How long did you plot to kill Gib, Ginevra? Dr. Benson asked, leaning forward to better look me in the eye. How long did it take you to formulate a plan? Of course, the first time Dr. Benson asked me this I was quite befuddled, and it took me some minutes to piece together the fact that Gib was dead. Over the last two weeks of my confinement, I’ve managed to procure more of the specifics. Evidently Theodore Tricott hadn’t been the only one to suffer a tragic accident that night. Harry Gibson had been helping to host an illegal wet party (otherwise known as a “speakeasy”) when he drank a particularly lethal cocktail that was one part champagne, two parts non-potable methanol. The drink had a surprisingly quick effect. The nerve damage set in almost immediately, the coroner speculated, and soon after paralysis set in upon Gib’s lungs. By the time Teddy plunged off the terrace, Gib was already dead, and “Ginevra’s” misdeeds had brought the insular circle back around upon itself.
It was at that point I began to protest my innocence in earnest. Ever since they’d told me about the statement Odalie had given and I’d attacked the typist in the interview room, my faith in my dear bosom friend had been crumbling away like a sand dune in the wind. Now, Dr. Benson’s question tormented me: How long did you plot to kill Gib? How long, how long, how long? plagued my brain every night as I lay on my cot in the institution, desperately seeking sleep. And it was with a stomach-churning sense of cold and absolute dread that I realized the answer was: at least about a year. I had not been watching Odalie; she had been watching me. She had thrown down her bait—that brooch—and from the very second I picked it up she knew she had her magpie: someone she could distract with her sparkle as she laid the foundation of her master plan.
Tragically, however, by the time I had a better vantage on the panorama of my situation it was too late. Everything I explained about Odalie, about her connections, about her manner of insinuating herself into people’s lives, went unheard. There was a time when I considered perhaps Dr. Benson knew the truth of it and had been somehow bribed by Odalie as well, but I don’t think so presently. The good yet pig-headed doctor seems so sincere when he speaks to me about accepting the truth of reality that I have come to believe he really does buy into all that. I’ve seen myself through his eyes, and I understand he thinks my reality, insofar as it diverges from his own, is a fiction.
Of course, there are places where my reality and Dr. Benson’s reality have some overlap. For instance, I have been presented with a few anecdotes from my history I know to be very real. At one point, they brought “Dr.” Spitzer in to identify me. I say “Dr.” with mocking only because it turned out Odalie was right when she said he probably wasn’t much of a chemist. Technically, he wasn’t one at all. He’d been arrested for his own crimes, and in return for a shorter sentence he was only too happy to point me out as “Miss Ginevra” and, of course, as the woman to whom he’d given the bottle of improperly re-natured alcohol that brought about Gib’s untimely death. According to him, he’d never heard of Odalie; I was the sole proprietor of my own enterprise, not to mention the chief purchaser of his services.
And, of course, I still remember the day Dr. Benson came in and asked me was I acquainted with a girl named Helen Bartleson. She’d claimed to know me from the time I’d tried to “lay low by living at a boarding-house,” and had given some statements that were of particular interest to the police, Dr. Benson informed me, although I can’t imagine what. I told him Helen was a nincompoop, and in any case knew nothing about my life before or after I left the boarding-house. But obviously I had to say yes, I did know her. We were room-mates for a brief time, I replied. Dr. Benson asked was this prior to my arrangements at the hotel apartment. Yes, I said. Did I recall slapping her across the face with a pair of leather gloves? Dr. Benson wanted to know. Well, I didn’t relish it and it was not my place, but someone had to discipline her and it was clear Dotty wasn’t going to do it, I answered. When I said this, Dr. Benson smiled.
We are finally making progress, he diagnosed, but I didn’t see how.
The worst was when I thought it might help me to come clean about Edgar Vitalli. I was trying to make a point—that not everything recorded while in a precinct was always 100 percent accurate. Dr. Benson asked a lot of questions about this, and then a couple of chief inspectors from different districts asked many many more. And then they brought in the Police Commissioner himself. It’s funny; all that time working at the police precinct, preparing for the Commissioner’s visits, and this was how I finally made his acquaintance. The first thing I noticed about him was his temples bulged when he was telling a lie. Like how he claimed he’d never met Odalie and didn’t know what I was talking about when I brought up the business of how he’d given Odalie a white card. He was sure to ask all the questions during that interview, of course, or else I would’ve pressed him further about the card Gib accused Odalie of purchasing from his offices.
