by Merry Jones
She let out a loud, frustrated breath, no doubt pushing hair out of her eyes. Pursing her lips. Impatient.
“Come on, Susan. Realistically, you didn’t expect my amnesia to disappear in two fifty-minute sessions.” I opened my closet, glanced at my drab selection of tired, mostly two-years-ago-styled clothes.
“I was hoping it would. If not disappear, at least that it might leak a few dribbles of what happened.”
Her impatience made no sense. Made me nervous. “Susan, what’s really bothering you?”
Another deep sigh. “I gave the flash drive to Stiles today. He looked at the pictures.”
Her voice didn’t sound happy. Not even a little.
“Good. So he sees that there are others who might have hated Charlie.”
She sighed. “Yes. And no.”
And no? “What the hell does that mean?” I sat down on the bed. Clutched the comforter with my bandaged hand.
“He recognized the men in the photos, including Somerset Bradley. He was understandably appalled. But he didn’t necessarily draw the conclusions we hoped for.”
My fist tightened. So did my throat. I closed my eyes. “Tell me.”
“He’s my friend, Elle. He’s bent over backward to fend off an arrest. But he’s worried about your amnesia. He thinks it’s a little too convenient, and that not everyone will believe that it’s real. Some people will believe that you knew about the pedophilia and the photos longer than you say you did, that you fought with Charlie about them. And that fight might have been what led you to kill him.”
“But Charlie wasn’t in the pictures. So, even if I had seen them, why would I blame Charlie?”
“Elle.” Her voice was tired, parental. Slow. “You’re right. Charlie wasn’t in the pictures. But think. Somebody held the camera. So that somebody wouldn’t be in the pictures. Who do you think that could have been?”
I didn’t answer. I’d thought of that very same possibility, had confronted Charlie about it earlier. And he hadn’t actually denied holding the camera. Instead, he’d dodged, complaining that my suspicions were hurting his feelings, and then he’d changed the subject.
Except that Charlie was dead and buried. So, in fact, I hadn’t confronted him and he hadn’t dodged or changed the subject. In fact, I’d had the whole conversation with myself.
“So, bottom line: Stiles admits that the four men in the photos might be guilty of traveling for the purpose of exploiting minors and engaging in pedophilia, and he agrees that they might be worth looking at for Charlie’s murder. But he’s also aware that you’ve killed one of those men and claim not to remember it. And that you had the means, opportunity, and motive to kill Charlie, and you also claim not to remember that.”
“Claim? I’m not claiming—”
“Yeah. Well, I don’t think he’s buying your amnesia.”
“Stiles thinks I’m faking?”
“It doesn’t matter. Stiles isn’t your problem. He’s not the D.A.”
Oh. Something smoldered in my belly. Fizzed and burned like acid.
“So, here’s the deal.” I could almost see Susan’s face. She was sitting at her desk, head on her hand. Frowning. Eyebrows furrowed. “Stiles wants to meet with you privately. Tomorrow morning. Nine a.m. I’ll pick you up at eight.”
At eight. Tomorrow morning. And then what? After he met with me, would he arrest me? Right then? Damn, was I going to jail? In a matter of hours? I glanced at the clock on the night-stand. The digits made no sense. Green numbers with a colon in the middle, blinking, like the top hat and wand in that travel agency window. Where I’d gone just before I’d bumped into—
Oh God. Joel. I was supposed to meet him for dinner. How was I supposed to do that, knowing that I might be arrested in the morning? My first date promised to be my last. I pictured bars all around me. Long ones, thick and solid.
“Tomorrow, Susan, are they going to arrest me?” I made myself let go of the comforter. My nails had dug into my skin, and the cut on my hand had opened yet again.
She hesitated. “I doubt it. Not yet. He’d have given me a heads-up.” And then she added. “I think.”
She thought?
“That’s why I was hoping you’d had a breakthrough at the shrink.”
I got it. The police were focused on me. Closing in. I imagined living in a cell. Unable to see the sky. Walk along the river. Teach second grade. Feel the sunlight or have a Scotch or hang out with my friends or raid the refrigerator—
Suddenly, my earlier emergency—getting a restraining order against Sherry McBride—seemed unnecessary. Trivial.
“What color do prisoners wear, Susan? Orange?” Orange made my skin look sallow.
