The Black Stiletto: Stars & Stripes

by Raymond Benson

  She was very good to me, though. The fact that she’s a doctor helped. She was very kind at the restaurant and talked me down. The date ended with a small kiss, so I guess that’s a good sign. I do like her and think she’s gorgeous. I hope I’m not going to be sheepish around her from now on.

  As I entered Woodlands today, I thought about what Maggie had said—that I should see a shrink. I sure don’t want to. The idea of taking antidepressants is depressing, and I don’t mean that to be funny. But it’s true, I need to do something. I have trouble sleeping; my mind races and I imagine all kinds of horrible fictional scenarios as I toss and turn. If I manage to fall asleep, I have nightmares and wake up disturbed and anxious. It’s so weird because whatever’s wrong with me started only recently and has gotten worse very quickly.

  Nevertheless, I put on my happy face when I walked into Mom’s room. She sat in front of her portable television watching a soap opera. That rocking chair I got her has seen some good use. She displays complete contentment as she sits in that thing, just like Mrs. Whistler in the painting.

  “Hi, Mom!”

  She looked up and smiled. The elusive twinkle in her eyes made a brief appearance. Something, somewhere in the deep recesses of her mind, an electric pulse stimulated a nerve that told her that I was someone she cared about. Would she remember the exact relationship today?

  I leaned over and gave her a hug and kissed her cheek. “Can you say hello to your son, Mom?”

  “Hello,” she said. She actually kissed me on the cheek in return. That was rare.

  I sat on the edge of her bed, near the rocker. “What are you watching?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” She turned back to the TV, the smile remaining on her face.

  “Are you following the story?”

  “What?”

  “Are you following the story on the TV?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.”

  We went through our ritualistic same-old, same-old conversation. What did she have for breakfast? Had she been for a walk yet? How was she feeling? I got the usual generic answers and we slipped into the predictable clueless silence that invariably takes over when I visit. It’s almost as if I’ve run out of the small talk I can have with my mother. I can’t discuss anything of importance because she wouldn’t know what I’m going on about. If I try, she acts like she understands, nods her head, and says, “Oh?” or “Is that so?” or “I’m sorry to hear that” or any number of other conditioned responses.

  So I watched the soap opera with her and my mind wandered. My thoughts went back to the restaurant and the panic attack. My eyes darted to the dresser, where several framed photographs sat. Gina’s senior picture. One of me and Mom. My high school graduation pic. Me and Gina. Mom when she was young.

  Mom when she was young…

  The Black Stiletto.

  My mom was the Black Stiletto.

  The sudden rush of adrenaline jolted me and I almost grunted. A wave of anxiety rolled over me, and I knew I had to get out of that room. I couldn’t let Mom see me have a panic attack.

  But before I could get up or say anything, she turned her head and looked at me. She had tears in her eyes. She reached over with one hand and placed it on mine, which was resting on my knee.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. A drop rolled down her cheek.

  “Mom, it’s okay. What’s wrong?” I asked. Then I felt like I was going to cry.

  “I understand,” she said as if she was right there on my wavelength.

  “You do?”

  “She was—”

  Oh my God, was my mom about to say something about the Black Stiletto?

  “What, Mom? What was she?” I found myself becoming more anxious and choked up.

  Mom wrinkled her brow. Whatever was on the tip of her tongue was inaccessible. She struggled for a moment, trying to put it into words. She squeezed my hand.

  “For the sake of the baby,” she said.

  “What? Mom, what? What was for the sake of the baby? What baby?”

  “Had to stop.”

  “Stop? Stop what? Being the Black Stiletto? Is that what you’re saying?”

  At the mention of the name, she turned back to the television and the tears flowed freely.

  “Mom?” Despite my growing alarm, I got up and put my arms around her. “It’s okay, don’t cry.”

  At that moment, a nurse knocked on the open door and came into the room. “Everything all right in here?” she asked cheerily, but then she saw us and became concerned. “Is everything okay?”

  I let go of Mom and said, “Oh, my mother’s upset about something. I don’t know what it is.”

