“Would you carry an ID if you were going to kill yourself?”
“Of course. How else would they know me once the fish started eating my face?”
I dropped my hands. “That wasn’t funny, Binnie.”
She rested her forehead against the brown leather bag. “Look, I can’t keep going over this territory with you. We need to start letting go, all right?”
“I’m sorry.” Six weeks had passed since Gwen’s death had hit us like a wrecking ball. I sometimes forgot that Benita, my rough-on-the surface buddy, was a vulnerable tenderheart underneath. But I came from Russian Jewish stock; digging into human suffering was in my blood. I wasn’t about to let go until I found out the truth. In fact, I’d already e-mailed Gwen’s twin brother, Darryl.
I shifted my thoughts by using the only subject as powerful as death and danger. Sex. I focused on the men around me. Their naked torsos were shiny with perspiration. Their fabulous breathing came in bursts, hissing in and out through the nose, interspersed with short grunting sounds. So carnal. I was in testosterone heaven. “I love the smell of men when they sweat. Studies prove that women experience mood elevations when exposed to the scent of male underarm secretions.”
“Not your sweaty armpit theory again.”
“Well? Doesn’t it make sense?”
“Maybe if you’re a female deer,” she said. “Now zip that hole in your face and show me some work.”
I caught a glimpse of a guy shadowboxing in one of the four rings. He was as sculpted as Michelangelo’s David. Say hello to instant orgasm. My next punch missed the bag completely.
Benita rolled her eyes. “Unreal. Whose buns are you watching this time?”
A dull beep signaled break time, and the percussive symphony filling the gym subsided to a murmur. I stepped close to my friend’s ear. “In the second ring. No shirt. Black and red trunks. Shaggy brown hair.”
She followed my gaze and turned back to me. “That’s Eldridge Mace. Retired pro. Half- Mohawk, half-Irish.”
Made sense. That mix of copper skin with pale blue eyes. “Please tell me he’s not married with six kids.”
“Thirty-five and single. But, trust me, you don’t want to mess with that. He’s going nowhere these days. You can do better.”
“Don’t worry. He wouldn’t be interested in me, anyway.”
Jaleel Thomas, Benita’s friend and trainer for the past eight years, ambled our way. “I heard you two ladies were playing hide-and-seek down on Plymouth Street last night.”
He was a bear-sized, baby-faced man with shoulder-length dreads hanging beneath his black do-rag. Jaleel no longer resembled the aspiring middleweight he’d once been. Five years back he married a female attorney who also happened to make the best cheesecake in Brooklyn, and he shot up to his current two hundred fifty pounds. He extended a cordial fist to Benita, who then gave it a light pound with her own. Respect.
“Today we got worse problems.” Benita pointed her thumb at me. “Saylor’s gone hot for Mace.”
Jaleel laughed. “Uh-oh. Good boxer, but watch out, Saylor. I hear a woman never come back the same after a night with the Mace-man.”
Sign me up. “He seems mysterious.”
Jaleel rocked the bag with a short left hook. “Crazy more like it.”
“I’m a therapist; I like crazy people.” In fact, I was a magnet for dysfunctional men. I’d helped Peter get over a painful divorce, Simon overcome his panic attacks and Mickey face his alcohol problem. True to form, they all dumped their surrogate mother figure as soon as they got back on their feet.
When the beep sounded for the next round, Jaleel tapped Benita on the shoulder and left. “I’m going for a jog on the treadmill,” I said, slipping off my gloves. I picked up my bottle of Poland Spring and strolled away. It wasn’t as if I was the only person wandering around. People often showed up at Gleason’s just to watch the fighters train. It was one of the few gyms where kids from the projects, movie stars, Wall Streeters and even a klutz like me could train alongside world-class champions. On my way I paused for a closer glimpse of Eldridge Mace. Just to study his form, of course.
I suddenly realized who he reminded me of. Eddie Rivera. My first. A sleek sprinter with a sweet, sexy mouth that every girl in my high school had been dying to kiss.
