Blameless

by B. A. Shapiro

  She had stood staring out the front window, careful to stay behind the curtains so that curious eyes could not see her from the street, watching for reporters, watching those blessed with anonymity go about their wonderfully normal lives. She had been just like them only last week: worried about whether Craig’s firm would win the Central Artery project; worried about firing one of her teaching assistants; worried about whether hobbits were too scary to include in the baby’s fantasy mural. She would give anything to have those worries again, to go back to when it was safe.

  Today she had to go out.

  Yesterday she had canceled all her appointments and talked only to Craig and her mother and Valerie Goldman, the lawyer her insurance company had retained. “Best malpractice lawyer in the Commonwealth,” the woman at Joint Underwriters of America had assured her. Diana had met Valerie Goldman once when she spoke at a New England American Psychological Association breakfast last winter. Her topic was “Protecting Yourself From Malpractice Suits,” and the room had been completely full.

  Valerie was tall and carried an extra twenty pounds, but her perfectly tailored suit turned what would have been heft in another woman into a look of substance and competence. Her speech had been coherent and informative, and she had answered questions from the audience—half of whom had been involved in malpractice suits—with an ease that showed the depth of her knowledge. But she had also struck Diana as humorless; she never smiled, and she looked puzzled at Marc Silverman’s joke about the lawyer, the psychologist, and the rabbi that had cracked everyone else up.

  In Valerie’s defense, Diana did remember that halfway through her speech, she had ripped off her Italian leather heels. “Men designed these shoes to make sure that woman couldn’t run as fast as they,” Valerie had said without a smile as she placed them on the chair next to the podium. And Gail swore by her: Joint Underwriters had hired Valerie to handle Gail’s malpractice case also. This morning, after a quick phone conversation with the woman, Diana was even more convinced of both Valerie’s competence and her humorlessness.

  Yesterday Diana had prowled her office, listening to the endless stream of messages on the answering machine. Channel 7. The Globe. The Inquirer. Gail. She hadn’t even talked to her brother, Scott; Craig had called him back in the evening. The Worcester Telegram. Channel 4. The Providence Journal. She hadn’t bothered to pick up the phone when Valerie called to say that, after trying Diana’s house, the sheriff had served the complaint at her office. Valerie had agreed to accept service. They had twenty days to file an answer in court.

  Today she had a class to teach.

  Yesterday she had indulged her anger and sorrow. She had slammed doors and yelled into the empty house. Then she had called her mother and sobbed out her humiliation, just barely finding the strength to resist her parents’ offer that they come East immediately. As much as she needed the support, they were better off in California, geographically spared the brunt of her shame. She hollered out her fury at the media. “Would you be doing this if I were a man and James was a woman?” she had yelled out loud. “Would this be front-page news if our sexes were reversed?”

  And although she knew that it was Jill and the media and society’s sexist values that were really at fault, most of her anger was focused on James. She pictured him as he had been last July, right after she had terminated with him. He was waiting for her outside the dry cleaner’s, leaning against the plate-glass window, his arms crossed and his blue eyes flashing defiance. “I’ll just kill myself and save you the trouble of doing it slowly!” he had screamed at her. And when she had ignored him and walked calmly down the street, he had gone home and swallowed a bottle of Seconal, coming extremely close to making good on his threat.

  Diana didn’t care that James was now dead, that his threat had been fulfilled and her worst nightmare realized. She didn’t care that she was being immature and unprofessional. She wanted to hurt him. To punish him as he was punishing her. So she brought back every detail of him, until James Hutchins loomed large and three-dimensional in her mind. She breathed life into him and then mentally threw darts into his chest.

  Valerie had called a third time to say that Diana had to go out, that if she didn’t continue on her normal schedule, her behavior could be construed as an admission of guilt. “It’s like falling off a horse,” Valerie had told Craig. “Make her get up and go to work tomorrow.”

