Jonathan Kellerman - Alex 04 - Silent Partner

by Silent Partner

  "They were beautiful," she said. "So tiny, but already beautiful. My own little girls."

  "You renamed them."

  "Beautiful new names," she said. "For a new life."

  "Where did your brother tell you he got them?"

  "He didn't. Just that their mother had fallen on hard times and couldn't care for them anymore."

  Hard times. The hardest. "Weren't you curious?"

  "Absolutely not. Billy said the less I knew—the less any of us knew—the better. That way, when they got older and started to ask questions, I'd be able to honestly say I didn't know. I'm sure you disapprove, Doctor. You psychologists preach the gospel of open communication—

  everyone bleeding all over everyone else. I don't see that society is any better for your vile meddling."

  She emptied her glass again. I was ready with the pitcher.

  When she'd finished most of the refill, I said, "When did things start to go bad?"

  "Bad?"

  "Between the girls."

  She closed her eyes, put her head back against the cushion. "In the beginning, things were lovely—exactly like a dream come true. They were bookends, so perfect. Perfect blue eyes, black hair, pink cheeks—a pair of little bisque dolls. I had my seamstress fashion them dozens of matching outfits: teensy gowns and bonnets, chemises and booties—their feet were so tiny, the booties were no larger than a thimble. I took a shopping excursion to Europe, brought back the loveliest things for the nursery: an entire collection of real bisque dolls, hand-printed wall coverings, a pair of exquisite Louis Quatorze cradles. Their bedroom always smelled sweet, with fresh-cut flowers and sachets that I prepared myself."

  She lowered her arms, allowing the glass to tilt. A rivulet of liquid ran down the side and speckled the stone floor. She didn't move.

  I broke into he.r reverie. "When did the trouble start,

  Mrs. Blalock?"

  "Don't pick at me, young man."

  "How old were they when the conflict became apparent?"

  "Early... I don't recall exactly."

  I stared, waited.

  "Oh!" She shook a fist at me. "It was so long ago! How on earth can I be expected to remember? Seven, eight months old—I don't know! They'd just started crawling and getting into everything—how old are babies when they do that?"

  "Seven, eight months sounds right. Tell me about it."

  "What's there to tell? They were identical but were so different, conflict was inevitable."

  "Different in what way?"

  "Sherry was active, dominant, strong—in body and spirit. She knew what she wanted and went right for it, wouldn't take no for an answer." She gave a smile. Satisfied. Strange.

  "What was Sharon like?"

  "A wilted flower—ephemeral, distant. She sat and played with one thing over and over and over. Never demanded a thing. One never knew what was on her mind. The two of them established their roles and played them to the hilt—leader and follower, just like a little stage play. If there was a bit of candy or a toy that they both wanted, Sherry would just move right in, bowl Sharon over, and take it away. In the beginning Sharon put up some resistance, but she never won, and soon she learned that, one way or the other, Sherry was going to triumph."

  That strange smile again. Applauding that triumph.

  The smile I'd seen so many times on the faces of ineffectual parents saddled with extremely disturbed, aggressive youngsters.

  He's so aggressive, such a tiger. Smile.

  She beat up the little girl next door, really demolished her, the poor thing. Smile.

  He's a real ass-kicker, my boy. Gonna get into serious trouble one day. Smile.

  The do-as-I-feel, not-as-I-say smile. Legitimizing bullying. Granting permission to knock down, gouge, scrape, pummel, and, above all, win.

  The kind of off-kilter response guaranteed to get a therapist hmm-ing and noting "inappropriate affect" in the chart. And knowing treatment wouldn't be easy.

  "Poor Sharon really did get knocked around," Mrs. Blalock said.

  "What did you do about it?"

  "What could I do? I tried reasoning with them—told Sharon she needed to face up to Sherry, be more self-confident. I informed Sherry in no uncertain terms that this was no way for a young lady to behave. But the moment I was gone, they'd revert to type. I do believe it

  was a little game between them. Collaboration."

  She was right about that, but she'd gotten the players wrong.

  She said, "I'm long past blaming myself. Their characters were predetermined, programmed from the very start. In the end Nature triumphs. That's why your field will never amount to much."

  "Was there anything positive about their relationship?"

  "Oh, I suppose they loved each other. When they weren't fighting, there were the usual hugs and kisses. And they had their own little nonsense language that no one else understood. And despite the rivalry, they were inseparable—Sherry leading, Sharon tagging behind, taking her licks. But always, the fighting. Competition for everything."

  Strange phenomenon, mirror-image monozygoles... given an identical genetic structure there should be no differences at all...

  "Sherry always won," she was saying. Smile. "By the age of two she'd become a real martinet, a little stage director, telling Sharon where to stand, what to say, when to say it. If Sharon dared not to listen, Sherry lashed out, slapping and kicking and biting. I tried to separate them, forbade them to play with one another, even got them separate nannies."

