"Only people in our positions can afford to debate whether religion causes war. The poor and the disenfranchised are usually the ones who suffer from it or are entered into it through no other choice. We can sit back all we want and fling our words around…"
Off we would go into what the world should be doing about the poor. It didn't matter whether or not we knew much about the topic. Any thought or comment was savored like a candy, tossed around in our mouths and then flung back out in a different shape. Sometimes we'd get loud and obnoxious or even allow the debate to deteriorate into an argument. But Karoline would always put us back on track. She'd remind us that the debate was about the issue, not the people involved. She'd offer an opinion based on fact or a recent news item that would put the argument in perspective. Properly chastised, we would sail off into intellectual sparring once more.
Giulio also referred to her as 'capo tosta'—hard headed. Her arguments were always so fierce and strong.
If only he had seen how her head had hit the pavement, splitting open like an egg, spewing red and white and grey yolk all over the sidewalk.
It seemed to me at that moment, my head bent over the table, that Karoline was always the anchor. I would surely sail off course forever now. Especially because I was solely responsible for Karoline not being here any longer. I was unable at that moment to see how I could have done it, to understand the reasons behind that savage unthinking act that had resulted in her crumpled body lying beneath our balcony. I really had proven to have the dangerous soul that Karoline had protected me from. If only she'd protected herself instead.
Ethan came back into the room and gently touched my hand. It was a gesture that I found reassuring, yet I jumped back from the heat of his skin and glared at him.
"I didn't mean to startle you, Ms. Williams. I just want you to know that we are finished here for the moment. I'll be down at the…with your friend. Officer Peters has some questions for you and then I'll be back upstairs. Are you comfortable enough?"
The compassion in his voice threatened to break the dam of my emotion. I wanted to fling myself at his feet and sob and beg forgiveness. Instead I merely nodded, keeping the tears away by biting the inside of my lip. Immediately, the little blond policewoman was there, her pen at the ready. I allowed my fear to flow into resentment of this officious person at my side and her annoying questions. A hot rush of adrenaline caused my limbs to tremble.
I pressed my fingers against my thighs under the table and tried to concentrate. Karoline's full name; Karolina Maria Mikulski. Date of birth; June 30, 1950. She'll be thirty-two next month, I almost said. We're getting to be old maids, Karoline would have joked, but she would have meant it, too, being proud of our single state. A woman of the eighties thinks ba-king and fuc-king are two cities in China… Her next of kin? Oh God, what will Halina do? Halina Mikulski, her mom, she lives in Bell Canyon. No, her dad died years ago. Yes, she has two older brothers. How will Halina be told? Oh my God, what will she do when the police come to her door? Religion? Really, why do you need to know that? Karoline was agnostic. Her mom would say Roman Catholic, I suppose. Height, weight. She works for Stewart and Stewart. She's a legal secretary, an executive assistant for Daniel Stewart. She's very smart. What will Daniel do without her? What will I do without her?
To this day I have no idea how I responded to Officer Peters, whether I said all of this aloud or whether I kept most of it to myself. I must have given a few right answers because somewhere in the middle of the interrogation, Halina was on the telephone. She sobbed and asked me over and over how this could have happened.
Officer Peters still sat at the table writing in her notebook. She attempted to appear as though she were not listening.
"She was so happy. Wasn't she happy, Anne?"
My head filled with a cloud of anger and guilt. I hated Halina at that moment. I hated that she had known me since I was a gangly little girl. Halina thought she understood me better than my own mother did. I hated that Halina seemed to always wish that I had been her daughter and not Karoline. Of course Karoline was happy, I wanted to shout at her. Of course she hadn't wanted to actually die. She didn't choose death. I chose that for her.
Naturally I shouted none of these things. Instead I gave sympathetic responses. Halina continued her litany for what seemed an eternity. Was it an accident maybe? She couldn't have jumped on purpose, could she have? If she did, was Karoline so unhappy? Did I not see any signs? Why didn't she, her own mother, see any signs? Where was I when it happened?
I provided reassuring answers. Words that Halina would expect and need. I couldn't remove her sorrow, though I fervently wished I could turn back time and put Karoline on the telephone.
I recall Officer Peters' look when I replaced the receiver. I gathered the Ice Queen within me and forced her to give the bitchiest response to those raised eyebrows.
"That was not very pleasant," I told the officer. "I certainly don't appreciate your being here and listening to every word."
I began to rub the table top, noticing some spots like fingerprints on the shiny wood. I got up and looked under the sink for the cleaner and polishing cloth. Karoline will not be happy about this, I thought, wondering who the hell had spilled something. I shook a little of the liquid cleaner onto the surface and began to rub it in large, light circles. Just the way Karoline demands it. "You can't be rough and sloppy when you want to clean something properly, especially wood," she always says. "You have to concentrate even though it is a menial task that doesn't engage certain parts of your brain…"
"Ma'am," the police officer said, quite loudly, staring at me oddly.
I remember that I smiled at her. I think I said something like, "Yes? Is there anything further that I can do for you?" I do know that I made my voice purr, as though I were talking to a particularly dense client or some ignorant man whose eyes were permanently glued to my tits.
