It's Not About Sex

by David Kalergis

  “Hello,” she said.

  I could hardly believe she was on the line.

  “Hello?” she said again.

  “Linda. It’s me, Bradley.”

  “Oh. I was expecting someone else. What do you want?”

  “I want to tell you how sorry I am about what happened. I need to talk with you again. And I want to spend Christmas with Mary . . . and with you,” I said.

  All was quiet on the other end of the line, and I held my breath in anticipation of her reaction.

  “Okay . . .” she said. “You can come in on Christmas Eve and spend Christmas with us.”

  My heart was beating faster.

  “On one condition,” she said. “Keep your distance from me. I don’t want to have any serious discussions. I mean it. Let’s save the discussions for after New Year’s.”

  I agreed, thinking this plan was for the best. Obviously Mary missed me. I’d be home with them for Christmas.

  “Who were you expecting to call?” I asked.

  “It’s nothing serious. A friend of Megan’s. We haven’t been out yet. I’m sorry I mentioned it.”

  Haven’t been out yet?

  “Be careful,” I said. “This guy doesn’t have a prison record, does he? Have you asked?”

  She laughed softly.

  “Good-bye, Bradley.”

  As she hung up the phone I remembered what Lennie had told me. Tamara was dead! I needed to get up to the Big House and see if I could help.

  By late that evening Lennie had persuaded me not to talk to the police. He’d be ruined, he said, and so would AFTAR. Ray had acted in self-defense with Raider. We had no proof about anything else. He wouldn’t let his suspicions about Ray and Nora’s relationship color his judgment on this. It would be cowardly, he said, to use Raider as an excuse to get rid of Ray.

  As I let myself be swayed, I was tortured by uncertainty. If I went to the police by myself, I’d be the one destroying AFTAR and Lennie’s reputation. And as hard as I tried, I couldn’t think of anyone who would thank me for coming forward.

  The temperature had dropped further the day after Tamara’s body was found, but the houses and cottages of Schoolcross had been skillfully renovated and could be tightly sealed against the cold. From that day on, I kept all my doors locked and a fire burning in the fireplace in the sitting room. With Ray gone, I found myself spending more and more time there.

  That Thursday Lennie and Nora made the long drive to Connecticut for Tamara’s funeral. Neither Ray nor I attended. The police officer investigating Tamara’s death—not Ritter, but a uniformed deputy—confirmed with me that Ray and Tamara had argued the day she was to have left the farm. From his questions I could tell he believed Tamara had taken her life after a lover’s quarrel. I, on the other hand, didn’t know what to believe.

  The “few days” I’d promised to remain on Schoolcross stretched into five, then seven, then ten. I kept busy with work and spent as much time as possible in the city, but when I was on the farm I either locked myself in the Quaker Cottage or was with Lennie. Access to his studio in the Big House was supposed to be a real honor, and at one time I’d have been thrilled with the standing invitation. His new work was truly innovative, but I had no appetite for it now—in fact, could hardly see it. We spent all of our time together talking about Raider and attempting without any success to make sense of the deaths of Lars and Tamara.

  Lennie also talked endlessly about Nora and her immense, silent grief at their deaths. Both of them had been her dear friends. He also talked about Nora’s continued “friendship” with Ray. Lennie and Nora’s marriage was now a foggy sea of vast, chilly distances.

  The Friday after Tamara’s funeral, December 22, I got a call from a Boston collector whom I’d been courting for weeks. We engaged in mannered haggling until we came to terms on the sale of Ray’s smallest but perhaps most vivid painting, The Birthday Party, for twenty thousand dollars. As a condition of the sale he wanted immediate delivery and, although it was an unusual arrangement, I agreed to bring it on the shuttle from LaGuardia to Boston the following day, a Saturday, where he’d meet me at Logan.

