Fatal Analysis (GG02)

by Tom Bierdz

  “Isley Hodges. Goes by Lee. He’s the tall, dark and handsome, cowboy type. Wears a cowboy hat and boots.”

  Winking, she said, “You never know when I might want to saddle up. And, I imagine he has a big gun!”

  “Megan, you’re wicked.”

  “Roast is resting on the counter. Want to help me in the kitchen?”

  I followed her in, my eyes on her tight derriere.

  Under candlelight Megan served a succulent prime rib, double-baked potatoes, sautéed asparagus, and homemade dinner rolls. Although the way to my heart wasn’t through my stomach, the dinner was definitely a plus. I didn’t judge Megan to be so domesticated. I figured she’d have paid help to do the cooking. She could afford it. If she cooked to impress me she succeeded as everything was top-notch and delicious. Afterward, we retired to the living room with a glass of cognac.

  “You’re staying the night, right?” Megan asked. She drifted off to the stereo, played Antonio Carlos Jobin Brazilian music.

  “Right.” The muted sounds of the Girl from Ipanema wafted by. I pictured a tanned Megan in a bikini strutting on the ocean shore.

  “Why not stay the weekend? We can pick up your things tomorrow morning. Maybe take a ride up to Bainbridge Island.”

  “I’m not ready for that yet. Besides, I promised Greg to take him birding and I need to see Carrie.”

  “Who’s Carrie?”

  “The attorney on the first floor.”

  “I don’t think I’ve seen her.”

  “Sure you have. Here,” I said, fishing for my wallet in my back pocket. “I have a photo of her.” I showed Megan the picture, a headshot of Carrie taken a few years ago.”

  “She’s very pretty.”

  “Yes.”

  “What are you seeing her about?” Her smile suddenly seemed disingenuous.

  “Honestly, I really don’t know. She’s bothered by something. I’m assuming it’s her father’s health. He had a heart attack.”

  “She lives with her father?”

  “No, she works with her father. She lives alone.”

  “And not married?” A pucker of concern knotted her brow.

  “And not married. Don’t tell me you’re jealous? She’s simply a good friend.”

  “Simply a good friend, is she? And, you keep her picture in your wallet.” Megan paraded to the wet bar, made herself another martini. Her body sagged as if it were punctured. “I didn’t know men and women could be simply good friends.”

  My eyes darted to the large oil painting of a younger Megan that hung above the fireplace mantel. She was seated on the grass in a park, in a white short-sleeve sweater and matching skirt, spread out in a circle covering her feet. She looked pensive and serene in sharp contrast to her present mood.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You know damn well what that means. You want me to believe you never slept with her?”

  I wasn’t prepared for Megan’s reaction. We’d only been seeing each other for a few weeks, even though it was an intensive few weeks. Jealousy was a normal reaction, but I was feeling it bordered on being possessive. “As a matter of fact, I did fifteen years ago, long before I was married to Hanna. And we’ve been good friends ever since. Nothing more.”

  Apparently, realizing she was not winning any points, she switched her demeanor, moved closer to me. “I’m sorry, Grant. I just don’t want to lose you. And my experience has been that I’ve never had a male friend who didn’t want to get into my pants.”

  “Not all men are the same,” I said, embracing her. I felt her shaking diminish as I held her, surprised not so much by her jealousy, but by her body’s physical reaction.

  “You’ll still spend the evenings with me?”

  “Definitely.”

  She topped off the cognac, sidled next to me on the couch. “I didn’t mean to come off so strong. I’ve just had some bad experiences with men in the past. I overreacted. You seem different from the others. Sincere. I need you close. I don’t want to frighten you and send you away.”

  “Did you want to talk about it?”

  “No, not today anyway. I just want you to understand and forgive me.”

  “Done,” I said.

  23

  I slept soundly through the night awakening to muted sounds coming from the lower level. Assuming Megan was up and about, I opened my eyes to see her sleeping beside me. I gently yanked my arm from under her and sat up. My first thought was that a burglar was in the house. I shook Megan.

  “I hear someone in the house.”

