Lost in His Eyes

by Andrew Neiderman

  ‘I really am all you think about while you’re here?’

  ‘As I said, you’re the sole reason I’m still here.’

  He held up a paper bag.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Lunch. I’ve got apples, oranges and some of those health bars you said you liked.’

  I smiled and sat back. ‘When did I tell you that?’

  ‘When you were babbling a little in the motel. We talked about our food shopping, how we met. Don’t you remember?’

  ‘No. Yes,’ I said, even though I really didn’t.

  ‘You want to have it here or go somewhere for a bigger lunch?’ He looked around.

  ‘Yes, you’re right. It’s claustrophobic. Let’s go to my car,’ I said.

  ‘That’s not claustrophobic?’

  ‘I know a place where we can park and have something of a view.’

  ‘Great,’ he said and he stepped back for me to go out first.

  Surely, I thought, there is something magical about someone who was on the same wavelength as you were, feeling the way you felt when you felt it.

  Anticipating correctly was the best love song any girl could want.

  It meant you cared enough to think hard about someone else beside yourself.

  And I’m sorry, but you could count on your fingers how many like that you knew your whole life.

  SEVEN

  We were on a hill that overlooked the 60 Freeway. Homes on perfectly subdivided lots in an upscale gated community, all built in the same Spanish style and all in a bright yellow or orange shade, looked stamped on the well-combed and shaped acreage, developed by some entrepreneurs who probably lived in houses three times the value on the coast. However, this was a slice of the American dream, both for the homeowners and the businessmen. It looked secure and immaculate. There would be no graffiti, no loud and intrusive music. One could almost accept that the air around the homes was strained and sifted for impurities. Their refuse was placed in clean bins outside their homes on Tuesdays and Fridays. They were good environmentalists and would be sure to put their recyclables out on Wednesdays.

  Was most of life compartmentalized like this?

  ‘You stare at those houses like some American Indian planning on attacking a wagon train,’ he said.

  ‘I was just thinking about all the rules and regulations we pick up like lice during our lives. When you’re a child, there are so many no-nos. Then you become more mature and you get the false impression, live under the illusion, that restrictions diminish. For a while you forget all the new ones. You can drive, but now there are all those traffic regulations. You can stay out later, but there are rules about alcohol and drugs and curfews. You are suddenly aware of other things like jay walking, littering, defacing property, cutting in front of people in lines, obeying the rules your bank imposes and your college imposes. Then, of course, once you’re really on your own, earning your own keep, there are the pages and pages of IRS codes. You have all that beside the Ten Commandments and spools of new edicts related to civil and criminal law.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘And then you get married, save up enough money to have a mortgage and a house in a place like that,’ I said, nodding at the development, ‘and are handed a booklet of CC and Rs, the covenants, conditions and restrictions associated with your homeowners’ association. It never stops. Even after your dead. Did you know there is a mileage restriction relating to how far you have to be taken to have your ashes dumped at sea?’

  ‘You forgot the rules your own body imposes on you, like when to eat and drink, what to eat and drink, and when to seek sexual intercourse. And sleep. I always forget sleep.’

  ‘Thanks for reminding me.’

  He smiled. ‘You’re just very tired, Clea. You’ve returned to work to see if you can energize yourself that way, but, as you know, I’m not optimistic about it. You need that breeze in your hair. We should take a holiday. Change isn’t something you do for a few hours once in a while.’

  ‘Take a holiday?’

  ‘Find a reason to spend time on your own; only you won’t be on your own. There must be one place you’d like to go. It doesn’t have to be far away. There’s a lot of static around you here. You need a chance to pause, take some deep breaths, so you can think better about the things you’re doing and the things you want.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I said. I was silent for a few moments. To the west, a fighter jet on a training mission was leaving a trail of thin cotton-white exhaust. It looked as if the plane was tearing a seam in the blue sky.

  ‘People who say “maybe” reveal fear and indecision. My motto is to avoid all maybes.’