  I finished the call at eleven. Although technically I didn’t need Ray’s approval to complete the sale—the terms were well within our accepted range—I decided to visit him in his new home at the Keeper’s Cottage. It would be the first time we’d spoken since Tamara’s death, but, after all, I was still his agent, and this was good news.

  Once outside, I found that the north wind had died and that the air remained clear and crisp. The temperature hovered below freezing, but I was snug in my coat and in the warmth generated by movement as I walked along the gravel around the Inner Circle. By the time I reached my destination, I had opened my collar.

  The Keeper’s Cottage and adjacent Arena, where Nora’s ancestors had held their cockfights, occupied its own clearing in the woods, set back perhaps fifty yards from the Circle drive. The cottage portion of the structure was rectangular, with a brick chimney nestled in the angle. The white shingled house was linked by a long flagstone walkway to the Arena—a barn-sized board and batten structure of elegant proportion and detail. Grandfather Van Leuyden had apparently taking his cockfighting seriously. The Arena had last been painted many years ago, and its whiteness was now dulled from exposure and neglect.

  The cottage was in much better repair, freshly painted and its windows intact and clean. Cordwood was stacked neatly out front and a white plume rose from the chimney. Ray had a fire burning. The windows were covered in white crystals from condensed moisture on the panes, and reflected sunlight made the glass shimmer. The little house appeared to be almost alive.

  As I was about to knock, a sound came from within—the moan of someone sick or hurt—and I stood in surprise, listening. The moan became a continuing harsh grunt. Then I heard a female voice.

  “Oh, God, yes,” I heard. “Please. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.”

  Ray and Nora were . . . making love . . . in the cottage, although “making love” was an inadequate euphemism for what I heard.

  I should have returned to my house without lingering another moment but was rooted to the spot. The cries continued, increasing in intensity.

  What was it that Nora had said in the limousine? That Lennie had brought Ray home to kill her in her bed? Now, she did sound as if she were dying. I don’t know how long I stood listening—only that it was far too long. Then I heard Ray’s voice crying out as well.

  “I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.”

  It’s every husband’s nightmare, I thought, as I finally tore myself away and headed back toward my temporary little house.

  CHAPTER XV

  ◊

  I avoided everyone for the rest of the day, skipping my lunch date with Lennie. What would I say to him? What would I say to any of them? My greatest anger was at Nora. It was best to keep my distance. It was best, finally, to leave Schoolcross altogether.

  I had one piece of professional business left unfinished, however. The next morning I knocked softly on the kitchen door and explained my mission to Mrs. Rhodes. She let me into the house, led me upstairs to the climate-controlled storeroom, and stayed with me, watching, while I crated the painting I’d be taking to Boston in a sturdy portfolio case. I needed to move quickly if I wanted to catch an early shuttle.

  “Cold out there, isn’t it?” she said to me.

  “It certainly is, Mrs. Rhodes.”

  “We’ll be going through the cordwood now.”

  She shook her head ponderously as she spoke, as if she were predicting the onset of the next Great Depression.

  “I guess we will, Mrs. Rhodes.”

  As we made our way back down the hallway, she noticed my glance stray to a corner where the entwined deer antlers had been set. The gift had caused quite a stir within the Circle after the Thanksgiving meal, before Lennie had taken the spotlight with his presents for the kendoists.

  Mrs. Rhod
es was still shaking her head.

  “It’s turrible,” she said. “Just turrible.”

  She didn’t explain what she considered so “turrible,” and I didn’t question her. We made our way back to the kitchen, and I was preparing to slip out when Lennie burst into the room.

  “There you are, Bradley. We need to talk.”

  “Hi, Lennie. I’m on my way to Boston now. How about later?”

  “We need to talk now.”

  He looked at Mrs. Rhodes, who had busied herself ostentatiously with a dishtowel, wiping an already immaculate countertop.

  Everyone knows, I thought.

  “I need to get to Boston,” I said, as I left the cased painting in the kitchen and followed him down the hall.

