A Circle of Wives

by Alice LaPlante

  “By partners, you mean yourself and Dr. Kramer?” I asked. “Yes, the remaining partners,” he said.

  In the video, Dr. Taylor is sitting at a desk. He looks directly at the camera. “Before you undergo this procedure, I want you to know some facts,” he begins. He talks about the trauma to the body due to breast augmentation, facial sculpting. He talks about the odds of procedures going wrong. He talks about percentages of women unhappy with the results. He gives statistics about self-esteem: Only 29 percent of women feel better about themselves one year after the surgery. “Rhinoplasty is the exception,” he says. “But body contouring, thigh lift, tummy tuck—the gratification is fleeting.” He stares deeply into the camera for his wrap-up. “If you have confidence issues, if you feel unattractive or unlovable, plastic surgery is not for you. It will not change those basic personality traits. You will only see more imperfections, want more improvements. Your body is not clay to be molded to your specifications. It is a gift. Treat it as such.”

  The first time I saw this video, I described the procedures to Peter. He was repelled at the idea of a body lift, touched my insubstantial right breast and said, “But you are perfect the way you are” or some such nonsense. That is a lie. I am not perfect; I am not even regular.

  Once you watch the before and after videos of Dr. Epstein’s and Dr. Kramer’s patients—the ones who saw the video but were not dissuaded—you do begin to look at yourself differently. This pinched inch of excess flesh, wouldn’t it be nice if this disappeared? As you grow older, wouldn’t it be nice to reverse the inevitable sagging? I am twenty-eight years old and imperfect enough to avert my eyes from the mirror when I get out of the shower. How will I feel when I’m thirty-nine? Fifty-nine? Peter and I rarely go to LA but when we do we’re struck with the billboards advertising cosmetic procedures the way that Silicon Valley billboards advertise the latest technology advances. This is the future. Dr. Taylor had his finger in the dam trying to hold back the flood.

  He appears to be a man you could trust. Here is a man who had your interests at heart. I would imagine that many of his patients’ mothers fell in love with him. But as you watch the competent, straight-talking yet compassionate man in the videos, you know he would never take advantage of the emotionally charged situations, would never prey on his patients, or feed on their vulnerability. This is not a man who would cheat on his wife.

  I wonder what I would feel, sitting in the clinic, considering an arm lift or body sculpturing, listening to Dr. Taylor’s attempts to stop me. I think I might fall in love with this bear of a man, would gladly join his harem for his eyes to light upon me and stay there for even a moment. That would be enough.

  I notice that he is not wearing a wedding ring in any of these videos.

  The phone rings. It’s Peter.

  “What time you coming home tonight?” he asks. His voice is neutral, which is his way of saying he’s sorry. We had a fight last night. He said I haven’t been “present,” that I’m not there in the room, not listening when he speaks, not responding when he touches me. Perhaps it’s true. This case has cast a spell over me. I have the obituary from the Chronicle out on my desk. I’m looking at the photo of John Taylor as a young man. Very handsome. A light emanating from the eyes half closed in a mischievous smile that borders on lascivious. I’ve heard that women fall in love with their doctors, and now I see why. Really, who wouldn’t have been at risk from John Taylor?

  “I’m not sure,” I tell him. “I’m working.”

  “On the Taylor case,” he says flatly.

  “Yes, of course. It’s my case. Susan is already talking about bringing in homicide experts from San Jose. I want to solve this on my own.”

  “All right,” Peter says and hangs up. I go back to watching videos. I understand now that Dr. Taylor had chosen a happy profession. The worried and anxious looks at the beginning of each procedure always gave way to smiles, hugs, and handshakes at the end as the parents viewed their sleeping but altered child. If Dr. Taylor had ever failed at surgery, it wasn’t recorded. His failures lay elsewhere, apparently.

