by Stone, Jean
The Center for Infectious Disease wasn’t far from their estate. Privately funded by a consortium of corporate sponsors and unencumbered by government budgets, the CID boasted the most superior facilities in the world. Robert had put together a team of brilliant physicians and technicians from all over the world who were now primarily concentrating on finding a cure for AIDS. The risk to Robert—and ultimately to herself—from working with AIDS patients was something that had concerned Alissa at first, but Robert had assured her that AIDS was no more contagious to a doctor than hepatitis.
“In fact,” he told her, “you could have a one-night stand with someone who’s infected and have a better chance of getting pregnant than of getting the virus.”
Alissa didn’t believe him. “If that’s true,” she asked, “then why all the fuss about it?”
Robert said that a fuss had to be made; AIDS was still a preventable killer; people had to realize that.
That had been over a dozen years ago. Now, as Alissa exited the highway and headed down Peachtree Road, she realized she had always trusted Robert. She knew he would never hurt his family, never expose them to the risk of AIDS or any other infectious disease with which he was working.
It wasn’t as though Robert had to work. Each of their trust funds provided ample money for their family to maintain the style in which they’d been raised. But Robert loved his work. He was a physician, a healer. Beyond that he was the most intelligent man Alissa had ever known, the most self-assured. Maybe that was part of why his infidelities still hurt so much. It was as though he were telling Alissa that she wasn’t pretty enough or good enough or young enough to totally satisfy a man. Especially him.
She wheeled her Jaguar into the lot. She immediately spotted Robert’s own XJS and noted that, though it was after five, there were still several other cars there. Disease, after all, has no time clock.
As Alissa parked the car, she realized how good she felt about doing this. She thought about the tux in the backseat. All men, Alissa thought, looked good in black tie. But Robert looked great. She thought about how, at forty-six, he was still very handsome. Certainly the handsomest man in their circle; chestnut-colored, not-quite-silver hair, and dark eyes that penetrated anyone with whom he talked, showing how much he cared about what they had to say. As handsome as he was, Robert was never arrogant, never self-centered. Not like Grant Wentworth. A sick feeling rose inside her, and she wondered what in the hell she had ever seen in the bastard.
She shook her head to dispel thoughts of Grant, then shut off the engine and got out of the car. She took the garment bag from the back and carefully walked on her three-inch-heeled sandals toward the security entrance. She hoped she’d get past the guard without his alerting Robert: she didn’t come there very often, so it wasn’t as if he would know her. She did, however, want to surprise her husband. Tonight could mark the beginning of their return to a glorious rest of their lives together.
The guard was seated in a small brick tollboothlike structure just outside the door. He was younger than she had expected. On the pocket of his neatly pressed shirt was a nameplate that read: T. DICKSON.
“May I help you, ma’am?” he asked with a pleasant yet businesslike smile.
“Yes, Mr. Dickson,” Alissa said. “I’m here to meet Dr. Page.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“An appointment? No. He’s my husband.” She smiled in return. “I don’t think I need an appointment.”
“I’ll have to ring him.”
“Wait.” Alissa held up her hand. “Please don’t. I want to surprise him.”
“I can’t just let you go in, ma’am. I don’t know you.”
“I know that. But it’s really very important that I surprise him. Please.”
He shrugged. “Sorry. Rules, you know. It’s my job.”
Alissa frowned. “Yes. I wouldn’t want you to jeopardize your job. Would it help if I showed you some identification?”
He rubbed the side of his face where a beard would have been if he weren’t so clean shaven.
She looked back at his name badge. “Are you married, Mr. Dickson?”
“Yes, ma’am. Six years. Two kids.”
“That’s nice. Dr. Page and I have two children, too. Girls. They’re teenagers now.” She fished through her evening purse and withdrew her license. She passed it through the window. “See?” she asked. “That’s me. Alissa Page.” She fumbled in her purse once more and took out a silver key. “And see? This is the key to his office.” She was glad she’d thought to take the extra key from Robert’s desk drawer at home.
