The Fifth Reflection

by Ellen Kirschman

  “Might you have bought a blanket while you were there buying cigarettes?”

  “Heavens no. When I buy blankets, Dr. Meyerhoff, I go to Nordstrom’s.”

  The next morning, I swing by the Dollar Store determined to get the proprietor to validate his identification of Kathryn’s photo. It’s early, but I presume he and the dog live on the premises. The lights are out. I knock hard, hard enough to rouse Chispa to a barking frenzy. No response. I knock again. A small group of schoolgirls pass me on the sidewalk. They’re dressed in the uniform of the local Catholic school, pleated plaid skirts, white shirts, navy sweaters, and knee socks. The tallest girl, her hair in braids and blue ribbons, taps me on the shoulder. She points to a sign in the window written in Spanish. Ido a México. Tienda cerrada hasta nuevo aviso.

  “I don’t read Spanish. What does it mean?”

  “Gone to Mexico,” she says. “Closed until further notice.”

  I want to call Manny, tell him his prediction was right on the money, but he’s on official leave. Anyhow, he’s so angry at me that I doubt he’d take my call. I could tell Pence, although it’s clear he doesn’t, at this moment, give a rat’s you-know-what for my opinion. He certainly isn’t under pressure to pursue the case until Manny gets back and the autopsy report is available. But then again, he doesn’t know about JJ’s secret stalker.

  My stomach growls. There’s nothing in it but coffee. Across the street is a small restaurant attached to a grocery store. When in doubt about anything, my default position is to eat.

  There are five tables, each one covered with a brightly colored cloth protected by a plastic cover. I’m the only customer. I choose a table in the back. The waitress hands me a menu and a basket of chips with a dish of salsa. I order chilaquiles, eggs scrambled with fried tortilla strips, and a glass of fresh orange juice. I check my e-mail. None. I check my voice mail. None. I look around for something to read. The only thing available is a crumpled Spanish-language newspaper and a glossy real estate magazine. There’s a huge flat-screen TV on one wall tuned to a Spanish-language talk show. A second wall is covered by a large hand-painted mural of two women in native dress, each carrying a large basket on her back. Bent forward under the weight of their burdens, they are walking up the side of a steep volcano as it spews lava and ash into the sky. The waitress sets a steaming platter of eggs, refried beans, rice, and tortillas in front of me. I keep staring at the mural.

  “Is okay?” she asks when I don’t immediately start to eat.

  “Si. Gracias.” I pull my eyes away and dig into the food. Everything is delicious, better than restaurants that cost five times as much. I make a note to tell Frank that we have to come here someday for dinner. Although if I finish this I won’t want to eat again for a week. I savor the fresh ingredients, the thick handmade tortillas, but I can’t stop thinking about the mural. Only now, when I look at it, I don’t see two peasant women walking into an active volcano when they should be running in the opposite direction. I see JJ and Kathryn. Both of them trying so hard not to be afraid, that they won’t allow themselves to see the danger that lies ahead. JJ, all grace and goodness, intent on forgiveness and abiding by the principles of her adopted spiritual tradition, blind to the world’s evil and to the depth of her grief and her fury. Kathryn, loathing her barren, aging self, clings to her sham of a marriage, pretending to herself and everyone else that her husband’s infidelities aren’t killing her and her love for him.

  The rest of my afternoon drags on interminably. Eager applicants, all shiny and bright. Street-worn guys nearing retirement, tarnished and bruised by police work yet terrified of losing it. By the time I finish with my last client, the sky is dark and the street lights have come on. Frank is making dinner for us at his place, something special, a new recipe he wants to try. I haven’t the heart to tell him I’m still full from breakfast.

  He greets me at the door as though he hasn’t seen me for a month. I envy his lack of inhibition, his ability to wear his heart on his sleeve. He’s like my mother with her bighearted embrace of the world. I’m like my father, cynical, skeptical, too cautious for my own good.

  “Give me your coat, take your shoes off, let me get you a drink. You’ll never guess what I’m cooking.” He dashes into the kitchen.

  “Come in,” he calls. “Try this.” He hands me a glass. “Tequila, cucumber, chili, mint, and simple syrup.” I take a sip. The mix of sweet and piquant cools my throat.

  “Delicious. What is it?”

  “My own recipe. Like it?”

  “I love it.”

  “Good, because it goes with dinner. JJ assigned us to shoot still lifes. I bought a beautiful string of chili peppers, and when I was done photographing, I couldn’t throw it out. So we’re having Mexican food. Red posole and tortillas I made by hand.”