“Stop, Elle. You’re not in jail yet. Don’t fret and start imagining things. We’ll talk details in the morning.”
Don’t fret? Seriously? Why was she suddenly so casual? Acting as if an arrest for homicide was no big deal.
“For now, don’t even think about any of this. Go out and have a couple glasses of wine. Have fun on your dinner date.”
Really? Have fun?
We hung up. There was nothing else to say.
The clock flashed numbers, 7:16. I had to get ready.
I stood, looked into my closet, faced the same sorry clothes. And realized that, even though she hadn’t fussed over it, Susan had known about my date all along.
Clothes were strewn all over my bed. Laid out as outfits. My nerves were jangled. I couldn’t choose. Couldn’t focus. Kept fighting pictures in my mind. The bunk beds of a narrow jail cell. Sherry McBride skulking into my schoolroom. A shiv like the one in Somerset Bradley’s eye. Sherry McBride lurking outside my house, watching for Charlie. A prison tray of white bread and mashed potatoes.
I took sweaters out of my wardrobe—a red cable-knit, a dark-green cowl neck, a black cardigan decorated with patches, a comfy, bulky camel. I grabbed pants from the closet. Camel, black, brown, gray. Denim. Wool. Skinny legs, relaxed legs.
Wobbly, unsteady legs.
I felt nauseous. My insides rippled, squirmed, even as I tossed a corduroy blazer and a long-sleeved T-shirt onto the pile. And a loose, ankle-length flowery skirt. I had no idea what I was doing, amassing a mountain of clothing. But there it was, growing. I didn’t really see it, though. My thoughts seesawed between a crazed stalker and a prison sentence.
I told myself to get a grip. Get ready for dinner. Take a shower. And I did. I stepped into the shower. But suddenly, showering felt unfamiliar, luxurious. Precious. And private. Steaming water pounded the vanilla-scented shampoo on my scalp, streamed down my lathered body. Lord, I would miss this in prison. I’d heard that they only let you wash twice a week there. And then, you hosed down as a group. And the women were violent; they raped each other regularly as they soaped up and guards watched, pretending not to. Oh God. Were those stories true? Where had I heard them? Stories about how your hair gets oily and your skin breaks out, turns yellow because you get no sunlight.
“What’s with the pile of clothes, Elf? Are you packing? Going on a trip?”
Well, maybe I was, but the trip I’d be going on wouldn’t require packing. “No. Just out to dinner.” I wasn’t surprised to hear him. Or embarrassed to answer. “I can’t decide what to wear.” I didn’t look out of the shower to see him. I knew he wasn’t real.
“Dinner? Wait. You have a date?”
I turned off the water. Stepped out onto the mat. “Why not? We were separated. I’m single. I can date if I want.” Wrapped myself in a towel. Felt queasy. Pressed my arms against my stomach. Heard Susan declaring that my problem wasn’t Stiles, but the district attorney.
“But I’m not even cold yet. I only just got buried. It’s—disrespectful.”
“I’m not getting married, Charlie. I’m having dinner.” I crossed my arms, suddenly indignant. “And seriously, how can you complain about me seeing someone else? At least I waited until you were dead—”
“Okay, here we go—”
“I wasn’t the one who cheated and lied, Charlie—”
“Come on, Elle. You know the only woman I loved was you. Only you.”
“Stuff it.” I imagined Charlie sulking. His mournful eyes. I poured moisturizer onto my hands.
“So who is this guy? Do I know him?”
I didn’t answer. I applied cream to my face.
“Is this your first date?”
Massaged it deeply into my cheeks.
“Or have you been seeing him all along? Is that why you were so eager for a divorce?”
Oh Lord. “Stop it!” I meant myself, not Charlie. I needed to stop bringing him back. To do what Susan said, go out and have a few glasses of wine. Enjoy what might be my last night of freedom.
“You’re right. I should let you have some fun. After all, you might be going to prison soon. Besides, I have no business asking about your love life. I relinquished all rights—”
“Charlie, enough. Let’s not go there. Not again.” I was already frazzled. No way was I going to dissect the corpse of our marriage. I needed to dry my hair, pick out some clothes. Somehow get my stomach to settle. Stop spiraling.
“I’m just saying I want you to be happy.”
