by A. R. Taylor
JENNA
TAKES
THE
FALL
Copyright © 2020, A. R. Taylor
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.
Published 2020
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN: 978-1-63152-793-7
ISBN: 978-1-63152-794-4
Library of Congress Control Number: 2020903828
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All company and/or product names may be trade names, logos, trademarks, and/or registered trademarks and are the property of their respective owners.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
In memory of Joyce Engelson, so gifted, smart, and kind.
She knew everybody’s secrets.
A Friday in Late August, Manhattan, 1999
I don’t like being fifty, and I don’t like thinking about death.
—HOWARD STERN, The Howard Stern Show,
WXRK radio, 1998
He should be shot with shit ’til he’s dead and dirty.
—MARGARET GRACE MCCANN,
Jenna McCann’s grandmother
PROLOGUE
Vincent Hull lay on the floor, his gray pants and white boxers around his knees, right arm splayed out in front of him. His left arm curled under his body, as if protecting his privates. Everything about him was obscene, especially the fleshy buttocks exposed to the air. Jenna pulled off her jacket and bent down to where he lay on the left side of his face. She could see only one eye, that one unblinking. His famously long, almost shoulder-length, white hair looked slightly damp, as the poor man stared straight ahead at eternity.
Jenna sank backwards down into a chair next to the leather couch. Rigor mortis—she’d heard of it, possibly seen it on television, but didn’t really know what it entailed. Would he be stiff like that? Probably not yet. She looked at her watch; over an hour since Vincent Macklin Hull’s publicity person, Tasha, had telephoned her. She loosened one button on her blouse, undoing another. Clean, she was altogether clean and, of course, stone cold sober. She picked up one of the heavy cocktail glasses, pouring herself a stiff shot of vodka, careful to leave her lipstick on the rim. For a moment, she and the dead man communed in a sort of silent prayer. She touched his back, she touched his head and smoothed his hair. He was cool under her touch. This awful change between the living, breathing man he had once been to this lifeless pile of bones on the floor, it was horrible, much worse than seeing her grandmother in repose. She didn’t want to put herself beneath him, as had been her instructions. Why not just sit right here and tell her story to paramedics? Perhaps, though, that would raise even more questions, since what she was doing there would look suspicious. She poured herself another, shorter vodka shot and drank it quickly.
Beside the man now, she took off one of her shoes, then pulled the bottom of her blouse out from her waist, but she could put her task off no longer, as she knew time was part of her assignment. She tried to lift his arm, but it was too heavy and flopped back down again. Should she roll him over? Could she? He was maybe six foot four and at least two hundred pounds. For a moment, across her eyes flashed the many photos she had seen of him in life, at charity dinners, holding little children’s hands, clasping the rich and the famous with a grin. How would this particular image play if it were made public? But presumably, only the authorities would see it, thank god. She shoved him a bit, but he lay still. Finally she got at his head, her two legs akimbo above it and began to slide herself down under him. It was difficult, and only as she managed to get him to about her knees did she see liquid dripping out of his mouth.
As she pulled him up, that spit trickled down onto her breast. She grimaced and looked away from the pale face that loomed above her and continued wriggling. Her instructions had been to get his DNA all over her. The fact that there would be no semen, at least not in her, didn’t seem to be a problem as long as she smeared something else of his over her. But maybe there was—maybe he was still wet from his longings. He might have expired in the very act and then withdrawn. Horrible thought. Still, she continued to wriggle, legs wide apart now, skirt hiking up so that her thighs rubbed against the dead man’s pants. His head hung heavy and kept banging against her as she moved. She could smell, what? Liquor still on his breath, something metallic, and for a moment she thought she would gag.
But now she felt something else, his naked body. Though his arm and face were cold, he was hot still in the center, his penis against her leg, erect, heavy. Was this from just recent sex or from that thing called “angel lust,” when men die violently and end up hard as a rock? She turned her head and retched onto the floor. Most of the vodka came up, and then she began to cry. What the hell was she doing? She should get up and have another few drinks, start over with all this, but she could go no further. She did not want to feel this fifty-nine-year old dead body any closer to her or deeper into her.
She snaked her arm back to grab the telephone off the coffee table and pulled it down to her side. With great difficulty she punched in 911, but then hung up immediately. She had to have a script, some speech in mind that would sound authentic, and it wasn’t too hard to imagine what that might be. She decided to turn her face directly toward Hull and look into his eyes. They were still dark but fixed, a blank. Did they now look upon God or some nasty Hell? She began to cry, and then she howled and she screamed, amping up the hysteria, grabbing the phone again, wailing now in earnest. When the 911 operator answered, she shrieked into phone, “He’s dead, he’s dead! Help, come quickly! It must be a heart attack.” When she had calmed down enough to give the address and the name of the dead party, the operator asked to have it repeated twice. “Yes, it’s Vincent Hull. Come now!”
