Zoe shook her head. She knew just how Grace felt—being treated unfairly and all. She turned the page and continued reading:
April 21
The doctor gave me some “magic” pills for my headaches, but they don’t help. I feel like I’m trapped inside a video game. It’s all virtual reality, faked feelings. More and more I feel alone and bored—a spectator in a make-believe world. Wasn’t it Macbeth who said, “All the world’s a stage and all the men and women merely players”? Well, I think it’s time for me to become a player and enjoy the game.
April 27
I’ve decided I’m not just going to stand here and take this hypocrisy and those stupid trumped up charges. Am I ever glad I decided to stand up for myself for a change! When I walked into Peckham’s office his secretary was there with him being all flirty. They were standing very close—laughing—almost touching. Then it struck me maybe they were having an affair—and him a married man. Of course they stopped and acted all very proper when they saw me in the doorway. What a couple of phonies! When we were finally alone in his office I said, “I know all about you and your secretary.” I couldn’t believe I came out and said it like that! It was like there was another person inside of me. It was so liberating!!!
Well, he went as pale as a ghost and I knew I’d struck pay dirt. He sputtered something about dropping the charges if I said nothing. Next thing I know he’s offering me (on top of dropping the charges) a sabbatical with full pay starting in the fall—AND he promised that he would break off the affair. Incredible! Who would have imagined that my “punishment” would be a semester off with full pay—a paid vacation with time to work on my novel!!!
Zoe smiled at Grace’s boldness. She remembered how devastated Billy had been when his mother had found out that his father was cheating with another woman. At least that horrible Mr. Peckham had learned his lesson. And it was Grace who had taught him. Grace had always been good at teaching people lessons about right and wrong.
Turning the page, Zoe skimmed through the next few entries. It looked like things were going well. She and Luke were seeing each other almost every day now. An entry written in May stated:
I no longer feel the fear. The worries, the anxieties. I remember them—although it is just that—a memory. At first I was confused by the absence of fear—which had dominated my life for so many years. But now I am free—free at last!—from the chains of anxiety. What a gift! Such exhilarating freedom! Luke notices the change in me too, but doesn’t understand. He even suggested I should see “someone” (I think he meant a psychiatrist) about it—whatever “it” is. But of course I’m fine—I feel better than ever.
The next entry was short and undated. In it Grace wrote:
I’m debating about whether to take Yoda to the pound and just get rid of that damn dog. All his barking and whimpering is driving me crazy—especially when I have a headache. The constant chatter of other people is also starting to bore me. I am conscious of an enormous gulf between myself and others. It is as though others are just acting out a script—faking emotion.
Zoe shifted uncomfortably on the boards. She knew how irritating Yoda could be and how phony some people could be—like Megan at times. Still…
A dried leaf fluttered across the garage floor.
She started. “Aunt Grace?” she whispered, her heart thumping. But it was only a cold gust of air blowing in from under the garage doors. Zoe shivered and pulled her jacket tighter around her. After checking her watch, she turned the page. The entries were getting longer and the handwriting more difficult to read.
As she flipped through the next several pages, the word “crime” caught her eye. Going back to the beginning of the entry, she began reading it. It was about a conversation Grace had had with two other professors—Lynda and Jane—about a former beauty queen named Kitty Van Zandt who had married a Newport millionaire old enough to be her father. According to the entry, they had a daughter who had been committed to a mental institution shortly after the birth of her son—Kitty Van Zandt’s grandson. And now, according to the journal, Kitty Van Zandt was dying of lung cancer.
Zoe paused. The name was familiar. Wasn’t that the name of the old woman who had died in that fire last summer—not far from where Grace used to live—the same fire where Yoda had gotten the burns on his back? As Zoe recalled, Grace had told her the fire was set by Kitty’s grandson—a Harvard graduate of all things, who had gone bad—really bad. Apparently, he just could not wait until his grandmother died of cancer and he killed her to get her money for his drug habit. He was never brought to trial for killing his grandmother because he died of a drug overdose before that could happen. Zoe frowned. It was all so sleazy. At least she could be thankful she had a nice, normal family.
She skipped down to the paragraph in the journal where she had spotted the word “crime.ˮ It read:
Then Lynda—RIC’s resident Marxist—launched into a lecture about the evils of the idle rich who live off of the hard-earned money of working people like us, saying in no uncertain terms that the world would be better off without parasites like Kitty Van Zandt. “Think of all the people who could have been helped with that money,” she fumed, stirring her tea so hard it sloshed over onto the linen tablecloth. To which June replied, “Why you sound just like Raskolonikov in Crime and Punishment. Get rid of the stupid, vicious old woman and take her money and use it in the service of humanity—something like that.ˮ Well, that got me to thinking about crime and punishment. Then Lynda asked me what I thought. I nodded my agreement but said nothing. I was too busy coming up with a plot of my own to answer.
Zoe set down the journal and glanced out the window behind her. Outside a misty rain was beginning to fall. She rubbed her hands together to warm them up. What did Grace mean by “a plot of her ownˮ? And what crime was Grace referring to? Was she hatching some sort of a plot to punish that thug in the alley who had knocked her into the wall and started her brain bleeding, or was it all about Kitty Van Zandt’s grandson? After all, it was only fair that people be punished for their crimes.
