A Trick of the Eye

by Jane Stanton Hitchcock

  “What about you?”

  He didn’t answer. His eyelids drooped shut, then snapped open a couple of times, as if he were making an effort to stay awake.

  “I really ought to be getting back,” I said.

  He sauntered over and picked up the videotape he’d left on top of the television.

  “Don’t you want to see this?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure.”

  Madi bent down, pressing the tape against the mouth of the VCR. The machine inhaled it smoothly, making a soft whirring sound. He went over and sat on the couch, beckoning me to come sit beside him. I pulled up a chair instead, careful to maintain a good distance between us. This seemed to amuse him. Chuckling, he shook his head from side to side and muttered something unintelligible under his breath.

  Using a remote control, Madi clicked on the television set. A blank gray screen bloomed in front of us for a few seconds before bursting into the colors of an autumn day in the mountains. The camera glided across a ridge teeming with golden aspen trees. Suddenly, the screen filled with the image of a young woman laughing. I recognized her immediately: it was Cassandra, lying on a blanket, surrounded by the remains of a picnic on the grass, dressed in jeans and a red sweater. There was no soundtrack. I studied her as she played in front of the camera, alternately shy, indignant, and mischievous. Madi was right. Her lively, shifting expressions made her far prettier than she appeared in the formal photograph in her mother’s library.

  She kept burying her head in her hands, laughing and making faces, motioning the cameraman to go away. She hid, she pleaded, all to no avail. Finally, she shook up a bottle of soda, playfully threatening to spray the cameraman. The camera backed off slightly but not enough. She let go her finger from the bottle. Drops of liquid spattered the screen, the camera turned topsy-turvy, the screen went black, the film switched to another scene.

  This time Cassandra was sitting alone under a tree reading a book, apparently unaware she was being filmed. Occasionally, she pushed her hair out of her eyes with a sweep of her hand. The camera stayed on her an inordinately long time. I looked over at Madi.

  “She was beautiful,” I said. “I wish I’d known her.”

  He didn’t answer me. He continued staring at the television and drinking from the brandy bottle. All at once he bolted up from the couch and went into his bedroom. I, in my drunken haze, continued to be mesmerized by the tape of Cassandra, and wanted to see it through to the end.

  The scene on the video abruptly switched to black-and-white images. The camera was stationary, focused on an unmade bed. The film was grainy, the scene harshly lit. A round, whitish shape filled the screen, then disappeared. This happened several times. I couldn’t make out what it was at first. Then I realized it was a pair of bare buttocks, moving in and out of the frame. The view changed. Cassandra, nude, smoking a cigarette, draped herself across the bed, her small, round breasts firm on her chest. Smiling and smoking, she beckoned to an unseen person in the room. A naked man with a lean, muscular torso slid down on top of her, his back to the camera. She teasingly offered him a puff of her cigarette. Craning his neck for the puff, he turned his head to one side and I recognized him: it was Madi, looking younger, fitter, with a moustache and longer hair.

  What gradually unfolded was a movie of Cassandra and Madi making love. Like a sexual handmaiden, she offered herself up to him in different positions. He stroked her, licked her, played with her hair, sucked on her nipples, devoured the insides of her thighs. Growing more frenzied, she straddled him, reared up on top of him, ran her hands down her own body, eyes closed, sculpting its curves with her fingers. With a look of intense concentration and solemnity, she slid her hands from her body onto his, as if she were a high priestess sharing her magic energy with him. Toppling her with a stroke of his arm, he scrambled on top of her and fucked her violently, drilling her to the mattress.

  Watching them, I felt disgusted and titillated at the same time. I wanted to turn away, but I was riveted by the two of them bucking and writhing on the bed, oblivious to the camera. As their passion intensified, Cassandra looked as if she were fighting for her life, scratching and flailing, needing to be free. Madi was unrelenting. I kept thinking of John Noland and myself, of the scenes of our passion, fueled by anger.

  The screen went gray. The movie was over. I continued to stare at the blank set, feeling dizzy and vaguely sick. I was afraid to move for fear I’d throw up. I wanted to leave the house, get back to the hotel, have a bath. I wanted to put on a thick flannel nightgown, climb into bed, pull clean white sheets up over my head, and go to sleep.

  I heard a noise behind me. I didn’t turn around.

  “Why did you show me that?” I said somberly.

  “Why did you look?”

  He flung a manila envelope down in my lap. I didn’t touch it.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “Open it.”

  “No.”

  “Open it!” he demanded.

  I took a deep breath and opened the envelope. I slid out a photograph. It was upside down. When I turned it over, I gasped in horror. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. It was a gruesome black-and-white police photo of Cassandra’s murdered body, taken at the scene of the crime. She looked like a marionette splayed out on the floor. I stared at the twisted head, the blood-soaked nightgown, the expressionless features, the open eyes staring at nothing, the pale lips, the slack jaw, the tangled hair. I saw my own face in hers. My heart was beating with fear.

  “Look at her.”

  “Please—” I said, pushing the picture aside.

  Madi grabbed it and held it up close to my face. I could feel his hot brandy breath on my neck. He reeked of liquor.

  “Look at her!” he wailed.

