EQMM, November 2006

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Diana, however, smiled. The Columns Hotel, once upon a time a family mansion, had starred as Madame Nell's bordello in the film Pretty Baby. In actuality, the turn of the previous century's red-light district, Storyville, had been downtown, fronting Basin Street.

  The Columns did, however, possess an aura of naughtier, bygone times: its bar elegant with chandeliers and fireplaces, the rooms upstairs tricked out in flocked-velvet Victorian finery. Diana and Rob had frolicked there one night in an amazing four-poster bed.

  Now she spied their private balcony, right there. That's where they'd sipped morning-after mimosas.

  * * * *

  Arnold Venable had been the department chair for eons before Diana took that post, and few were the toes he hadn't mangled. Even when young, which he certainly wasn't anymore, Arnold had been imperious, affecting a British accent, grandly furnishing his office with Persian carpets, subdued lighting, and a slender walnut desk. Arnold didn't hold office hours; he received. He held court. And he'd long ago perfected the art of slipping a silver dagger into one's soft spots, his targets universal. University president to office cleaner, no one escaped Arnold's withering blue gaze or razor tongue.

  Immediately upon succeeding Arnold as chair, some six years earlier, Diana had been swamped by the English faculty's campaigning for a piece of the pie of privileges he'd hoarded.

  "Not fair that Arnold never takes a lower-division class."

  "Not fair that he's had a lock on Shakespeare and the Romantic poets from time immemorial."

  Diana couldn't agree more, having herself suffered from Arnold's barbs and slights, and drawing up that next term's class load, she assigned Arnold a section of English 101. Freshman grunt composition. Arnold refused it, sneering as if she'd handed him a bag of manure.

  Fine. So be it. And, as was the university policy, Arnold taught less than a full load, though for full pay.

  This pattern had continued year after year, with Arnold accruing an ever-growing debt of classes owed.

  Just a week after Rob's announcement of his application to Livingston College, Diana had casually, ever so coolly, brought up The Arnold Situation at lunch with an administrative dean.

  He'd jumped. “We absolutely must do something. Just yesterday the president was laying down the law about tightening all financial belts, closing all loopholes. Now.” He'd leaned closer to Diana. “Do you have any ideas?"

  Why, yes, she did.

  "Three sections of 101?” Arnold had slammed through Diana's office door without knocking. He'd delivered the question as if she were a ridiculous child who'd donned a clown outfit for a wedding.

  "Yes. Three. Close the door, Arnold. Come in and sit down."

  Then Diana had the delicious pleasure of explaining to Arnold Venable that he'd reached the end of the line. Administration had done the toting—she handed the figures across her desk to him—and he was in arrears for so many classes untaught but salaried that he must a) teach whatever offered with zero compensation for the next two years, b) pay back the money advanced, or c) take early retirement, effective the end of the term, and the debt would be forgiven.

  Within hours Arnold had begun packing the leather-bound tomes that lined the walls of his office.

  Oh, what sweetness, what joy as, later that same evening, just as Rob, spent from love-making, sleepily pulled up the sheets, she whispered into his ear, “Guess what?"

  And wasn't it terrific that they'd been so discreet, that no one at the university knew that they were lovers? Now Rob's application for the position could be tendered like any other candidate's.

  Any other, except, of course, that he had the advantage of being a known quantity. Well-liked by both students and faculty, Rob had done a terrific job with his classes. Yes, Rob definitely had the edge.

  "Darlin', you genius, you Wonder Woman!” He'd jumped out of bed and danced his happy dance. Then he'd grabbed Diana up and two-stepped her around the room.

  He was a shoo-in, Diana exulted. He'd win the post, and then, and then ... Well, after a semester or so it wouldn't be so untoward, would it, if they were to “begin” dating? No, the age difference between them would never lessen, but with the change in Rob's status, their having a liaison—and, well, who knew where that might lead?—wouldn't be nearly so scandalous.

  * * * *

  "When's he going to tell her?” Chloe asked.

  "Not for a while yet. The timing's got to be right."

  Hmmm, thought Diana. Amber's boyfriend already had another girl.

  The church lady was shaking her head again.

  From somewhere beyond the Mississippi, thunder rumbled, and the church lady rolled her eyes.