  “There’s a flight every hour from LaGuardia,” he said. This was true, but the weatherman had been warning of snow and the sky looked threatening. I needed to keep moving. More important, I didn’t want to talk to Lennie. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him what I’d heard at the Keeper’s Cottage yesterday, but I also felt guilty keeping it a secret. Getting away from Schoolcross was the best solution.

  He walked into his studio and stood near the roll-top desk. I followed him, watching for an opportunity to escape.

  “It’s finally in the open,” he said. “She’s confessed to me that they’re in love! The murdering bastard has her in a thrall of romantic words. Fluttering eyelids of my soul’s desire, my ass. Thank God they’re not sleeping together!”

  Lennie was quite deranged.

  “Did you get any sleep last night?” I asked him.

  “I was in the bathroom most of the night. After she told me she was in love with him I had diarrhea, and then I wasn’t able to stop vomiting.”

  This is a madhouse, I thought. I’ve got to get out of here.

  But I couldn’t leave until I’d calmed him down. The situation was potentially life-threatening, especially considering one of the characters.

  “What did she tell you, Lennie?”

  “I confronted her last night,” he said, while looking through the desk drawer. “She claimed to be exhausted, but I made her stay up and talk. She finally admitted that she and Ray are in love.”

  He cringed at the memory as he continued to rummage. If Nora was exhausted, I certainly could understand why.

  “I’d been trying to talk to her all evening and getting nowhere. Around eleven I was brushing my teeth, and I left the bathroom door open like always. She was in the bedroom and she called out, ‘Could you please stop making those disgusting noises or else close the door?’”

  Of all the revelations I’d heard from both Lennie and Ray, this was the most intimate; I was weary of my privileged view into other people’s lives. There was a stool near Lennie’s desk and I sat down

  “So I came out of the bathroom and confronted her,” said Lennie. “I said, ‘I suppose you think your new riding partner doesn’t make any noise when he brushes his teeth.’”

  “What did she say to that?”

  “She looked at me coolly—I think they teach that look to the girls when they’re at Foxcroft—and I’ll never forget this, Bradley, she said, ‘If you’re referring to Ray Martin, he’s quite the cleanest man I’ve ever met in my life.’”

  Having shared a house with Ray, I had to admit that Nora was right. Ray always had been scrupulously clean and discreet in his personal habits around the cottage. My own habits had deteriorated away from the good influence of Linda, and I now sometimes felt less than civilized. I’d hate to have Nora comparing me like that.

  Lennie continued his story.

  “At first I just stared at her, struck dumb, and then I said, ‘I think your relationship with Ray is inappropriate for a married woman.’”

  “What did she say?”

  “She said, ‘Put down that toothbrush and wipe your mouth. We need to talk.’ When I came back into the bedroom, she was sitting at her dressing table brushing her hair, and she told me everything.”

  “And what did she say?” I asked again.

  “That she and Ray had felt it the first time they saw each other.”

  “‘It?’”

  “Yes! ‘It!’ Their love for each other! It was ‘fated in the stars.’ Ray’s been doing a lot of reading. Apparently he’s trying to convince her that they’re star twins who were separated at the creation of the universe. She’s actually considering the possibility.”

  “Nora told you all this? She wasn’t serious, was she?”

  He nodded. “Oh, I know,” he said. “She majored in poetry at Vassar, and it’s all some big metaphor to describe what they’re experiencing, but it was pure nonsense. She’s gone off her rocker, Bradley.”

  “It certainly sounds crazy. But they’re not sleeping together? Is that what you said?”

  Lennie shook his head. “I asked her that specifically. She looked me right in the eyes and said, ‘Maybe you can’t imagine, but it’s possible for two people to be deeply in love without it being all about sex.’”

  An evasive answer, I thought to myself, but evidently Lennie chose to think it meant she was innocent of the ultimate betrayal.