  "How'd they react to being separated?"

  "Sherry threw tantrums, broke things. Sharon just huddled in the corner, as if in a trance. Eventually, they always managed to sneak back and reconnect. Because they needed each other. Weren't complete without each other."

  "Silent partners," I said.

  No reaction.

  "I was always the outsider," she said. "It wasn't a good situation, not for any of us. They drove me to distraction. Getting away with hurting her sister wasn't good for Sherry—but it hurt her too. Perhaps even more than it hurt Sharon—bones may mend, but once injured, the mind never seems to set properly."

  "Were Sharon's bones ever actually broken?"

  "Of course not!" she said, as if addressing an idiot. "I was speaking figuratively."

  "How serious were her injuries?" "It wasn't child abuse, if that's what you're getting at. Nothing we had to call a doctor for—clumps of hair pulled out, bites, scratches. By the time she was two, Sherry knew how to raise a nasty bruise, but nothing serious."

  "Until the drowning."

  The glass in her hand began to shake. I filled it, waited until she'd drained it, kept the pitcher at hand. "How oid were they when it happened?"

  "A little over three. Our first summer away together." "Where?"

  "My place in Southampton."

  "The Shoals." Item one on a list I'd just read in a social register: Skylark in Holmby Hills. Le Dauphin in Palm Beach. An unnamed flat in Rome. Her real children. "Another sun-room," I said. "A latticed pool house." My knowing shook her further. She swallowed hard. "You seem to know everything. I really don't see the need—" really don't see the need—"

  "Far from everything." Refill. I smiled. She looked at me with gratitude. Boozer's version of the Stockholm syndrome. "Bottoms up."

  She drank, shuddered, drank some more, said, "Here's to glorious, glorious truth."

  "The drowning," I said. "How did it happen?" "It was the last day of holiday. Early autumn. I was up in my sun-room—I love sun-rooms—merging with nature. I've had sun-rooms in all of my homes. The one at the Shoals was the finest, more of a pavilion, actually, an old English look, comfy and warm. I was sitting there, looking out at the Atlantic—it's a more intimate ocean, the Atlantic, don't you think?" "Definitely."

  "Compared to the Pacific, which is so... undemanding. At least that's what I've always believed." She held her glass up, squinted, sloshed vodka.

  I said, "Where were the girls?"

 
She tightened her grip on the glass, raised her voice: "Ah, where were the girls! Playing, what else do little girls do? Playing down on the beach! With a nanny—a slab-faced English pudding! I paid her passage from Liverpool, gave her my best old gowns, lovely quarters. She came with recommendations, the slut. Flirting with Ramey, with the hired help—with anything in pants. That day, she was batting her lashes at the groundsman and took her eyes off the girls. They snuck into the pool house—the latticed pool house—which was supposed to be locked and wasn't. Heads rolled that day. They rolled."

  She emptied her glass, belched softly, and looked mortified.

  I pretended not to notice, said, "Then what happened?"

  "Then—finally—the pudding realized they were gone. Went looking for them, heard laughter from the pool-house. When she got there, Sherry was standing by the side of the pool, slapping her knees. Laughing. The idiot asked where Sharon was. Sherry pointed to the pool. The stupid pudding looked over and saw one arm sticking out of the water. She jumped in, managed to pull Sharon out. The pool was filthy—ready to be drained until spring. Both of them got slimy—it served the slut right."

  "And Sherry kept laughing," I said.

  She let go of the glass. It rolled down her lap, hit the stone floor, and shattered. The shards formed a wet gemlike mosaic that transfixed her.

  "Yes, laughing," she said. "Such merriment. Through it all."

  "How seriously was Sharon injured?"

  "Not seriously at all. Just her pride. She'd swallowed some water, the dumb cluck fiddled with her, and she vomited all of it up. I arrived just in time to see that—all that brown water shooting out of her. Revolting."

  "When did you realize it hadn't been an accident?"

  "Sherry marched up to us, thumping her little chest, saying 'I push her.' Just like that: 'I push her,' as if she

  was proud of it. I thought she was joking away her fear, told Ramey to take her away, give her some warm milk and soft biscuits. But she struggled, began screaming: 'I push her! I push her!'—claiming credit! Then she broke away from him, ran over to where Sharon was lying, and tried to kick her—to roll her over, back into the pool."

  Shake of head.

  Smile.

  "Later, when Sharon was feeling better, she confirmed it. 'Sherry push me.' And there was a bruise on her back. Tiny little knuckle marks."

  She stared at the liquid on the floor with longing. I dribbled some martini into another glass and handed it to her. Eyeing the miserly portion, she frowned but drank, then licked the rim with the look of a child flouting table manners.

  "She wanted to do it again, right in front of me. Wanted me to see it. That's when I knew it was... serious. They couldn't... had to be... separated. Couldn't be together, ever again."

  "Enter brother Billy."

  "Billy always took good care of me."

