A Playdate With Death

by Ayelet Waldman

  When we walked in from the garage, Jeanelle was going over Al’s gun collection with a pink feather duster. I’d only been to Al’s house a few times, and the sight of the racks of shotguns and cases of handguns and vintage pistols still made my skin crawl. He could tell I was nonplussed, perhaps because of the grimace on my face and the loud retching noises I made.

  “Want to hold one?” he asked, deadpan.

  “No! What is it with boys and guns? Isaac’s as obsessed with them as you are. Why? Can you explain this to me? Is it a phallic thing?”

  Jeanelle smiled and said, “If it’s phallic, then I don’t know what that says about me. I’ve been a target shooter for years. And our youngest, Robyn, is nationally ranked in the biathlon. She was an alternate for the Olympic team.”

  “Wow,” I said. “What’s that? Shooting and biking?”

  “Shooting and skiing,” Al said. “Robyn’s an incredible athlete. She’s at Cal State Northridge now, but she’s thinking about Quantico.”

  “The FBI?”

  “Yup. She’d make a great cop.”

  Jeanelle handed me a large photograph of a beautiful, carefully made up young woman aiming a rifle. Her curly brown hair was held off her face with a tortoiseshell clip, and her nails were long and painted a brilliant shade of aquamarine.

  Al’s daughters were all gorgeous and successful. And unmarried. A glance at the artillery around the room made it all too obvious why. Their father probably blasted a hole in any guy who dared show up at the front door.

  WHEN I got home from Al’s, I found my house empty and the light flashing on the answering machine. The first message was from Peter, telling me that he and Isaac would pick Ruby up from school and then go to the zoo at Griffith Park. I heaved a sigh of relief at having been spared the trip to that grim place with its tiny cages and palpable air of animal desperation.

  The rest of the messages were from Betsy. She’d left four, and by the last one she was hysterical. By replaying her messages a few times, I managed to figure out that David Katz had come by for Bobby’s things and had been upset to find the computer missing. I tried to call her and had the eerie shock of getting Bobby’s voice, asking me to leave a message at the tone. He sounded absolutely like himself, down to the trademark instruction to “make the most of” my day. The hair on the back of my neck stood up. For a moment, I was surprised that Betsy had left his voice on the machine, but then I considered what I would have done under the same circumstances. I didn’t think I could have borne to erase Peter’s voice, either.

  I debated leaving a message but decided to go to the apartment instead. Betsy had sounded so distraught that it wouldn’t have surprised me if she were immobilized in bed.

  She was anything but. I found her standing in the middle of her living room with the apartment door wide open. She was swigging water from a bottle and pacing frantically back and forth.

  “Betsy?” I said.

  “Oh God! Thank God it’s you. Tell me you have the laptop. Do you have it? Did you bring the laptop? Is it with you?” Her words tumbled out of her mouth in an agitated rush.

  “I have it.” I held up the computer.

  “Oh, thank God. I was really freaking out. You have no idea. I mean, that creep was over here basically screaming at me—telling me that if I didn’t come up with the laptop he was going to, like, sue me or something. I hate that whole family. Honestly I do. You have no idea. I hate them.”

  I looked closely at Betsy. She took a mouthful of water and then brushed her hair away with an angry jerk of her hand.

  “What are you on, Betsy?” I kept my voice soft and neutral.

  She snapped her head in my direction. Her lower lip trembled. “What are you talking about? What are you accusing me of? You’re just like them. You’re all the same.”

  I walked over and put my arm around her, and to my surprise, she let me lead her to the couch. She sat down, her leg twitching, and then her face crumpled. She sagged into me and began to cry.

  “I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to do this. I just . . . I just couldn’t help myself. I was so freaked out by Bobby’s brother. I mean, he really scared me. I called you!” She glared at me accusingly.

  “I’m sorry. I was out.”

  “Yeah, well I called you. And I called my goddamn sponsor. Everybody was out. I mean, what am I supposed to do? My boyfriend is dead, goddamn it. I mean, if that didn’t make me fall off the wagon I wouldn’t be human.”