  So she had. She had gotten up, showered, and put on a new purple maternity dress, hoping the feel of the soft wool against her skin would raise her spirits. After checking the sidewalk for reporters and finding none, she had even eaten some breakfast. The Globe sat on the front stoop, unretrieved by anyone; Diana was afraid if she saw the paper she would lose her nerve. Craig wanted to go into work late and drive her to Ticknor, but Diana assured him that she was fine and shooed him out the door. After he left, she had walked down to her office, her steps heavy but resolute, the purple dress doing little for her spirits.

  Bipolar disorder with psychotic features, she read yet one more time. Schizoaffective schizophrenia. Mania. She snapped the folder closed and stuffed the notes in her briefcase. It was no use. She glanced at the clock and stood up. It was time anyway.

  Then she sat down again, relief flooding her body. There was really no reason that she had to go into the psychology department offices today. If she waited another ten minutes, she could go directly to class and then leave right after the lecture. Perhaps not exactly her normal schedule, but normal enough. She could go to work, as Valerie had ordered, while still avoiding her colleagues. Diana knew she couldn’t do this forever, but for today, she felt it would be acceptable. She would take a lesson from Scarlett O’Hara and not worry about tomorrow until tomorrow.

  The lecture hall was filled to capacity. Diana had not seen it this crowded since the first exam. She roughly calculated the number of occupied seats. She knew there were one hundred and fifty-three students enrolled in the class. There had to be well over two hundred people in the room.

  She swallowed hard, keeping her eyes focused directly in front of her, and walked to the lectern and began. The room quieted, and Diana was quickly caught up in the concentration necessary to convey complicated information in a clear and interesting way. She became lost in the material, safe for the moment. For the first time since Ned Holt’s orange face had blazed up at her, she almost forgot.

  The fifty minutes flew by all too quickly, and as her voice faded away, reality returned. Stuffing her notes into her briefcase, Diana pictured her jeep in the parking lot. All she had to do was put on her coat and walk out of the building. The lot was right at the bottom of the hill. She could be home in twenty minutes. Safe behind the curtains.

  Diana slipped on her coat and watched the rapidly emptying hall. No questions today, she thought wryly. No students worried about missed lectures or confusing explanations in the text. They were all too afraid to face her. Or too anxious to run off and gossip.

  Stop it, she warned herself. Just stop it. Twenty minutes and she would be home. But then she saw Bradley Harris standing at the rear door. Department heads did not normally attend their faculty’s classes.

  He smiled sadly and motioned her to join him. Climbing down the steps toward him, Diana noticed he had the same look on his face that her grandfather had had the day that Lori and Bev told her she was not invited to their fifth-grade sleep-over party. And she thought, not for the first time, that Brad reminded her of Grandpa Jack.

  “I’m so sorry, Diana.” He reached out to hug her. “I’m sure it’ll all blow over quickly.”

  “It’s too ridiculous to take seriously,” Diana said, stepping back, afraid that if he touched her, his sympathy might crack her thin veneer of control.

  “Would you rather talk here, or in my office?” he asked kindly.

  “I’d really rather not talk at all, if you don’t mind.” She tossed her hair back and looked him straight in the eye, trying to prove to him, and to herself, that she re
ally was doing just fine. “Maybe I’ll stop by next week.”

  Brad shook his head. “There’s something I need to tell you today.”

  Diana dropped into one of the seats. “Shoot.”

  “There’s going to be a meeting,” he said, coming over and touching her shoulder. “The dean called it.”

  “About me?”

  “To decide if you should be allowed to continue teaching.”

  “I see,” she said, both surprised and not surprised. It hadn’t occurred to her that they would do this, but now that they had, it seemed all too predictable.

  “You know that I don’t believe a word of this media garbage.” He sat down in the chair across the aisle from her and rested his head on the back of the seat. “I told them their behavior was despicable,” he said to the ceiling. “I told them I would vouch for you personally.” They sat in silence for a moment, then he turned to her. “I tried. I really did try …”

  Diana leaned across the aisle and touched his knee. “I’m sure you did.” She was also sure that sensational headlines with “Ticknor Psychologist” in them didn’t go over well with the rich alumni who were financing the new “world-class” art building of which the university was so proud.