It was a longer interview than I would’ve liked. I really shouldn’t have told them anything, but the stress of constantly being convinced I did not know reality from fantasy made me want to tell the truth about absolutely everything, even about Edgar Vitalli, just to lay it out all straight in my head. But oh, what a fuss they made! It was in all the papers: how I’d doctored the confession, making it sound like Mr. Vitalli knew all sorts of incriminating details about the crime. How I’d charmed the Sergeant and seduced him into complying. I was a wicked, deceitful seductress, they claimed. One reporter even compared me to Salome, dancing for King Herod and asking for the head of John the Baptist! The result of all this was that the Sergeant withdrew into a swift and silent retirement. A retroactive mistrial was declared, and I am sorry to say Mr. Vitalli was thereby acquitted of all charges and released from prison. His ugly smirking face glared out at me from every front page. I felt very bad about this, and for a while I collected all the newspapers I could lay my hands on in the common room, clipped the photos, and pinned them to the wall in my room at the institution just to torture myself with that hideous taunting face. It was my way of doing penance (I suppose I had to be declared insane before finally getting some religion). Eventually Dr. Benson noticed the eyes were scratched out in most of the photos and forced me to take them down and hand them over to the nurses on the basis that my collection demonstrated what he called an unhealthy preoccupation.
There are times when Dr. Benson likes to tussle with me over moral conduct and justice, especially on the subject of Edgar Vitalli. I find this a bit more than vaguely insulting, as I was the only one who actually cared about seeing to it that justice got done. A man’s life was in your hands . . . how can you justify condemning him with no proof? Dr. Benson asks me. I try to tell him Mr. Vitalli’s guilt was plain to see, that it was obvious, yet no one was willing to go to the lengths I was, that I was the only one willing to do what was necessary to make sure justice was done. If I were a man and had spearheaded the official investigation, I would’ve been congratulated! But Dr. Benson only shakes his head at me. You cannot appoint yourself judge, jury, and hangman, Ginevra, he says, as though I am some sort of righteous loony who has gone on a tirade.
But perhaps the greatest injustice, the one that offends me the most, is the fact Odalie will never understand how much I loved her. Ironically, I think it was Gib who might have had a grasp of this, albeit an incremental one. A person simply cannot see what they are not looking to see, and I have finally come to grips with the simple truth that Odalie was never seeking my devotion. It’s true she wanted my loyalty—for a time, at least—because it proved useful to her. But devotion is a word whose definition reaches a depth that threatens to swamp this current generation.
The modern world is a strange place indeed, and I fear it is one in which I do not belong. It’s not as if I’m daft; I’ve seen the world, leaving me behind in fits and starts. And from the very first, I knew Odalie was a creature born of this new time, with her golden-hued skin and skinny boyish arms and sleek black bob. T
here is much to admire about these new modern girls, superficially speaking. That much I fully admit. I know when people think of romance they will think of Odalie, standing in the moonlight, the beads on her dress like a galaxy’s worth of stars come temporarily to rest, the sheen of her hair refracting a halo. But of course this notion is something of a bum steer. All along, all those nights we spent searching out back doors and reciting lines of gibberish to enter those innumerable speakeasies, it was really Odalie who was the true blind. Her breathless charm and musical laugh are promises that true romance, the most exciting variety of life-changing romance, is just around the corner. But the truth of the matter is Odalie herself possesses not one romantic bone in her entire body, and she has little patience for sentiment of any kind. She is the mirage that moves constantly before you, always a fixed distance away as you step deeper and deeper into the desert.
No, between Odalie and myself, I am the romantic. A relic from an already forgotten era. The world has no patience these days for the formalities of ladylike conduct. Nor does it have any interest in nurturing the bonds of sisters, of mothers and daughters, of bosom friends. Something—perhaps it was the war; I cannot say—has torn these bonds away. I realize if I am to survive in this world, I must sooner or later evolve. Evolution. Another modern innovation to reverse the old thinking that the meek shall inherit the earth.