  See? Lord don't like that nonsense. That fooling around with somebody else's man? You go doin’ that stuff, ain't nobody gonna want you.

  Oh, please. Diana read the church lady's body language. It's not that serious. Amber's young, and men really are like streetcars. There's always another one.

  * * * *

  The stumbling block to Diana's plan was the presence of those sworn enemies, Gloria and Phil, on the hiring committee. They—dammit—and Diana were the three designees from the English department, and while Phil gave Rob highest marks, Gloria was busy with equivocations.

  Just to spite Phil.

  The other five members, from various departments and branches of administration, were poised to approve Rob and get on with it. End of term and summer vacation were within sniffing distance. Everybody was antsy.

  "I really think she has stronger qualifications,” said Gloria, tapping the application folder of a young blond thing from California. Yes, she'd interviewed beautifully, this smart cookie with the body of a Victoria's Secret model.

  "But her concentration is feminist theory. We don't need another one of those,” said Phil.

  "Now, wait a minute!” steamed Gloria, who was herself a feminist theorist.

  Diana shook her head. What the hell was Gloria thinking? Did she really want a younger woman, particularly someone who looked like that, in her sandbox?

  "Well,” said the dean, trying not to drool on the blonde's app. “I have to agree, she is an attractive candidate."

  Diana was beside herself. She couldn't support Rob too strongly for fear of arousing suspicion, though maybe that was just paranoia. Yet both Phil and Gloria would rather die than give an inch to the other.

  "Well, what about Dawn Moriyama?” ventured another committee member.

  Jesus. The Japanese-American candidate, a distant third on paper, and she'd stumbled badly in the interview. But once they got into ethnic-diversity territory, Diana's ship would have sailed.

  Phil looked at Gloria. Gloria looked at Phil. They both shrugged. Why not?

  With that, Diana stood, collecting her papers. “We should sleep on this,” she insisted, slapping down her department chair's prerogative like a trump card. “I think we've lost our way."

  Everyone groaned but agreed to one more meeting.

  * * * *

  "He has so much to lose, if he doesn't play it right,” said Amber.

  The church lady shook her head so hard Diana thought she might cross the aisle, grab Amber, and shake her, too.

  Now it sounded as if Amber were involved with a married man. A beautiful young thing like her, a whole world of gorgeous young single boys to choose from?

  "You think she's the vengeful type?” Chloe wondered.

  She.

  The wife.

  * * * *

  "Do you think it's possible,” Diana had said to Gloria, taking her arm as they crossed the quad after the committee meeting, “that your attitude toward Phil is clouding your judgment. Just a tad?"

  Gloria had stiffened, pulled her arm free, and turned to Diana with a blank stare. “No,” she said flatly. “I don't."

  "Now, Gloria..."

  "Don't you Now, Gloria me. I just don't happen to think Rob is the best candidate."

  "You know Moriyama's not going to make the cut.
Do you really want that young hottie lusting after your classes?"

  Gloria recoiled, then struck. “Don't talk to me about young hotties, Diana. Not when you're throwing all your weight behind your own."

  Just like that. Gut-shot, Diana reeled. Her skin stung with a thousand pricks of adrenaline. Her world tilted, whirled.

  "I don't know what you mean,” she finally managed.

  "I think you do,” said Gloria with a wintry smile. “Just so you know, I've not discussed your ... indiscretion ... with anyone else."

  So clever, Gloria, hoarding her intelligence like gold until it would bring the greatest yield.

  "I'll give you Rob. You'll give me the classes I want in perpetuity. And the editorship of the journal."

  "Gloria, even if there were reason to..."

  Gloria's smile was cruel. She had the goods, and she knew it.

  "I can't guarantee..."

  "I'm sure you'll work it out.” With that, Gloria gave Diana her back and strode away. Then she paused, turned. “Pleasure grows ever more expensive, don't you know, Diana, as time moves along."

  * * * *

  Blackmail. That's what it was. Blackmail, plain and simple. After she picked up her car should she drive to the NOPD district office on Magazine and report Gloria? Or did blackmail fall under Vice, housed on South Broad?