  “What did you take?”

  “Nothing. A couple of pills. Like barely anything. Just to feel a little better. A little hopeful. I mean, what’s wrong with that? Do you know how long it’s been since I felt good? I’m not even asking for good, goddamn it. Just the, like, absence of pain would be nice for a minute.”

  I was disgusted with Betsy, despite myself. I know addiction is a disease—one that’s difficult and often impossible to cure. Bobby had done it, however, and so had she, at least for a while. It seemed an utter betrayal of his memory and the faith he’d had in her for her to be using. “Maybe it’s time to try your sponsor again,” I suggested.

  She whirled around. “Are you nuts? Are you totally insane? What am I going to say? ‘Hi Annie, I’m wired out of my mind. Wanna come over and play?’”

  “No, but you can ask for help. Do you want to go back on the meth?”

  She stuck her chin out defiantly.

  “Do you want this to be the end of your sobriety? Do you want to go to jail? You’re still on probation. If your drug test comes up positive, they’re going to take you out of the diversion program and send you right back to court. If that happens, you and I both know that there is a very good chance you’ll have to serve some time.”

  Her lip trembled again. “I don’t want to go to jail.” She began crying in earnest and pointed to a corner table. I walked over and found Annie’s pager number taped to the wall above the telephone. I dialed the number and hung up the phone. It rang almost immediately.

  THE gray-haired, matronly woman from the funeral was in the living room within half an hour. She held Betsy in her arms while the young woman wept. I sat watching them for a moment and then took the laptop back into Bobby’s office. I hooked up the modem and launched his E-mail program and web browser. I went to Yahoo.com and set up an Email account with a pseudonym for myself. It didn’t hurt to be cautious. I downloaded all his new messages to his laptop and then forwarded the contents of his in box to my new Yahoo E-mail address. Now I had the messages, and I was the only person who knew I had them.

  I found Betsy and Annie still huddled together on the couch.

  “This has to get to Bobby’s parents,” I said, lifting the laptop that I’d zipped into its case.

  Annie nodded.

  “I don’t think she’s in any shape to take it over,” I said.

  “No, I don’t think she is.”

  “Should I do it?” I asked.

  Annie nodded, and Betsy just cried harder.

  Eight

  BOBBY’S brother David answered the door of the Katzes’ house. It took a moment for him to remember me from the funeral. He invited me in somewhat warily and directed me to the large living room where the shivah had taken place. His mother was sitting on a sleek brown couch, her legs tucked up under her and her spectator pumps carefully lined up on the carpet, under the coffee table. She looked up from the medical journal she was reading and made a halfhearted attempt to rise. Motioning for her not to bother, I sat down in a tweed armchair opposite the couch. The room was entirely furnished in shades of brown and taupe. The carpet was discreetly patterned in various browns, the furniture was all soft earth shades. Even the paintings on the walls were mud-colored. A large, dark landscape of a dry hillside hung over the fireplace, and a series of small oblong prints in tones ranging from a rich cream to an almost black brown hung along the wall over the couch. Dr. Katz herself was dressed in an off-white cashmere turtleneck and a brown wool skirt. She matched her décor
perfectly.

  “Hello?” she said, doubt in her tone, obviously wondering what I was doing there.

  “I’m Juliet Applebaum, a friend and client of Bobby’s. I met you at the funeral, although you probably don’t remember me.”

  “Yes, yes, of course.” She arched an eyebrow expectantly.

  “What can we do for you, Juliet?” David asked.

  I lifted the computer bag off the floor an inch or two. “I’m returning Bobby’s computer for Betsy. She asked me to bring it to you; I understand you came by their apartment looking for it.”

  David flushed a bit, as though he were for the first time considering what an outsider might think of his stripping Bobby’s fiancée’s home of all of its valuables.

  “We, um, we just wanted to make sure that Bobby’s things were taken care of. Given Betsy’s . . . problem.”