She shoved the phone away and lay quietly now underneath the man, his face so well known to her.
PART ONE
Early June, 1999
Even presidents have private lives. It is time to stop the pursuit of personal destruction and the prying into private lives and get on with our national life.
—WILLIAM JEFFERSON CLINTON, statement from the White House following his Grand Jury testimony, August, 1998
I want this room as shiny as two dogs’ balls under a bed.
—MARGARET GRACE MCCANN
ONE
Vincent Macklin Hull had been having an affair for close to a year with someone he should not have been. This struck him vividly, and he had been trying to sort his way out of it. Up until now, most of his romantic involvements had been short-lived adventures that he kept hidden in the most compulsive, meticulous way. For the absurd scandals of his fellows, he felt only contempt, and ruining his life for a woman did not figure in his playbook at all. This latest involvement, however, actually demanded his attention; it was getting out of hand. He didn’t know if he loved her or just occupied himself with overheated fantasy, but he spent more and more time with his mistress. Alas—time—there just wasn’t enough of it, nor of space, either psychic or rea
l. He wanted to craft it, to remold it to his liking, but time fought back at him and resisted.
About his wife, he felt not so much guilty as annoyed. In the past, Sabine Hull had ignored various lapses, swimming along as she did in their mutually prosperous sea. During their fifteen-year marriage, Vince had provided her with four homes, each crafted in a restrained but opulent way: the townhouse in Manhattan, a weekend house in Water Mill on Mecox Bay, their Hawaiian island getaway on Lanai, to which they rarely went, and a ranch in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, their “hunting lodge nouveau,” as Sabine called it. Unfortunately, his current dalliance could prove expensive, and a huge cloud of absolute impossibility hovered over his head, as in not allowing himself to think about how bad things could get. Because of his age and wealth, he had counted on the benefactor role to smooth over any marital lapses on his part; he thought his wife would love him for all he’d given her, and she had for a time, but lately he had grown anxious. He could feel the molecules vibrating asymmetrically, as if a whole new world of energy pulled them apart.
Sabine came from a middle-class family with its roots in Villefranche on the Côte d’Azur, and when Vince Hull first met her sixteen years ago, she had been comely and funny. And younger, only twenty-seven at the time. In the early days, he had needed her, because he wanted to stonewall his own forty-three years. He had enjoyed her French coolness, her unflappable gentility, her European maturity, and with her swaggering bob of short dark hair, often in motion, she seemed always about to applaud some imaginary triumph; but now, at fifty-nine, he just felt older than the world. She too had changed.
Of late, she protested her treatment because Vincent didn’t sleep with her much any more, and he was longer and longer away from whatever house she occupied. For him this posed problems, as he wanted to be near his two daughters, but he did not want to make love to his wife, and so between the time issue and the love issue came a blockage of a most confusing sort. About her he had moved from passion to clarity to tolerance, poised for anything that might slip out of her voluble French mouth. She talked. A lot. She loved to talk, she had a ball talking, as if she could consume the world with words, and Vincent finally decided the French needed three words for every English one. Inevitably he had retired to a listening attitude, not wanting to have to respond. In the larger scheme of things, and this he knew, Hull was the kind of man who would have been bored with an uncomplicated, unchallenging personal life.
Vincent Macklin Hull came from a long line of seriously competent bastards. His celebrated grandfather Malcolm Erskine Hull, an engineer from Edinburgh, had discovered and worked copper mines in Chile, subsequently inventing several very useful drill bits, but in his spare time he cursed humans and kicked dogs. Vincent’s father, Myron Hull, had grown the business to include an array of drilling companies, along with pipeline manufacturers, all the while acquiring pipeline rights across several other Latin American countries, and while the family empire continued to expand depending on the whims and character of these men, it came to include serious money losers in the United States, among them three tabloid newspapers, two radio stations, a publishing company of scientific journals, even an amusement park, all to give work to a host of dull-witted relatives.
The first family home was in Chicago, currently occupied by his 102-year-old aunt, along with five caregivers. His father, two uncles, and yet another aunt had long ago owned lavish residences in New York, the hub of the Hull empire. All dead now, they still whispered in his ear random curses in the night. In 1962 Vince’s father announced to his beleaguered family, “I want to control the lines of talk, so I can control the national conversation,” and that had led him first to acquire NewsLink, a rival then to Time and Newsweek, but with more gossip and bigger, more vivid photographs. In his later years, he bought into telecom, his single most spectacular bet, but he remained an uncouth, loutish roustabout, despite his many donations to the world of culture. He badgered Vince relentlessly and got drunk on Saturday nights, often raising a hand against both son and wife.