  The woman came over to Mom and said some encouraging words and asked her how she was doing. Mom replied appropriately and seemed to settle down as the nurse took a tissue and wiped her face. I explained that she just started crying for no reason, but I knew that was something that can happen with Alzheimer’s patients.

  As the nurse gave Mom her attention, I made an excuse to leave, for I couldn’t handle being in the room any longer. I’d felt something painful pass between my mom and me. Perhaps that empathy thing she has was working. She felt my anxiety and didn’t know how to respond to it. So I said goodbye, kissed Mom on the cheek again, and got out of there.

  Maybe Maggie’s right and I should call a shrink.

  When I was home that night, I decided to phone Carol. The ex. She works as an administrator for a medical group, so I figured I’d ask her if she could recommend a psychiatrist. Her group is in my health insurance’s network of providers, and as much as I was loath to tell Carol I had an anxiety disorder, she’s the only other person besides Maggie that I know around here who I could talk to about it. Maggie didn’t know anyone in my network.

  Carol and I have a cordial relationship. After all, we share a terrific daughter. Our time together in New York when Gina was recovering from the assault was awkward, to be sure, but I think we were both glad the other parent was present. I can’t be around Carol for an extended period of time, but we don’t hate each other like some divorced couples.

  She greeted me on the phone with a noncommittal, “Oh, hi, Martin, how are you?”

  Lying, I said I was just fine and then asked if she’d heard from Gina.

  “I talked to her yesterday,” Carol said. “She’s doing okay, I guess. Her schoolwork is going well and she feels better. Her jaw isn’t as sore.”

  “That’s good to hear.”

  “But, I don’t know, when I talk to her she seems to dwell on the assault a lot, have you noticed that?”

  I hadn’t. “Don’t you think that’s only natural? It’s only been a little over a month. She just got her jaw unwired.”

  “I know, but when I talk to her she always brings up the police investigation. How they haven’t caught anyone yet, how they’re dragging their feet, how there’s a serial rapist out there that they can’t find. The way she talks sounds very angry.”

  “Well, wouldn’t you be angry, too? I know I would. I am angry.”

  “Me too, of course I am, but you should talk to her, Martin. She just, I don’t know, it sounds like she’s putting a lot of hope into the guy getting caught. I don’t want it to consume her, you know what I mean? She should continue talking to that therapist she’s been seeing and try to forget what happened.”

  “Carol, it’s going to take time. Something like that can’t happen overnight.”

  “Oh, I know. I just worry about her.”

  “Well, I do, too, but she convinced me she needs to work it out in her own way, and she’s smart and mature enough to do so.”

  “I know, you’re right. Talk to her, will you? See if she brings it up.”

  “Okay. Last time I spoke to her was about a week ago, so I’m due to check in with her.”

  The conversation went a different direction as Carol talked about work for a minute. I couldn’t find an opening to smoothly veer the topic back to psychiatry, and then she hit me with, “Oh, s
ay, I hear you’re dating someone!” She said it like it was great news, as if it was the best thing that could happen to her.

  “Uh, where did you hear that?”

  “Gina told me you’re seeing your mother’s doctor? Is that right?”

  Drat that Gina! I had merely mentioned to her that I’d gone out for coffee a couple of times with Maggie. Gina got all excited about it, like it was a big deal.

  “Oh, we’ve just had coffee together. And a couple of dinners. That’s all.”

  “What’s her name? Dr. McDaniel, right?”

  “Yeah. Margaret. Maggie. And she’s not Mom’s doctor, really, she’s just the one who makes calls at Woodlands. Mom still sees Dr. Schneider, although, come to think of it, I can’t remember the last time she did. Maggie’s been the one who’s been doing everything these days.”

  “So it sounds like she’s your mom’s doctor.”

  “Yeah, I guess it does.”

  “Is she nice?”

  “My mom? Sure, she’s a sweetheart.”

  Carol laughed. I could still manage to amuse her. “Martin!”