He studied the license, then looked at the key.
“Has your wife ever wanted to surprise you?” Alissa asked.
A small grin came across his face. “Well, ma’am …”
“Then you know what I’m talking about. Please. It’s a very special evening.”
He nodded, then gestured to the garment bag. “You’ll have to show me what’s inside.”
“Certainly.” She unzipped the bag and pulled out the tuxedo. “Like I said, we’re going to have a very special evening. It’s our anniversary,” she lied.
He thought a moment more.
She tucked the license and key back into her purse. “Don’t worry about Dr. Page,” she added. “I’ll tell him I threatened you.”
He smiled. “Whatever happened to meek little southern women?”
Alissa shrugged. “That’s only a fantasy reserved for the Yankees.” She put the tux back in the bag. “I assume you’re going to let me go in now?”
“Sure. Go ahead. Do you know where his office is?”
“Yes. Third floor.”
He buzzed the door open and she stepped inside. “Have a nice night,” he called after her.
Alissa walked down the long corridor, trying to remember where the elevators were. It had been a long time since she’d been there. Too long. She really must take more of an interest in Robert’s work; maybe that was where she’d gone wrong.
She found an elevator and pushed the button for the third floor. Her heart started racing; she realized she was excited. Surely this would please Robert. Surely he would find it all rather exciting. It had been so long since they’d made love. She hoped he’d respond eagerly, lustfully. God, she thought, she hoped she could, too.
The elevator stopped. The doors opened. Alissa took a deep breath and stepped out. There was a sign directly across from her. Robert Hamilton Page, M.D., Director, it read. Beneath the type an arrow pointed to the left.
Alissa walked down the hall, glad that it was softly carpeted. One thing Robert had insisted on was a comforting atmosphere. If people were being treated for infectious diseases, he’d reasoned, the last thing they needed was the intimidation of bright lights and tile floors. It was, Alissa thought now, evidence of Robert’s deep sensitivity.
Alissa reached the door to Robert’s waiting room. A few feet past that was another door, marked Private. That was the direct entrance to his office. It must be the door the key fit.
She quietly approached the door, took out the key, and slipped it into the lock. She turned the handle and pushed open the door. The first thing she saw was a magnificent aquarium that stretched across an entire wall. Bright-orange and vibrant-blue and flame-colored fish swam in lazy luxury. Then her gaze was drawn downward. There, on the floor in front of the aquarium, was a man. He was lying on his stomach. He was naked. He was on top of someone else. And he was moving up and down. Even from behind Alissa recognized Robert. Just as she shrieked, Robert groaned in ecstasy. She dropped the garment bag. He bolted upright and snapped around to face her. His penis wavered in the air. The figure beneath him rolled over and looked up at Alissa. It was a man she’d never seen before.
3
There was blood everywhere. Zoe Hartmann stood in the doorway of the study and wondered how in the world she would ever get the wall clean. She couldn’t ask Marisol to do it: Marisol had a weak stomach, and besides, the
blood belonged to Zoe’s husband, so it seemed only right that she clean it herself.
She squinted her eyes and noticed something else. Sprayed against the wall, mingled among the splatters of blood, were flecks of tan stuff. They looked grainy, fibrous, almost like sand. And they were dripping down the wall. Somehow Zoe knew these were bits of William’s brain. She leaned against the doorjamb and found it curious that she’d known right away what they were. She’d always thought the brain was gray, not tan. “Use your gray matter!” she could almost hear her third-grade teacher—what was her name?—Miss Lindstrom. That’s right—Miss Lindstrom. Anyway, “Use your gray matter!” was what Miss Lindstrom always said. “Use your gray matter!” meant “Use your brain!” Zoe wondered now if Miss Lindstrom had ever learned that brains were tan, not gray.
Her gaze fell from the wall back to the floor, back to William’s body. He didn’t look peaceful, loving. Not as he had while curled against her in sleep last night. God. Had that been only last night?