  “That’s only Margot,” she mumbled. “She’s making breakfast.” She tucked her pillow under her head.

  Since Megan cooked for me the few times I ate here, and I never saw any servants, I was surprised to know she had help. She later explained she has Margot on call for when she needed her, keeping her on a retainer. If Margot cooked for her regularly she’d eat too much and put on weight.

  The clock on the bedside table showed after nine. I crawled out of bed and showered, appreciating once again how good the sex was with Megan. It seemed that whenever I had any doubts about her such as her petty jealousy about Carrie, I’d cast them away after a night of adoring sex.

  Megan knew how to make me feel special, that I mattered so much she could never hurt me.

  We ate breakfast on the terrace that overlooked the city below. I was dressed casually for my meeting with Carrie. Megan wore a silk, white morning gown. A plump, fifty-something Margot served fresh squeezed, orange juice in stemmed glasses, scrambled eggs and bacon, bagels and coffee. While I ate heartily, Megan picked at her eggs and took a couple bites of her bagel.

  In the corner was a telescope facing the homes below and I wondered if Megan spied on her neighbors. I knew she wasn’t a birder and that there was a little voyeur in all of us. I considered asking her about it, then changed my mind. I didn’t want the conversation to go in that direction. I wanted to enjoy the peaceful feeling I had. The telescope indicated there was a lot I didn’t know about this woman who I was spending a lot of time with. I was getting lost in the romance and sexual pleasures, enjoying the ride, and not probing very deeply beyond.

  I knew I was flawed, living out the axiom of being led by the organ between my legs. Many would fault me for my frequenting the bars, searching for action after losing Kevin and Hanna. I was a psychiatrist. I should know better. But only others who had been there could comprehend the pain, the grief, the need to feel connected, to feel something other than misery. Sex was an analgesic, a balm. It soothed the pain. But now that Megan was exerting pressure on me to spend the weekend with her, I would need to open my eyes a little wider.

  “More coffee, mister?” Margot inquired, holding the carafe at the ready.

  “No thanks, Margot,” I said, moving into the present and covering my cup with my hand. I glanced at my watch. “I should be going.”

  “I can shower and drive you,” Megan volunteered.

  “No, I’ll call a cab. What do you plan to do?”

  “I’ll work out at the gym. I think there’s a yoga class I can make. What time should I expect you?”

  “Sometime around six.”

  “Want to see a movie?”

  “A chick flick?”

  “No, one of those dragon tattoo, girl pictures. I’m not sure which one.”

  “Sure.” I called for the cab while Margot cleared the table.

  When the taxi arrived, I hugged Megan. “See you later.”

  She didn’t release me, but said, “Make sure you keep your distance from Carrie.”

  I winced. “Megan, why do you even have to mention it? It’s all about trust.”

  “Yes, sweetheart, you’re absolutely right.” She locked her eyes with mine, then smiling widely, she added, “I trust you and you trust me. We have to trust one another.”

  Carrie lived in a small luxury, one-bedroom, condominium, apartment downtown, close to work and in the center of all the nightlife. She answered
the door in a T-shirt and jeans, her hair bound in a ponytail, her face wrinkled with worry. She gave me a warm embrace. “Thanks for coming.” Ushering me inside and closing the door, she asked, “Coffee or beer?”

  “Beer.” I sunk into the soft, yellow leather couch, moved the Robert Dugoni legal thriller, face down and opened to her place, to the end table. “I like your apartment,” I said, recognizing many of the contemporary furnishings from her house. The art deco building had recently been converted into condos. I admired the black lacquered, coffee table upon the inlaid parquet, wooden floor. An enormous sunburst was etched into the main living room wall. A Great Gatsby poster of geometric shapes adorned another wall.

  “I’ve been here over a year now,” she said, handing me my beer, “and you’re here for the first time. That’s how much we’ve been out of touch.” She sat down beside me.

  Just because I hadn’t been to her new place, I didn’t consider us being out of touch. We had our little tete-a-tete and interacted professionally, but I wasn’t about to disagree. She was referring to an unmet need of hers. “You’re concerned about Mike?”