  “Yeah, she’s nice. Look, it’s nothing. We’re just friends.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Really.”

  “Okay. Well, maybe you might want to bring your friend to a party.”

  “Yeah? What, are you throwing a Christmas party?” I asked.

  “Sort of. It’ll be a reception, too.”

  I was so dumb. I didn’t know what she was talking about. “For what?”

  “Martin, Ross and I have decided to get married. We’re going to have a small get-together at his house over the holidays while Gina is home. We’ll have the ceremony there, and then a reception.”

  Ross Maxwell. The rich lawyer she’s been dating for a while. I suppose I should have anticipated that happening at some point, but I was in denial. Carol had been dating him for months. She gave me the date and time, but they went in one ear and out the other. I think I was in shock. My chest cavity suddenly felt like every organ had just been dug out of it with a hoe, leaving an emptiness I hadn’t felt since those weeks following the divorce.

  “Martin?”

  I didn’t know what to say. “Uh, wow. That’s, uh, well, congratulations!”

  “Thanks. Martin, if you’re comfortable with it, feel free to bring your doctor friend. We’re sending out invitations this week. And hey, listen, if you don’t feel like you can make it, I understand. I won’t feel bad.”

  “Do you want me to come?”

  I could tell she was on the fence. “Only if you’re okay with it. I’d like us all to be friends, you know. Ross likes you—”

  “No, he doesn’t. He hates my guts.”

  “Oh, that’s not true. Stop that.”

  “He looks down his nose at me. I’m a lowly unemployed loser and he’s a big shot lawyer.”

  “Martin, stop. Besides, you’ve got a job, now.”

  “I guess you can call it that.”

  “I’m not going to get into this with you, Martin. Either you come or you don’t, I’ll leave it up to you. You’ll get an invitation, and I’d love for you to come if you’re all right with it. Now what did you call about?”

  Somehow asking her for the name of a shrink at that point would sound like I was mocking her plans to get married.

  “Never mind. I gotta go. Tell Ross congratulations for me.”

  “Okay, I will. Talk to Gina, all right?”

  “I’ll do it. Talk to you later.”

  After I hung up, I felt another panic attack coming on. I couldn’t believe Carol’s news would upset me as much as it did, but there you go. I had no qualms about pouring myself a couple of shots of tequila and becoming a couch potato for the next several hours until it was way past my bedtime.

  9

  Judy’s Diary

  1960

  MARCH 6, 1960

  Elvis is home! Hurrah! First Freddie, and now Elvis! There was footage of him coming home from the army on TV the other night. They said he’s going right into the studio to make a record that will come out at the end of this month. I’m so excited! I can’t wait!

  Speaking of Freddie, he’s doing better. He wasn’t very happy during his first couple of weeks at home. I guess he was depressed. He kept complaining how he was only 45 years old and that he was an “invalid.” I told him he’s not an invalid and that as soon as he gets his strength back, he’ll be as good as new. But he shot back with how he won’t be able to do what he used to do. He can’t smoke, he can’t drink as much, he can’t train (for now); all he can do is sit behind the counter at the front of the gym like a cripple and watch everyone. Well, when he said that I got angry. I told him to stop feeling sorry for himself and be thankful he’s alive. For goodness sake’s, he could have died! As he grows stronger, he’ll be able to do more. I told him to stop acting like a baby and be patient! That shut him up. I’m sorry I made him feel bad, but someone had to do it. I think he has a better attitude now.

  The Stiletto hasn’t made any appearances on the streets except to go to Chinatown to meet with Billy. We’re still doing mostly drills and exercises, except he showed me a couple of moves that I’m having trouble understanding. In fact, we’re sort of making them up as we go along. I want to move along faster, too. I’m afraid I’m probably doing everything all wrong because I don’t have a proper sifu, but Billy’s doing the best he can. I suppose I’m integrating the wushu techniques with what I already know of karate; in a way, I’m developing my own personal technique of martial arts. I don’t know if that’s a good or a bad idea in the long run, but it’s working for me right now.