On a balmy July night in the parking lot behind Lazkov’s Deli he’d actually kissed me, the munchkin. One ecstatic month later we did it in his father’s car. By September he not only stopped calling me, but the buzz in study hall was that I’d been a yock he’d practiced on while his real girlfriend was away for the summer. The fact that Eldridge Mace provoked a spontaneous regression to my unhappy youth should have made me instantly turn and leave. Instead I found myself inching forward in a slightly mesmerized state, until I stood smack against the edge of the ring’s elevated floor.
Eldridge zigzagged his way around the ring, shadowboxing his imaginary opponent. His hands were wrapped in bright orange tape and moved in a blur of speed. Beware of men with fast hands. He pivoted and glanced right at me. Caught unsuspecting, I felt a shudder of discomfort. His eyes definitely had a scary, distant, I-could-hurt-you-and-not-care look.
Trying to appear unruffled, I casually sipped on my water bottle and took my time screwing the cap on tightly. Eldridge spun ninety degrees and backpedaled in my direction. Just as I began to hope he might be purposely moving closer to me, my bottle of spring water slipped from my hand and bounced into the ring.
“Heads up!” I shouted. “No, I mean down!” Too late. His right foot rolled over the bottle, and the most graceful man I’d seen since Baryshnikov slid onto his butt.
Eldridge got to his feet in a flash, snatched up the bottle and stepped toward me. “This yours?” he asked with a slight Brooklyn accent.
I nodded. Guilt City.
“Figures.”
I stood there feeling clumsy and squat with my thighs bulging against my tight capris. Running shoes were not exactly the footwear of choice for a woman my height. “I’m really sorry. I’ll gladly pay for any doctor’s bills.”
“I’m good,” he said, bending and flexing his right ankle. In one fluid movement he slipped through the ropes, jumped down and handed me the bottle. “What’s somebody like you doing here anyway?”
His attitude caught me off guard. And pissed me off. “What’s that suppose to mean? I’m hardly the only female in this club who’s learning to box.”
“You? A boxer?” He coughed out a short laugh.
Just because he had a point didn’t mean he had to be rude enough to share it. “I happen to be a natural athlete. I played semi-pro soccer for two years and pitched in a women’s softball league.” I sounded positively pathological, but as long as I was lying I might as well chuck in a biggie. “And in college I led our gymnastic team to the nationals.”
“Then how come you couldn’t hold on to that plastic water bottle?”
Oooh. “I should have thrown it at you instead. Then you would’ve really needed a doctor.” I already half hated him just for resembling Eddie Rivera.
He crossed his arms, visibly amused. “Hot-blooded.”
“That’s right. I’m a Mars in Aries.” I tossed him a nasty, sexy grin. “So, next time I’m around, you better watch your step.”
“Or what? You gonna trip me again?”
“That was an accident. Maybe you should be more careful where you put your feet. I mean, isn’t that part of boxing? Don’t blame me if you’re not attentive.”
“I can be very attentive.” Those chilling eyes of his were on me once again. In fact they were studying me from head to toe. I felt my face go hot. And a few other parts. The I’d-like-to-screw-your-brains-out energy between us was as thick as a gob of K-Y jelly. Typical me, I sabotaged the delicious moment by wondering if it was my anger that excited him or if maybe he got off on pint-sized portable models he could easily maneuver into position.
A voice near the front desk called out, “Dr. Saylor Oz!”
<
br /> Could it be? I looked past Eldridge to see Tara Buckley. As if I hadn’t been through enough trauma in the last twenty-four hours. Tara breezed her way across the floor in her tiny shorts. Miss D-Cup Hollywood Blonde with the Legs. Turning heads as usual. Including the Mace-man’s.
“Hi.” I put my face on auto-smile.
“I know I’m early,” Tara said, giving Eldridge a quick squeeze and a peck on the mouth.
I couldn’t believe it. Of all the single women in New York City, he would have to pick Tara Buckley. Or, knowing Tara, she most likely picked him. The Mace-man’s body language was super casual, not possessive. Were they an item or just fuck buddies?
She turned to me with her own well-practiced look of canned sincerity and compassion. The kind only a twenty-five-year-old life coach who’d become a multimillion-dollar self-help guru could give. Perfect for winning over blank-faced audiences on book tours. For the past year she and I had been on the same speakers and seminar circuit. Except that Tara was usually the featured guest, while I was relegated to a filler spot. Her book, How To Be The Woman Every Man Dreams Of, was going into its second year on the bestseller lists.
