Life Among Giants

by Bill Roorbach

  “RuAngela sends her best.”

  And Jack actually laughed, made the first joke I’d heard from him in months: “I’ve never wanted a man so much.”

  “Everyone loves RuAngela.”

  Kate sang a loud phrase upstairs.

  Jack said, “Nothing. About. Turkle.” He put a finger to his lips: shhh. And then flew out the door and to his glimmering new Volvo and away in a cloud of safety.

  Kate singing upstairs, something indistinct, cheerful as Jack, it seemed.

  In the kitchen, piles of new groceries. I dug through, imagining a pretty elaborate late lunch after a very long walk, that kind of appetite. I pared a couple of carrots. I peeled onions. What would it be? Something simple.

  Eventually Kate came down, hugged me, kissed me, had a look at me at arm’s length, smooched me again.

  I said, “Let’s put something on the stove before our walk, yes?”

  “Lentil stew,” she said. “We got stuff at the market this morning. Or Jack did. I sat in the car.”

  “Just as he said.”

  “Because he won’t let me talk about my evidence, biggest fight ever.”

  “Well. It seems like you softened him up some.”

  “Enough to get you here. And I know he made you promise not to let me, but you’re going to like it.”

  I cored brussels sprouts, pulled them apart into leaves—very nice in a spicy stew. “No, Katydid, I’m not going to like it.”

  “Oh, well. You cook, I’ll show you some things, and then you can tell me who’s right.”

  “Kate. I think we know who’s right.”

  “ ‘The trial was definitive,’ ” Kate said, channeling Jack. “ ‘That has to be our mantra. We can’t just keep it going forever, Katherine dear! A respected court has ruled on the case.’ ”

  There. Just like that, she’d pulled me in. I said, “Respected court, my ass.”

  And Jack was no more. Kate got the wickedest look, the look of the girl on the stairs at fourteen, that boy in her room, Dabney not yet in her sights, the scar on her lip pronounced. She said, “He let me take things. Anything I wanted. He had the authority to close the case and discard everything—they can do that after x number of years, once it’s been adjudicated and any appeals are in. They’re switching to electronic everything, so all the old shit must go! I’ve got boxes and boxes of stuff. All the paperwork, or some of it. And the sweater, and . . .”

  “Kate. Who are we talking about? Who let you take things?”

  “We’re talking about a friend of mine. Who’s a friend of yours, too.”

  “Detective Turkle?”

  “You said the forbidden words, not me!” Triumph. “I’ll be right back.”

  I got the darkest feeling then, alone there with the work, the feeling that I was cooking for Mom and Dad, that they’d attend this meal, that they’d want to know I’d done well, that I knew what I was doing with this crazy restaurant thing. Dad, of course, would approve of the money I’d skinned off the dancer, Mom of the way I’d followed all the rules. There’d be plenty to talk about, and yet nothing—we’d never bring up Kate’s illness, not a peep; we’d never even say the two of them were dead.

  I splashed a generous half-cup of Jack’s elegant olive oil in his big, unused Dutch oven, put the heat too high, cut the rest of the mirepoix energetically. I was still an athlete—my folks would recognize me. They’d want to know whom I’d married, that I’d avoided the “Negress.” They’d play with their grandchildren, the ones they didn’t have, and wouldn’t ever.

  Onion into the hot oil, ten minutes. The food would shield me, and not in some vague way—this was literal, working on the far side of the granite island in the kitchen so I could face the door, see them when they came in. They wouldn’t be like zombies, nothing like that, they’d only be themselves, Dad so careless (he’d throw his coat over Jack’s priceless vase), Mom so judgmental (who can live in a church!). They’d want to know what a Princeton degree was doing hidden in their closet, what two homosexuals were doing in their room back at home, Negro homosexuals. I slipped off my Super Bowl rings, put them in my pockets, separate pockets so they wouldn’t clank together and give themselves away.

  A little frantically I rinsed a cup of red lentils, then a half cup more, left them to a brief soak in salted water: always make a lot when you’re expecting guests. Add the mirepoix to the onions, develop those flavors. This was my game, untainted. My folks forever in my restaurant. Mom, a tour of the gardens. Dad, a special drink in the walk-in with the men. The guard oiling the snap on his holster, oiling it again, testing it, pulling the gun, lightning draw.

