The Mongol Reply

by Benjamin M. Schutz

  Serena sat up and waited for her head to stop throbbing. Denise pushed the phone over to her, daring her not to pick it up. Serena pulled it into her lap, dialed her parents and prayed for a busy signal.

  When her mother answered the phone, she asked to speak immediately to her father. First, he controlled the money. Second her mother would embalm her with questions she didn’t really want answers to and saccharine comments about how wonderful things were. A conversation with her mother was just an exercise in endorsing her desperate wish that everything was fine with everyone, everywhere.

  “Hi, Dad. It’s me, Serena.”

  “I know who it is. What’s going on?”

  Serena’s sensitivity to her father’s disapproval reacted immediately. “Going on? What makes you say that, Dad?”

  “Don’t fool around with me, Serena. We’ve been through too much. Tom called me. He said you and he were having troubles. Your depression again.”

  “It’s not my depression again, Dad. It’s Tom. He’s the one who wants out and he’s trying to destroy me. I can’t see the children.”

  “That’s not what he says, Serena. He wants to work this thing out between you two. Go to some kind of psychologist. Get some help. I think that’s a good idea. Serena, they’ve helped you before.”

  “Okay, Dad. Fine. Whatever. But this good idea costs money. Four thousand dollars to be exact, Dad. I don’t have that kind of money. Tom has completely cut me off.”

  “Serena, he told me he’d pay for the whole thing. I don’t see what the problem is.”

  “The problem is, I have no money, Dad. He’s thrown me out of the house, emptied the bank accounts, cut off my credit cards. I’m a bag lady now, Dad. If I wasn’t staying with a friend, I couldn’t feed myself.”

  “That’s not what Tom says, Serena. He said he’d be glad to give you whatever money you need, just so long as it isn’t for an attorney. He said he’s not going to pay for a war.”

  “Dad, why is it that you believe anything Tom Tully tells you and you won’t believe anything I say?”

  “I believe him, Serena, because he hasn’t ever lied to me. There wasn’t hardly ever a time I could say that about you.”

  Serena felt her will to fight evaporate and then transform itself into a lacerating self-loathing.

  “I understand, Dad. I’m sorry I troubled you with all this. I’ll just wait for Tom to tell me what he wants me to do and I’m sure it’ll all work out just fine. Don’t bother to get Mom, she’ll just worry about all this and she’s done too much of that already.”

  Before her father could reply, Serena hung up the phone.

  “You know, I never feel so bad that talking to my parents can’t make it worse. Shine their little light of love and support my way and there’s nothing that can’t happen.” Serena laughed hollowly.

  Denise had listened to the conversation deteriorate from the outset. She wondered how long she and Bill could afford to keep Serena. Short-term was no problem, but what if it dragged on for months? She wasn’t going to raise that with Serena now.

  The phone rang, pulling them out of their funk. Denise picked it up, listened and handed it to Serena. Doing that, she mouthed “your attorney.” Serena winced. She’d forgotten her appointment.

  “Mr. Stuart, I’m really sorry about this afternoon. Something came up at the last minute. You see …”

  “I know all about it, Mrs. Tully. I got a call from Albert Garfield. I don’t know how I can represent you when you go off and do things like this without asking for my guidance. You’re in a huge mess of trouble now.”

  “I know, Mr. Stuart, I know.” Serena struggled not to cry. As a little girl she cried over everything. At thirty she resolved never to cry again. That lasted three weeks. These days she tried to cry alone.

  “Well, I may be able to get you out of some of it.” Those were the first positive words she’d heard since her free-fall began on Friday.

  “Mr. Garfield has suggested that in the spirit of conciliation, he might be able to get his client to waive pressing charges against you. He also has a motion to show cause ready to go. When you took your son, you were in violation of a court order. That’s a jailable offense. He thinks that a reciprocal act of good faith would be appropriate. He suggested that an agreement to waive spousal support would be well thought of. His client would agree to pay for the evaluation, to keep the process moving, but nothing else. I attempted to deposit your retainer check this afternoon, Mrs. Tully. It was not covered and this case has grown more complicated by the minute.”