  “I—I see her,” I said.

  “You remember I told you I hated someone more than Holt Griffin, more than Frances Griffin?” he hissed.

  I nodded, too frightened to utter a word.

  “You know who that person is?”

  I shook my head. My mouth was dry.

  “Myself!” he groaned.

  With that, he flung the picture away and clamped both his hands hard around my shoulders. I let out a scream, wriggled free, and sprang to my feet, out of his grasp.

  “I want to go back to the hotel!” I cried.

  Madi looked at me with wide, uncomprehending eyes. His face was bloated. I could see he was stoned and drunk.

  “C’mon, baby . . . spend the night,” he said, slurring his words, collapsing onto the couch. He heaved a sigh and passed out.

  I had to get out of there. I put on my coat and crept to the door, fearing I’d wake him up. Where were the car keys? Had Madi left them in the ignition? Had he put them in his pocket? I couldn’t remember. We’d both gotten so drunk. I reached for the doorknob and turned it slowly, trying not to make any noise. The door opened. A current of freezing air shot through me; it had a momentarily sobering effect. I ran outside to the jeep, yanked open the door, and hurled myself into the driver’s seat, praying the keys would be in the ignition. They weren’t.

  My head was swimming. I couldn’t get the police photograph of Cassandra out of my mind. I decided it was too risky to go back inside the house. At that moment, Madi seemed more dangerous than the bitter cold. I was going to make a run for it.

  Jogging down the long driveway, I imagined that Madi had somehow awakened and was coming after me. The notion terrified me so much that at one point, thinking I heard his jeep starting up, I jumped off the side of the road, slid down the embankment, and hid in the thick of the trees.

  The night was tomb black. Now I really began to feel the cold—an Arctic chill that stung all over. Even in my intoxicated state, I knew if I stayed out too long, I’d freeze to death. I knew I had to keep moving. I scurried back up the embankment and ran down the road, scanning the
dark shapes of the night, trying to get my bearings.

  Finally, I reached the highway. Disoriented, I chose a direction and started walking. After a few minutes, I saw the headlights of a car in the distance. As it came closer, I could see it was an old Chevrolet. I flagged it down. I had no choice. The car slowed to a halt.

  “Need some help?” asked an elderly woman, rolling down her window.

  “I’m trying to get to Broken Ridge,” I said, relieved.

  “You’re headed the wrong way. Broken Ridge’s in the other direction, ’bout five miles.”

  I asked if she’d mind giving me a lift to where she was going so I could get to a phone and call a taxi. This idea amused her so much she started laughing.

  “C’mon, get in. I’ll take you,” she said.

  I thanked her and climbed into the passenger seat. She turned around and we began heading toward Broken Ridge.

  “Dangerous being out at night by yourself,” the woman said.

  “I know,” I replied. My head was pounding.

  “Where’re you from?”

  “New York.”

  “City?”

  “Yes.”

  She nodded as if to say that figured. We drove in silence the rest of the way. When we reached the hotel, I was grateful but too tired and hung over to say anything more than a brief thank you. She seemed to take it in stride, driving off into the night.

  I climbed the stairs to my room, bone weary. I kicked off my boots, dropped onto the bed, and fell asleep with all my clothes on.

  Chapter 16

  The next morning I was awakened by a series of sharp, staccato rings. Half asleep, I fumbled for the phone next to the bed. For a moment, I wondered where I was and how I’d gotten there. Hearing the voice on the other end of the line, however, I remembered everything.

  “Faith,” the voice said, “are you all right? Faith?”

  It was Madi. I didn’t know what to say. Scenes of the previous night rushed through my mind.

  “Faith, please—are you there?”

  “I’m here,” I said, after a long pause.

  “Faith, I am so sorry. Please forgive me.”

  I didn’t answer. I thought of the moment when he’d kissed me and I shuddered. I waited for him to go on.

  “I was drunk. I know how much I must have frightened you,” he continued. “But you should not have left. It is very dangerous to be out alone at night.”

  “So I was told.”

  “How did you get back to the hotel?”

  “Roberto,” I said impatiently, “why are you calling me? Are you afraid I’ll tell people about you? I won’t.”

  “Please,” he said, “will you let me see you?”

  “What’s the point?”

  “You do not understand. Please—I have something that I must tell you.” He sounded desperate.

  “No,” I replied, but with less conviction.

  The thought of seeing him again frightened me, and I wasn’t eager to prolong the conversation. Yet I sensed he meant me no harm.

  “Please, listen,” he said with urgency in his voice. “I want to tell you the truth. I must tell you the truth.”

  “Why?” I asked, wary, but interested.

  “I lost my head last night, not just because I was drunk, but because you remind me of her. You brought back all the old memories. I thought things had changed. I thought I had learned to live with myself, but I have not. Please, Faith, I ask you to give me another chance. This time, I will tell you everything you want to know. Please, please . . .” he begged. “It is time for the truth.”

  “Where are you?” I said at last.

  “Downstairs, in the lobby,” he replied. “I am waiting for you.”