  41

  MJ

  I’VE BEEN THINKING A LOT about our honeymoon, mine and John’s. I realize now, of course, that it was done with Deborah’s permission, that she must have even made the reservations. If she did, she chose well. I hate fancy hotels, chichi resorts. I’ve been to Hawaii, Honolulu, stayed at the Hilton, hated every minute of it. The chlorinated pools, the air of forced frivolity, the people chattering, not to each other, but into their cell phones. Parallel play, that’s what it was called when I was raising my boys, all children go through it. Now it seems as though adults have regressed into it as well.

  John and I went up north, to Ukiah, to Vichy Springs, a 150-year-old hot springs resort in the hills. The room was small but clean, no television, no electronics of any kind. You couldn’t even get a signal on your cell phone, we were so remote. We sat on the deck outside our room and watched an ancient dog totter after the wild turkeys that ranged over the property. At night, after the other guests were asleep, we snuck down to the mineral baths and filled two of the iron tubs that are positioned next to the spring, under the stars, to the brim with the warm, fizzing water. It was like bathing in hot champagne. Against regulations we shed our clothes, no bathing suits, and lay in the tubs naked staring at the stars. Afterwards, we wrapped coarse towels around our bodies and ran through the cool air back to our plain but clean room.

  The sex was okay. I mean, I’ve had better. John and I were more comfortable with each other fully clothed, preferably with garden implements in our hands and dirt on our knees from planting hydrangeas: mopheads, lacecaps. Whatever motivation John had for marrying me, it wasn’t for the sex.

  Did this bother me? At first, maybe. One does fantasize about passion, about being the object of desire. But I was soon reconciled to it. We were so happy! At least I was. Happier than a hungry tick on a fat dog.

  How can I describe how it felt to be shopping for houses with John! Looking at places with price tags of one million, two million dollars and more, casually dismissing each until we found the special one in Los Gatos.

  At a glance you wouldn’t know why we loved it so. Just another California rancher, the pavement cracked from the Loma Prieta earthquake, the front yard a mess of brambles and tall grasses. A rat scurried out of the bushes as we walked up the path for the first time. But then we saw the backyard, encompassing two full lots, with hillocks and knolls that undulated to the property line. In the corner a legacy oak tree, at least two-hundred years old, spread its limbs in every direction. We counted two fig trees, a lemon tree, and two persimmons. In another corner, a tangle of blackberry bushes. All surrounded by a high fence covered in scarlet bougainvillea. John had tears in his eyes. Now, after seeing Deborah’s tightly disciplined, clean-edged landscaping, I understand. No one would be invited (or tempted) to sit on her manicured lawn. No dog would dare shit there.

  John and I rarely fought with each other, but I remember one heated argument about something silly. About all things, a hibiscus bush I had trimmed too closely. He came home from a Saturday afternoon grocery run, and I was helping him put everything away when he looked out the window at the area of the garden I had been working in. He released an anguished wail. “What have you done?” He happened to be holding a carton of eggs, which he lifted above his head and hurled with all his strength at the wall. Eggs spattered over the counter and floor. “I told you to leave that alone,” he nearly screamed. I was in shock; I’d never seen this side of him before. I didn’t remember him telling me anything about the hibiscus, and said so. This made him even more furious. He raised his voice, his face red. “I don’t expect much of you, MJ,” he said. “But I do expect you not to mess with my garden.” I was crying at that point, but he just slammed out of the house, got into his car, and roared off. He was gone four hours, where he went, I’ll never know. He was calm when he returned. He did not apologize, though. We never spo
ke of that incident again, but it made me tread more cautiously around him than before. And that he called it his garden. Not ours. Never ours.

  42

  Samantha

  IN ONE OF JOHN TAYLOR’S videos I spotted Snow White—that young doctor I met at the Taylor Institute—among the students in the lecture hall. Everyone else was furiously scribbling, taking notes, but not her. She simply sat there, her notebook open, her pen untouched beside it, her hands folded on top. Her eyes never left John Taylor. It could have been funny; instead it was creepy. Then there was one half second where he looked straight at her. His face remained expressionless, and he glanced away without haste though also without lingering. I thought so that’s the way it was. And I picked up the phone and called the clinic to invite Dr. Claire Fanning to stop by. I kept my voice casual when talking to her, but I didn’t feel that way. I knew I was on to something.