  Serena was embarrassed by the check bouncing and sought to make amends by deferring to Stuart’s wishes. “What do you think, is it a good idea?”

  “You can’t even afford to pay me, Mrs. Tully. You’d have to get a legal aid lawyer to defend you on the child snatching charges and represent yourself against Mr. Garfield on the domestic matters. Are you up to that, Mrs. Tully?”

  Serena was awestruck at the speed and comprehensiveness of Tom’s attack on her. If Garfield had been the architect of that, she knew she was way overmatched.

  “No, Mr. Stuart, I’m not.” That admission of defeat magnified her dependence on Gilbert Stuart, who hadn’t managed to anticipate, outwit, or blunt any of Albert Garfield’s plans. Contemplating that she had placed her life and those of her children entirely in the hands of an incompetent was too terrifying, and so like her mother before her, she chose not to.

  “Are you authorizing me to accept that offer, Mrs. Tully?”

  “Yes, Mr. Stuart, I am.”

  “Very good. Now that we’ve got that settled, you should hear from the psychologist, a Doctor Morgan Reece, any day.”

  “Fine, Mr. Stuart. Thanks.”

  When Stuart hung up, Serena couldn’t shake the feeling that Tom’s apparent generosity only masked a larger theft, but she didn’t know what else she had to lose.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Morgan Reece slipped into the water. He spit into his goggles, rinsed them and pulled them on. Grabbing the wall behind him, he flexed his legs and pushed off to begin his laps.

  For almost two years he had done no exercise. Fortunately he’d lost his appetite at the same time, and so the cardiac risks of his inertia were not multiplied by obesity. He now swam three times a week at the local YMCA.

  For the first few laps, he enjoyed the warmth of the water flowing past him. Then he focused on his hands pulling through the water, then his kick, first his feet, then his thighs. He moved smoothly down his lane. Taking a breath, he saw Mrs. Gerardi backstroking in the lane next to him. Her husband was next to her, his stroke having reduced him to dog paddling.

  Reece tried imagining himself as a fish. A shark? Too sharp. All those serrated teeth and that flexible jaw bouncing below the snout. No, he was sleeker, rounded. A dolphin? No, they were too acrobatic and talkative. He felt steady and silent. A killer whale. Yes. And so he did his next quarter mile, clearing his blowhole every other stroke, his arm coming over like a long black dorsal fin.

  Reece learned that counting laps made exercise into torture and had quickly given that up. Next he’d tried to use the time as a case conference with himself, but found that he needed to leave his work behind even more. Currently he played imaginary soccer matches in his mind. For today he chose Brazil 1970 vs. Germany 1972. Pele and “jogo bonito” against “Kaiser” Beckenbauer and “Der Bomber,” Gerd Muller. Brazil won in extra time.

  Only recently had Reece been able to relax for a few laps and let his mind wander or dare to be empty. For a long time he avoided being alone and undistracted whenever possible. He found those times as dangerous as tiger pits in high grass. One false step and he was hurtling downward, falling through the present to be impaled on a memory.

  Reece swam on, his mouth open wide, then his left arm coming over like a side-wheeler. His mind was as clear as the water. Reece was simply a strainer, a net waiting for something, anything, to get stuck.

  Numbers and lines emerg
ed. The pages that that woman lost. Dotted lines, zigzagging between the numbers. Then the black background, shaded and edgeless. Reece tried to deduce what they were. Irregular, but sequential. The numbers went from bottom to top, and left to right, but no line connected a top number to the next number at the bottom. The two pictures were not connected. They both began at one and went until there was a number in the upper right quadrant. The lines took different paths to connect the same numbers. Two of the same kind of things. Unique in their totality, but orderly within.

