Almost True Confessions

by Jane O'Connor

  After depositing both boys in front of the Dolores Court, Rannie returned the rental and en route to the subway checked messages.

  Just as her rational self had expected, nothing from Tim. Still, it was a letdown.

  One call was from Ellen’s now-former assistant, Dina, with the sorrowful news that tomorrow at four there’d be a gathering at S&S to remember Ellen. “Really hoping you can make it, Rannie.” Dina sounded as if her nose was stuffed up, probably from crying.

  The number for the other calls wasn’t instantly familiar nor had any message been left. Then it clicked. The number belonged to her mother’s cell phone, a device rarely used yet always kept in Harriet Bookman’s handbag in case of an emergency.

  Uh-oh!

  “Mother, are you okay?”

  “Yes. I’m fine.” Her answer sounded tentative.

  “I was driving back from Connecticut,” Rannie went on. “Nate had his interview at Yale or I would have called sooner . . . you sure you’re okay?”

  “I was hoping to come visit.”

  “Oh! Wonderful!” Rannie could hear the false cheer in her voice and she bet that her mother, who was nobody’s fool, picked up on it too. “When were you thinking?”

  “In about twenty minutes.”

  “Mother! Where are you?”

  “The lobby of the Peninsula Hotel. It’s on Fifth Avenue and—”

  “I know where it is,” Rannie answered. Her mom at the fantasy locale for her night with Tim? “What are you doing there?”

  Her mother exhaled an atypical world-weary, I’ve-seen-it-all sigh. “It’s a long story.”

  Rannie waited in the lobby of the Dolores Court for Harriet Bookman. In twenty minutes she emerged from a taxi, all four feet, eleven inches of her, in a sensible brown wool coat, signature salon-stiff hairdo, marshmallow-white Nikes, and sunglasses. While Rannie took the wheelie suitcase that the cabdriver hoisted from the trunk, her mother cast an anxious glance up and down the block before hurrying into the lobby.

  Her mother’s wariness was not unwarranted and stemmed from her inaugural visit to the neighborhood. Three months after Rannie’s graduation from Yale, her parents had driven her and her belongings from the leafy environs of Shaker Heights to New York City, where Rannie was to join two college friends who’d already moved into apartment 6B at the Dolores Court. While her dad remained in the car, parked illegally by the front entrance, Rannie’s mother helped her unpack, muttering about “the funny smell” and the threadbare furnishings. Finally ready to leave, Harriet went into the living room and yoo-hooed through the open windows, “Irving, I’m coming down now.” Rannie’s father did not hear nor was he aware that at that same moment, as he sat in air-conditioned comfort still listening to an Indians game, a homeless guy was squatting on the El Dorado’s rear bumper taking a dump.

  That turd remained embedded in Harriet Bookman’s psyche like a fly in amber, tainting forever the image of her daughter’s life in New York, and though never once openly discussed in all the ensuing years, the episode was frequently alluded to in comments such as the one Harriet now uttered.

  “I read somewhere that this neighborhood was becoming gentrified. I don’t see it.” Then right away she zeroed in on Rannie’s bare wrist. “You’re not wearing your father’s watch.”

  “It’s being repaired. The crystal cracked,” Rannie lied, and although her mother didn’t look convinced, she let the matter drop. It wasn’t until they were in the elevator that Harriet removed her sunglasses to reveal eyes red from crying. “Oh, Rannie, I hate to impose but all the late flights to Cleveland were full and the thought of staying in the hotel, even if a single was available . . . well, I couldn’t!”

  Suddenly Rannie found herself in the unusual but not unwelcome situation of trying to comfort her sobbing mother, although as she murmured soothing words and kept both arms wrapped around Harriet’s small frame, she did take note that her mother must have been staying in a double room at the Peninsula. . . . With whom was the question.

  The answer came over tea and cookies after Harriet had reached up to hug Nate and after Rannie, in a furtive whisper, warned him, “Don’t you dare let Grandma see the tattoo!”

  “I met a man,” Harriet began, sitting beside Rannie at the kitchen counter, although Harriet, so round and birdlike, seemed not to be sitting so much as roosting on the stool.

  “On JDate,” Harriet added.