  After dinner I can barely move. I managed to eat a bowl of posole with all the trimmings, cilantro, radishes, onions, and chips but I refused Frank’s offer of Mexican Chocolate with a sugarcoated cookie the size of a salad plate. I’m lying on the couch in front of the fireplace, and Frank is rubbing my feet. Our after-dinner conversation has understandably turned to Mexico.

  “We could get married in Oaxaca or Guanajuato.”

  “Do you think your family would go to Mexico? They rarely leave Iowa. They’re scared of strange people and strange food.”

  “We could elope.”

  “Your sisters would kill you if you didn’t invite them.”

  “Where do you want to get married?”

  I pull my feet from under his hands and force myself to sit up. I feel like a Bobo doll, so bottom-weighted, that if someone knocked me down I would bounce right back to standing.

  “Can we put this aside for a minute? I have something I need to talk about and you’re the only one I can talk to about it.”

  “Okay.” He settles back against the cushions.

  “Did you know that JJ had a secret stalker?”

  He sits up. “No. Where did you hear that?”

  “From Kathryn Blazek, Chrissy’s stepmother. We talked at Chrissy’s birthday celebration. She could have made it up. I don’t want to pass rumors. But, I need to tell someone at the police department about this while Manny’s on leave. This looks really bad for JJ, not reporting a stalker. I don’t know what to do.”

  “I do,” says Frank. “Before you go to the police with an unverified rumor from a woman with an unknown agenda who has plenty of reasons to make her husband’s lover look bad, why don’t we ask JJ directly?”

  He gets up from the couch, calls JJ, and invites her for dinner tomorrow night. She’s absolutely delighted.

  JJ is her usual ethereal self in flowing garments and giant jewelry. She starts for the couch, hesitates a moment, and sits in an armchair. “I remember sleeping on that couch. Horrible days.”

  Frank offers her a glass of wine. She asks for water instead. He sets out a tray of homemade hummus and pita chips and goes back to the kitchen. JJ dips the corner of a chip in the hummus and nibbles at it. Savoring it slowly, mindfully.

  “Thank you both for inviting me over. I don’t have too many social events these days. I think people are afraid to talk to me. What do you say to someone whose daughter has been kidnapped and murdered? There aren’t any social guidelines for such conversations. I understand, but still, I’m grateful to you both for your hospitality. And your thoughtfulness.”

  “So many of your friends came to see Chrissy’s tapestry,” I say.

  “It’s easier for people to see me when there’s a crowd around. Our conversation can’t get very deep. As for the tapestry, many people liked it, but I know others thought it was grotesque. Bizarre. Exploitive. My work always elicits a very mixed reaction. You either love it or you hate it.” She takes a sip of water and another bite of hummus.

  “Did someone actually say that to your face?” Frank brings in the wine and sits down next to me.

  “Never to my face. No one’s got the nerve. I get lette
rs. And someone in the commune told me there’s a lot of tweeting and Facebooking going on about it. I don’t look at social media.”

  “These letters,” I ask. “Are they threatening? Do you ever feel afraid?”

  She laughs softly and shakes her head. “I never read beyond the first sentence. I can tell immediately where the writer is going. As I said, my work is controversial, always has been. Better that people express their anger in writing than act on it.”

  “If you don’t read the letters, how do you know they won’t act on it?”

  She looks at me, then at Frank, and sets her water glass on the table. “Is there something the two of you are trying to tell me? If there is, out with it, please. After what I’ve been through, there isn’t much that can hurt or frighten me. What more do I have to lose? I’ve already lost the most precious thing in my life.”

  We sit like dummies.

  “Come on, Frank. Come on, Dot. What’s happened?”

  Frank is first to find the courage to speak. “I want to ask you about a rumor. Ask you to verify if it’s true or not.”

  She stiffens ever so slightly. “What rumor?”

  “That someone has been stalking you. Is that true?” Frank keeps his voice neutral.

  “No, it’s not true. Who told you that?”

  “I can’t say . . .”

  “Why not?” Now that we’re down to brass tacks, all the softness runs out of her face.

  “Because I heard it thirdhand. I don’t know the person who started it.”

  I lean forward, gripping my wine glass with both hands. “He heard it from me, and I heard it from Kathryn Blazek.”

  JJ flops back against the chair and laughs. “Good God, not that one again. Nobody’s stalking me. It’s just an ardent fan who fancies himself a little in love with me as well as my work. He’s not dangerous, just deluded.”

  “Why haven’t you told the police about him?”

  “Why should I get the poor man in trouble? He wasn’t a threat to me or to Chrissy.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I’m a portrait photographer. It’s my stock in trade to read people’s faces. To bring what is hidden into the open. That’s what people don’t like about the images of my nieces and nephews. They want to think all children are like sexless cherubs.”

