Woman in the Window

by Thomas Gifford

  It had been so long, she’d kept it out of her mind for such a long time, and now there was a stranger who was as fearful and confused as she was, a stranger who wasn’t telling her how to handle her fears but was wrapped up in experiencing his own, and she wanted to take him inside her and feel his tension and frustration and strength driving into her and she wanted to tell him not to hold back, to let himself go … but she couldn’t do it. She turned away, her face wet with tears of frustration and anger turned inward against herself, and lay sobbing, her knees tucked up to her chest, trying to disappear. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry. …”

  She lay panting on her back, watching the blur of lights on the Christmas tree. His breathing rasped in her ear, then he turned and lay on his back next to her.

  “Man,” he whispered hoarsely, “I just don’t know what to say … I didn’t mean to do this. Really. I’m the one who’s sorry—”

  “A sorry pair,” she said, wiping her eyes. “If you recall, it was my idea. I hate women who do that. …”

  “Don’t be silly.” He shook his head. “Crazy, it was just crazy, that’s all.”

  Her mind was operating sluggishly. Slowly she sat up, put an arm up on the couch. Felt the cold steel of the knife blade. It brought her back to reality for an instant, then she shook the facts of the matter out of her mind, and stood up. Shaky legs. She wasn’t thinking about what had just happened. She couldn’t afford to: all she could do was sit down, feel Sir leaping up into her lap. She wanted to go to the bathroom and dry between her legs, it was a warm flood of stickiness, her inner thighs were slippery and damp. She was sweating. …

  But she felt no fear of the man now. He lay on the floor, then stood up with his back to her. She watched him zip his pants, pick up his tweed jacket and put it back on. Just a guy, nothing special, no name, no future, so … so how did it differ from lying in bed with her hand between her legs, massaging her clitoris until the whole thing swept over her and left her weary, exhausted?

  He sat back down. She wasn’t even trying to see his face anymore. She didn’t want to see his face. It just didn’t matter.

  “You said you’ve been following me?” she asked at last.

  “No, not exactly. My following is sort of a byproduct. I’ve been following my friend. He’s been following you. I’ve been making my mind up, wanting to tell you what’s going on, but you wouldn’t believe what hard work I’ve made of it. The thing is, I don’t want to get him into trouble, with you or with the cops—I mean, I don’t know that he’s done anything wrong. Anyway, I was going to tell you the situation and warn him off … but now—well, now he’s disappeared.”

  She wasn’t paying close enough attention. She heard the last word and it snapped her back: she’d been thinking about what she should tell MacPherson and suddenly she’d heard—

  “Who’s disappeared?”

  “My friend, Mrs. Rader. That’s who we’re talking about—”

  “What do you mean? He’s just gone?”

  “Oh, I suppose he’s out there somewhere, but I don’t know where, it’s been a couple of days … I can’t find him, anyway. What I’m afraid of is, see, he’s a movie nut—he lives and breathes movies, hangs out at the Thalia and the Regency and the Carnegie, sees all the revivals … and I’ve got a feeling that this whole crazy thing with these people and the drugs and the gun and you, I’ve got a feeling that it’s all become a kind of movie in his eyes—I guess I’m afraid he might do something melodramatic.” She could see him in profile, looking into the lights on the tree. “But don’t worry, I’ll find him. You’ll be okay.”

  “I hope you’re not offended,” she said, “if I tell you that I don’t find that terribly reassuring.”

  “I know, I know,” he said.

  “I’m going to tell the police what you’ve told me—”

  “Well, you can do what you think best. But really you don’t know all that much, do you? No, names …”

  “All right. But shouldn’t we stay in touch? How can I get hold of you?” Her mind had begun to turn over furiously: once he was out the door she might just as well have had a hallucination. MacPherson would believe her, she supposed, but what did she actually know? How long would it take to track an actor through clues to commercials he’d made? Or search through Chelsea lofts?