His mouth was open. That must have been where he’d aimed the gun. He must have opened his mouth, inserted the gun, and pulled the trigger. She was amazed to think that the bullet had actually gone through his head before he’d hit the floor. That would account for the blood and stuff all over the wall behind him.
He blew his brains out. The thought jarred her. So this was what that term meant. William Hartmann, successful Hollywood agent to the stars, husband of Zoe—the has-been box-office sensation of the seventies—had blown his brains out.
There was a foul odor. It smelled like … shit. Zoe looked down to William’s crotch, at a dark stain on his pants. He blew his brains out and it scared the shit out of him.
She noticed the gun. What was it? A Saturday night special? She didn’t even know what one was. Was it a .38-caliber, the kind they’d used on the set of Day of Judgment? Or was it one of those things that had catapulted Clint Eastwood to superfame? A .350-something-or-other? No, Zoe decided. This gun didn’t look scary enough. It just lay there, beside William’s right hand, looking kind of bluish-black and cold. Cold, like the startled look in his eyes.
She supposed she really should call the police.
But wait. Wasn’t there supposed to be a note? When someone kills himself, there’s always a note, isn’t there? Her eyes darted around the room, first to the top of the U-shaped desk, then to the bank of computers, the sofa, the lounge chairs, the cocktail table, the thick wooden built-in bookcases. She saw no note.
She looked back to William, thinking maybe he had clutched the note in his other hand. But his hand was on the other side of him, hidden from view. She didn’t really feel like walking around the body and looking for it, because, suddenly, Zoe was tired. And, besides, Marisol would be bringing Scott home from school any minute. She really must go outside and welcome him home.
If only she could get her feet to move.
Zoe felt like a character out of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland as she stood by the graveside listening to the rabbi. There was something surreal about the outscaled size of the group crowded around the tiny brass urn that sat on the ground, next to the small mound of dirt covered by a wee AstroTurfed tarp, beside the tiny hole in the ground. There was no large mahogany casket, no standard-sized grave, as there would have been had she been back home in Minnesota, where land was plentiful and tradition was something you didn’t change, even if you were in the minority, even if you were Jewish. But this wasn’t Minnesota, and Zoe hadn’t been there in over twenty years, so she really had no right to call it home.
She also felt foolish to be dressed in black on such a bright, sunny California day.
The Lord is my shepherd …
She heard the words and felt the squeeze of Scott’s hand. Through the haze of her veil Zoe looked at her son. Though only fourteen, he was already taller than she. His fine, chiseled cheekbones, blond hair, and blue eyes gave him an undeniable handsomeness, even though he bore no resemblance to Zoe—with her black eyes and dark, exotic looks, the looks that had created a larger-than-life superstar, the looks that had guaranteed Zoe’s future. Once. Long ago. She briefly let herself wonder what would happen to Scott now that William was dead. She wondered what would happen to them both.
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures …
Beside her Zoe heard the quiet sobs of her closest friend, her surrogate mother of sorts, Marisol Perez. Marisol had been with her since the beginning, from Zoe’s early days in the housing project in L.A., through her stardom, her marriage, through Scott’s birth, through the aftermath. Zoe had witnessed Marisol’s hair change to silver, her waist and hips thicken with time, her tawny brown skin become spotted and dry, the stoop of her gait grow more stooped with near-crippling arthritis. And through it all Zoe had drawn on the strength of her friend, had learned from her courage. Now she would need to again.