  Billy told me about a wushu tournament that will take place next Saturday at the youth club he attends. It’s free for spectators. I plan on going—not as the Stiletto, of course. I’ll be in disguise—as Judy Cooper!

  MARCH 12, 1960

  Interesting developments in the Chinatown case today, dear diary!

  Today I went to the wushu tournament at a Chinese youth club on Mulberry Street just west of Columbus Park. You’d have to be Chinese to know it was a youth club, because there was no English on the outside. I was a little nervous. I didn’t want to be where I wasn’t wanted, but Billy assured me there would be white folks there. All I saw were Chinese people of all ages going in and out. I finally got up the gumption to enter the building. A couple of Chinese men sat at a table inside the door. They didn’t say a word, but one gestured to several flyers and handouts. They were all in Chinese, but I picked them up anyway and thanked the men in English.

  It was a small gymnasium with a basketball court—hoops at both ends—and surprisingly full bleachers on two sides. A taped outline on the bare floor designated the “ring,” only it was square. Judges sat at a table along one side.

  The voices and shouts echoed loudly as they tend to do inside a gym. The adults appeared to all be sitting on one side, so I headed there. It was so crowded I had to take a seat pretty high up, so naturally they all stared at me as I climbed to an empty spot next to some gray-haired Chinese men. It was a look that said, “What are you doing here?” but then they turned their attention back to the action on the floor. Every once in a while I’d get another scrutiny, but for the most part I felt comfortable. I noticed Billy’s mother sitting six rows below me with a group of women. Thankfully, she’d only given me the one curious and slightly disapproving glance. For the most part, I’d say everyone ignored me, even though I think I was the only white girl at the tournament. There were a handful of Caucasian males in the audience, and they gave me the look-see, too.

  The gym floor and the other bleachers were full of Chinese teenagers and young adults, almost all boys. There were no girl participants, but there were many sitting in the bleachers. A few teams were in competition. Billy told me that a sifu named Lam Sang was the grandmaster in Chinatown. I was pretty sure I spotted him at the table. Maybe he was the head judge, I couldn’t really tell. Another guy did all the
talking between bouts. Lam Sang was an elderly, but very fit, gentleman dressed in a traditional wushu uniform, which is different from the Japanese karate and judo clothing. Instead of a karategi, the Chinese wear a jacket with loose sleeves and cuffs, a mandarin-style collar, and buttons called “frog” closures. The pants also fit loosely and have cuffs. There’s no question that it looks “Oriental.” The uniforms look like they’d be comfy.

  I spotted Billy sitting on the other side with a group of boys, all dressed in the same brown-and-white uniform. I hoped I hadn’t missed his bout.

  The tournament consisted only of barehanded fights. They got points for striking the head, trunk, and thighs, but were penalized for the back of the head, neck, or groin. Each bout had three rounds of two minutes each, with a minute rest in between. The competitors had to stay within the square. I recognized some of the moves Billy had taught me, but most of it was way over my head. I sat there simply fascinated. It was like when I witnessed my first Japanese martial arts tournament at the Second Avenue Gym. I was dumbfounded. I couldn’t believe human beings could actually do what I was witnessing.

  And it looked so rough, too, and yet it was beautiful to watch. There was more of a dance between opponents in wushu than in karate. As I observed the matches, I realized what I was doing wrong when I drilled. Seeing wushu in action was a lot different than attempting the simple exercises with Billy, so I did my best to study the moves.

  Finally, I saw members of Billy’s team start matches with a team wearing purple-and-white uniforms. In between each match, one of the judges delivered a brief speech in Chinese.

  Eventually, Billy got on the floor. His opponent was a boy that appeared to be the same age, size, and weight. I heard Billy’s mother clap and shout something. My stomach had butterflies in it. I wanted to shout, “Go, Billy!” but I didn’t want to draw attention to myself.

  The opponents faced one side of the audience and made a gesture with their arms and hands—they held them in front of their chests as if they were praying, but the left palm lay flat against the right fist. The boys “saluted” the other side in this manner, and then they did the same to each other.