  Tomatoes chopped fine, two whole bulbs garlic, one handful raisins, couple tablespoons raw rice to bind, cumin ground in the coffee beaner, a nice bay leaf crumbled fine so no one would choke, couple of grinds pepper, a bouquet garni, which I couldn’t wait to explain to Mom: basil tied up, stems and all, one sprig rosemary, pull it before service. Thick pinches of salt. Taste, like blood. And finally, Dad and Mom, a cup of vermouth, the last alcohol in the professor’s house, aged under the sink fifteen years at least, or call it nineteen: same vintage as your deaths.

  I HAVE A memory of going upstairs at that juncture to look at the Bonnard, a clear image of the extraordinary light of the thing, the shadowy male figure behind the woman standing ready at a large table set for dinner in the garden, but this can’t be right—I wouldn’t have left the meal prep at that point, for one thing, and for another, right about that time, primarily for insurance reasons, Jack had arranged a permanent loan to the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

  Kate was nowhere to be found.

  The stew needed some body. Back of the fridge I found a packet of baby portobellos, washed them luxuriantly, sliced them very thin, pretty shapes to anchor the stew.

  Kate reappeared in her hiking boots, an armful of legal-size file folders, cobwebs in her hair: original documents from our parents’ case and the cases around them, all the legal proceedings, all the failed prosecutions, no one ever convicted in the multiple homicides, a lot of mistrials. Her theory hadn’t changed: Dabney’s death and our parents’ had been related somehow. The “somehow” came down to an increasingly paranoid view of Sylphide, that this world-class ballerina had done something awful, arranged to have Dabney killed. Really? Her own beloved husband? And having rubbed him out, the world’s most accomplished dancer had ordered our parents killed, too.

  “But, Katy, why?”

  “To punish me.”

  “For what?”

  “Don’t be stupid!” Katy cried.

  “For Dabney?”

  “Of course for that. He was about to leave her! For me!”

  “Maybe so.” Better soften that: “Probably so, I mean definitely.” Go for the logic: “But, Kate, it was a car accident.”

  “A car, David, but not an accident. And not ‘maybe’ or ‘probably definitely,’ either—why do you think he was giving me those beautiful paintings?”

  “So you could give them to Dad?”

  “Don’t be a fucking prick.”

  “And, really, Kate, what about Perdhomme?”

  She shouted, “What about him?”

  “Perdhomme,” I said more sharply than I meant. “Him and Kaiser.”

  Kate trotted back upstairs. The stew, honestly, I could throw it away. I cored a few Brussels sprouts, dropped them in a leaf at a time, calming myself. Nice color, a little texture.

  She returned shortly with another precarious pile of folders, produced a stapled sheaf of documents—knew exactly where in the profusion to find it, pressed it into my hands.

  “Perdhomme was strongly implicated,” I said not looking. “Whereas Sylphide, not at all. Kaiser, Kaiser was right there. This far away from me.”

  “Perdhomme and the hit man, is that all you ever think about?”

  “Just that they were involved,” I said. “It’s the plain truth.”

  “I haven’t worked all that out. But Perdhomme did
well in court, right?”

  “He prevailed, if that’s what you mean, in our case and in all of them.”

  “All of them what?”

  “There were other Dolus execs killed, remember? And that lawyer, what’s his name.”

  “Dick Fortin, in case you think I forgot. Okay, brother. You want to know what I think? I think Perdhomme was just pulled in to deflect attention from the real killer, everyone knowing he’d get off.”

  “And it wasn’t just Fortin. There was that milquetoasty guy in Chicago.”

  “Pervis.”

  “Who was a Dolus executive, Kate.”

  “So?”

  “And the two guys in the hotel in New York?”

  She glowered at me. “Insufficient evidence. And your man prevailed in the civil suit, too.”

  “Don’t call him my man!” The civil suit was a famous disaster, brought at great expense by the several grieving families (though not ours—too broke) who in the end had been ordered to pay Perdhomme’s legal costs. Cold.

  She said, “You’re the one who keeps bringing him up.”

  “And that assistant D.A.”