  Exhausted and hung over, I undressed and ran a bath. Before stepping into the tub, I studied my face in the mirror. The skin on my mouth and cheeks was chapped, burned raw by the cold. I looked pale and drawn—and older. The last veil of youth had lifted, exposing the deeper lines of middle age. I could see my skin sagging toward decay. I ached as I sank down into the hot tub. I closed my eyes and let my body go limp while my mind made lazy, incomplete connections.

  Had I been right from the beginning, I wondered? Was Madi, in fact, the murderer? Or was it Frances? Or Holt Griffin? Which one? Or was it someone else entirely? Clearly, the cover-up—and there had been a cover-up—had eaten away like lye at all those involved in it over the years. I was so close now. I kept repeating to myself over and over, what shall I do with the truth, Cassandra? What shall I do with the truth?

  After my bath, I packed and dressed and went downstairs. Madi was in the restaurant, seated at a table in the corner away from the small lunch crowd. He saw me come in and immediately stood up. I walked over to his table and sat down. He looked haggard and hung over. His face was sallow and unshaven, his eyes sunk in dark circles. He had a stale smell about him. I glanced at his drink.

  “Don’t worry, it is only a Virgin Mary,” he said, with a feeble grin, holding up the glass to reassure me. “Or what the English call a Bloody Shame.”

  He had a certain charm about him, even in this state. I couldn’t help but smile. A waitress came around to the table. I ordered a large orange juice and some eggs. After she’d gone, Madi and I sat across the table from one another, staring at each other, without saying a word. Finally, he cleared his throat and spoke.

  “I . . . I am so sorry about last night.” His voice was throaty and full of pain. “Can you forgive me?”

  I lowered my eyes, without answering. He continued:

  “You remind me so much of her. It has been years since I thought about any other woman in this way. It was too much. There are some ghosts that will not leave you alone. As you get older, instead of gradually fading, they become more clear. Can you understand that?”

  I looked back up at him. His eyes seemed to be searching my face for some sign of empathy. The waitress came back with my orange juice. Madi ordered another Virgin Mary.

  “How did you manage to get back?” he said, pulling out a cigarette.

  “I managed.”

  Looking genuinely remorseful, he said, “Was I terrible?”

  “Don’t you remember?”

  He shook his head. “I am an expert at forgetting.”

  Just at that moment, despite all the implied cynicism in the remark, he reminded me of a little boy.

  “You were drunk,” I said. “Let’s just leave it at that.”

  Madi lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply, seeming to savor the smoke in his lungs.

  “You were going to tell me the truth?” I went on.

  “Oh yes, the truth,” he said. “I want to make a confession, yes. I was brought up a Catholic. What about you?”

  “My mother was a Presbyterian. My father was a deserter,” I said.

  “What is that?” Madi inquired.

  “A bad joke. Never mind. Please go on.”

  “So you have never made confession?” he said.

  “No.”

  “Confession in church is simple. You go to a priest, you say your sins, you do your penance, and you are absolved. But there are some sins for which you cannot atone, no matter how sorry you are. Those sins you live with, and your penance is your life,” he said gravely.

  “And what are your sins, Roberto?”

  He hesitated for a moment, then said in a trembling voice: “I let her be killed.”

  I felt my chest constrict, my face grow hot. In that instant, I imagined him idly watching someone plunge the knife into Cassandra’s heart. He must have sensed my revulsion because he reached across the table with his hand in order to reassure me. I recoiled.

  “Not literally—!” he cried.

  “Who did it? Who?”

  “I will tell you, I will,” he said. “But you must understan
d that I feel I am the one who is responsible.”

  “What do you mean, Roberto? Please tell me.”

  He spoke slowly.

  “I am responsible because . . . I let her go back to the house . . . I let her spend the night under the same roof with that monster—”

  “What monster?” I said, riveted by his intensity.

  “Even though I knew what he was and what he might do to her,” Roberto continued.

  “Who?!”

  “Holt Griffin,” Madi said without taking his eyes off me. “The great Holt Griffin.”

  “Her father?”

  “Her father,” he spit out the word. “Her killer.”

  I believed him. I’d suspected it.

  “But why? Why did he do it?” I was fascinated.

  “The great collector, the great philanthropist, the great gentleman—the legend, Holt Griffin!” he said contemptuously. “That is what the world saw. But what the world sees is very different from what is true.”

  “Why, Roberto? Tell me,” I begged him.

  “I will. I trust you. Holt Griffin killed Sandy long before he actually stabbed her,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean this—” he said, his eyes hard. “Her father took her virginity when she was eleven years old.”

  “My God. He raped her?” I held my breath.

  “Worse. He seduced her. Enslaved her. Became her lover,” Madi groaned.

  “No!”

  He nodded.

  “My God—” I was completely stunned, yet there wasn’t the slightest doubt in my mind he was telling me the truth.

  I thought of Mrs. Griffin.

  “Did her mother know?” I asked.

  “Who knows what she knew or when she knew it?” Madi said. “She did not want to know it. It would have meant giving up too much.”

  “But she must have known. Or at least she must have suspected.”

  “If she knew, or if she suspected, she said nothing. Then Sandy finally told her, to her face.”

  “When?”

  “The night of the famous coming-out party,” Madi said.