As an only child, Vince hid himself away when the family battles raged, then tried to enlist the help of neighbors. In the worst incident, his father tried to strangle his mother, at least that’s how he heard it from the safety of his own bedroom. The twelve-year-old had opened the door to find his mother cowering on the floor, his father clasping her neck in one hand and holding a drink in the other. They had both stared up at him, momentarily lifted out of their battle, and he had backed out, terrified about what to do next. He had run to the kitchen, finding refuge in the broom closet.
Vincent was only too glad to see the mean old man go, and when he finally did “cark it,” his son was grateful right down to his soul, if he had a soul, relieved at the vast fortune the man had passed down, though it was a legacy accompanied by harrowing burdens. All through his youth, Vince had had both great regard for himself and a fair amount of self-loathing, yet for the failings of others he had no tolerance whatsoever, and this bled into his relationships at work. Still, as his current life stood, he could indulge any and all of his feelings from behind the protective wall of inherited money, only emerging to talk to his two girls’ schoolteachers or to his very sociable wife’s friends. When he got too upset, he went to the gun range downtown on 20th Street, or he bought things.
On this day in early June, he wanted to get home quickly to check out a present he had just given himself, a very big present. Pausing for a moment outside his townhouse at the corner of Fifth Avenue and 71st Street, one of the largest single-family residences in Manhattan, he hoped to find no member of his family at home, only the help, wanting privacy with his purchase. Sure enough, as he entered the foyer—and what a foyer, of carved stone and marble, inconspicuous little television screens scanning the four levels of the house—there stood a Mark Rothko painting from a series done in 1969. It leaned against a table across from the carpeted winding staircase that led up to the living room, and, wrapped in plastic and masking tape, it had the homey aspect of an ordinary package.
Vince was tempted to snip the tape apart but then thought better of it. Instead, he sat down on the last step of the stairs and simply stared at it. Through the filmy covering he glimpsed the feathery black wash that bled down onto the turbid, much larger gray rectangle that lay beneath. One of a group of works that seemed to explore successive levels of despair, Rothko must have painted it with the calm, sure knowledge that peace would be upon him whenever he too merged into the darkness, as he did one year later when he committed suicide. Vince wanted to savor the complexities of the object and its maker before he could even think of getting the housekeeper to deal with the plastic, but he couldn’t think very long because his eleven-year-old daughter burst through the front door, heaving her backpack onto a chair, grabbing her friend, as the two prepared to raid the kitchen.
“Daddy,” Amelia cried and ran to kiss him. The friend hung back, intimidated by the house and the truly enormous object propped up on the floor. “What’s that?” his daughter demanded.
“A new painting. Do you think you’ll like it?”
“How should I know? I can’t see it. Want us to pull off all that stuff around it?” The two girls giggled, then held hands, threatening to jump on it maybe, while Vincent still observed them from his seat on the steps.
“Absolutely not. It’s a present I’m waiting to open.”
“You’re silly.” She kissed him on the top of his head. “It’s not Christmas.”
“I want every day to be Christmas.”
“It’s summer. Can’t you tell? I’m going to sleep-away camp or maybe France, so you have to unwrap it before I go.”
“Of course I will.” The girls scampered off, leaving a trail of noise and laughter. Vince could hear their chatter as the refrigerator door opened, and in that moment he felt comforted. Despite the contempt he felt for all the toadies and sycophants in his life, such feelings conflicted with his very real neediness. He told himself that he craved privac
y, but actually he wanted to be surrounded with people. He needed noise, action, family, phone calls, plans, purchases—the works.
By dinnertime two maids and a house manager had unwrapped the painting, but still it remained lounging against the table in the foyer. When she came home, Sabine Hull stopped in her tracks to look at the thing, displayed in all its glory. The size and the opaque bleakness of it, at least to her way of thinking, had her stunned. It was dull, it was dark, it was depressing. Where would they put it? There weren’t any more blank walls, even given how many walls they had.
In point of fact, the Hull mansion housed a priceless art collection, American and European works from the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, but Vince now preferred the moderns. In his younger days, he had wanted some validation by buying well-known, accepted names, but later on he bought whatever he wanted, and he wanted the greatness of experimentation, the lustful energy that cried out for incomprehension or annoyance, or some major emotion. The safety of chaste and charming pictures no longer attracted him, and this was surely his most important purchase as well as his most expensive.
At dinner Amelia and her friend, now revealed as “Thea,” huddled next to each other whispering and giggling, while Vince’s older daughter, Claire, a quiet, exotic blonde with almond-shaped blue eyes and a lot of hair, three years older than her sister, kept listening distractedly for the phone in the hall. “Why do you listen for your calls all the time, Claire? I don’t encourage people to call me at home.”
“You don’t encourage people at all, Dad.”
“I talk to people constantly.” His older daughter looked away, while her mother sipped her wine and picked up another piece of bread, buttering it carefully as she framed her words.