  I handed him the computer. I wasn’t going to tell him that I understood his actions, although in a way I guess I did. Betsy’s relapse might or might not have had to do with David’s visit. I could certainly understand how Bobby’s family would be angry with her and suspicious of the role her drug use might have had in his death. On the other hand, given how much money these people obviously had, did they really need to be prying knickknacks and small appliances out of Betsy’s hands? What difference would it make to them if she kept the computer—or sold it to buy methamphetamine for that matter?

  “Why didn’t she just give me the computer when I was there picking up Bobby’s other stuff?” David asked.

  “Because I had it,” I said, wondering exactly how I was going to explain why.

  The two looked at me quizzically. I thought of lying for a moment, telling them that I’d borrowed the computer before Bobby’s death, but like I tell Ruby whenever I catch her stretching the truth, there’s really nothing quite as embarrassing as when a lie comes back and bites you in the butt.

  “I asked Betsy if I could look through Bobby’s files.”

  “Excuse me?” Dr. Katz’s voice was sharp. “You were going through my son’s computer files?”

  “What the hell is this about?” David asked, leaning forward in his chair.

  “Betsy and I were hoping that there might be something in Bobby’s computer files that would give us an idea of why he killed himself. Or if,” I added, trying to sort of slip it in.

  Dr. Katz’s eyes narrowed. “If?”

  I nodded. “It’s my understanding that the police have not made a final determination as to suicide or . . . or murder.”

  Bobby’s mother closed her eyes for a moment. “Forgive me, Ms. . . . Ms. . . .” she murmured.

  “Applebaum.”

  “Ms. Applebaum, I’m afraid I still don’t understand why you were going through Bobby’s personal belongings, or why you imagined that you had the permission to do so.”

  This time it was my turn to blush. “Betsy gave me permission. As Bobby’s fiancée and the cohabitant of his apartment, I felt she had the right to do so.” My language was getting as stiff and formal as hers.

  “Are you some kind of investigator?” David interjected.

  If I had just taken Al up on his offer, I could have simply said “Yes,” and that would have been that. “No, but I’m an attorney, and I specialize in criminal law. I’ve done some . . . some freelance investigation in the past. Informally. I’m doing the same for Betsy.”

  “What exactly is it that you are doing? And why did you need Bobby’s computer?” Bobby’s mother asked.

  The two looked at me, Dr. Katz’s face stern and haughty, her son’s heavy with grief and confusion.

  “I read through some of Bobby’s E-mail, trying to discover whether his search for his birth parents might have something to do with his death.”

  Dr. Katz’s face tightened.

  “You should have told him, Mom,” David muttered.

  She glared at her son. “This is not the time, David,” she snapped. Then she turned to me. “And,” she said, “did it, in your opinion?”

  “Excuse me?” I said.

  “Did Bobby’s misguided search for his ‘birth mother’”—she wrinkled her nose as she said the words—“have anything to do with his death? In your opinion?”

  “I don’t know yet,” I said. “Did Bobby talk to you about his birth mother? Did he tell you whether or not he had found her?” I didn’t tell the Katzes that I had all but tracked her down by myself. First I wanted to find out what they knew.

  “I was not interested in discussing the issue with my son. Nor am I interested in discussing it now, with you. Bobby told me that he was looking for this woman. I discouraged him. I told him that as she had not been concerned with his welfare when he was an infant, it was unlikely that she’d want any contact with him almost thirty years later. I also told him that neither I nor his father would participate in any further discussion of this adoption nonsense.”

  “Oh for God’s sake, Mom,” David said.

  She turned on him. “What? For God’s sake what? This is your fault, David. Had you just had the decency, the intelligence, to keep your mouth shut, none of this would have happened. Before you took upon yourself the role of truth-sayer, Bobby was perfectly happy, as were we all.”

  “Right. Perfectly happy. He was a drug addict, Mother. A drug addict.”

  “Addiction is a disease. A disease, what’s more, with a strong genetic component.”

