“Maybe we’d better stop listening,” Julie suggested.
“Are you crazy?” Jeff said. “I don’t really know anything right now. We skipped too much.” He punched the Rewind button defiantly.
“Yeah,” Brian said, “Maybe she’s not . . . Maybe it’s not as bad as it sounds. Maybe they can cure her.” After all, Ben Casey or Dr. Kildare often saved patients everyone said were doomed.
“That’s right,” Jeff jabbed the Stop button. “She said there was a new medicine or something.” He pressed Play.
“Oy,” Harriet’s voice was loud and clear. “I have my in-laws coming for dinner and Hy is dropping his little brats off for the afternoon.” Harriet chuckled. “No, not Julie,” Harriet assured Rose. “Julie is beautifully behaved. Of course she’s not the prize her parents think she is, and the thought of her dancing ballet coming from that family of klutzes is a scream, but she’s sweet and harmless. Her brother is the spoiled brat, he’s just impossible. But that’s Hy. Hy thinks he’s God’s gift so his son must be too, right? Anyway, I’m grateful Brian is here to help Jeff entertain them. He can’t stand them.”
None of the eavesdroppers spoke. Brian wanted to tell Julie she was beautiful and could become a dancer but thought he should act as if he hadn’t paid attention. They remained attentive during a long silence from Harriet on the tape, presumably listening to Rose. At one point Harriet commented, alarm in her tone, “What are you talking about? He’s not a bother—” but she must have been cut off by Rose.
Harriet’s next comment was “I see,” said in an icy tone. “I see what you’re getting at. You’re not worried about whether it’s a bother to me. You don’t want Brian playing with Jeff, that’s what you really mean.” There was a brief silence on Harriet’s side, followed by a startling bang. “Oh God!” Harriet cried out in horror. The frantic banging noise repeated. “I can’t believe this is happening,” Harriet moaned and banged something again. Brian decided Harriet was smacking the headboard. The thudding stopped. Then Harriet, through gasping sobs, pleaded, “Rose, you don’t understand. I can’t let Jeff out of my sight. I can’t bear to miss even a moment of his life. No, no.” Her voice almost rose to a shout. “That’s not why. I didn’t want to tell you. I didn’t want to burden you. I have cancer. I have breast cancer. I’m going to die. I’m dying, Rose,” and she sobbed without restraint.
The children listened in a dismal, cowed silence. Jeff lowered his head until his eyes were fixed on his Keds, a folding chair collapsing. Finally his mother’s weeping subsided to sniffles. Harriet gathered herself enough to speak clearly: “They found a tumor. Yes, they’re sure. They can’t operate. They want to try some sort of new drug. But no surgery. Thank God. It’s bad enough I’m dying. I don’t want to die flat-chested.” Harriet laughed bravely. Brian was impressed by the very thing that frightened him about her—unexpected and violent shifts of emotion.
Julie leaned toward her cousin until their temples touched. Noah put his legs under him and hugged himself. The recording reached the part they had heard before. They listened again to Harriet say, “Thank you, honey. Thank you. You’re a sweetheart,” to whatever Rose was saying. “That’s true, there is hope,” Harriet conceded, her voice strengthening. “I’m sorry, Rose . . . I’m sorry. No, honey, no, you don’t have to do that. How sweet. The doctors don’t know a goddamn thing. Except how to charge. I don’t how we’re going to pay all the doctors’ bills. Even if this new treatment works, it could be a disaster. What good is it if we end up broke . . . living like animals on the street? Jeff and Saul will be better off with me in the grave. Oh God, oh God, what’s going to happen to my little Jeffy. His father can’t take care of him after I’m gone.”
Jeff raised his head enough for Brian to see his friend’s eyes were dry, jaw in a determined clench. On the tape they heard the front door ring. “Oh my God,” Harriet said, “that’s Hy and the kids. I’ve got to pull myself together. JEFF!” she called. “JEFF! ANSWER THE DOOR!”
It was an eerie feeling, recalling the comedy of an unwilling Hy coaxed into seeing a malingering Harriet with the irony of what Brian now understood about the real situation. He was tantalized by the thought that if only they hadn’t hidden the recorder the day would have continued to be innocent fun. Of course, Harriet would still be sick. Or would she? Was the tape recording magic? If they hadn’t hidden the machine, maybe she wouldn’t have cancer.