  ‘I don’t think I was ever arrogant enough to assign myself a motto,’ I replied, and he laughed. ‘I’ve got to get back to work.’ I paused after I started the engine. ‘So you’re really independently wealthy?’

  ‘More people than you’d expect are.’

  ‘I never knew what that meant – independently.’

  ‘I’m dependent upon no one to enjoy my money. There are no rules I have to follow except for insider trading. I invest what I want when I want. Actually, I employ a business manager to do the nitty-gritty.’

  ‘That’s always been my husband’s dream.’

  ‘Welcome to idyllic capitalism.’

  ‘Do you have it all socked away overseas or something?’

  ‘Something. Talking about money is boring,’ he said. ‘If you have money, you make money. It’s as simple as that.’

  ‘Unless you don’t have it to start with.’

  ‘I said, “If you have it.” Why pick on money? You might not have health to start with? Or opportunities, or even parents.’

  ‘Are you an orphan, too?’

  ‘We’re all orphans in one way or another.’

  ‘You do work for the CIA,’ I said, ‘or at least were trained by them.’

  He laughed. ‘Look at it this way. I don’t lie. I just avoid the truth whenever possible.’

  It was my turn to smile. I started away.

  ‘Being independently wealthy and not having to do anything much is dangerous. Remember? Idle hands are the devil’s workshop,’ I warned. ‘I was recently reminded of that, and by a lawyer, too.’

  ‘My hands aren’t idle, especially when they’re filled with you.’

  I looked at him and gave him what Ronnie called my cold grin. He said it could send chills down his spine.

  ‘You always have the answers that will please, especially me. Maybe you’re the devil’s work after all.’

  ‘Maybe we all are. But let’s stop it. Questions, analyzing, all of it. Just get out there and feel something, Clea. Come back from wherever you’ve gone.’

  I said nothing.

  He was so right.

  I let him off on a corner and parked.

  Twenty minutes after I returned to drain the swamp of data, Carlton stopped by.

  ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Seems like old times,’ I sang. He smiled.

  ‘I’ll have something more interesting soon. I might take on a criminal defense. I’ve been toying with it. A friend of mine who is in criminal law has been pushing me to give him a hand with his workload.’

  ‘Oh? What sort of case?’

  ‘Murder,’ he said casually. ‘It’s complicated for the defense.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Wife killed her husband. Claims she was brainwashed into it by her lover. She was like a puppet, psychologically manipulated. The lover looks totally innocent, but my friend has done some preliminary investigating of the man and has discovered that this client is one of three.’

  ‘Three?’

  ‘Two previous women who had affairs with him ended up killing their husbands.’

  ‘How can one man have so much power over women?’

  ‘You’re asking me that? I had the impression you were one of those women who believed men in general have too much power over women.’

  ‘You mean because we g
et paid less for the same work and have our reproductive rights challenged and eliminated? Or just the way we’re intimidated in everyday life?’

  ‘I had a feeling you would know how to respond. Anyway, I have to seek out this psychologically powerful man and get some advice from him. Don’t tell my wife,’ he joked. ‘I’ll know more by the end of the day.’

  ‘Why would any other lawyer drop that at your feet? I don’t mean to imply you’re incapable of anything. It seems like something that even a seasoned criminal attorney would find difficult, though it has a fascinating side to it.’

  ‘My friend’s very busy and knew I was a psych major before deciding to make a sharp right turn and go into law. We went to undergraduate school together. Stop in with what you’ve found so far on the current matter,’ he added, nodding at the paper piled in front of me.

  ‘Will do.’

  I sat back and thought for a moment. Why was it that criminal law did have a more exciting and enticing ring to it? Physical or psychological evil was always more attractive than white-collar crime. Who wouldn’t want to know more about the so-called manipulator? Look who’s more interesting in Shakespeare’s Othello – Iago, the conniver, the plotter, the killer. And what woman in Macbeth is more interesting than Lady Macbeth who drove her husband to kill the king?