  Immediately Rannie choked, spraying English breakfast tea all over the counter.

  “Go ahead. Laugh. I deserve it,” Harriet said, mopping up tea with her napkin.

  Still coughing, Rannie managed to wheeze, “I’m not laughing, Mother, really. I’m surprised, that’s all.” Surprised? Defibrillator-induced shock was more like it.

  “I should have never listened to Amy.”

  Ah . . . So it had been Rannie’s oldest sister’s idea. That made sense. Amy possessed a disastrous matchmaking gene; as a little girl she was always staging mock weddings in the backyard, and to this day she pestered Rannie every time an “available” man of Amy’s acquaintance was coming to New York. “Hey, you never know” was her sister’s mantra.

  Harriet nibbled at a cookie. “But I’m lonely, and frankly I can only take so much of the girls.”

  The “girls,” now all in their midseventies, were the gaggle of ladies who sat around the same mah-jongg tables as Harriet, prayed in the same pews at Anshe Chesed temple and traveled on the same cruises to far-flung destinations.

  Harriet set down her teacup. “We met a few months ago. And he seemed like such a lovely man. He’s from Cincinnati. A widower. His wife was a cousin of Edith Einziger’s and his apartment in Palm Beach Gardens is in the same complex as the Bachs. He plays golf with Phil.”

  “Was this—uh—the first time you went away together?” Rannie ventured. Had senior sex reared its head?

  “No. It was not the first trip we’ve taken,” Harriet declared huffily. “As a matter of fact we went to Chicago last month and had a marvelous time.” Shrewdie that Harriet was, her eyes narrowed. “I can tell what you’re thinking, Rannie, and you’re wrong. We were quite compatible that way.”

  Oookay . . . “So what happened?”

  Tears began trickling down her mother’s cheeks, so Rannie did something unexpected. She reached for Harriet’s manicured hand and held it, a hand so small and plump that the deep red nail polish seemed almost like a five-year-old’s attempt at playing grown-up.

  “He arranged for a ménage,” her mother said and then added, unnecessarily, “à trois.”

  Rannie was literally struck dumb. She blinked several times and wondered, between JDating and a ménage à trois, which was the more preposterous term to associate with her mother.

  “We had just returned to the hotel after seeing a matinee of The Book of Mormon—which by the way I don’t understand what everybody is raving about—when there’s a knock at the door and in comes this attractive Asian woman, all smiles, who introduces herself as Janine and says, ‘Just let me know what will make you happy.’ Those were her exact words—I thought maybe we were being offered a room upgrade until she took off her coat and I saw what she was wearing.”

  “It wasn’t a mix-up? The wrong room?”

  “That was my first reaction until George started asking why I was getting so upset. He said that we’d discussed this the night before and we’d both agreed it’d be fun to try something different, something spicy, something Asian. I’m such an idiot. I thought he was talking about restaurants!

  “Why did he have to go and pull a stunt like this?” Harriet pulled her hand from Rannie’s grasp. “It was such a lovely change being with a man instead of listening to Edith go on about whether she should have an eye lift. Or Helen. Rannie, I honestly think Helen’s gone a little kooky. Have I told you how every time she sees a penny on the ground, she thinks it’s a signal from Bill? That he’s saying hello from heaven? She invited me down to Florida in January but I said no. I can take o
nly so much of that nonsense.”

  At that moment, Harriet wriggled off the counter stool and announced she was going to call the airlines to see what was available first thing tomorrow morning.

  “There’s no rush, Mother. Why not stay a couple of days? I haven’t seen you since summer.” And just what did it say about their relationship that Harriet had come to New York and in all likelihood wouldn’t have called if the trip had remained ménage free?

  “Yes? You really want me to?”

  Rannie nodded.

  “Just swear to me you will never breathe a word of this to Amy or Betsy . . . what am I saying? Don’t breathe a word to anyone, not a living soul!”

  “It’s in the vault, Mother,” Rannie promised, locking her lips.

  While her mother unpacked, Rannie phoned in an order for pizza, then joined her mother in the den.

  “The news’ll be on in a minute,” Harriet said, turning on the TV and catching the tail end of a local talk show.