  He was looking down at her. “I don’t know how to say this without seeming rude as hell, you’ve been so nice to me, so understanding, but the idea of involvement—any kind of involvement—in this, or with you, scares me. Really scares me. So let’s see how this all goes down in the end. I can always get back to you, call you at your office like real people do … but not until I find him and get him straightened out. Is that all right with you?”

  He looked down at her, reached out and stroked her cheek, and she felt the whole balance tipping back toward him. She nodded.

  “I’ll be in touch,” he said, and she heard the smile in his voice, reassuring her. “In the meantime, let’s just sort of think it through, think what’s the best thing to do.”

  He leaned down and kissed her forehead. He ruffled Sir’s ears. She followed him slowly up the stairs. When he opened the door he was taken by surprise by the light in the entryway. He blinked, shielding his eyes, and for an instant, her own vision impaired by the sudden brightness, she saw his face.

  The door slammed and she heard him go quickly through the outer doors.

  But she’d know him if she saw him again.

  She wouldn’t forget the face.

  Chapter Sixteen

  NATALIE HAD THE FORESIGHT to look at the situation squarely once she was alone but yet not worry about the weirdness of what had just happened to her. She took two sleeping pills, put Saint-Saens on the tape machine, and got Sir situated snugly on the bed with her. She was not going to lie awake in the middle of the night working herself up into something full-blown and neurotic and disgusting. If she had to think about what had happened, she could bloody well think about it in the cool light of morning, distanced from the event. And even with the sleeping pills she had to fight off the tapping, crawling fingers of anxiety that tugged her toward the rim of the pit. Then, blessed sleep …

  Her subconscious had been at work while she slept.

  When she woke and came to some awareness under the shower, she found that she believed what the man the night before had told her: for a time, before sleep came, she had thought he had no roommate, had in fact been describing himself. That had only made him more human to her … but on the other hand it had made him crazy. If he had been talking about himself, then he was well around the bend. But now he seemed honest, seemed anything but dangerous. Frightened, shy, romantic—even sensible in a strange way. Strange: talk about an understatement … but honest.

  She was less worried about the nameless man than she was about her own behavior. About what she had wanted from him … By the time she’d made her coffee and toast and was sitting in the living room looking out at the gray light and the high banks of snow, she’d begun to shake and feel a thread of nausea running through her. What had she been thinking of? She had wakened with her period and some cramps and she wasn’t quite succeeding in rising above the facts of life. In fact, her hands were trembling.

  She plugged in the Christmas tree and watched the lights snap on. Twenty-four hours before, she had not had a tree, had had no plans for one, no plans for Christmas. Her mind turned from the tree to thoughts of MacPherson coming by, taking over, seeing to things, and she found herself smiling. Calming down.

  Sir had ambled down the steps and begun sniffing and digging at the carpet. For a moment Natalie watched him curiously, wondering what on earth he thought he was doing. Then she realized and couldn’t take her eyes away. He had found the spot where she had lain the night before. …

  “Sir!” she snapped at last, poking him with her foot. He slinked away, giving her a dirty look over his shoulder.

  She looked at the place where she’d
lain, slowly shaking her head. She hated having done it, but maybe she was beginning to realize why. The pressure of the past ten days, the lack of a warm sexual component in her life, the excitement and fear at finding the man in her apartment—it wasn’t quite as crazy a thing as it had seemed. Yes, it was, Natalie, she thought, crazy and—far more importantly—horribly dangerous. What in the name of God had she thought she was doing? He could have killed her, he could have become violent and left her hurt and beaten. …

  Jesus H. Christ, Natalie! Better not start making excuses for yourself at this late date—you behaved like an idiot. Well, almost. She wished she could stop her heart from beating irregularly, stopping and starting and fluttering in her chest. She wished she could get things under control.

  Which was how it went through the morning. Sir went out in the courtyard and decorated the snow and flopped around, pursuing squirrels he would never catch. She nibbled at her toast, debated calling Julie but knew she’d wind up telling her about the man and that was the last thing she wanted to do. She put Villa-Lobos’s Bachianas Brasileiras No. 3 on the stereo and just sat staring into her garden, drinking coffee, listening. Alone.