  "Why the Ransoms?"

  "They worked for us—for Billy."

  "Where?"

  "In Palm Beach. Making beds. Cleaning."

  "Where did they come from—originally?"

  "A place. Near the Everglades. One of our acquaintances—a very fine doctor—took in the feeble-minded, taught them honest labor, how to be good citizens. Trained properly, you know, they make the best workers."

  Everything scrubbed down with lye soap... all the clothes folded neatly, beds you could bounce a dime on... as if someone had trained them in the basics a long time ago.

  Living near the swamps. All that mud. They'd have felt right at home on their dirt patch. Green soup...

  "The doctor and Henry were golf chums," she was saying. "Henry always made a point of hiring Freddy's— the doctor's—imbeciles, for grounds work, fruit-picking,

  repetitive things. He believed it was our civic responsibility

  to help."

  "And you were helping them further when you gave

  them Sharon."

  She missed the sarcasm, seized on the rationalization. "Yes! I knew they couldn't have children. Shirlee'd been... fixed. Freddy had all of them fixed, for their own good, Billy said we'd be giving her—them—the greatest gift anyone could give while solving our problem at the same time."

  "Everyone comes out a winner." "Yes. Exactly."

  " Why did it have to be done?" I said. "Why not keep Sharon at home and send Sherry away for some kind of treatment?"

  Her reply sounded rehearsed. "Sherry needed me more. She was really the needy one—and time's borne me out on that."

  Two progeny in the Blue Book, 1954 through 1957. After that, only one.

  My guesses turned to fact, the pieces finally fitting. But it sickened me, like a bad-news diagnosis. I loosened my tie, clenched my jaw.

  "What did you tell your friends?" No answer. "That she'd died?" "Pneumonia." "Was there a funeral?"

  She shook her head. "We let it be known we wanted things private. Our wishes were respected. In lieu of flowers, donations to Planned Parenthood—thousands of dollars were donated."

  "More winners," I said. I felt like throttling a little insight into her. Instead, I slipped on the therapist's mask, pretended she was a patient. Told myself to be understanding, nonjudgmental...

  But even as I smiled, the horror stayed with me. The bottom line, just another sickening, sordid child-abuse case, psychopathology fueling cruelty: a weak, dependent

  woman, despising her weakness, projecting that hatred onto the child she saw as weak. Seeing another child's viciousness as strength. Envying it, feeding it:

  One way or the other, Sherry was going to triumph.

  She was tilting her head back, trying to suck nourishment from an empty glass. I was cold with rage, felt a chill in my bones.

  Even through the haze of intoxication she picked up on it. Her smile vanished. I lifted the pitcher. She held up one arm, ready to ward off a blow.

  I shook my head, apportioned more martini. "What did you hope to accomplish?"

  "Peace," she said, barely audible. "Stability. For everyone."

  "Did you get it?"

  No answer.

  "No surprise," I said. "The girls loved each other, needed each other. They shared a private world they'd created. By separating them, you destroyed that world. Sherry would have had to get worse. Much worse."

  She looked down, said, "She put it out of her mind."

  "How did you go about doing it?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "The mechanics of the transfer. How exactly did you do it?"

  "Sharon knew Shirlee and Jasper—they'd played with her, been kind to her. She liked them. She was happy going off with them."

  "Going off where?"

  "On a shopping trip."

  "That never ended."

  The arm rose in defense, again. "She was happy! Better off, not being pummeled!"

  "What about Sherry? What explanation did she get?"

  "I... I told her that Sharon had..." She submerged the rest of her sentence in vodka.

  I said, "You told her Sharon had died?" "That she'd been in an accident and wouldn't be coming back."

  "What kind of accident?"

  "Just an accident."

  "At Sherry's age, she would have assumed the drowning did it—that she'd killed her sister."

  "No, impossible—ridiculous. She'd seen Sharon survive—this was days after!"

  "At that age none of that would have made a difference."

  "Oh, no, you can't accuse me of... No! I didn't— wouldn't ever have done anything so cruel to Sherry!"

  "She kept asking for Sharon, didn't she?"

  "For a while. Then she stopped. Put it, out of her

  mind."

  "Did she stop having nightmares too?"

  Her expression told me all my years of schooling hadn't been wasted. "No, those... If you know everything, why are you putting me through this?"

  "Here's something else I know: After Sharon was gone, Sherry was terrified—separation anxiety's the primal fear at three. And her fear kept climbing. She starte
d to lash out, get more violent. Began taking it out on you."

  Another good guess. "Yes!" she said, eager to be the victim. "She threw the most horrid tantrums I'd ever seen. More than tantrums—fits, animal fits. Wouldn't let me hold her, kicked me, bit me, spit at me, destroyed things—one day she walked into my bedroom and deliberately broke my favorite Tang vase. Right in front of me. When I scolded her, she snatched up some manicure scissors and went for my arm. I needed stitches!"