  Snow White—Claire—said she couldn’t meet me until 9 PM, when she got off her shift. So here I am still at the station house at 9:15, hungry and cranky and yet not particularly eager to go home and see Peter, either.

  I don’t like being alone here at night. Of course, I’m not completely alone. The night dispatchers are on duty in their office, but the door is closed, and they have their own isolated world that they reside in. At this time, the regular station house takes on an otherworldly feel, what with all the dark screens, the low lighting, the chairs left akimbo as if everyone had departed in a panicked stampede. Susan is usually the last out, but at 7:30 PM she sighed, packed her stuff, and left. I hate being at work this late. Actually, I’m unhappy to be most places after 9 PM, that’s why Peter and I are such homebodies. Around 8:30 I start looking for a pair of pajamas to put on.

  This Claire, on the other hand, I doubt she ever sleeps. Despite telling me she couldn’t meet until after work, when she shows up, she is wearing workout clothes and has clearly been exercising, there is perspiration on her neck and arms.

  “I thought I’d get in a run between the hospital and here,” she says, by way of explanation when she sees me eyeing her getup, but she’s not apologizing. In fact, it’s more of a boast. “I’m preparing for the Hawaiian Ironman, so I have to grab every opportunity I can to train.”

  I find I’m in no mood to hear more about her exercise regime. “Please sit down, Dr. Fanning,” I say, and point to the seat next to my desk.

  “Call me Claire,” she says.

  I nod. “And Sam for me,” I say. Even though we met previously we shake hands and it feels oddly formal, like we are entering into some contract.

  “I have something to tell you about John Taylor and myself,” she says, without preamble, and without waiting for me to ask anything. Despite the perspiration and her admission that she’d been “training,” she’s surprisingly not out of breath or showing any sign she has exerted herself.

  “That I figured,” I say, and then I nod and cross my arms. Clearly, this Claire is not stupid, so she must see the look on my face. Because I’m sorry. When a young attractive female mentions she has something to say about an older male colleague in a position of power, you just know what’s coming. I didn’t even need to have seen the look exchanged in the video to realize that. I say to her, “You’re going to tell me you were sleeping with John Taylor.”

  She doesn’t blink. “Yes,” she says.

  We sit there looking at each other.

  “Why did you wait this long to tell us?” I ask.

  “I didn’t think it was relevant,” she said.

  I don’t have to give this much thought. Her words hang between us, clearly false.

  “What changed?” I ask.

  “This did,” she says, and holds up the copy of the Chronicle with the results of the inquest declaring John Taylor a victim of foul play.

  “But that article, and the media firestorm, happened weeks ago,” I say. “Why wait?”

  “I wasn’t sure I wanted to be involved,” she says. “Precisely because of the . . . firestorm. I had to consider carefully what to do. I’d be involving myself in a mess that could impact my professional and personal life for years to come.” She says this very coolly, without showing any emotion. This doctor doesn’t have much of a bedside manner.

  “Okay,” I say, but I still don’t uncross my arms. “So you finally decided it was your civic duty to talk to me. Fine. That means you believe that the fact you were sleeping with John Taylor was important in some way?”

  “No,” she says, and shakes her head emphatically. Her thick black hair swings across her cheekbones. I feel a stab of envy of her beauty.

  I lay my hands down on the table. “Hello? Isn’t that what you just said?”

  “No, that’s what you said. There’s another reason you should want to talk to me.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I was John Taylor’s fiancée.”

  Really, you could pick me up from the floor.

  “What?” I say. “What?”

  Claire nearly smiles, but composes her face. “Yes,” she says. “And I knew about all the others.”

  “You knew?”