But enough. I know this is all simply a lament—surprisingly, not one for Odalie, but for myself.
EPILOGUE
They tell me I am to have a visitor today. They informed me of this fact when I first woke up this morning. I think the nurses fancied themselves thoughtful for telling me, believing it would give me something I might look forward to, but since they are not allowed to reveal the identity of my visitor I have spent the last few hours agonizing over who it could possibly be. I’ve always had difficulty eating the watery oatmeal the hospital serves as our breakfast each and every morning, and today my overexcited nerves made it even more difficult than usual.
Why, Ginevra, you’re not even making an effort, one of the nurses scolds me as she takes away my still-full tray. Visiting hours are from one o’clock to four. By noon I am nearly crawling out of my skin. I am not sure whom I am hoping to see.
Actually, that’s untrue.
I am sure whom I am hoping to see. Old habits die hard. But the cynic in me already knows the truth: She will not come here to see me. If nothing else, she is very clever. Coming here would be a mistake; there would be no benefit in it for her. And yet I find myself looking anxiously in the direction of the door, hoping to see the silhouette of a stylish cloche appear. The heart is a funny organ, with such stubborn biases. Yesterday I went to bed making a careful list of all Odalie’s unforgivable faults and reminding myself of all the reasons I ought to hold myself in superior regard. And then, this morning—in the time it took for a silly gossiping nurse to let it slip that I was to have a visitor—my every grudge against Odalie immediately lifted. And now I sit here, wretched instinctual creature that I am, my eyes hungry once again for the sight of her.
But at precisely a quarter after one, all my soaring hopes come crashing to the ground when Dr. Benson comes to tell me my visitor has arrived, and as a special reward for my good behavior as of late I will be allowed to visit with “him” privately in my room as long as I heed the rules of proper conduct, of course. The orderlies will be watching, Dr. Benson reminds me. I nod. So, I think with considerable disappointment. My visitor is a man.
I suppose there was a time when I would’ve been cheered to see, say, the Sergeant stepping over my threshold. But sadly, now that time has passed, I admit: From the moment we met I’d placed the Sergeant on so high a pedestal, he could not help but eventually fall. In my adulation, I overestimated him. His was not an unbending constitution after all, for in the end Odalie bent him to her will as she did with so many things. If I were to see him now, I fear I should be preoccupied, speculating over exactly what the—ahem—rate of exchange was between them. It is best to remain ignorant of certain things.
I am markedly disappointed now, but still full of apprehension. I sit and fidget until I realize I am practically wringing my hands, so I stop and concentrate on sitting very, very still.
The last person I am expecting to see is the Lieutenant Detective, but suddenly there he is, slouching in my doorway, his hands jammed into his jacket pockets like always. May I come in, Rose, he asks, and I realize it is a strange comfort to hear my given name, even though under normal circumstances I would prefer for him to call me Miss Baker. Never one for bad manners, I invite him in. He ambles in comfortably enough, but once in the center of the room he looks uncertain of what to do next. I gesture to the metal chair the orderlies have set out for expressly this purpose, and the Lieutenant Detective coughs and sits down.
Rose, he says.
Lieutenant Detective, I say.
He doesn’t speak for several minutes. The nerves I felt just minutes earlier have mysteriously disappeared. I feel more calm than I have in weeks, though I can’t exactly pinpoint why. The Lieutenant Detective, by contrast, looks more jittery than I have ever seen him. I watch as he extracts a cigarette from his inside jacket pocket. Absentmindedly, he pats a different pocket (for a match, I assume), but then, with a glance at the NO SMOKING sign posted in the hallway just outside my door, stops and holds the cigarette as if unsure what to do with it. He twirls it over his knuckles until it slips to the floor. Our eyes trail to where it falls, but he makes no move to pick it up.
Rose, he begins again. But this time I interrupt him.
They call me Ginevra these days, I say. His eyes widen. I can see them raking over the contours of my face, searching for something.
Yes, about that . . . , he says.
Why have you come here, I interrupt again.