  Brad shook his head, worry etching deep lines in his face. “I might as well tell you that they’re also talking about taking your name off the referral lists—temporarily,” he added. “Until this blows over.”

  She nodded. “Of course.”

  “Do you want to be alone?” Brad asked. “Or would you rather I stayed?”

  “I’m fine, Brad. Really I am,” Diana said, standing and busying herself with her briefcase and purse. “I think I’ll go home now.”

  Brad pushed himself slowly up from his seat with the stiff motions of an old man. Awkwardly he tried to hug her again; this time Diana let him. “I feel so terrible,” he said, his eyes bright with compassion. “I’ll do everything I can.”

  She gave him a quick squeeze and then stepped away. “But you don’t think it’ll make any difference,” she said matter-of-factly.

  “Of course it’ll make a difference.” He shook his head emphatically. “There are a lot of fair-minded people in this university. A lot of people who’ll be on your side.” Then he was silent for a moment, looking at his feet. “Would it help if I talked to the press?”

  Diana shrugged and lifted her purse to her shoulder.

  “What if I told them all the good things about you? About your commitment to helping. Your status in the field. How your cutting-edge research is sure to lead to new treatment options?” Excited by the idea, he grabbed her arms. “What if I told them I’m convinced that this Hutchins character was destined to kill himself no matter what his therapist did?” He shook her slightly. “How about it, Diana? Wouldn’t that help?”

  “Don’t make any offers you’re not willing to follow through on,” she warned.

  “Just tell me who to talk to.”

  “Let me think about it.”

  “Call me,” he said, giving her another quick hug. “I really want to help.”

  “I know you do.” She touched his cheek. “And I may need all the help I can get.”

  When Diana pulled in behind her house, she was so relieved to be home, and to find the alley empty of reporters, that she jumped too quickly from the jeep. She tripped over her scarf and fell to the asphalt. Swearing, she rubbed gravel from her ripped stockings and skinned knee. Then she flipped the scarf over her shoulder, grabbed her purse and briefcase, and rushed for the safety of her back door.

  But when she got to the door, she stopped in confusion. The door was swung inward, open and unlocked. The place where the deadbolt had been was a mess of splintered wood and twisted metal. Slowly the reality of what her eyes were seeing filtered through to her brain: They had been robbed.

  She stared at the damaged door, furious at the thief, and even more furious at the reporters, at the excited babble that would arrive on the heels of the police cars. Without considering the possibility that the thief might still be inside, she stalked into the house and stomped through the small waiting room and into her office. Then she froze. The room was in total disarray. It had been ransacked.

  File cabinets had been pushed over, shelves had been emptied. Files, books, and papers lay ankle-deep on the floor. Her desk looked as if a child had thrown a temper tantrum and waved angry arms across it. It had been swept clean, its contents strewn atop the papers and books. The desk drawers had been pulled from their housings and flung, by the same enraged and powerful child, to every corner of the room.

  Diana knelt down and picked up one of her onyx book-ends; it was broken. She turned the pieces around and around in her hand, letting the sharp edges press deeply into her palm. She and Craig had splurged on the book-ends while in Mexico on their honeymoon. Now they were broken. Broken in two.

  Heat pulsed through her body as the extent of the violation began to dawn on her. She dropped the bookend and grabbed a desk drawer. Then she grabbed another, and another, and another. She turned them over. She shook them. She flung one to the floor. “Shit!” she yelled into the devastated room. “Shit! Shit! Shit!” But no matter what she threw, or how loud she swore, the reality remained the same: The drawers had been emptied. All of them. Even the one she kept locked.

  She began combing through the debris. Frantically she pushed through the books and the files and the papers. It wasn’t there. She knew it wasn’t. It would be easy to spot with its deep aqua-and-purple cover. Her journal was gone.