  Absolutely alone. Trying to replace her thoughts of the night’s intruder with calm, smiling reflections about MacPherson, the unlikeliest cop …

  She was still sitting watching the sun trying vainly to burn through the heavy gray sky of afternoon when the telephone jarred her out of the pointless, worn-out daydreams.

  “Mrs. Rader,” the voice said, “I’m Captain Arthur D’Allessandro. NYPD. I’m assigned to Internal Conduct Services, which is a fancy way of saying internal public relations—making sure we’re not vulnerable on the PR front. We’re doing a routine check on Sergeant MacPherson, who I believe has been working with you on a matter—that is right, isn’t it?” He sounded as if he was filling in a form.

  “Yes,” she said. “MacPherson.”

  “If you’re going to be home this afternoon,” he went on, “I’d like to stop by and just interview you briefly. You’d be helping us out, Mrs. Rader. Could you manage that?”

  “I suppose so. I don’t quite understand why, though—”

  “I’ll fill you in when I get there. I’ll be there in half an hour. D’Allessandro’s my name. We appreciate it.”

  It was a drag and she wasn’t in the mood to have anybody stop by, but she couldn’t have said no, refused to cooperate. Internal Conduct Services! Whatever that was supposed to mean. She pulled herself into her jeans and sweater and made a fresh pot of coffee. Waiting in the living room, she vowed to have the stolen things replaced during the coming week, get some Christmas shopping done, make some plans for the holiday season. But presents for whom? Plans to do what? There were all the usual invitations, ways of filling the endless holiday evenings and keep from feeling left out … but nothing she wanted to do, so few people she really cared about seeing. She wished she had the nerve just to get out of town, go to a country hotel in Massachusetts or Vermont and take along some good books, meet some people who were new … whoever might be staying in a hotel over the holidays. She smiled to herself at the thought.

  Captain D’Allessandro seemed to have come right from a television cop show. He was shortish, stocky, with thinning hair, heavy black-framed glasses, a leather coat that squeaked when he walked, the kind of swagger common to short men who had gained a position of some authority and power. He was chewing gum back on his molars.

  She took him downstairs to the living room and got him a cup of coffee while he opened his leather coat, took off his scarf, and settled on the couch. “Lovely place you got here, Mrs. Rader, just very lovely. Like a movie. Jack Lemmon or Tony Randall, a New York pad in the early sixties. Very nice, very tasteful. Ah, that’s fine, I like it black and hot, like the old joke. Thank you very much, very nice.”

  “I don’t mean to be snotty,” she said, “but can I see your badge?”

  “Oh, you certainly can, Mrs. Rader. My mistake, you should get a refund.” He grinned, chewed away at the gum, and began fumbling for his wallet. The coat creaked. He found it, a black leather folder, dropped it on the carpet, leaned down to get it, his face reddening.

  “That’s all right,” she said. “You look like—”

  “A cop,” he said, sitting back up. “I know.” He flipped open the wallet and looked at the badge. “Gotta pencil? Take down my number. It’s 7614. Write that down.” He looked at her.

  “I’ll remember,” she said, smiling.

  He repeated the number. “Adds up to ninety, okay?”

  “Fine. Now what can I do for Internal Conduct Services?”

  “Right. I’m sure you’re busy, let’s get right to it. Sergeant MacPherson.” He sighed. His face was troubled and he rubbed his chin with thick, black-haired fingers. “First-rate man, don’t misunderstand anything I have to say here. First-rate, no question about that. The thing is—listen, you realize that I’m dealing in strictest confidence here—the thing is, we’ve had a few complaints about Sergeant MacPherson’s personal conduct in the course of his investigations. Groundless, I’m sure, but we have to check them out. Innocent till proven guilty, of course. But we gotta check—”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Well, the complaints have all come from ladies. Get it?”

  “No, I don’t get it.”