I’ve come because . . . , he says, but stops when he senses a shadow over his shoulder. An orderly passes by my door and pops his head in, aggressively swiveling it once in each direction—making sure, I suppose, that no funny business is going on, that the Lieutenant Detective is not slipping me a spoon and a map with instructions on how to tunnel my way out. I picture this scenario playing out and suddenly laugh aloud. Startled, the Lieutenant Detective looks up at me, and I catch something familiar in his expression—something I realize has always been there but that I haven’t ever put my finger on before. It is fear. The Lieutenant Detective is afraid of me. All this time, and I am only just now seeing it has always been so.
You would think they might trust a man of the law and just leave us be, I say about the orderly having just put in a none-too-subtle appearance. I mean this kindly, in the spirit of solidarity, but I can see my comment further disturbs the Lieutenant Detective.
Yes . . . well. You know, technically speaking, I was above the Sergeant . . . and so responsible for his conduct, as he was—of course—for yours, he tells me. That Vitalli business got me into a bit of hot water as well.
My apologies, I say, but he doesn’t answer. Lost in thought, he looks to the floor where the cigarette still lays without really seeing it. Several minutes pass, and then he finally clears his throat.
You know I don’t believe it, he suddenly blurts in a confessional tone.
Believe what, I say.
All this business, he says. About you. I can’t believe you were behind it. Again I feel his eyes raking over my face; I wish he would stop trying to read whatever it is he believes must be written there in invisible ink (oh, so he thinks). Especially when it’s clear she’s . . . she’s so . . .
Where is she, I suddenly demand. At this, he gets up from his chair and ambles over to the small window at the far end of my room, pretending to look at the view. I know he is pretending because I have seen the view and I know there is nothing much to look at. One tree. The corner of the opposing brick building, speckled in moss. An unsightly amount of barbed wire atop a fence.
Where is she, I repeat.
Gone, he says, and although I know it is the answer I have been expecting all along to hear, I feel my heart sink. He turns around. The scar on his forehead crinkles into the folds of his brow. It happened right after—right after . . . He hesitates. She said she didn’t feel safe, that she needed to start over.
Of course, I say. Of course she did. Inside I feel my soul curl up into a small, knotted thing. But then the Lieutenant Detective says something I am not expecting to hear.
She asked me to give you something. He reaches deep into his right jacket pocket and produces a box. My heart immediately sets to pounding again—the way it did this morning when the nurses told me I had a visitor and I had dared to hope it would be her. It is a small box, about the size of a jewelry box, and covered in paper printed with roses. No detail was too small for Odalie. This embellishment cannot be a mistake. I reach out for it and take it in my hand. Inside I discover a single object. It is a brooch—a very expensive-looking one, with opals, diamonds, and black onyx stones all set into a very modern starburst pattern. She got it from your desk, he needlessly informs me. She said you would want it.
I hold the brooch in the palm of my hand and gaze at it. It is a lovely, mesmerizing sight; the shapes of it are now sharp and jagged and bittersweet in my mind. I understand what she is saying, and her cruelty has knocked the wind out of me. My eyes well up, but I do not cry.
Are you all right, Rose, asks the Lieutenant Detective. When I do not answer, he crosses the room and stands directly in front of me. Are you all right? He puts his hands on my shoulders. We are face-to-face. So close our noses are almost touching. I look into his eyes and see a soft, vulnerable spot somewhere deep within the dark of his pupils. Something vaguely malicious comes over me. I hear him give a little gasp of exhilaration and I feel him draw in his breath sharply, and I understand finally he has been wanting me to do this all along. I have never kissed a man before, but I have observed Odalie on more than one occasion, and I find myself taking action with a natural ease, as though executing by rote memory the scenes I’d witnessed. It is slow and warm, until I feel a sense of urgency in the Lieutenant Detective’s lips awakening an inkling of urgency in my own lips, and for a moment I almost believe in the truth of this gesture. But seconds tick by and before the kiss is over, I remember the knife he used on the night my dress got stuck in the door of the passageway exit at the speakeasy, and I feel my hand automatically reach for it. The Lieutenant Detective does not appear to feel a thing. When I pull away from him, he is gazing at me in a daze, a slow smile spreading over his face.
The Other Typist Page 31