  “Of course. He’s much too young to make such a drastic life change, but he will. What choice does he have? But that’s not why I needed to see you.”

  I entered total awareness mode, prepared to appropriately respond to whatever concern she had.

  Her whole body crumbled, shrinking her already diminishing size. She locked her eyes on the mug of beer she twisted in her hands, then raised her eyes, “I’m pregnant.”

  “What? Who?” I stuttered, stunned.

  “Some stud I met at O’Reilly’s with all the physical attributes and few of the mental. I’m not keeping it.”

  “Does he know?”

  She shook her head. “No, and I’m not going to tell him.” She swigged her beer. “I know better, but I was horny and didn’t have a condom in my purse. He didn’t have one either and we were too far gone to let that stop us.”

  I clucked my tongue. “How far along?”

  “I don’t know. Something like a couple of months. Still early enough.”

  I squeezed her shoulder.

  “You want to know the funny part?”

  “There’s a funny part?”

  “Yeah, we screwed in his truck cab right in the parking lot.”

  “You mean that thing that covers the bed of the truck?”

  “Yeah, on a dirty, old sleeping bag with barely room to move around.”

  I broke out in raucous laughter. “I’m picturing it in my mind, one of your asses banging against the roof.”

  She laughed. “Stupid, like a goddamned adolescent.”

  “I don’t think that’s exactly what they mean when they say to unleash your inner child.”

  She forced a wry smile. “I’ve been so down on myself. How could I be so stupid? So irresponsible?”

  “You’re human. We make mistakes.”

  She fell into my arms and cried. Eventually she asked, “I don’t want to have the abortion alone. Will you come with me?”

  “Certainly.”

  Her unloading and my acceptance had an uplifting effect. Self-effacing, and making fun of herself, she told me again of her encounter with ‘Stud’ in detail, relating how he came on to her, her encouragement, how they smoked a couple of joints in his truck, began to make out, stumbled into the truck bed, shoved clutter out of the way, found it near impossible to undress, and laughed at themselves entirely through the rutting. Carrie could be a stand-up comedian. She knew how to tell a story, when to embellish and what to skirt over.

  We talked about old times, particularly funny things that happened in our pasts. I inquired about Mike. She said he was healing. His doctor offered a good prognosis. The biggest problem was with Mike’s attitude, finding it hard to accept his limitations and modify his behavior. She wanted to know how I was dealing with Kevin’s loss. The best I could say was that I didn’t think of him every single moment of every day.

  After the third or fourth beer, she asked, “You still seeing that blonde I saw you with on the porch?”

  “Megan. Yeah.”

  “How’s that going?”

  “Good. At least she’s not pregnant!” I blurted out, immediately wishing I could take it back. “Sorry,” I uttered, embarrassed.

  “That’s okay,” she said, forcing a smile. “But now that you brought it up, are you sure? Do you use a condom every time?”

  I bit my lip. How naive of me. I used a condom the first few times, but Megan stopped me, said she was on the pill. “Megan’s on the pill.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yeah,” I said, doubt entering my mind for the first time. “Getting pregnant is not her style. I don’t think she wants children, or even has any maternal needs.”

  My answer seemed to satisfy Carrie, but I was appalled at how little I knew about Megan. Being trustful of others was healthy, but to throw all caution to the wind was being gullible. It wouldn’t hurt, and it would serve me well, to check the medicine cabinet when I used the bathroom and to pay attention to objects lying on the counters or tables. I could ask her what pills she was taking. As a doctor I could pass judgment on the effectiveness and side effects of the drug she was taking, and evaluate the truthfulness of her reaction.

  “Are you getting serious?” she probed.

  “I don’t honestly know. You and I have talked about how my analyzing everything can be a downer, a pleasure stopper. Megan came along and swept me off my feet. I’ve tried to let go, ride the waves, enjoy the now. I’ve been good for her, too. Only hours ago she wanted me to spend the entire weekend with her. I like being with her, but I’m beginning to feel some pressure, that she wants to take this to the next level.”