  Reece finished his mile and sagged over the lane divider. What were those diagrams? He spent another minute thinking about them and then shook his head, baffled at the things that floated up in his empty mind. Who cares what they are, he thought, and hauled himself out of the water.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  That night, Tom Tully finally got around to doing his homework. Albert Garfield wanted him to search the house for any evidence of the affair: letters, gifts, pictures, souvenirs. He wanted him to check for long distance phone calls over the last six months.

  When he went through her belongings he found no jewelry or perfumes he couldn’t account for. No motel matchbooks in her empty purses. He’d tossed her bathroom pretty good and the medicine cabinet.

  Tonight he went through the kitchen, her cookbooks and recipe files, the china cabinet, her sewing table, any space that was primarily hers. Nothing. He went through the things that were in storage. More kitchen stuff, food containers, Christmas things, gift-wrapping supplies. More nothing.

  Tully poured himself some bourbon and sat with the long distance phone bills. Most of them were his and he recognized nearly all of the numbers. A couple of calls he wished he could have back now, especially if Serena’s lawyer ever wanted to look at these logs. He’d say he misdialed. They were brief calls anyway.

  Tully leaned back and sipped his drink. Where would he hide things if he were Serena? He’d assumed that anything she wanted kept private would be in space she used almost exclusively. That made sense if you wanted easy access for yourself and no accidental discovery. But what if the other person doesn’t trust you any more? That’s exactly where they’d go look. He’d stick something he wanted to hide from Serena right in her personal space. She’d never look there. Just not in a space where there would be an accidental discovery. Someplace you would never look except in a search. You wouldn’t search yourself. Where had he first looked? Her closet and dresser. He went up to the bedroom and into the closet and looked at his side. He moved each suit and shirt, the belts, shoes, hats. He looked at the underside of each shelf.

  Then he went to his dresser. He emptied each drawer, removed and checked the sides and back. First his underwear and socks, then this casual shirts. Then his athletic gear. Finally, his sweaters. Still nothing.

  Tully sat on the bed. Maybe he’d given Serena too much credit. After all, he’d been cheating on her for years and she’d never caught on. He kept no reminders of his conquests. Most were forgotten before the sheets had cooled. Serena would keep things. Women were like that.

  Tully frowned. One last place to try. He slid off the bed, turned onto his back, and lay on the floor and reached underneath the dresser. His hands swept over the bottom of the frame. A finger nicked something. He went back over that area slowly. There it was! He hooked a nail under an edge and began to pull it away from the wood.

  He slid away from the dresser and pulled out his prize. It was a brown letter-size envelope. Tully sat on the bed and turned the envelope over. No writing. He wondered if he should open it. Garfield said not to. Just deliver it straight to him. He’d know best what to do with it.

  What would be the worst thing inside? A letter to Serena from this guy telling her how much he loved her and what he’d do for her and how beautiful she was and what a great fuck she was.

  Tully searched for a reaction to that. Nothing. If it was signed, then he’d have a focus for his rage. What about a photograph of them together? As long as it wasn’t one of those in his head, he didn’t have a reaction. Just a face for the name. More focus.

  Tully peered into the envelope. There was a folded piece of paper. Tully took it out and unfolded it. A letter. That’s all. Two pages. Centered on the first page was a poem. He read the first line and scanned to the signature, E. St. V. Millay. Nobody on the team, that was for sure. The second page was a letter, unsigned. The handwriting was terrible. Tully could hardly make it out.

  St. V. Millay. What kind of a name was that? The guy had to be a complete fruit. Tully went over to his desk and opened the Northern Virginia phone book. No entry for the name. He tried D.C. and Maryland. Nothing. Okay, the guy had an unlisted phone number. Garfield would find him. But now we had a name.

  Tom sat on the bed. The poem was typical romantic bullshit. What kind of man could write crap like that? He put the letter on top and tried to make out the words. It was slow going but Tully pieced it together.

  I know you have doubts. Doubts about us, about yourself. It’s always that way when you start a new relationship. Following your heart’s own truth is always a difficult path. No one else can tell you what is right or wrong for you. Listen to your heart, to what it tells you, to your truest feelings.