She spoke in one of those melodious, breathy voices that women find repulsive but that apparently stimulate the male species. She grasped Eldridge’s hand with two of hers while leaning her cheek against his shoulder. “Saylor is one of my older colleagues. What a surprise that you know Ridge.”
Ridge? “Actually, I’m new here,” I said. “He was just offering me some tips on my hand-eye skills.”
The corners of his mouth turned up in a boyish half smile that made my knees weak.
“Wait’ll you hear how Ridge and I met,” Tara gushed. “I saw this incredibly sexy Spider-Man dangling thirty-one stories above Third Avenue, right outside my office window. The only thing between him and the sidewalk below was this itty-bitty seat under his cute little heinie. I wrote a note on a piece of paper, pressed it against the glass, and Ridge had a coffee break in my office he’ll never forget.”
Like I really needed this. My only consolation was the uncomfortable look on Eldridge’s face. “You’re a high-rise window-washer?” I asked.
Eldridge nodded. “A drop-man. Not to be confused with a person who drops things.” He watched for my reaction.
I kept a straight face. “I assume it also doesn’t mean you drop off the side of a building.”
“Actually it does,” he said. “We don’t use scaffolding. Just ropes and a harness. Then we drop straight down from floor to floor. More fun that way.”
Fun? Jaleel was right. He is nuts. Heights scared the hell out of me. Climbing on a footstool to reach my closet shelf gave me vertigo.
Eldridge looked at me and said, “Now it’s your turn.”
“My turn for what? To do you in my office?”
He looked tickled. “I was asking about your work.”
“Let’s just say orgasms are my business.”
His eyebrows shot up. That got his attention.
Tara moved in quickly to dampen the effect. “Saylor’s a sex therapist whose specialty is teaching women how to give themselves orgasms. Necessity is the mother of invention, right? Of course, I’m a woman who never has to fly solo.” She winked at Eldridge.
I forced a smile. The kind you flash people before running them over in your truck.
“Well, gotta hurry. My weekly Clitoral Culture Group meets at eight in SoHo.” Perfect exit line.
Not so fast. Tara was on a roll. “Saylor also gives workshops for couples who need help with their sex life.” A breathy laugh. “Guess you could say, ‘Those who can, do. Those who can’t, teach’.”
Please Universe, may a pigeon with a rare disease leave its droppings in her hair.
As Tara rambled on, Eldridge remained poker-faced. Couldn’t figure if he was concealing a case of advanced nausea, as I was, or if he was just another sexy looking asshole.
Why was I wasting my time here, anyway? There could be a response from Gwen’s brother sitting in my e-mail right now.
TWO
Wednesday. Four weeks since I’d moved to DUMBO, and I was finally starting to feel at home. My bedroom here in my aunt’s loft was larger than the one I’d had in our Williamsburg apartment. I could actually fit in a queen-sized bed plus a small oak dresser, mini-desk and night table without turning the space into a rush-hour subway car. And the windows were enormous.
With the vertical blinds opened for maximum sunlight, I sat on the cool hardwood floor unpacking a few leftover boxes. After arranging my collection of plastic dinosaurs on one of the bookshelves freshly constructed by my orderly do-it-yourself fanatic roommate, I sorted through some CDs — Dave Brubeck’s Classic hits, Brahams cello and piano sonatas, Alicia Keys — and set them in a pile next to the stacks of books I hadn’t yet shelved. Every ten minutes I checked the e-mail on my new laptop.
Aha, there it was. An e-mail with an attachment from Darryl Applebee, Gwen’s twin brother. He was only twelve minutes older than Gwen, but that had never stopped him from acting the part of officious older brother. Including with me.
Like the time back in seventh grade when I was brushing up for a big speech contest by practicing in front of Gwen at her house. In walked Darryl, the man with all the advice. He told me he knew a trick used by all great public speakers: “Whenever you get nervous, nod your head.” The nodding would supposedly relax my neck, while making me look intelligent to the audience. The second I got on stage and saw all those faces, I found myself in a panic. I went into a very serious nodding spree, which made my fellow students snicker and murmur things to the person sitting next to them. More nerves, more nodding, more laughter. Finally, I scrapped the rest of my speech and bolted from the auditorium.