  “Of course I told her that Ray would have to leave Schoolcross immediately, but she reminded me that he still needs to live here as a condition of parole. Actually I’ve already talked to AFTAR about it. Noboro might take him in California. But it’s going to take weeks to get the condition lifted. Kicking him off Schoolcross would be the same as sending him back to prison.”

  “Sending him back sounds like the right idea to me.”

  “Me too, but Nora said, ‘You’re the one who got him released in the first place—and against everyone else’s advice. The story’s been in all the newspapers. Now what are you going to say to the world? That you got tired of the guy? That he and your wife read poetry together?’”

  He was caught up in his story now.

  “I said to her, ‘I could send him back to prison because of Raider.’”

  “That’s what I’ve been telling you. What did she say to that?”

  “She said, ‘I’d never forgive you. When it was convenient, you called what happened with Raider self-defense. Now you want to use it as an excuse. Next you’ll be claiming that Ray killed Lars.’ I said I thought maybe he did kill Lars—I tried to tell her about the argument between Ray and Lars at the Quaker Cottage that night—but she told me not to be ridiculous.”

  “So how did you leave it with her?” I asked. “What’s going to happen?”

  “That’s exactly what I asked her,” Lennie said. “‘What’s going to happen?’”

  “And . . . ?”

  “She said she didn’t know—that as far as she was concerned, it had already happened.”

  “Did she say she wanted a divorce or a separation?”

  “No, I asked her that too. She said, ‘I don’t want anything at all. I didn’t ask for any of this, Lennie. You’re the one who brought him here.’ After that she wouldn’t talk to me anymore. All the time we were arguing, I’d been getting stomach cramps. I’m not sure if I’d eaten something bad or if it was from the tension.”

  “Probably both,” I said.

  “So I had to step into the bathroom. I was there for a long time, and when I came out she was curled up in bed with her back to me.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “I think she’s in a sick thrall with Ray—the man is obviously an emotional predator—and she needs me to break the spell. I want you to help.”

  He withdrew an enormous revolver from the desk drawer. The piece looked ancient, but the opening of the barrel was wide and threatening.

  “The man destroys everyone he touches, Bradley. He needs to be stopped.”

  “Where in the world did you get that gun? Is it an antique?”

  “Highat gave it to me for my birthday five years ago. He said every man should have a gun. It’s the real thing—a Webley-Vickers, I think he said. The English Tommies used them to sto
p the headhunters.”

  He was still inspecting the pistol, holding it close to his face and turning it from side to side. Obviously he knew even less about guns than I did.

  “The bullets have turned green. Do you think that matters?” he asked.

  “I don’t know, Lennie. Let me see.”

  I held out my hand.

  “I promised Highat that no one else would touch it. For safety.”

  He placed the pistol back in the desk drawer, which he slid firmly closed.

  “We can keep your involvement to a minimum,” he said, “but I need help. I have a foolproof plan.”

  Leaning forward conspiratorially, he whispered a quote from somewhere.

  “‘Desperate circumstances require desperate measures.’”

  He glanced at the doors to the studio, making sure we were alone. “Go tell Ray you want to show him something,” he said.

  “Show him what?”

  “Take him to the well where Baron is. I’ll be hiding in the woods. When he looks into the well . . .” His speech slowed as he studied my reactions. “. . . I’ll come up from behind and blow his brains out. I’ll be doing the world a favor.”

  “No, Lennie. You’re crazy! That’s a dumb plan!”

  “I’ve thought about it all morning,” he yelled back at me. “It’s foolproof!”

  “Keep your voice down. That’s the stupidest plan I’ve ever heard. Claude Rhodes will be there before the smoke clears. Then what are you going to do? Shoot him too? And don’t you think the police will search the farm after Ray goes missing? People have been finding bodies here every day!”

  Nora’s profession of love for Ray had been too great a shock. Lennie was running on empty. He hadn’t considered the possibility of a search or the presence of Claude Rhodes. He sagged noticeably but wasn’t completely done yet.