  Don’t doubt me. I know what I feel. I know my truth. You are the most extraordinary woman I have ever met. I feel like I am truly alive for the first time. I loved you long before we ever got together. Holding you in my arms completed the circle, finishing the arcs we had both been drawing.

  We are at a vulnerable time. Love demands that we be together at once and always. We must be careful. If your husband is half the monster you say, he could make things very difficult if he found out. For now, our love must beat its wings inside a cage. Patience sweetens desire.

  Tully did not remember the top of his head exploding or the hot white light consuming him from the inside like he’d eaten a phosphorus grenade, only the image of his wife in another man’s arms, conspiring against him, lying to him, betraying him over and over.

  Tully closed his eyes, raised his fists to the side of his head and bellowed. He opened his eyes. The pain inside was still there. He did the only thing he knew to free himself.

  Tully threw himself at the dresser as if it were a tackling dummy. His first attack caved in the drawer fronts. Tully slid down to his hands and knees. Crawling away, he turned and threw himself against the wall, forearm up, over and over until the plaster cracked and then his arm did.

  “Daddy, what’s wrong?” Tommy cried from the doorway. He stood there with his sister. She was blinking away tears and stifling sobs by sucking her thumb ferociously.

  On all fours, Tully looked back at the door. The respite allowed the pain radiating up his arm to overtake the pain in his head.

  “It’s your mother, Junior. She’s trying to kill me. Now go back to bed. That’s an order.”

  Tommy stood there, trying to see where his mother was hiding. Maybe his father had fought her off, and she’d jumped out a window. He didn’t understand how she could kill his dad. When they fought this afternoon, he beat her up pretty easy.

  When neither child moved, Tully roared, “Go to fucking bed, goddamnit.”

  Tommy grabbed his little sister’s free hand and raced off to his room with her. They fell asleep face to face. Once Tina was asleep, Tommy freed his hand and began to suck his own thumb.

  Tully, cradling his broken forearm before him, went to the desk and called the team doctor. With all the security around injuries, they still made house calls.

  “Hi, Jeff, sorry to call you at this time of night, but I’ve had an accident.”

  After three hours of tossing and turning, Serena got up off the family room sofa and went into the kitchen. She picked up the phone and dialed her therapist.

  His message said that he was still out of town at a conference. It gave an emergency number for the therapist providing coverage. She thought about using it and then decided to just leave a message.

&nb
sp; “Hello, Simon, this is Serena. I’m sorry to call you so late, but I really have to see you. So much has happened. My head is reeling. We really have to talk. I don’t think I can wait for my regular appointment.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Morgan Reece set the newspaper aside and dialed Serena Tully’s number on his cell phone.

  “Fargo residence.”

  “Serena Tully, please.”

  “Who may I say is calling?”

  “Dr. Reece, Morgan Reece.”

  “Hello,” another voice said.

  “Ms. Tully, my name is Morgan Reece. I’m the court appointed evaluator in the custody dispute with your husband, Thomas Tully. I’m calling to arrange the initial interview, tell you some things about the evaluation process and answer any questions you have.”

  “I’d like to start the process as soon as possible.”

  “How about tomorrow? We could do the initial interview in the morning, then let you take some psychological tests in the afternoon.”

  “I guess that would be okay. I’m trying to find a job. I doubt that I’ll get one today, so okay.”

  “We’ll start at nine o’clock. The first hour or so will be a joint interview with your husband. I’ll be going over some of the groundrules for the evaluation in a fee-for-service agreement that I use, then we’ll …”

  “Do we have to meet together? I’d really rather not be anywhere near Tom Tully.”

  “I understand. However, I find that it’s important in terms of establishing my neutrality if I discuss the format of the evaluation with you both at the same time.”

  “I don’t doubt your neutrality, Dr. Reece. I’m afraid of Tom, plain and simple.”

  “What are you afraid of, Ms. Tully?”

  “I’m afraid of getting beat up again, that’s what.”

  “You said beaten up again. When was the last time, Ms. Tully?”