  It was a fascinating idea for a defense. Othello kills his wife who adores him, but in the end we feel sorry for him because of how he was manipulated. We even feel pity for Macbeth. Nothing has changed that much in the human psyche. The jury in the case Carlton is thinking of taking could be led to some consideration of reducing the charges, some mitigating argument.

  In comparison, the evil in these bland documents was colorless and trivial, I thought. The biggest sin here was that a husband hid some assets from his wife. Blah, blah. Of course, Lancaster was right. I couldn’t last long in this world again if this was all there was to do.

  But as I continued evaluating the assets of the man being sued for divorce, I paused and thought that what really makes this so cold for me is that I don’t know the people, the personalities, the lives of these people who had once been deeply enough in love to vow in a court or in a church that they would spend their lives together.

  I thought about my own marriage – the wedding, that night before and that morning. I tried to recall the early moments of doubt. Were there any? It was a little more than eighteen years ago. We had been going together for more than eight months. Most of the time our dates were hot and passionate. Days seemed to collapse into more and more hours we would spend together. I was his first call in the morning. His was the last voice I heard before going to sleep. We had circled each other like two fencers in the beginning and then, perhaps too quickly, had gotten to the point where my friends claimed I was attached to Ronnie’s hip. Most of them were complaining because they hadn’t yet found anyone they had cared to hold hands with too long, much less devote most of their waking hours toward pleasing and enjoying.

  Our wedding day was picture-perfect, with my dress, his tux, the crowd of friends and relatives at church; the professionally arranged reception, with the great food, the cake, the flowers, the toasts and dancing. Even now, looking at the photographs and especially at myself in them, I didn’t see even the slightest doubt or hesitation. I was everyone’s ideal bride, glowing, hopeful, jingling bells of love, drawing out the oohs and aahs and especially the envy of my bridesmaids and girlfriends. How pretty I was and how handsome Ronnie looked. Even Sherlock Holmes couldn’t detect a single doubt, a single threat, an iota of anything ominous.

  Was everything in life an illusion?

  I looked at the paperwork again. Harry Carl Gordon was trying to hide assets from the woman he once thought would be his reason to be. Once, he would have risked his life to keep her safe and protected. When did they have their last passionate kiss? When did they last say something sweet and loving to each other? When did he last draw her close to him, put his arm around her and kiss her cheek. When did he last say, ‘I love you’?

  Did either of them even think about that now? Or, when such a memory surfaced, did they both press it back down into the darkness of the past, the land of amnesia where all sad and dreadful thoughts and images were buried in tombs we hoped would keep them sealed even beyond death itself, to the end of time?

  I made my last notation, folded the papers, closed the file and got up to go to Carlton’s office.

  He looked up, surprised. ‘Question?’

  ‘No. I’m done. Here’s my summary,’ I told him and handed it to him. He perused it quickly.

  ‘You’ve traced about eight hundred thousand out of the country?’

  ‘That holding company, that loan, the Grand Cayman Islands, all tell me that supposed loan he made is cover for socking away money, and if you’ll notice, it wasn’t that long ago that he had done it. His wife hadn’t yet sued for divorce, but he knew it was coming, I bet.’

  Carlton smiled. ‘This is terrific. Nice work. I’ll move this ahead a lot quicker now.’ He pushed back from his desk. ‘I will probably have something new for you in less than a week. I had a consultation about another divorce.’

  ‘I’m curious about this divorce,’ I said, nodding at the file I had handed him.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘How long were they married?’

  ‘Twenty-four years. They have a daughter at Bennington in her freshman year.’

  ‘Vermont?’

  ‘Yes. Maybe she wanted to get as far away as she could,’ he said, smiling.

  ‘And there’s a seventeen-year-old. I saw the trusts in place for both of their children,’ I said, nodding at the file.

  ‘Yes. His mother tells me he’s been accepted at USC, early admission. Apparently, he’s a football star in high school.’