Jeff fast-forwarded. At one point, he pressed Play to check on his progress—they heard Noah and Julie greet Aunt Harriet—then resumed until he reached a point where they could listen in on Harriet’s and Hy’s tête-à-tête.
Jeff overshot a little. Hy was in midspeech. “Saul’s my brother. I loaned him the money. I’ll talk to him about it.”
“Goddamn it, Hy,” Harriet answered, her tone nakedly hostile. “Saul told me all about it. That you’ve lost money playing the stock market and need the two thousand back—”
“Two thousand seven hundred. And I didn’t play the stock market. Don’t tell me Saul told you I’ve been—”
“Maybe you’ve been playing the ponies like your father used to—”
“What!” Hy squealed with outrage. “I’m not a gambler. I don’t have to explain to you or even Saul why I want to be paid back. The point is that it was a six-month loan and it’s been a year and a half . . .” He sighed, exasperated. “Look, I’m not talking about this with my brother’s wife. All right? It’s not appropriate.”
“Why not? Why in God’s name isn’t it appropriate? Saul’s lived with me as many years as he lived with you. I’ve known you for twenty years. If we’re not family now I don’t know when we’ll be.”
“Harriet, what has the number of years we’ve known each other got to do with anything?”
“I’m talking about family—”
“Saul is my family. Our parents are dead. We have no aunts and uncles. He’s my one and only blood relative. Saul is my family. I lent my brother money. I’ll talk to him about it. That’s it. Case closed.”
“No. The case is not closed.” Brian looked at Jeff to check if he was impressed as he was by Harriet’s boldness in facing down the blustering Hy, transformed from a pathetic sick woman into an inspiring heroine. “The case is not closed, Hy, because Saul is too proud to tell you what’s really going on. You ask him for the money and he’ll give it to you, even if it means he has to lose the store. He’ll give you the two thousand dollars without saying a word about the fact that I have breast cancer. Without letting you know that he has no idea what my treatment is going to—”
“What?” Hy interrupted, irritated. “What the hell did you just say?”
“I have a lump in my breast. It’s cancer.” She hurled the diagnosis at Hy like a rebuke. The news silenced him. His quiet continued for five revolutions of the reels, a very long time for the surveillance team. Julie whispered, “Say something, Daddy.”
“Harriet,” he spoke at last, very gently. “When did this happen?”
“Um . . .” Harriet hesitated. “I guess I felt it—I don’t know—truth is, I didn’t want to know what it was. I felt it just before Christmas. That’s when it was.”
“Two months ago? Why didn’t you tell me right away? Who’s treating you? My friend, David Newberg, is a top oncologist at Sloan Kettering. He doesn’t treat breast, but he can get you in to to see one of the best in the country. I want you to see him on Monday—”
“No, no, Hy. I don’t want to see anyone else,” Harriet said in a tone of profound hopelessness, then added nothing more, which seemed odd to Brian.
“Why not? Don’t be ridiculous! You have to let me—”
“Thank you, Hy, but no,” she was certain this time. “I’m in the HIP plan through the city. They have certain doctors you’re supposed to see and they’re very good.”
“David will see you for free. Professional courtesy. I did his mother’s whole mouth for nothing for exactly this kind of situation. Trust me on this—”
Jeff poked the Stop button and tried to shield the machine from view while the children’s heads turned in guilty unison. There, filling the doorway, was Richard Klein. He was in a tailored blue blazer, gray slacks, and a white Brooks Brothers shirt without a tie. Brian imagined he could smell Old Spice, although he was half a room away. “Happy birthday, Jeff!” he announced. “Hi there, boys and girls,” he added with a mischievous smile at the sight of four children on their knees hovering with an air of secrecy over something on the bed. “What you got there?” He turned to someone behind him and commented, “I think we interrupted something naughty.”
Sam the NBC page appeared, peering curiously over his benefactor’s shoulder. “Hi, kids,” he called in. “Happy birthday, Jeff.”
Jeff stood up, revealing the object on the bed. “It’s your present, Cousin Richard. I was showing them the portable tape recorder.”
“That’s your parents’ present. I just helped get it. Sam here is going to help me get you a present of my own.” Klein strolled toward the bed, a broad smile aimed at Brian. “Hello, Brian.” Brian shifted behind Julie. Jeff had given no warning that he should expect Klein to show up today. It was a dreadful surprise.