  Lo and behold! There on Rannie’s low-definition screen was Larry Katz sitting in a curvilinear white swivel chair that looked way too small for him. Rannie wasn’t even that surprised. It had been that kind of day.

  The host, a woman who had once been an Eastern European Olympic gymnast, was holding a copy of Tattletale and saying, “Dusk Books recently published Tattletale, a biography of Ret Sullivan, the disfigured journalist murdered last Saturday in her Upper East Side apartment.”

  While old photos of Ret flashed on the screen, the TV host first recapped the Mike Bellettra episode with a publicity shot of him shown from prepenitentiary days; then she brought viewers up to speed on the current investigation, basically saying there was no new news. Larry kept nodding emphatically as if verifying every word spoken. He was wearing a tie that was knotted off-kilter, and he didn’t seem to know what to do with his long legs. Not only that, he kept fiddling with one of his hearing aids, although to the viewing audience it must have appeared that he was digging out wax. Oy!

  “Wait a minute!” Harriet exclaimed. “Isn’t that who you found, Rita what’s-her-name?”

  “Ret. Ret Sullivan. That’s right, Mother.” And I used to fuck Larry Katz, small world, no? Rannie almost added.

  “Tattletale has shot to the top of bestseller lists, isn’t that right, Larry?”

  Larry cleared his throat. “Yes, Ilyana. We’ve gone back to press three times. Ret and I were friends and I know the book’s success would please her very much.”

  Harriet’s face registered surprise. “Who knew Rita Sullivan was such a big deal . . . although Edith loves her books.”

  The host was now smiling conspiratorially. “And you’re going to let viewers in on a secret, aren’t you, Larry, about Tattletale.”

  Rannie sat forward on the couch. Come again?

  “Personally I can’t be bothered reading that kind of trash,” Harriet continued.

  More throat clearing from Larry. “The publishing world has been buzzing. There have been all sorts of rumors circulating online about Tattletale.”

  “Really?” Rannie asked herself.

  “The author credit on the book is Lina Struvel but actually this isn’t a biography at all. It’s an autobiography. Ret Sullivan wrote her own life story under a pseudonym . . . or as she preferred to say, ‘a nom de plume.’ ” Larry let his words hang for a moment to allow the host’s raised-eyebrow look of astonishment its full measure of drama.

  “You’re telling me people really care about this?” Harriet said with a dismissive shrug at the same time the host was waving her arms around and exclaiming, “No! Why did she do that?”

  “Ret thought of it as a game.” While Larry demonstrated for the host and viewing audience how the pseudonym was an anagram for Ret’s name, Rannie tried her best to tune out her mother’s chatter and figure out the subtext here. Her conclusion: this was a publicity stunt. Larry had engineered the TV appearance. If there were online rumors about who wrote Tattletale, and Rannie doubted there were, the odds were Larry had planted them. In fact, it wasn’t far-fetched to envision Ret and Larry at some point concocting the whole scenario together—the ruse of the nom de plume and then, to boost sales of the book, the reveal.

  Nom de plume. Suddenly a little buzzer went off in Rannie’s head. That was the answer to the crossword puzzle clue that had stumped her—“pseudonym for Josette?” Too late now. She’d already tossed the Saturday paper.

  Then a real buzzer sounded. The intercom. It was the pizza delivery guy. Rannie sent Nate downstairs with money. By the time she returned to the den, Larry had disappeared from the television screen.

  All during dinner Harriet and Nate, her decided favorite among all eight grandchildren, gabbed away. It turned out they played bridge together online—who knew! Since the only card game Rannie had ever been good at was “Go Fish,” she was left to her own thoughts. Larry was a wily guy, all right; the schlemiel persona made you forget that. Once again Rannie remembered Ellen’s assistant fielding a call from a Larry.

  Time to check out her hunch, Rannie decided, and she called Dina right after dinner.

  “Just letting you know that I’ll definitely be there tomorrow,” Rannie began.

  “I figured you would. Ellen’s brother will be there. I still can’t believe the whole thing. It’s a complete horror show.” She paused. “Rannie, would you like to speak tomorrow?”

  Oh, God! Rannie had a horror of public speaking. Even conference calls intimidated her. But this wasn’t about her. “Sure. Something short, okay?”