  “I adored that guy. A great investigator.”

  “He liked you, too, Kate. He liked you a lot. And he died falling off a roof at a party in SoHo.”

  “People have accidents.”

  “During the trial? The day after he’d told Turkle he was going to meet an informant? Someone from Dolus?”

  “Which you didn’t believe at the time. I was the one who fucking told you, don’t forget.”

  “But Katy, at the time, we didn’t know what we know now. And at the time you certainly believed it! Who could think you’d deflect attention by implicating the head of a major corporation?”

  Her lip drew up almost sinister, that scar. “Someone even more major, that’s who.”

  I said, “Jack’s going to hate me. Talking to you about this. The stew can simmer. Let’s walk. Let’s get outside. Take me out to the beach.”

  “You’re just as excited as I am.”

  I shook my head: No, no, not me. And then I flipped through the pages she’d handed over, a police report, it looked like, formally addressed to that weasel of a D.A. in Danbury, sick memories of the cinderblock courtroom. Mom and Dad were at the door. I felt their presence at the door. Kate knew what she was doing, knew how to draw me in against thin resistance.

  “Kate.”

  “ ‘Kate.’ ”

  “Don’t mimic me. This isn’t even our parents’ case.”

  “Keep looking.” She flipped the pages for me, pointed to a specific paragraph near the end of the blunt and grotesquely graphic report:

  Mr. Stryker-Stewart’s death must be treated as suspicious. Grand Jury inquiry warranted in this officer’s opinion. Deceased found in wooded area .43 miles from site of collision. Presence of a second party neither established nor disproved. Actions of second party neither established nor disproved. Further investigation warranted and recommended.

  And so on. A further page under a different letterhead had a dissenting opinion written by an officer of the Connecticut State Police, but that wasn’t why the hair of my neck stood up. The hair of my neck stood up because until that moment I hadn’t realized that Dabney’s death had been ruled suspicious by anyone official, ever. I’d always thought the rumors were just that, the conjecture of distraught fans. There’d never been any kind of official inquiry, no grand jury, nothing. Whole books had been written on the subject of Dabney’s death, and all but the most sensational dismissed foul play.

  Kate handed me papers as if making a case: there had indeed been strong sets of footprints leading from the highway to where Dabney had finally died, two sets in, one set out. These had been explained away in the press and in subsequent testimony as the prints of a potential Good Samaritan who’d gotten spooked when he found a body, or more so when he recognized who it was, maybe a smart person who knew no more could be done and that his own life would be turned upside down. And anyway, what kind of murderer drags a body all over the place for no reason?

  “No reason?” Kate said, though I’d said nothing at all. “No reason?” But that was it: she didn’t provide one. She was flushed and growing pinker, already dressed in jeans and a thick sweatshirt for our hike. I thought how her healing had always come: two steps forward, one step back.

  “Why don’t we go?” I said. “I’m feeling spooked. I’m feeling sick, if you want to know the truth.”

  But she trotted back upstairs.

  So, I washed the knives and cutting boards I’d used, tasted my stew, added some pepper flakes, a crumble of thyme. The pot was beginning to bubble. I brought the heat down, still feeling the front door was going to open, madness in the air.

  “Dabney had company,” Kate called down the stairs. Her own mood was lifting. “Why, I don’t know, David. But someone left these footprints and it wasn’t someone friendly and somewhere there has to be a report. I’ve been trying to get the report. Chuck couldn’t find one, and I have yet to find it. But I’m still looking. When Jack lets me, that is. Or when he’s not looking.”

  That was supposed to be funny, but I didn’t laugh. “Who’s Chuck?”

  “Chuck Turkle, you idiot!” In a while she trotted down again carrying yet another envelope, this one huge. “There was a sweater in the Mustang that was not Dabney’s. A sweater, David. Bloodied. A sweater that no one ever saw. They put a sweater in evidence, and it never came up in court!”

  “Kate,” I called. “Why don’t we drop it for tonight? And please don’t call me an idiot, okay? I’m more tender than you seem to think.”

  “I notice you still never swear.” She opened the envelope, pulled out a loud yellow sweater, size small, badly stained at the hem. “Never so much as a fuck or a shit.”

  “Kate!”