  Right. Diana could just hear herself explaining the situation to a cop up to his ears in murder, home invasion, tourist muggings, drugs, child abuse, and the thousand and one other felonies perpetrated in New Orleans every day. The city was a sewer of crime.

  No. Gloria had her. There were no two ways around it. Diana had been furious and sick with disbelief.

  Though now that she'd this streetcar ride to collect herself a bit, to reflect, and to taste once more through the mouth of memory the many pleasures of her sweetheart, she'd realized her id would allow no other choice: If this were the price of keeping Rob, so be it.

  But she still needed to frame her response to Gloria. Generous but cool, that was the ticket. Agreeable, yet firm. God forbid that Gloria think she now had carte blanche.

  Maybe what she ought to do, after she picked up Picayune, her much-loved little brown Mercedes 280L roadster, was turn up her tape of Tina Turner's “Proud Mary” and take the causeway to her favorite dive in Abita Springs. Soothe herself with an oyster po'boy and a couple of beers. Yes, the long drive across the lake always cleared her head.

  The streetcar rattled on. Diana could see the freeway overpass up ahead, beyond it Lee Circle where a statue of General Robert E. Lee stood upon a tall pillar, facing north, so he'd never have his back to his enemies. She wasn't far now from her stop.

  Rob wasn't coming over till much later this evening. Nineish, he'd said. Then she could give him the good news, minus the complicating details. With Gloria's vote, his job was in the bag. They'd crack open a bottle of champagne, celebrate. Maybe play one of their favorite games. Strangers assigned to a sleeping car on the Sunset Limited to Los Angeles? Or ... wait. Rob had suggested something earlier on the phone. Still rattled by Gloria, she couldn't remember what....

  * * * *

  "Vengeful? Well, I never thought so, particularly, but when we were brainstorming in class today, I totally changed my mind."

  "Yeah,” Chloe agreed. “That story she told about how, a long time ago, somebody wronged her, and she fantasized about burning his house down? But then, like she said, everyone has revenge fantasies. The real question is whether people act on them or not."

  "I know,” said Amber. “But just the way she said it, Burn his house down, it gave me shivers."

  * * * *

  Wait a minute. Diana was about to pull the signal cord, gathering her things. The girls were talking about Amber's married boyfriend, Amber did say he was married, didn't she, and now they were talking about her class? Her story assignment? Her?

  "He's been so careful,” Amber continued. “And it's really brilliant, the way that whole pitiful charade she's insisted on, his being her secret boyfriend, has played right into his plan. But once he has the job, well, anyway, by Christmas of next year, he can dump her. And then we can go public. My momma is crazy about him, you know. She thinks he's the spit and image of Harry Connick, Jr."

  "And your dad likes Rob, too, right?"

  "Oh yeah, he..."

  * * * *

  Diana didn't hear Amber's reply as she stumbled blindly through the rear exit door and fell out into the rain.

  Her feet had barely hit the wet grass of the neutral ground when her stomach heaved and she spewed hot yellow vomit.

  "Oh my God!” someone cried.

  "Ma'am? Can I help you?” another asked.

  But Diana waved them away. Please don't. Don't look at me. Don't touch me. Don't pity me. Don't.

  She didn't remember much between that spinning moment and stepping out of a taxi at her own doorstep. She must have hailed the cab, must have realized she couldn't drive, her ears ringing, her eyes blind to this world.

  Once inside her house, Diana fell on all fours to the faded red-and-blue Kirman in the foyer, one of the ever-so-tasteful treasures Richard had left behind. She writhed. She howled like a dog. She tore at her hair, her clothes. She cursed Rob's name. She cursed Amber.

  And then Amber's words cut through the din and the frenzy: pitiful, secret boyfriend, played into his plan, the job, dump her.

  Amber, the golden girl. Amber, one of her favorites. Amber, whom she'd taken to her heart. Amber, the fresh young bitch.

  Pitiful, pitiful, pitiful, the chorus resounded.

  They'd made a fool of her. A tidal wave of shame washed her from top to bottom.

  Eventually, after what seemed a year, a decade, an eternity of agony, Diana made it to the sideboard and sloshed three fingers of bourbon into a glass. As she tossed it back, her stomach lurched once, then settled, and the amber fire felt good.

  Excellent, in fact. The burn in her belly would help her focus.