Klein veered toward him, nudging past Julie. He stuck out his hand, saying in a wounded tone, “Brian, aren’t you going to say hello to me?” Brian’s heart was pounding. His legs yearned to run as fast as he could, but he couldn’t order them to move. He was mortified Klein had singled him out; it seemed to announce to everyone what had happened in the NBC bathroom. Klein’s showy greeting was a further proof to Brian that he, not the vice president, ought to be ashamed, that it was his secret, not Klein’s.
“Here.” Klein stuck his chubby fingers almost directly under Brian’s nose. “Shake hands.”
Embarrassment warmed Brian’s face. Head down, he offered his hand limply. Klein grabbed it and jerked Brian into his fragrant shirt, exclaiming, “Whoops!” Klein bear-hugged Brian in a way that looked to the others as an attempt to steady himself. Brian felt a bulge at Klein’s groin press against his belly, and his nose was dunked into the well of the adult’s open collar. He did get a faint whiff of Old Spice while he was squeezed tight a second time, then was abruptly pushed away.
Klein stepped back, commenting, “I said ‘Let’s shake,’ not ‘Let’s knock down Richard.’ ” He winked at Noah, who lit up like a pinball machine. “Who are you?” Klein said, peering into little boy’s eager face. “I don’t know you, do I?”
“I’m Noah!” he shouted, showing all his crooked baby teeth.
“Well, how about you, Noah? Do you know how to shake?” Klein offered his hand.
Noah reached for it. The instant he did, Klein engulfed the little fingers in his fist and yanked Noah’s against him. “Whoops!” Klein said, repeating his burlesque of being off balance while squeezing Noah’s face tight to his groin, followed by the mock discard of pushing him away. “I said ‘Shake, Noah,’ not ‘Let’s crush Richard.’ ”
Noah was overcome by appreciation for Klein’s gag: he collapsed to the floor with laughter, doubled up into a fetal position.
“Noah,” Julie said. Her comment attracted Klein’s attention. He buttoned his blazer while he studied Julie, pretty as a doll in her Mary Janes, bright red sweater and short pleated gray skirt.
“Who are you?” he asked solemnly.
“I’m Julie,” she said.
Klein offered his hand.
Julie stared at it suspiciously.
“Don’t!” Noah managed to squeeze out between a cackle and a hiss.
“Don’t be scared,” Klein coaxed Julie. “You know, we’re practically related. You’re Jeff’s cousin and so am I.”
“Really?” Julie said, looking pleased by this information.
“Only I’m from his mother’s side and you’re from his father’s, so though we’re both Jeff’s cousins, you’re not my cousin. Does that make sense?” Klein asked with appealing innocence.
“Sure,” Julie said. Noah had stopped his hilarity and listened quietly from the floor.
“So let’s shake hands, Not-Really-Cousin Julie,” Klein said. He stepped closer, offering his hand.
“Don’t do it,” Noah said, grinning.
Brian, Jeff, and Sam watched grimly as if the outcome (would Klein pull the same trick on Julie?) were of great moment. Julie looked down at Klein’s proffered hand, up to his earnest countenance, and back to his hand before she at last extended her own.
Klein reached for Julie’s hand abruptly—Noah cried out with expectant glee—but he surprised by not surprising: he shook her hand gently. “Nice to meet you, Julie.” Klein stepped aside to introduce the page. “This is Sam, my Little Brother.” He grabbed Sam by the back of the neck, pulling him close, shaking the adolescent’s blond head like a rag doll’s. “Sam’s a little older than all of you—he’s seventeen—but he’s still a kid at heart. Right, Sam?”
Sam grinned. His face was smooth and pink and hairless, the load of blond curls on top of his head like a baby’s. To Brian, he looked like Ricky from The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet. “You bet, boss,” he answered. “I’m still a little boy, just like these guys.”
“Boss?” Noah asked Klein. “You’re his boss?”
“Sam’s taken a semester off before starting college to work at NBC as a page and I’m a vice president of NBC. So I must be his boss.”
Sam ducked his head to the right, escaping Klein’s grip on his neck. He said, “Dick’s not my real boss, but I do what he tells me.” Sam grinned at Klein. Klein laughed. Then Sam laughed.