  ‘How deeply we can wound our own children,’ I muttered, more to myself, but he perked up.

  ‘Feel no fear about it. I spoke to these two kids. I think they wrote off both their parents years ago. Kids sense things sooner than we expect. They’re even good at hiding how much they know from us. I’m sure you remember things when you were a child.’

  ‘Yes.’ Of course, I thought about Kelly and me immediately, especially the way she had been cross-examining me.

  ‘Anything else?’ he asked, because I was so into my thoughts.

  ‘Oh. Well, it’s not there in those financial documents, but why is she asking for a divorce?’

  ‘Number one reason,’ he replied. ‘Adultery. Although you probably know that California is a no-fault state. She doesn’t have to prove he’s done something wrong – i.e. adultery. However, we are suing for misappropriation. You don’t have the paperwork, but we can prove he spent money on this girlfriend and I’m looking for half of those funds plus interest as well. He’s not putting up much of a defense, which is why I wanted to be sure we uncovered all the assets.’

  ‘Except for the money funneled into Grand Cayman, he didn’t try that hard to hide the rest. Maybe there was a time he believed he could smooth things over or keep her from divorcing him,’ I suggested.

  He stared at me with the look of someone spinning suspicious thoughts.

  ‘I’ve asked many women if their husband’s cheating on them was the real reason they were seeking divorce. You’d be surprised to learn how many tolerated it, but found more serious – at least to them, more serious – reasons that trumped it. I also had the sense that they weren’t angels either.’

  ‘Now there’s an oxymoron if I ever heard one,’ I said. It seemed to come right out of Lancaster’s mouth, into my ears and then through mine.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Angels suing angels.’

  He laughed.

  ‘Welcome back, Clea. I have a feeling I’m going to hire you full-time faster than I imagined.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, but not with confidence. He lifted his eyebrows. ‘I might be gone for a few days.’

  He nodded. ‘No problem. As I said, it might be
a week before I’ve got some things together to get you started again.’

  ‘Do you seriously think you might take on that criminal case?’

  ‘Fascinates you, huh? I had that impression when I described it to you. To be honest, it fascinates me, too. Any background in psychology?’

  ‘Are you kidding? I’m married eighteen years and I have a teenage daughter.’

  He laughed.

  ‘No, just the usual undergraduate Introduction to Psychology,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll let you know when you return,’ he replied.

  I turned and left his office. Jackie looked up from her desk quickly.

  ‘See you tomorrow?’

  ‘Not tomorrow,’ I said. She looked worried. ‘Nothing’s wrong. I just finished this assignment. Call it a hiatus.’

  ‘High what?

  ‘A caesural pause,’ I replied and spelled caesural for her. Let her go to a dictionary or to Wikipedia, I thought, walking out into the dwindling late-afternoon sunshine that was turning the tops of the mountains in the distance into lit birthday cakes.

  Lancaster was leaning against my car, looking his confident, arrogant self. At first I said nothing. I got into the car and he came around and stood there, looking in at me. I rolled down the window.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Call me in the morning,’ I said. ‘I have to do some pre-planning, but I agree. I need a change of scenery,’ I added and drove off, leaving him standing there and watching me disappear around a turn, his face full of ‘I knew she would.’

  EIGHT

  ‘You finished the first assignment already?’ Ronnie asked, the astonishment on his face metamorphosing him into a fourteen-year-old boy full of wonder. In the early days of our relationship and marriage, I found this quality attractive. There was an innocence I could embrace. Over time, that somehow became annoying, even suspiciously contrived.

  I think you stop trusting your husband or your lover when you realize he has practically memorized each and every one of your reactions to anything and everything. He’s like a taxicab driver who knows every turn, every bump in the road, and knows when to slow down and when to speed up. Surprise diminishes and diminishes until it’s almost non-existent. You know he knows how you will react and plans for it. You no longer believe in what you see in his face and hear in his words. He’s drifted away under the camouflage woven out of your own reactions and words.