He did? “Thank you.” My hands were unsteady as I rubbed herbal skin cream onto my legs.
“I mean it, even after what you did. Even if you get away with it. After all, I’m dead, and that’s not going to change. No use blaming you forever.”
Blaming me? Would he never stop? “Let it go, Charlie. I didn’t kill you.”
“Right. I stuck the knife in my own back.”
I saw it, jutting bloody from his body. Touched the bandaged cut on my palm. Pictured myself in an orange jumpsuit, with pimples and greasy hair. Saw Sherry McBride stopping by on visiting day. I stood up, escaping the images. Wanting Charlie’s voice to stop, not sure where it was coming from. Beside the hamper? Behind the door? Inside the linen closet? Inside my head?
“Just tell me, Elle, why were you so mad at me? Why don’t you just say it?”
“Not now, Charlie.” I rubbed my temples, avoiding a headache.
“It wasn’t just the investment. And it couldn’t have been a woman. There was nobody—”
“Not even Sherry McBride?”
“I swear. She was nobody. Truthfully. Nobody.”
Was he protesting too much? Never mind. It didn’t matter. And he wasn’t there. I would ignore him. I opened my jewelry box. Maybe I’d start with accessories. A gold bangle bracelet? Gold hoop earrings? Or maybe diamond studs?
“So,” Charlie started again. “Why did you do it? Was it for the money?”
What?
“Because there’s quite a bundle. And you get all of it, Elle. Every penny. You were still my wife, and I didn’t have a will.”
I was appalled. Hurt. And mostly angry. “You think—you believe that I killed you for your money?”
“It would make sense—”
“To you, maybe.” Exasperated, I grabbed my tweezers, leaned into the mirror, plucked at an eyebrow. His money? Really?
“Damn it, Elle, be honest. You were pissed as hell when I borrowed your inheritance—”
“You didn’t borrow it. You stole it.”
“See? You’re still angry. You even said it was the last straw.”
“Meaning I was divorcing you, not killing you.”
“And yet, if I’m dead, you get all my assets. Not just the half you’d get in a divorce.”
The idea was absurd. Outrageous. I yanked another eyebrow hair.
“One small catch in that plan, though. If you’re convicted of killing me, you get nothing. Not a dime.”
“But I didn’t kill you.” Ouch. I pinched skin. Put the tweezer down, grabbed the hair dryer.
“Nevertheless—”
I turned it on to drown out his voice. I didn’t want to hear any more of his implications, excuses, and accusations. “Go away, Charlie.” I shouted above the whirr. “You’re dead. So go be dead. Leave me alone.”
“You can’t mean that, Elf.” He shouted, too, to be heard. “Not really.”
“Oh, but I do. Trust me.” In the mirror, my face looked distorted. Nostrils flaring. Eyes fierce. I whirled around, facing the empty room, holding the hairdryer. “Dammit, Charlie. Why wouldn’t I mean it? You accused me not just of killing you, but of doing it for your money? Money? After everything else you’ve done—”
“But I can explain all that—”
“I’m not talking about your shenanigans. I’m talking about the pictures of naked children you brought into my home. And the trips abroad you arranged for your pervert clients to have sex with kids.”
“Now wait, Elle.”
“How old were those kids, Charlie? Eight? Ten?”
“What makes you think I had anything to do with those trips?”
“You and your slimy partner. You’re the reason I’m in all this trouble. I fucking killed a man—I killed Somerset Bradley because of your sick pictures. And I’m about to be arrested for your—”
I stopped abruptly, mid-sentence. My voice had become guttural, scraping my throat, erupting hot and raw from my belly. I saw myself, but didn’t recognize the raving, stark naked woman standing in my bathroom, raging, screaming over my blow dryer into empty air. Jabbing her fingers at nothing. Belting out the exact sort of rage at Charlie that the police saw as my motive for murder.
I held still, panting, watching her slowly reclaim her temper. When she was calm, I turned off the hair dryer and looked around. The clock in the bedroom read 7:41. Charlie said nothing.
“Go away, Charlie.” My voice was flat now, and final. “Leave. Go wherever dead people are supposed to be. And stay there. Don’t come back.”
Holding my head with both hands, I stared out the bathroom door at the heap of clothing on my bed, unable to move.
And realized that the doorbell was ringing.