  Not as if there were that much to decide, really. Not many options.

  First, of course, she'd “compromise.” She'd withdraw her support for Rob's candidacy and cast her vote for the young blond feminist.

  That would be just deserts for Gloria and take care of the job question.

  Not that it would be even a step toward addressing the hatred that had begun to bubble in her belly for Rob. Oh, Rob. Rob, Rob, Rob. A bubble that would eventually fill her to bursting, she was certain of it. Just like the hatred she'd felt for Richard. The hatred that had had her dreaming of fire, rat poison, knives, guns. The hatred that still lingered even now, long after AIDS had devoured him. And the need to get even. There was no way such humiliation could go unpunished. Revenge would be hers.

  But first things first. No position for Rob. No reward for Gloria.

  Though, wait. Not too hasty. What might Gloria serve up in return? Thwarted Gloria, who no more wanted the blond hottie hired than she wanted a third arm, the young woman just a tool in her scheme? Diana had long been witness to Gloria's wrath. Gloria would not take being crossed lightly.

  No. She couldn't risk it. She needed to think.

  Just then Diana's phone began to ring. Let it. She sloshed more bourbon into her glass. Let it ring, ring, ring off the hook. There was no one on God's green earth she wanted to talk to. No one. She couldn't even imagine forming words.

  Once again Diana doubled over with pain. Hot tears cascaded down her face like boiling rain. She felt as if someone had ripped her skin off in one piece, discarded everything inside but for her hatred, then left the husk. She was a semblance of a human being. But only a facsimile. She would never be whole again. Never.

  Then a deep voice boomed through her answering machine. “Hey, darling, it's Fred.” Her neighbor, a lawyer, and the head of the block association.

  "Just wanted to remind you you need to be hypervigilant until the cops catch this burglarizing s.o.b. Not that there won't be another one right behind him. Marcia Pennington sai
d she thought she heard somebody snooping around her back porch this afternoon. Lock up and batten down, hon."

  * * * *

  Diana froze, staring in the direction of Fred's voice, her glass halfway to her lips. Now she remembered what Rob had said earlier. Now she recalled the game he'd proposed.

  * * * *

  Two hours later, a little after ten, Diana's living room. Fred, in striped pajama bottoms and a faded Tulane T-shirt, stood with a strong arm around Diana. The red-and-blue flashers atop the small fleet of NOPD cruisers outside lit up the room, lending it an eerie carnival air.

  "Like I said, I called her and reminded her to be extra vigilant,” Fred rumbled to the officer in charge, Officer Jackson, a mountainous black man whose powder-blue uniform shirt was damp with the rain still pouring outside.

  "Absolutely.” Jackson nodded. “Way things been in this neighborhood recently, you can't be too careful."

  "But I wasn't careful!” Diana cried, her face smudged with tears. “If only I'd checked the outside door to the sun porch, he'd never have gotten that far. It's my fault. I'll never forgive myself,” Diana wailed, shaking her head. “Never."

  Behind them, back through the dining room, was the sun porch in question. Rob's body lay half-in, half-out of the French doors between it and the dining room, his blood pooling on the hardwood in a dark red lake.

  Fred hugged her tighter. “Now, darlin', you know it wasn't your fault. How were you to know that boy would come round so late to talk? Stupid ass, like that was the way to get a job? Busting onto your sun porch ‘cuz your front doorbell's broke?"

  "But I should have recognized him,” Diana moaned, running a hand through her hair, clutching at her black silk dressing gown. “Like I said, he'd mentioned something at school today about dropping by, and I'd said, no, that wasn't a good idea. It wasn't appropriate...."

  "Ma'am, it was dark. It was raining. Way he was dressed? Break-ins all over the neighborhood. It's a shame, but what're you gonna do?” Officer Jackson shook his massive head slowly, looking for all the world like a giant mournful Rottweiler. “I say, despite the mistaken ID, it's a good thing you had that gun."

  He cast an envious eye on Diana's 12-gauge Italian-made Verona lying on the loveseat in the living room where she'd tossed it before calling 911. Over four thousand dollars’ worth of high-tensile steel and Turkish walnut, the shotgun had been a gift from her dad after she'd won a statewide women's skeet competition.