The children did not laugh. If it was meant as a joke, they misunderstood. Especially Brian. He had retreated as far as he could, backing up all the way to Jeff’s bed, and he was watching every move the adult made. Now he added Sam to his surveillance because he was sure, even then, before he knew anything, before he knew everything, Brian was sure that Sam always did exactly what Richard Klein wanted.
Witness for the Prosecution
February 2008
BEFORE JULIE ENTERED Lincoln Center, she hid in the cold shadows of Sixty-fifth Street, near the underground garage entrance, shivering along with a few others of the addicted and the ashamed while she smoked her second cigarette from the first pack she had bought in fifteen years. Adding self-deception to sin, she had chosen a bright yellow American Spirit brand that claimed to be “additive-free.” She was a clear-eyed sucker. She knew the appealing package with an Indian in a headdress taking a toke on a long pipe was intended to provoke a perverse rebelliousness in teenagers and that the absurd claim of being “natural” allowed smokers to subconsciously convince themselves that these cigarettes weren’t deadly. She was certain that she was shortening her life with each inhalation, which made each draw all the more delicious.
She smoked three before going upstairs to resume the represervation of Boris Aronson’s production sketches at the New York Public Library for the Performing Arts. Eleven years ago Amelia Waxman, a friend from her Hunter College days, had hired her to work part-time on the private collections, an interesting job that dovetailed nicely with Zack’s attending preschool, helping pay the household bills and satisfying her need to fulfill some role other than mother and wife. Originally she had intended the work as temporary while she decided whether to get a graduate degree in art history or take up something entirely new. For a while she had a vague longing to be a psychologist. “Talking therapy is dead,” Gary said when she raised the idea. “It’s all pills now.” He was right. She was on Zoloft and a hormone patch to keep hot flashes at bay. Besides Wellbutrin, Gary was taking Klonopin to help him fall asleep ever since he had been weaned from Ambien. Most of Julie’s friends, at least all the ones she asked, admitted they were staving off anxiety or depression or both with the help of a pill. Yeah, talk was not cheap but definitely dead. Besides, how arrogant to think she could help anyone.
Other ambitions had fa
ded as the years passed, especially after Amelia made her archival job permanent. Julie relished the quiet solitude of her windowless room, kept at a constant temperature and humidity for the sake of preservation, empty but for drawings and models of Broadway’s golden days. She felt more at peace in that tomb than anywhere on earth. Gary complained endlessly about bad luck in his career, but it seemed to Julie they had always found a way to cobble together a prosperous middle-class New York life without much effort, thanks to Gary’s “inheriting” his mother’s obscenely inexpensive rent-controlled apartment, then getting a chance to buy it at the “insider’s price” when it went co-op, in effect a fifty percent discount. Then there were the odd well-paying cases, especially his successful defense of the Freiberg widow against the charge that she had deliberately left her wealthy senile father-in-law sitting in their Westchester garage all night so that he died of exposure. Meanwhile her brother, Noah, cleverly managed Gary’s profits, swelling them especially after 9/11, thanks to the Lower East Side real estate boom. He put the Widow Freiberg’s fee into converting two Orchard Street tenements into tiny monstrously priced condos that tripled their nest egg, paid for Zack’s outrageous thirty-thousand-dollar-a-year tuition and would put him through college. And with real estate going up and up with no end in sight, there might even be enough to pay for a generous retirement.
Julie didn’t speak to her financial wunderkind brother often. She had phoned Noah yesterday, asking whether he would come to a Seder if she were to host it, but that was a pretext. When she was fourteen, attendance at family Seders had been halved by the horrendous quarrel between the Mark brothers (really between Harriet and her father) over Saul’s failing to repay a four-thousand-dollar loan, and another consequence of that rupture was the blissful disappearance of Richard Klein from her life. In her twenties, following her mother’s sudden death from an aneurism, Seders were inconveniently transferred to her mother’s sister’s house in suburban Chicago and then brought to a complete halt by her father’s death nine years ago. She hadn’t attempted to convene her own Seder and didn’t really feel like putting one together now. Her true motive in placing the call was to find out if Noah remembered Sam Rydel or Richard Klein, assuming he had come across the latter’s name. Two days since her discovery and Klein was still cited only as part of the background story of Rydel’s success and philanthropy.
The Wisdom of Perversity Page 9