  David jumped out of his seat. “Sure, Mom. None of this is your fault. Bobby took crank because he’s genetically inferior. Not because of anything you did. It has nothing to do with the fact that you made him feel like a failure his entire life. It has nothing to do with the fact that you never even bothered to expect him to succeed. No, that’s not why the poor schmuck got high. It has nothing to do with you.”

  He pounded out of the room and through the front door, slamming it behind him.

  Dr. Katz sat still in her chair for a few moments. Then she turned to me. “I apologize for my son’s behavior.”

  I didn’t say anything. I didn’t know what to say.

  “David is upset. He feels responsible for Bobby’s death. He knows he should never have told Bobby about the adoption.”

  “Why did you keep it a secret, Dr. Katz?”

  She paused, as if considering whether to answer. After a moment she said, “We saw no reason to tell him. Bobby was our son. Our feelings for him were in no way different than our feelings for our other children. Highlighting for him the difference would only have hurt him. And hurt him it did. All of this has only served to prove to me that I made the right decision.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking, why did you adopt Bobby?”

  “I don’t mind,” she said, sounding surprised at her own willingness to discuss this with me. “My husband and I had always planned to have four children. But, after my third Caesarean section, my obstetrician discouraged me from undergoing the procedure again. He claimed it was dangerous. I understand now from my daughter that this was unnecessarily conservative advice. Had we known that, Arthur and I would have gone on to have another child of our own.”

  The regret in her voice was unmistakable.

  I didn’t know how to respond to this, and she seemed immediately to regret having so clearly indicated how she felt about being forced to adopt when she would rather have given birth to her own baby. We sat silently for a moment. I fidgeted a bit with my feet, crossing and uncrossing my ankles. She sat perfectly still, the only visible motion in her body the slight flare of her nostrils as she inhaled.

  Finally, she said, “If there’s nothing else I can do for you . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  I rose quickly to my feet. “Would you like me to keep you apprised of what I discover?” I asked.

  “So you intend to continue to . . . to investigate?” She sounded as though the very word made her skin crawl.

  I nodded. “I’m sorry.”

  She shook her head slightly and then, rising to her feet, led me to the fron
t door.

  Nine

  THAT evening, Peter announced that he wanted to have a celebratory dinner but refused to tell me what we were celebrating. The four of us went to Giovanni’s, an Italian restaurant located in a strip mall not too far from our house. Giovanni’s is our favorite restaurant, and we’ve been regulars for years. Despite the unprepossessing surroundings, the food is fabulous—simple and delicious.

  The kids went straight back to the kitchen, where they knew the chef and his mother were sure to slip them some before-dinner panna cotta or almond nougat. Peter and I took our usual table and ordered our usual bottle of Chianti.

  “What are we celebrating?” I asked, raising my glass.

  “Two things. First of all, Parnassus agreed to Tyler’s counteroffer. I’m going to do The Impaler. And they’re already talking about a twenty- or thirty-million-dollar budget.”

  “Wow! That’s fabulous. And they caved on your quote?” Hollywood screenwriters spend their lives trying to raise their “quotes,” the amount they are paid per picture.

  “Not by as much as Tyler asked, but by enough. Definitely enough. We’re a little closer to buying that house.”

  “Peter! I’m so proud of you.” I was dying to get our family out of the duplex apartment where Peter and I had been living since we moved to L.A. Every time we put aside enough money for the down payment on a house, however, real estate prices shot a little higher. By now they were stratospheric, and I was beginning to lose hope. This was very good news.

  “Yup, I’ll be bringing home some bacon now,” my husband said.

  “You’re amazing. Really.” I kissed him on the cheek. “Without you, we’d be in the gutter.” Without him, I would probably have stayed at my fancy law firm and be raking in the high six figures by now. But I wouldn’t have been happy. Not for a minute.

  “So what’s going on with this thing with your trainer?”

  I brought Peter up to date on what I’d found out. I described the complicated situation with Bobby’s adoption and how I had narrowed down the list of possible birth mothers to two. I also told him about Candace and her crusade.