  “Yes. Part of our deal was that he would divorce Deborah and sever ties with the other ‘wives’ to marry me.”

  I sit quietly, trying to absorb this.

  “Did anyone know?” I ask.

  “Only John and me,” she says.

  I attempt to gather my thoughts. Whatever else I’d figured might come up in this case, another woman was not among them.

  “Don’t you have some questions for me?” she asks.

  If Claire is trying not to show disdain, she’s not succeeding. What I mean is: I feel her disdain. She isn’t hiding it. I notice again just how black her eyes are, how black her hair, against that pure white skin. And that extraordinary composure. Is there some injection that medical students take to get that damned mien of superiority? If so, she’s been fully inoculated. I want to scream at her, curse, anything to break that composure.

  Instead I speak calmly. “I’m still puzzled why you would hesitate to come forward with your fiancé dead under mysterious circumstances. Weren’t you concerned to have justice done?”

  “We hadn’t yet gone public with our relationship,” she says. “And it would have seemed . . . cheap . . . to have added to the circus. Not until it became clear that foul play may have been involved was I even remotely conflicted about that part of it.”

  When it’s apparent she isn’t going to say anything more, I ask, “And how long were you . . . lovers?” I hate that word, it sounds so smarmy coming out of my mouth, but I can’t think of another one.

  “Almost from the start. He was my professor. The nature of the relationship means we spent a lot of time together, with me shadowing him on cases. One afternoon it just happened.”

  “At the clinic?” I feel like a dirty-minded voyeur.

  “In the beginning. There were private places there. Then we went to my apartment, off University Avenue. We couldn’t go to his house, for obvious reasons.”

  “So you knew he was married?”

  “Of course. Although for a time I thought Deborah was the only wife.”

  “I’m sure you understand that I need to know the details of where you were on Friday night, May 10, between 6:30 and 8 PM,” I say.

  “That’s easy,” Claire smiles. “I was at the clinic. I finished my last case at four, and I was catching up on John’s paperwork. He’d been letting it slide. And he’d asked me to be a coauthor on a couple of papers. I was preparing them for peer review. You can ask the night guard in the building. He comes on duty at 6 PM, and I didn’t leave until after 9 PM.

  “I’ll look into it,” I say. Then I pause. I have to know.

  “What, exactly, did you see in him?” I ask. “He was, what, well over twice your age? Not in the best of shape. Married. Why take him on?”

  Claire laughs, a genuine laugh, the first true sign of emotion I’ve seen in her. “John Taylor was the most magnetic man
I’ve ever met,” she says. “He was genuinely interesting, and genuinely interested. In the world, in others. You inhabited a private space when you were with him. It was quite remarkable. He was remarkable.”

  “What was his rationale for having an affair? I mean, before you became engaged?” I hope my voice doesn’t betray my . . . scorn? Envy?

  “He spoke of his loveless marriage, of his wife needing to keep up appearances, and his need to protect her.”

  “The usual crap, in other words,” I say, wanting to get a reaction out of her.

  “Yes, the usual crap,” Claire agrees. She is not disturbed by my words. I doubt anything would throw her off.

  “So how long did it take to get beyond the usual crap?” I ask.

  “Not long,” she says. “He asked me to marry him after about a month. He said he loved me, that we could build a life together. I believed him.”

  “So when did you find out the truth?”

  “What truth?”

  “That he had more than one wife to dispose of?”

  “Oh that,” she says as though it was of no consequence. “When he proposed, he told me everything. It didn’t matter.”

  “So you knew? Like Deborah?”

  “No, not like Deborah. I knew everything. She didn’t know about me.”

  “You’re certain of that?”

  “From the way John described Deborah, I can’t imagine she would know and not want to get her hooks into our relationship, to stage-manage it the way she did the others. But our relationship couldn’t be manipulated or controlled in that way.”

  “So when on earth did the two of you have time together?” I ask. The thought of three marriages, three households, was dizzying. But a fourth? Madness.