  She whispered: “David, do you remember Dad’s work boots?”

  “Of course, yes. I think about them all the time. In fact, they’re in the basement at Westport. Still in their place under the metal workbench.”

  “Didn’t Freddy try to take them from him? Dabney’s guy, remember?”

  “He took ’em all right. And then he gave ’em back.” I had to resist Kate’s intensity, her really overwhelming logic, bent as it was. The whole story just confused me, had always confused me, but any show of confusion on my part would just make her more determined. That sweater—it made me want to puke.

  She said, “And why would he take them and just give them back? Were they trying to frame him?”

  “Kate,” I said. The lentil stew had begun to bubble, my focal point, the pure alchemy of the kitchen. Something thumped at the front door, something pushing at the front door. I began to pant, felt my heart pounding. I stirred the pot, turned the burner all the way down, gave a quick taste, quick dose of reality, delicious. I said, “We’d better settle down.”

  Kate had no interest in the cooking. “No,” she said instantly. “I’m absolutely not going to settle down. Answer the fucking question.”

  Very gently, I said, “I guess there were footprints in the parlor.”

  “Yes, fucking footprints. And there were more in the woods! Why don’t you ever swear? What the fuck is that all about?”

  Their phone rang, old-fashioned bells, loud. I leapt like I’d been poked with a branding iron. Kate pointed, oblivious of my emotion—I was to pick up. She never touched a phone anymore; that was just the way it was. Face pounding hot, I gave a big, cheerful hello, half expecting Dad’s booming laugh.

  Jack saw right through me: “Oh, no, David,” he said.

  “We’re under control,” I said.

  THE AFTERNOON WAS cool, leaves blowing in a sweet breeze off the Sound, but the sun very bright and hot in our faces, nice, the afternoon slipping slantwise into evening, sunset only a couple of hours off, that first day you know summer is done. Kate led me up the rocky shore path, high tide and lots of slippery sea grass and wrack to traverse, tangled piles
of driftwood, parts of fishing boats, lost pilings bristling with unlikely spikes. I collected some of the seaweed and then fat mussels from a rock submerged in a crystal pool, stuffed a plastic bag that happened to blow up against my legs at just the right moment.

  “Sam Goody!” Kate said alarmed.

  It took a minute for me understand that she was referring to the logo on the bag. Sam Goody, the record shop. It still had a branch in Grand Central Station—Dad had brought home all our Beatles records from there. I said something about all that, then realized what I was saying, where I was going, didn’t mention all the Dabney albums. Dad had brought them home, too, starting before the prince of British rock had even purchased the High Side. Kate and I had worn the grooves right off them, playing the hits over and over and over again, every note memorized.

  “It’s just a bag,” I said.

  “I don’t believe in signs,” Kate said. After a couple more steps, she continued more thoughtfully: “I was always first to have the music.” And then silence. Of course her thoughts had followed the same trajectory as mine.

  We clambered along at Kate’s ambitious clip, two or three miles toward the big state park, Hammonassett Beach, walking an adjacent stretch of rare undeveloped shoreline, tangled oak and pitch pine forest alternating with low marshes, small openings of sandy beach, no conversation, just Kate’s increasingly frenetic energy, the two of us marching faster and faster. After a half hour we came to an inlet, maybe thirty feet across, deep blue water, not a house or other structure in sight, tide still coming in.

  We climbed down on the tide-stripped rocks of the breakwater, sat at water’s edge, dipped our feet in. The water was ankle-aching cold, terrible, so it took me by surprise when Kate pulled off her sweatshirt, then her peasant shirt and jeans, all she was wearing, and just dove in. She swam a fast, neat crawl to the other side, the current putting a strong curve in her progress, pulled herself up on the great sand delta a hundred yards away, a dangerous nymph, one of those Rhone River undines that pull you under, tangle you in their hair. But didn’t she look fine over there! Fit and tawny and if anything too thin. For a drowning man, Jack had it pretty good, I thought. Except for the evidentiary obsession, of course. And of course a caretaker shouldn’t stare, a brother even more so. I poked around in the exposed rocks after more to eat, found a crevice full of small but good-looking oysters, collected a couple dozen. My panic, I noted, had passed.