I had to maintain the anger. It was the only way I could survive. Inside, my heart knocked on the door of reality, threatening to open everything to the world. I tamped down the tears. Stomped on the terror. I couldn't call Karoline to help me, speak for me, or tell me what to do. That side of Karoline had been lost to me for some time. Now she was gone forever.
Only Ice Queen Anne, the one I had nurtured for those times of self-preservation, could be with me now. No matter how ugly or horrid she sounded, she was here.
Officer Peters asked the same question that Halina had posed. "How do you know it was suicide, not a terrible accident?"
I stared at her, trying to work out the scenario I had rehearsed, but somehow the words would not come. Finally I said the only thing I could muster.
"Well it's not like we put Christmas lights out on our balcony."
The woman appeared to be confused and who could blame her?
"In other words, it's not as if she would be up on the balcony wall taking down Christmas lights or anything."
Again there was a pause as she scribbled in her notebook.
"I understand," she answered.
"Do you? And besides, am I the one who said the word suicide?"
"As a matter of fact, the call to 911 stated that someone had just committed suicide."
"What other conclusion could there be? As I said, I don't think Karoline was trying to put up decorations in May and I sure as hell know she wasn't taking any down."
"Where were you when the accident or suicide happened?"
This time, I tried not to pause. "I was asleep in bed, where most people are at that time of night."
"What awakened you?"
Rehearsed this! You can do it!
"I really don't know. I'm a fairly light sleeper and I think it was some noise. Just something out of place. I—I woke up suddenly, unable to define what awakened me. So I got up and looked in Karoline's bedroom but she wasn't there. That surprised me. So I kept going into the living room and I saw that the balcony doors were wide open. So I went out onto the balcony and she wasn't the
re, but I just—I can't tell you why, I just looked over and then I saw…" …a jigsaw puzzle with a couple of pieces gone… "So I called 911."
Other than too many 'so's' and 'justs', I thought I delivered the speech quite well. It wasn't terribly logical, which was why they would probably buy it.
"You didn't go down to see if she had survived?"
I wanted to claw at her eyes, those big green eyes staring at me so directly, pen poised in the air, smug little mouth forming a judgmental line. I wanted to say, "No you fucking bitch, of course not, I knew she was dead. Did you ever see what someone looks like when they've fallen seven stories and landed on their head on a paved sidewalk?"
At the same time I wanted to faint at her feet, break into sobs, tell her I loved Karoline and please, please, please bring her back.
"No," I answered and was disconcerted to feel my eyes dart away from hers. Deliberately, I looked her straight on as I embellished.
"I was so shocked I couldn't even stand. I barely made it to the telephone."
I stopped polishing the table, stood up to put the cleansers away, wiped my hands on the finger towel, and sat down again.
"Is there anything further, officer? I have to call a great many people…"
"Just one. Did Ms. Mikulski appear to be depressed? Do you think there was a reason for the suicide?"
"That's two questions," I wanted to say, but I answered carefully. "She…lately, Karoline has had a rather bleak take on life. I don't know if you call that depressed or realistic."
"So you would categorize her as unhappy?"
I hesitated. Unhappy enough to want to die? No, definitely not.
"I guess. You don't usually jump over a balcony if you're pleased with your life."
Peters jerked with shock at my response and I knew Ice Queen had gone too far. My head buzzed with the voices of fear, regret, grief and self-pity. I hated myself for those last words to Karoline. I wanted to spread loathing all over this room so I wouldn't have to face the reality of the police in our apartment. Of the absence of my best friend.
"Detective Byrne will be back up to speak with you as soon as he's finished at the scene," was all Officer Peters offered. "There may be further questions that he will want to ask. Plus we will need a written statement quite soon. Do you have someone that you would like us to call for you?"
Yes, I felt like saying. "Call Karoline. Tell her to come back." That I didn't mean it. I didn't realize that it would be forever, that I couldn't do it over again and this time, do it differently. I wanted to stand up and tower over the officer. I'd show her how my nipples stood straight forward because my body felt like ice in this skimpy gown that I was too stunned to replace with something more dignified and warm. I'd pretend I was haughty and confident. I'd pretend it wasn't Karoline who had kept me on course.
But I knew that my knees were soft. The muscles in my thighs trembled every time I got up. I was afraid that the next attempt might plunge me forward onto the floor. What I did say was that I was perfectly fine. There was no need to call anybody. I was the one who had to do some calling if she would just leave.
It seems to me that shortly thereafter—though the sequence of events may be totally skewed in my memory—Detective Byrne reappeared to tell us that 'the body' had been removed. He went into some details that I have never been able to remember. I'm pretty sure that he even sat down at the table again with the officer and me, because I have a remembrance of warmth and heat and the thrill of male proximity.
I began to realize that Karoline was not there on the sidewalk any more. In fact she was nowhere. I put my head on the cool surface of the table once more. Listening with half an ear to the officers' inane details, I heard other voices again, this time our little group of philosophers discussing our favorite topic.
"So what about sex then? We used to believe in free love. But what does that mean?"