If Jen hadn’t stopped by, I probably wouldn’t have made it to dinner. I might have stood in the bathroom for an eon. But she did stop by, and she chattered nonstop as she picked out sleek but comfy black pants, a dark-red sweater, low-heeled boots. She talked as she helped with my makeup, reminding me that I needed to highlight my eyes, emphasize my cheekbones, moisturize my skin. I drifted in and out, hearing part of her monologue, letting her take charge, becoming rag-doll passive. I did not mention Sherry McBride or Susan’s call or the possibility of my arrest. I let her think that my nerves, my trembling were about my impending date.
“You’ll be fine, DSI.” Don’t Sweat It. Her voice sounded faraway, like a memory. “Being with a man—it’s like riding a bike. You learn it once and you know it forever.”
She dabbed perfume under my earlobes. A complicated scent. Sophisticated. She’d brought it with her, knowing I wouldn’t have any.
I tried to thank her.
“Don’t thank me. We do for each other. Christ, do you want me to thank you for everything you’ve ever done?” She messed with my hair, restarted the blow dryer. “Okay, here goes. Starting with high school: Thanks for letting me cheat off you in geometry. Thanks for pretending the cigarettes were yours. Oh, and for double dating with me and that kid Alex—remember him? Junior Mister America—”
“Okay, Jen. I get it.” I didn’t have to thank her.
“So,” she fluffed some kind of goo onto my head, “this guy’s got SA?” Sex Appeal.
“Jen. It’s just dinner.”
“Right. Don’t be coy, Elle. I can tell you’re nervous. He’s got to have some serious SA.”
Well, she was right. He did. I pictured him. Eyes teasing. Lips hinting at a smile. Shoulders rippling under his blazer.
“You’ve got to think positive, Elle. Don’t get stuck on the past and the mess with Charlie. That’s over. Sooner or later, you have to take charge and envision what you want. Maybe it’ll be this guy, maybe not. But whatever, it’s up to you to create your future. Go for it.”
I nodded. Wondered if she’d
visit me in jail, decided that she’d come by dutifully, once. Maximum twice. Prison didn’t fit into Jen’s safe, shiny world. The orchestra fit there. And charity benefit balls. And luncheons and pedicures and Lexuses and landscape architects and Super Bowl tickets, but not prison. I closed my eyes to let her apply shadow, opened them for the mascara brush. Let her manicured fingers play with my face, rearrange my hair. I wanted her to stay. Felt that if Jen were with me, prison couldn’t happen. I watched her, wondered what it was like to be Jen. To be able to eat anything, never gain weight. To spend anything, never run out of money. To take yoga, Pilates, gardening, golf lessons, never need an actual career.
But it didn’t matter what it was like to be Jen. I was stuck in my own skin. And it didn’t matter how that skin was made up or what fabrics it was wrapped in. It didn’t matter where or if I had dinner, or with whom. In or out, with or without wine or the dinner date, the night would pass. The morning would come. And I would have to meet with Stiles.
At 7:57, Jen declared me ready to go, pecked me on the cheek as I thanked her, and darted out the door. I was still in the entranceway when the doorbell rang. I opened the door, thinking Jen must have forgotten something.
Joel stood there, eyes dancing, holding a single red rose.
It went by in an eye blink. No, it hung, suspended in time, separate from everything else. Unattached to before or after. Isolated. Protected, like a pearl in a shell.
And then it was over. I signaled Becky with a quick text to say that I’d returned safely, that we’d talk in the morning. Then I got undressed and lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling. Replaying my date long into the night.
When I opened the door, he told me I looked breathtaking. Breathtaking. I liked the sounds of the word. “Breath” sounded soft, gentle. Air passing around tongue and through teeth at the end. “Taking,” though, sounded sudden, sharp, cutting. Sexual. Dangerous. So, I looked soft and dangerous? I liked that idea. That he couldn’t breathe when he looked at me.
But it was only a word. And Joel, I already knew, was a flirt. A player with teasing eyes.
I accepted the rose, put it in a tall thin vase. And we walked to Rembrandt’s, were given a table in a dimly lit corner in the room behind the piano bar. Candlelight. Couples all around us; two tables of four. Some looked up as we walked by. The women eyeing Joel. I tried to see us, what we looked like, but couldn’t drift off. I was solidly planted in the moment.