Zoe hadn’t looked, but she could feel the claustrophobic presence of hundreds of mourners, could hear the occasional cough, the predictable murmurs. Had they really come to pay their last respects to William Hartmann, or had they come to steal a glance at Zoe? To mourn not the dead, but to scrutinize the living? She was forty now. Had they come to view how old she’d become, how fat, how unstarlike? She adjusted the veil so that its folds hung thickly on the left side of her face. There was no need for them to know everything.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death …
The service, she knew, was almost over. She wondered if it was safe now, safe to think about him. She studied the tiny brass urn. It didn’t seem possible that a six-foot, fifty-one-year-old man was contained inside. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Zoe felt a small catch come into her throat. She quickly blinked. No, it wasn’t safe to think about William yet. Not here. She focused on the rabbi’s face. His glasses had slid down a little. Zoe wanted to reach across the small hole in the ground and push them up onto the bridge of his nose.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life …
All the days of my life. Zoe held tightly on to Scott’s hand.
And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.
The crowd, even the media, at least had the decency not to flock toward them as Zoe, Scott, and Marisol walked slowly, arm in arm, toward the long black limo. Zoe kept her head bent, eyes to the ground, and tried to ignore the constant clicks and whirs of automatic cameras. They climbed inside the car, and the driver quietly closed the door behind them. Zoe sank into the backseat and stared straight ahead at the tinted privacy window. She wondered when she was going to cry. She wondered if.
There was a light tap on the side window next to Zoe. She looked across to Marisol. Her friend said nothing. There was another tap. Zoe took a deep breath and quickly touched the button. The heavily tinted window went down about two inches, enough for Zoe to recognize Phil Clifford, William’s legal adviser.
“Zoe?” he asked quietly. “Are you all right?”
She nodded but kept the window in the same position.
The man nervously fingered his thin gray mustache. “Do you think we could get together later?”
Zoe stared at her close-up view of his mouth. His lower teeth, she noted, were stained with nicotine. She’d never really liked Phil Clifford. She’d never really trusted him. “Why?” she asked.
“There are some things we need to go over. William’s will. His legal affairs.”
“No.”
Phil Clifford’s white eyebrows raised.
“Not today,” Zoe added. “Tomorrow if we must.”
“Tomorrow will be fine. Shall I come out to Cedar Bluff?”
“Two o’clock.” Zoe touched the button again, and the window raised before Phil Clifford had a chance to answer.
The limo started moving. Zoe suspected it was going so slowly because of all the people, all the cars. But she had no interest in seeing any of them.
“You don’t like him, do you, Mom?”
“No, honey. Not m
uch.”
“Do you think he’s going to cause problems?”
“Problems? No. I don’t see how he’d do that.”
“Well, with Dad’s will and everything. I suppose it’ll be pretty complicated.” For fourteen years old, Scott worried about too many things.
“There’s no need for it to be complicated, Scott.”
He seemed to think about this a moment, then said, “I thought whenever anybody with a lot of money died, things were just normally screwed up.”
Zoe smiled. “Not necessarily. I’m sure your father took care of everything.”
The car turned a corner and picked up speed. Thank God, Zoe thought, we must finally be out of the cemetery.
“Mom?”
“What?”
“Are you going to sell Cedar Bluff?” The sprawling, multilevel wood-and-glass house, nestled in the hills overlooking the canyon, was the only home Scott had ever known. He’d never lived in the projects. He’d never known the poverty.
Zoe looked at Marisol. Her friend’s eyes were warm, supportive. Zoe patted Scott’s hand. “Let’s not worry about that right now, okay, honey?” But quietly Zoe berated herself for never having gotten involved in William’s finances. As of now she really had no idea how much money there was, how tied up it was, or how long it could last. She folded her hands over her black purse and closed her eyes, wishing only for a hot bath, a cup of tea, and maybe, just maybe, a good cry.
“Mom?”
Zoe felt her shoulders tense. She wished to God Scott would shut up. “What, honey?”
“There’s something I’ve been wondering about.”
“What?”
“Well, it was just something that’s probably stupid.”
“Tell me.”
“It’s no big deal or anything. I mean, I don’t want you to worry about it. I’m just curious, that’s all.”
She pulled the veil from her face and rubbed her eyes. “What is it, Scott?” She hoped her impatience didn’t come across in her voice.