  “Ah, well, you know what I mean, you’re a woman of the world, out there in the business world—”

  She laughed uneasily. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I can’t make it any clearer than that.”

  “Overly familiar. Familiarity. Unwarranted.”

  “With the ladies?” she prompted. “You’re joking.”

  “As I say, we’ve had complaints from some women he’s met during the course of investigations. No proof, mind you. Just allegations. Calling them up for dates during an investigation, insisting on maintaining contact with them once an investigation is concluded, pursuing them too energetically. Now me, I figure a lot of these women give a guy encouragement whether they know it or not, he’s a good-looking guy, likes the ladies—what else is new, right?” He shrugged, opened his hands in a gesture of resignation. “I’m just here to ask you if you’ve had any experience with Sergeant MacPherson you would characterize as overly familiar or suggestive?” He looked embarrassed. “What can I say? It’s a dirty job but somebody’s got to do it.”

  “I’m amazed,” she said.

  “Try to think of it as consumer relations, Mrs. Rader. Like we just want to know if you’re satisfied with the NYPD product—”

  “Yes, I’m perfectly satisfied. Is that clear enough? MacPherson has turned out to be sensitive to my situation, very involved in handling it effectively—I think I’ve irritated him by my reticence to rely on him … but he has certainly behaved in a professional manner at all times. I can’t imagine what else I could say.”

  “Well, remember, his performance of his duty is not in question. However, we’ve got a report he’s seeing you socially during the course of an investigation. Now say he tried to cop a quick feel—” He raised a palm, shook his head. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Say he tried to make an improper advance of some kind—you’d tell me, right?”

  “Whatever you call it in the police manual, he hasn’t done it. Get it? Zip, zero, he gets my vote for Cop of the Year. Now, if that’s it, I’ve got to get going, Captain—”

  “Listen, that’s just great, Mrs. Rader. You’ve been a big help. Believe me.” He put down his coffee and stood up, buttoning his coat. “I’m sorry I had to barge in here and subject you to this. And,” he winked, “pardon my French there a second ago. It’s funny, though. A guy gets a rep like MacPherson’s and it follows him around. With some guys it’s brutality—they look at some punk sideways and suddenly it’s brutality. Years ago, when I was in narcotics, I used to have these little conversations with dealers down on the East Side, take ’em aside into an alley and leave ’em standing there spitting out Ch
iclets, but I never got a rep for brutality. I know lots of cops, screwing their way through the precinct—half the burglary calls they get are phony, just babes wantin’ a cop for their dance cards—and nobody ever reports them. Then a guy like MacPherson—whammo, and it follows him. You never know. You can’t trust anyone, Mrs. Rader. Like the business with my shield—now you got the number, y’know.”

  He stood by the door tucking his scarf into the leather coat. She could smell his spearmint gum. She watched him swagger out, a funny little cop. Familiar. It had to be because he was so much like a TV character. Somebody not real.

  So concerned about his shield, making sure she had the number. Not very efficient.

  She never had seen the shield.

  And who had been watching her with MacPherson? Who had reported them to Internal Conduct?

  Once the evening of her quiet, lonely day had come, she was feeling as if she could deal with the sexual encounter of Saturday night. Beyond the sexual encounter, however, waters were murkier. She’d replayed the weekend again and again: the day with MacPherson and the story the anonymous man had told her about his “roommate.” She knew she should tell someone about the latter, but whom? She simply didn’t want to blurt out the sexual content, and the rest of the story struck her as sufficiently out of kilter to require some further reflection on her part. And the description of MacPherson she’d heard from D’Allessandro was festering in the back of her mind.

  She was quite sure that the last person in the world she wanted to talk to that evening was MacPherson. Of course, at nine o’clock, he called to tell her he was back from Glen Cove and ask her how things were going. She searched his voice for the sound of the womanizer, the leer for the woman who was so lonely and frustrated she was falling for him … but she hated it, didn’t want to believe it—still she kept hearing D’Allessandro going on, the gross implications, the creak of his coat, the sound of his chewing gum cracking.