She squinted at the next entry. The light in the garage was getting dimmer, making it difficult to read Grace’s rambling handwriting.
The sound of a car pulling into her driveway next door made her jump. Could Dad be home already—this early? She ran to the garage door and, standing on her tiptoes, peered through the row of tiny windows. Through the trees she could make out a black car pulling up behind Grace’s car. She gulped. What if whoever it was came to the door and discovered no one was home? Then she would be in big trouble.
A young man, tall, with dark, slicked-back hair and a thin mouth pulled back in a scowl, got out of the passenger’s side. Zoe recognized him as Luke’s son. He walked over to Grace’s car and unlocked the door. Signaling the driver in the other car, he got in and started the engine. Both cars left together.
Zoe breathed a sigh of relief. She picked up the journal and tucked it inside her jacket. She could read the rest of it at home in the privacy of her bedroom.
Chapter Fourteen
Zoe removed the journal and hung up her damp jacket in the back hall. Yoda was waiting at the top of the stairs, his tail wagging and his squirrel tug toy in his mouth. He nudged Zoe at the back of her heels as he followed her eagerly into her room.
“Stop it, Yoda,” she said sharply. Yoda dropped the toy and, letting out a heavy sigh, flopped down on the floor beside the bed.
Zoe sat on her bed and opened the journal to the next entry. It was several pages long and simply dated “early June” as though the days no longer had any special meaning for Grace. It read:
What a day! I’m writing this down just as it happened so some day when I’m gone and the world reads this they’ll know what a noble deed I’ve done—My opus magnum!! But for now I must keep my secret to myself.
Zoe paused. Secret? What kind of secret? And what did Grace mean by “when I’m gone”? Did she think that someone was trying to kill her? And what was
an “opus magnum”? Was it some kind of gun that Grace kept to protect herself? Zoe had not bought the story that Grace had died of an old brain injury. Zoe felt certain now that the police—especially Detective Tasca who had it in for Grace—were hiding something and there was some sort of a cover-up going on. Zoe was determined to get to the bottom of it. She continued reading.
When I got home this evening, Yoda was whimpering at the door. Being the soft touch that I am, I decided to take the annoying little creature for a walk. Besides, I had another one of those killer headaches coming on and the outdoor air helps clear my head. Before I knew it, I was on the corner across from Kitty Van Zandt’s house.
When I crossed the street to get a better look, I spotted that homeless bum—the one who hangs out near Garcia’s Grocery. He was heading up the driveway that runs off the side street by her house—or I guess to be more accurate I should say what used to be her house!! Ha-ha! Anyway, at the time I didn’t think anything of it. It was a beautiful evening so I took Yoda for a walk around the park near the Armory. When I returned, I saw the same man coming back down the driveway. He turned and glanced warily at me, and headed down the street in the opposite direction. I wondered if he might be that good-for-nothing grandson Lynda had mentioned at lunch the other day.
Naturally, my curiosity was piqued. After checking to make sure no one was watching, I cut through an opening in the hedge. The porch light was on and the back door was slightly open so I pushed it open and stepped into the kitchen. A half-drunk glass of milk and a dirty blue willow plate sat on a chipped enamel table. Yoda immediately busied himself licking up old bits of food ground into the cracked linoleum. Just then I heard the sound of canned laughter coming from the front part of the house.
I dropped the leash and tiptoed down the hall toward the sound, the threadbare rug muffling my footsteps. A mustiness and stale body odor assaulted my nostrils. It was disgusting. As I approached the arched doorway that separated the hall from the front parlor, I noticed another, slightly less offensive smell. It was one of those Yankee candles—maybe apple cinnamon. Then I spotted Kitty Van Zandt—skinny as a rake with only a few strands of gray hair on her balding head. She was sitting on a faded red settee watching I Love Lucy reruns and (get this!) smoking a cigarette! With her free hand she fondled a gold locket that hung around her withered neck. The room was a pig sty—cluttered with dusty knickknacks, a hodgepodge of antiques, and piles of old newspapers. All I could think was, How can people live this way?! I was about to turn and leave when, unable to stifle it, I sneezed.
Well, the old hag sat bolt upright and grabbed her cane and started shaking it at me. Then she stopped and stared at me, looking confused, and said, “If you don’t leave right now I’m going to call the police.”
Zoe set down the journal. She stood and walked over to the window thinking about what she had just read. Drops of rain trickled from the roof above. She forced herself to take a deep breath in and out trying to get rid of the sense of dread rising in her chest. Grace was probably just checking to see if the old lady was okay, she reassured herself. That was the kind of person Grace was. In fact, now that Zoe thought about it she wondered if this may have been the good deed Grace had spoken of earlier. After all, that homeless man could have murdered the old woman and made off with all her money and jewelry. There was no telling what drug addicts—even those who were related to you—would do when they were high.
Zoe rubbed her arms. The sky behind the bare trees had taken on a gloomy appearance with its washed out purple and dull yellow hues. She glanced at the clock on the dresser. The sun was already beginning to set even though it wasn’t even five-thirty.
