, it would take a half hour to bring her up-to-date.
Seconds later, Grandma Ethel’s phone was on its third ring. That was when it hit me that she might not be thrilled with such a late call. What saved me from hanging up was remembering that old people are supposed to need less sleep. And I’d always felt that gay people led more exciting lives and so went to bed later than straights.
“I was just thinking about you a few minutes ago,” she told me. “I saw the hooker on the TV.”
“So how come you didn’t call?” I said it in a teasing way, but when it came out, it sounded whiny.
At least I thought so, but my grandmother acted like she’d heard a regular question. “I didn’t want to wake up your children.”
“The children are boys,” I said. “Three of them. Triplets.”
“Did you call because you missed me or to give me a hard time? Because to tell you the truth, if you want to give someone a hard time, don’t bother me. Call your mother.”
I was about to make a snide comment, but then I thought that would be like telling Grandma Ethel, “Boy, were you lucky to get away from her.” “Is this too late for you?” I asked.
“Are you kidding? I live in Miami. For half my friends, this is dinner hour. Now, as I used to say to the guests on my show, ‘Talk to me, sweetheart.’ You wouldn’t believe the people I called ‘sweetheart.’ Cher. Archbishop Desmond Tutu.”
“It’s not so much about me talking,” I said untruthfully. “I could use some wisdom.”
“For that you need Sparky.” My grandmother’s voice sounded cheery and charming, the upbeat voice people use at dinner parties they’re delighted to be at but surprised to be invited to.
“Actually, what I want now is grandmotherly wisdom,” I said. No one could possibly call my voice upbeat.
She was obviously someone who knew when to leave the party, because when she spoke again, it was clear that she’d let go of the cheery business. “Sure, grandmotherly wisdom . . . if I have any. Tell me. Whatever I can do for you, I’ll do it. And don’t think that’s just Ethel O’Shea’s patented bullshit, because I almost never make offers like that.” I was about to thank her when she added, “Maybe three times in my life. You don’t make commitments, you don’t have to back out of them. Know what I mean?”
This wasn’t exactly reassuring, but after eleven at night, I couldn’t be picky. “Sure.”
“Good. Now talk to me.”
“Okay. You know how when something bad happens, there’s the story of what happened that makes sense to most people. And then there’s all sorts of conspiracy theories?”
“Right,” Grandma Ethel said. “You should’ve been around after the Kennedy assassination.”
“From what I’ve seen, a lot of the conspiracy theories are crazy stuff—from paranoids and
idiots. Then there are a few that come across as reasonable.” I had been lying back in bed. Now I sat up and crossed my legs under me, which had the double advantage of being the posture of a heart-to-heart discussion and also keeping my feet warm. I was so chilled. I prayed the boiler wasn’t having its biweekly collapse and I’d have to wait up half the night for the oil burner guy.
“You heard some conspiracy theory about Jonah that you’re tempted to believe?” my grandmother asked.
“No. Not really. It’s just that the murder case against this Dorinda Dillon is so open-and-shut, which is fine with me. Well, it should be fine. But every time I accept what happened, what all the experienced people like the cops and the head of Homicide at the DA’s office say happened, I think, All right. They’re pros. Not emotionally involved. Now it’s time to get on with my life. And just when I do, something starts troubling me.”
“What’s the something?” Grandma Ethel asked.
“That’s just it: nothing specific. It’s always one bit of information or another that seems wrong. I keep wishing somebody—me, even—would come up with a conspiracy theory that would take care of all the little doubts I have.”
“Tell me the little doubts.”
I went through my talk with Scott, saying that if Dorinda had been crazed with anger at Jonah or plain crazy, how come she hadn’t stabbed him over and over?
“You don’t know for sure that’s how a nutsy person would go about it,” Grandma Ethel said. “I’m sure some of them would stab him a lot more than twice, but there’s no book called There Is Only One Type of Homicidal Stabbing Behavior for the Criminally Insane. Right?”