  “Fine.”

  “Listen, Dina. I thought of a few alums from before your time who’d want to know about tomorrow.” Rannie rattled off the names of some former employees. “And of course Larry Katz.”

  “Oh, he was like the first person I called.”

  Rannie paused before going fishing. “Larry must be devastated. I know how much he cared about Ellen.”

  “He’s a complete wreck.”

  Really? He had looked perfectly functional an hour ago on TV. Rannie went a giant step further. “Um, how long exactly were he and Ellen seeing each other?”

  “Whoa. I thought I was the only one who knew.”

  “Yeah, well, Ellen told me, but she swore me to secrecy,” Rannie lied.

  “Hmmm . . . let’s see. It wasn’t long after Ellen and Frank broke up,” Dina went on. “So that’s, what? Two, three months ago. God, what a number that shit did on her. Larry was more like a time filler, poor guy. I feel really badly for him.”

  No, you feel bad for him; Rannie couldn’t stop from mentally chiding Dina. There’s nothing the matter with your sense of touch.

  “But oh my God,” Dina went on. “Larry won’t stop calling. ‘What did the cops ask you? Are there leads?’ Like the cops are gonna share with me?”

  “The cops? They want to know about the men in Ellen’s life?”

  “Oh yes. But basically for the last two years there was just Frank. And I told them he broke up with her.”

  Frank. One of those charmers who swear up and down they’re never getting married, and then after dumping Ellen, suddenly he’s sporting a gold wedding band.

  “And you told them about Larry?”

  “Sure. I wasn’t gonna hold back from the cops. But”—Dina made a dismissive pfft sound—“I mean Larry Katz. A murder suspect? Come on!”

  Rannie heard the click that signaled Dina’s call waiting. “So anything else, Rannie?” Dina asked.

  “Just curious about when Book X will be out.”

  “Last I heard, maybe as early as this Saturday.”

  Perfect timing Rannie thought as she hung up. Saturday was the day of Charlotte Cummings’s funeral.

  And, yes, Daisy Satterthwaite was indeed counting on Rannie to accompany her to Saint Thomas Church, Mary called to inform Rannie a few minutes later. “She’s already made sure your name is on the list of attendees. The church will be packed, just throngs of people, and Daisy lives in mortal fear of rebreak
ing her hip.” Then Mary asked if Rannie had a hat.

  “I take it you don’t mean baseball hats or ski caps,” Rannie replied, knowing full well Mary was referring to something that would fall squarely in the chapeau category.

  “Bibi Gaines is asking that all the ladies wear hats.”

  “Oh, sort of an homage to Charlotte Cummings?” As attested to in myriad society-page photographs, Charlotte’s daytime apparel always included gloves and a ladylike hat, usually something featuring a brim and wide band of dark ribbon.

  Mary assured Rannie that she owned many from which she could choose. “Are you wearing your navy suit? You look darling in it and I have something that will go perfectly.”

  Rannie made a mental note to check whether the suit in question needed cleaning. Then before saying good night, Rannie mentioned Harriet’s visit, saying only that it had “been spur of the moment.”

  “Well, isn’t that lovely. If time allows, perhaps she and I can get together for lunch.”

  “I’ll certainly suggest it.”

  The rest of the evening was spent companionably in the living room, Harriet deep into a Rosamunde Pilcher novel, Nate writing a English paper on his laptop, a long-sleeved T-shirt covering up the tat, and Rannie racking up copyediting dollars on the Dusk book on CEOs as sociopaths while keeping one ear out for a phone call from Tim that never came.

  By ten, Harriet appeared flat-out exhausted, her open book facedown in her lap. She was by nature a peppy woman, someone who bustled about, efficiently attending to the logistics of daily life, so it was upsetting to see her so done in.

  “Mother, would you prefer to sleep in my room? The pullout in here is fine for me.”

  Harriet’s eyes fluttered open. “Absolutely not. This is where I’m staying.” She rose, kissed Nate, and headed for the hall bathroom to take a quick bath before turning in.

  Harriet reappeared in bathrobe and face cream just as Rannie was finishing putting fresh sheets on the bed. From the wheelie suitcase her mother fished out a small black case that she snapped open.