She picked up Horton from the chair by the window and returned to her bed. She flicked on the lamp on the night table and, holding the stuffed elephant close to her, picked up the journal and opened it to the next page. It read:
I put on my most apologetic face and said, “I’m sorry. My dog Yoda—your back door was open and he ran inside—I just came in to get him.ˮ Then I looked around like I was trying to find Yoda and called out, “Yoda, come to mommy!” Yoda, as predictable as clockwork, came bounding into the room with his tail wagging.
Well, the old hag just shot Yoda a disgusted look—as if she had any reason to think she was any better than a dog! Then she snuffed out her cigarette, pulled out a new one from her pack of Newport Lights, leaned over the candle on the coffee table, and lit the cigarette. After taking a puff she said, “Well, now that you have your dog you can leave.”
I felt nothing but revulsion for this woman. Yet, at the same time, I felt a sort of excitement rising inside me, like a lioness might feel stalking her prey. No doubt Lynda was right—the world would be better off without parasites like this old bitch hoarding money that could be better used by others.
Maybe it was God speaking to me—the words Crime and Punishment popped into my head. Could I pull off what Raskolonikov had been only half-successful in accomplishing? Ridding the world of a parasite—one stupid, worthless, sick old crone, no good to anyone? It seemed that the opportunity to be the avenging angel of the great and just God had fallen into my lap.
Zoe squirmed and adjusted her pillow. She found Grace’s talk about God a little unsettling. She thought God was supposed to be all-loving. Taking a deep breath, Zoe forced herself to read on:
I put on my sweetest smile and said to the old woman, “I will in due time. But first there’s something I must do—something for the greater good.ˮ I felt an eerie sense of detachment, like I was watching from somewhere else. As if someone else—the Ubermensch perhaps—or I suppose I should say the UberFrau—had entered the room through me. The old woman eyed me suspiciously and cupping her hand to her ear said, “What did you say?”
“The greater good,” my UberFrau replied. Then, the UberFrau picked up the Yankee candle from the coffee table and flung the contents at the hag. Just like that! I couldn’t believe it! The old woman shrieked as hot wax splattered her face. What a hoot! She looked like one of those stupid spotted characters from a Dr. Seuss book.
Zoe blinked and stared at the words. Sweat broke out above her lip. Her heart thumped, as if it were trying to escape some evil force. Zoe’s first thought was to destroy the journal—to pretend it never existed. But she knew it was too late for that. She shut her eyes and pushed the journal aside. It toppled to the floor.
She pressed her face into Horton’s pink fur. As she did, she thought she heard a soft clinking sound, like metal against metal. She swallowed hard, trying to push down the nausea rising in her throat. Her mind raced. Who was this horrible UberFrau person—this monster? Had someone else snuck into the house when Grace’s back was turned? Or, was the UberFrau the old woman’s crazy daughter, the mother of the bum that Grace had mentioned in an earlier journal entry? Maybe the daughter had come down from upstairs when she heard Grace talking to the old woman.
Reluctantly, Zoe picked up the journal from the floor and began reading again:
I—no, not me but the UberFrau—couldn’t help but laugh. There I was just watching this happen. The old me didn’t exist anymore. At last the UberFrau has broken free of her cocoon!!!!
The old woman fumbled around for her cane, knocking it out of reach. I guess she didn’t share the UberFrau’s amusement. But really, when you think about it, she brought this on herself—if only she hadn’t been so rude to me, so greedy with her money. After all, I had been nothing but polite. As I write this, I realize I’m beginning to see things with a clarity and logic I didn’t have before. We consider it a kindness to put a pet out of its misery. Don’t our fellow human beings deserve the same consideration? Wasn’t it Martin Luther King, Jr. who said “The Universe bends toward justice”? Certainly the universe seemed to be scheming to lend me a hand in ridding the world of this miserable old parasite as the UberFrau reached out and struck the burning candle, sending it tumbling into a pile of newspapers on the floor.
The old hag cursed. The edge
s of the newspapers curled. Within seconds, the pile burst into flames. The flames slithered from the pile along the settee and under the afghan covering her legs. She shrieked as the excited flames licked their way up her housedress. I found it exhilarating—actually—I might describe it as almost sensual.
The UberFrau sprang forward and reached for the locket on the old woman’s neck and yanked it off. The old woman grabbed her by the wrist. Picking up a heavy glass ashtray nearly overflowing with disgusting butts, the UberFrau smashed it against the old woman’s head. The old woman slumped back as cigarette butts scattered all over the floor. The smell of her burning flesh seared the air.
The rest of the entry was illegible.
Zoe’s stomach lurched. She dropped the journal. Clutching her stomach, she raced down the hall, and fell to her knees in front of the toilet. Just in time. As she pushed herself up and staggered over to the sink, she realized that she would have to get the journal to the police now, even if it meant she would be sent to Sockanosset. A gruesome murder had been committed and the person who did it—that UberFrau person—might still be out there. It was the right thing to do. It’s what Grace would have wanted.
Fall From Grace Page 9