Daniel was more than half drunk. He clutched the glass of red wine and swirled it thoughtfully. The ruby legs flowed up and down the transparent sides, glistening in the light over the dining room table. Our favorite topic was not simply about sex. It was an exploration of the last two decades, the ones when hope and innocence intermingled with drugs to make us believe we'd change the world.
"Well, I personally define sex as any contact with another body in order to pleasure yourself," Vicki said. "Free love is any pleasure you don't have to pay for."
Raucous laughter ensued.
"But love ought to mean some kind of relationship," I pointed out, feeling high and pleasant and argumentative.
I knew everything at that moment. I was complacent and ignorant, mistakenly enjoying a life I thought was real.
"Free love is a misnomer. Maybe we should call it getting your rocks off without entanglement. I bet everyone would understand what that meant."
"Most men would." Vicki's lips were covered in the foam from her latest margarita.
The males laughed as though they wanted to confirm her indictment.
"Hey, most people would. I don't agree that men and women necessarily see sex in different ways. That's just societal expectation. Like calling sex 'love' instead of just plain sex. Women are supposed to want romance and marriage and babies, not an amusing romp in the sack. So that's what we pretend to believe," I shot back with the adrenalin that comes from depressing one's usual inhibitions.
Though I noticed Karoline's quizzical stare and unusual silence, I kept going.
"I for one have never believed that sex is just about reproduction. In that scenario, women are merely receptacles and incubators. I really think sex is essentially a very good time."
In response the men laughed again. Giulio gave my hand a squeeze.
"Don't say that too loudly," he said with a huge smile. "You're far too gorgeous. You'll be having a lot of fun every night if you don't watch out."
I don't know if anyone else heard Karoline, but I did. She sat at my right and whispered in my ear. I assumed she was teasing me. "Not much different from now."
"We're getting off topic," Daniel complained. "We're not discussing Anne's sex life in particular, although I probably shouldn't object. The original question was, what has happened to free love? How do we define sexual relations? Are the eighties bringing in a new prudishness?"
"I think we should define sexual intercourse, not relations. 'Relations' gives it a confusing element. People think of the word in terms of relatives or relationships. But sexual intercourse is different," Joseph proclaimed.
"Is it really?" Karoline asked. "I think intercourse is just as confusing."
The group began to laugh here, but she cut them off.
"Do we mean any mode of relating or connecting when we talk about intercourse? I mean, since we're having oral dialogue here about sex, does that qualify, too? The word means contact, interaction, communication. Doesn't that cover all the senses, including hearing?"
"Well, I like it," Daniel answered. "That means we can have sex any time we want. Which means love is definitely free, since it's in the air. Clearly we don't need to fear the eighties after all."
And so the discussion went on, philosophical, erotic, almost clinical in turns. Again, it would be Karoline who would bring an end to one angle and start us off in another direction. She always had quotes and references stored in her head. She made good use of silence and appeared to wait until we'd ventured into ridiculousness before she offered her sane, researched opinions.
When I reflected on the discussions the morning after or weeks later, I wondered if she did this on purpose. Was her mission to show us how stupid we were? Guilt would banish that thought from my mind.
Detective Byrne asked me suddenly if I was okay. I raised my head from the table, which was no longer polished or gleaming, but steamed and greasy from forehead and finger patterns. This time his gaze pored over my scantily dressed body, while I stared at the oddly chiseled features of his face. I wondered idly if he was any good in bed. There must be something to
redeem that face.
I was too numb to actually feel anything though. I certainly don't remember any more interrogation. He reiterated what his companion had told me. They'd need to ask more questions very soon. I'd have to sign a deposition of my information. Would I mind if they searched her room once more before they left? Was there anyone they could call to come over and be with me?
After the police officers departed, I heard, for the first time, a deep and absolute silence in our apartment. The utter complete lack of Karoline. Even when she was quiet I was aware of her aura, her smile, her smell. For most of our years together the apartment had been filled with music.
We were eclectic in our tastes. Any decade, any style, as long as we liked the words and could dance to the music. We loved to sing along, boogie through the hallway and the living room, do the dishes to the rhythms that boomed from our stereo.
Now all of that was gone. Along with her physical presence, Karoline took the music with her. A ringing started in my ears that replaced the swish of her movements, the creak of her bed, the slam of her doors. The rumble of her pen across the endless pages that she had written. Letters that I discovered later. Letters that destroyed us.
I returned to rubbing the table, which had once again been contaminated with the officer's notebook and the dots of my saliva as I lay breathing and thinking on the wooden surface. I spread the cleaner further and further over the wood. Around the Murano cut glass bowl that we'd picked up in Venice. Around the gold-plated candle sticks that we'd bought in Florence. Around the tray with the salt and pepper shakers we'd brought home from Milan. Karoline would expect me to use the gold revitalizer on the candlesticks by next week. We'd bought it specifically for that purpose and we made sure it was done on schedule. The salt and pepper shakers were full. From now on I would have to remember all on my own to dust everything.
Our jobs not only had prestige but paid well, too. We had lived relatively frugally but we travelled high and often.
Sweet Karoline Page 3