Thanks, Darryl. I went from munchkin to bobblehead for the rest of the week.
In Darryl’s e-mail he dismissed my theory about the fanny pack as nonsense, but at least he sent an attachment with a scanned copy of the suicide note. It only took him six weeks. I’d been asking to see the note since the day he notified me of his sister’s death. With all respect to Darryl’s grieving over the loss of his twin, I knew there was another reason behind his lack of responsiveness. Us. Mr. Conservative tended to look down on Binnie and me as a pair of weirdos who encouraged Gwen’s off-the-wall behavior. Truth was, we had to work to keep up with the strange mind of his sister.
I opened the attachment. The fancy loops and curves of the writing were unmistakably Gwen’s. Darryl had told me her suicide note was “another one of those corny poems.” He was referring to the absolutely over-the-top lyrical poetry Gwen used to write. She’d been published in several journals. I skimmed the page and smiled. Tears came to my eyes. He was right. It was undeniably one of her gloppiest.
Reading it again, I got stuck on the first line: “This is my farewell, golden priestess of the sa-zi-ga.”
Golden priestess of the sa-zi-ga? Wait a sec. That was a nickname Gwen had given to me. The sa-zi-ga were ancient Mesopotamian remedies and incantations used primarily to cure men’s sexual difficulties. Yep, even four thousand years ago guys had problems with their dicks. According to Gwen I was a contemporary version of a sa-zi-ga priestess.
When I thought about it, addressing her final note to me seemed a reasonable thing to do. I had keys to Gwen’s place. She must’ve assumed I’d be the first one to check in on her as the days went by. But only one day had passed before her body was found in the water. At least that’s what the police said. And because there was ID in her fanny pack, the cops went straight to Gwen’s next of kin. Darryl.
I read through the poem again and noticed another line: “The loyal sentry of my youth.” That couldn’t be referring to anyone else but me. But why didn’t she just use my real name? Why hide it? Why not say, “This is my farewell, Saylor”? Was Gwen’s artistic nature the reason? Or was she trying to tell me something she didn’t want anyone else to know?
I had an ominous feeling about this.
***
One great thing about moving into my aunt’s place was the fact that I could give up paying a colossal rent for a dingy closet-sized office at Eleventh and Broadway. Her DUMBO loft came with a home office just perfect for my private therapy clients. And, oh, those windows. All that sunlight pouring in had to have a positive effect on client morale. On the wall was an abstract painting done by my aunt back in her expressionistic period at the Art Students League. It was awful, but it came with the room, and I didn’t have the heart to remove it. In the corner was a futon sofa bed that my aunt sacked out on during those nights she came into the city.
The open floor plan of the loft and walk-thru kitchen allowed for speed when traveling between my office and the refrigerator. I could zing to the food zone, down a mouthful of pasta salad and be back in my chair before my clients returned from their trip to the bathroom. Of course, there was the time Marjory Lolopps gave me a strange look and said, “Eew. Is that a noodle on your sweater?”
My Wednesday noon session was with a dental hygienist I’d been treating for Hyperactive Sexual Desire. Kim assured me she’d gone past the G-spot and was now on her way to H. As soon as we finished, I stuffed a printout of Gwen’s poem into my purse, spritzed on the bold scent of Stella and hopped into the Salsa red Camry Binnie and I had bought from her cousin. I drove to the Seventy-fourth Precinct. It covered the area of Red Hook where Gwen had been living. And where she died.
Detective Dan Roach had a heavy Brooklyn accent and puffy eyes that spoke of too much caffeine and not enough sleep. “Just to make sure I understand you, you’re referring to the floater we found in the basin last month. Suicide victim.”
“Victim, yes. Suicide, no.” Dressed in a beige linen suit with a snug-fitting blazer and A-line mini, I sat in an office chair beside his desk, trying to sound direct and businesslike. Men weren’t always inclined to take women seriously when we acted like, well, like women.
All around us, cops at gray desks drank their coffee. Loud voices talking, phones ringing, air conditioners buzzing. “So, you’re saying the robbery of your apartment and a group of men chasing you on the streets at two a.m. have something to do with Gwendolyn Applebee?” His gaze never left my legs. It’s hard to sound businesslike to a man when he’s talking to one of your body parts.
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