  “Which is?” Carrie got up to modify the drape to cut off the sun rays splashing into my face.

  Her action gave me more time to consider my answer. “I’m not really sure, but I don’t think it’s too far away from living together.”

  “Before you make that commitment, Grant, be sure you know what you’re getting into.” She joined me on the couch.

  Carrie was right. With all my training and experience I was going into the relationship with Megan blinded. I was a trusting soul. Did I really know that she was on the pill, that she didn’t want children, that she wouldn’t use pregnancy to get me to marry her? That was just one example, a bad one at that because all of my instincts told me I really didn’t need to be concerned about that. But there were so many other things, other suspicions, such as those aroused by Detective Rollins that I cast aside. Because I didn’t want to believe them, and because I was overcompensating for my tendency to obsessively over-analyze everything. I’d have to find a middle ground; to be in the moment and to stay alert for anything that seemed suspicious and trust my intuition.

  Carrie made a bowl of popcorn. She cuddled up to me, finding comfort in my big brother arms as we watched Casablanca on the television. I felt flattered she knew she could come to me for help with a problem. I was there for her and would support her, whatever that required, through her abortion. But as I sat by her I couldn’t help but reflect on the concept that when you reach out to help others you receive back much more. Carrie had enabled me to reset my eyes on Megan, to filter through the erotic gauze, and view her more realistically. It was now up to me to follow through.

  24

  I called for a taxi and left Carrie’s around seven. I was in no hurry to see Megan. Something was pulling me to the George Washington Bridge where Kevin had jumped. I had gone to the site immediately after the incident but steered clear of it ever since, sometimes even detouring out of the way, to avoid it. But the pull today was too strong to resist, almost like I was on automatic pilot unable to maneuver the controls. I couldn’t tell the cabbie where I wanted to go without drawing some questioning stares or fabricating some kind of explanation, so I gave him a couple of cross streets to get me in the general area. Being unable to drive had its own serie
s of complications and I cursed myself for getting the DUI. Life was complicated enough. I didn’t need to pile on. Fortunately, the cabbie didn’t need to chatter, leaving me to my thoughts.

  It was still daylight and would be at least another hour before nightfall, before I could go to the bridge. Kevin jumped at night. Even with passing cars, night would give me anonymity. I’d have to kill some time. I observed pedestrians as we drove by them: the adults walking their dogs, working in their yards, washing their cars, smoking on the porch. Most had fielded the trials and tribulations that life threw at you. How did they handle them? Were they better off or worse because of them? The others, whose lives hadn’t yet been disrupted by some unforeseen event, would eventually be tested in one way or another. When I was younger, my parents and others told me that God never gave you more than you could handle. But was that really true? Kevin couldn’t handle life and chose to escape from it. And God? Well, I take Him out of the equation, regard Him as hands off, leaving us to our own devices. I observed the children playing in the park on the playscape, running, playing tag, baseball and soccer. I bled for the children whose childhoods have been tainted by traumas they never envisioned, nor were prepared for. Bad enough to beset by tragedies as an adult. Thankfully, most have not yet dealt with life’s harsh realities. I wished them well when they do.

  My phone rang. It was Megan. I let her leave a message. She had to be wondering where I was.

  I told her I’d be back around six. I didn’t want to talk to her now. What I had to do was personal.

  “Drop me off in front of that tavern,” I shouted.

  The tavern, a small residence that had been converted into a pub, was only a couple of blocks from the bridge. I paid the driver, added a generous tip, and walked inside the building.

  The place was small with a stale, saturated beer odor, a scent I wouldn’t have identified a few weeks back when I was frequenting every sort of alcoholic establishment. The bartender, a jolly fellow with glasses perched on his head, washed glasses by dipping them into one side of the sink, then rinsing them into another. Two young guys sat at one end of the bar discussing war. They seemed to be debating whether they should enlist since they hadn’t been able to find satisfactory jobs. I sat on a stool, ordered a beer. After giving me the beer, the bartender turned up the volume on the television. Some sitcom was playing and the noise from the laugh track sent me reeling. I retired to a table in the corner away from the noise.