  Her private journal. The place where she kept her innermost self. The place where she confided the things she suffered in the darkest furrows of her soul. The things she could never tell another human being. Not Gail. Not her mother. Not even Craig.

  She fell to the floor and wrapped her arms around herself. Her private journal. Filled with her secret thoughts. Filled with wild and erotic fantasies. Fantasies meant to be forever her own exclusive possession.

  Some were about Craig. Some were about faceless men. Some were even about women. She rocked, gripping her calves tighter and tighter, pressing her chin into her knees.

  Some were about James.

  8

  AFTER REGAINING A MODICUM OF COMPOSURE, DIANA called Craig, Valerie, and then the police. But before she checked her files, before she climbed the stairs, even before the swelling sirens could be heard racing toward her, she already knew: The only thing missing was her journal. This was no random burglary. This was a premeditated, personal attack.

  Valerie was in court and Craig was at a building site on the North Shore, but the police came quickly enough—as did what appeared to Diana to be the entire Boston press corps. And then some. Did they have some kind of disaster telepathy? Diana wondered as she followed Detective Levine through the house. Diana guessed Levine to be about ten years her senior. He was very tall and had a full head of curly salt-and-pepper hair that must have been a rich black in his youth. His eyes were an incredible icy blue, and although they regarded Diana with sympathy, there was a cold edge to his gaze that made her slightly uncomfortable.

  The two patrolmen who had come with him raced ahead, sliding against walls and jerking open closet doors. Diana nodded and answered Levine’s questions, once again in automaton mode.

  Yes, this was her house.

  Yes, this was her office.

  Yes, they did have a security system, but it was broken. They were going to have it fixed, but the contractor wanted too much money.

  Yes, this was the kitchen.

  As ridiculous as the whole process seemed, Diana was actually relieved to be going through it. At least she was occupied. Listening to the inane questions and producing the self-evident answers gave her a chance to focus on something besides who would want to do this to her. Something beside her missing journal.

  Her journal. Don’t think about it, she warned herself. Don’t think about what was in it. Or who might have taken it. Or what he or she—most li
kely she—planned to do with it. Diana placed her hand on her stomach.

  Herb Levine’s eyes followed her motion. “Dr. Marcus,” he said, turning abruptly and leading her back to her office, “I understand you’re currently involved in a pretty big malpractice suit?”

  Diana righted her desk chair and sat down, waving the gangly detective into one of the others. She nodded.

  He looked around at the disarray, swiveling in his chair to carefully scrutinize every corner of the room. He crossed his long legs and pulled out a small notebook. Diana assumed he was taking some kind of inventory, compiling clues, determining potential suspects. Instead he looked at her and asked, “Where’s the couch?”

  “I don’t do that kind of therapy.”

  “I thought you all used couches.”

  “And I thought all Boston cops were Irish and that anyone named Herb Levine had to be an accountant.”

  His smile crinkled his face into a mass of appealing wrinkles. “Got me there,” he said, chuckling.

  “No fingerprint dusters?” she continued, wondering how she could possibly be so glib when the shavings of her life were curling around her on the floor. “No photographers and fancy forensics?” This must be shock, she decided. Her hands were ice-cold but steady, her heart beating normally, her voice composed, her emotions in some kind of numb, frozen limbo. And if it wasn’t shock, whatever it was was more than welcome to stick around for a while. It was far superior to what she was going to feel when the ice started to melt.

  “If we did that for every burglary in town, we’d bankrupt the department in a month,” Levine was saying, chuckling again. “It’s just a fluke you got me. I only came because of your other case. Someone recognized the name and address when you called in. I’m homicide—and fortunately having a slow week.”

  Homicide. The word caught Diana off-guard, and she startled. She felt the heat rising to her cheeks and noticed that Levine had stopped smiling. “Homicide,” she repeated, groping for something to say that would distract her from her growing unease. Then she realized she had far less to fear from a homicide detective than from the fact that she was a household name to every police dispatcher in the city of Boston.