  I’m tempted to ask JJ if she knows that Freud’s theory of childhood sexuality has been largely discredited. That his notion of screen memories, constructed memories masking forbidden sexual impulses, was later thought to be recollections of actual sexual abuse.

  “So the rumor’s not true?” I ask.

  “No, it’s not. I don’t have stalkers.” She takes a drink of water and another pita chip. “But I do have spies.”

  Frank and I look at each other. “What do you mean, spies?” he asks.

  “Sometimes Bucky sends people to check up on me. I guess he wants to be certain that the place is clean and Chrissy is being properly fed. He saw her every week—if I was starving her or forgetting to bathe her, you’d think he and Kathryn would have noticed. His minions skulk through the commune, stumble into my studio pretending to be lost, making sure I’m not letting Chrissy play with scissors, or something.”

  “Are you sure of this?”

  “I haven’t seen any of these people since Chrissy died. No need to check up on me anymore, is there?”

  “This is bizarre,” I say.

  “Not if you know Bucky. He can be refined and well mannered. That’s because Kathryn has schooled him properly. But his roots are much rougher. He’s like a junkyard dog. Half his family are in prison. He didn’t get wealthy being nice to people. Although he can be charming when he wants something. That’s how he got to me. But cross him, and you’ll see the real Bucky.”

  I remember him bursting into the police station, wanting to see Chrissy’s body, almost assaulting Chief Pence.

  “Is he violent?”

  “Not to me. Just loud. I walk away. But it upsets Kathryn when he yells.”

  “So you’ve all been pretending to get along peacefully?”

  “We try to for Chrissy’s sake. Every child deserves to feel safe and loved.”

  Safe and loved. Those were Kathryn’s exact words.

  Frank’s face is a mask. “I don’t know how you define a stalker, but if Bucky was sending people to spy on you, that fits my definition of stalking. You should have told the police. You need to tell them now.”

  “I never felt threatened. I knew what was going on. Bucky likes to play games. I wanted to keep the peace. So I pretended not to know who they were and what they were doing.”

  “And now?” I say. “There’s no reason not to tell the police now.”

  “What’s the point? Chrissy is dead. Nothing is going to bring her back.”

  “But her murderer is still out there. And he’s still dangerous. Pedophiles are addicted to children.”

  JJ winces. “Let me be clear. Bucky can be a hard man. A foolish man. I know I’ve told you this before. When I got pregnant, we were both overjoyed. Bucky wanted to divorce Kathryn and marry me. But I didn’t want that. He was a fling. All I needed was Chrissy and my work.” She takes another sip of water. “Understand me, please. Chrissy was Bucky’s heart. He is a difficult man, emotionally stunted, but there is no way on earth that he would have harmed Chrissy. As a matter of fact, if he finds the man who did this before the police find him, I fear for what he’ll do.”

  “If you don’t go to the police, I have to,” I say. “I can’t keep this information to myself. They need to know about the threatening letters and about your stalkers.”

  “What’s done is done. The police can do what they want. I take my comfort and my guidance in Buddhism. Do you know Buddha’s Five Reflections?” We shake our heads. “The Five Reflections are the Buddha’s daily contemplations on the fragility of life and our true inheritance, which is not money, although Bucky thinks it is.” She scoots to the edge of her seat, her spine straight.

  “I am sure to become old. I cannot avoid aging. I am sure to become ill. I cannot avoid illness. I am sure to die. I cannot avoid death.”

  This is Buddha’s enlightenment? I know this every time I look in the mirror.

  “I will be separated, parted from all that is dear to me.” A small pulse beats under her jaw. “The fifth reflection is the one that guides my life. ‘I am the owner of my actions, heir of my actions. Whatever actions I do, good or evil, of these I shall become heir.’”

  “Are you talking about Karma?” Frank says.

  “We become what we are. I choose not to live with bitterness or seek revenge. If I want a life of grace and joy, I must become grace and joy.”

  “And the guy that killed Chrissy?”

  “He is heir to his actions, too. His suffering will be great. He is doomed to endless lives of relentless misery.”

  “So it’s enough for you that the only punishment this guy gets for murdering your daughter is that he spends his next life as a cockroach?”

  “Frank, I wish I could make you both understand. This is the heart of my spiritual practice. I won’t dishonor Chrissy’s love of life by making my life about the search for her killer.”

  She stands up, clearly ready to leave. “Perhaps we should stop here and have dinner some other time when we’re less agitated.”

  Finally, she’s said something I can agree with. Having dinner together would be agony. It would be all I could do to keep from reaching across the table to wipe that Mona Lisa smile off her face.

  “I’m still going to the police,” I say.

  “Do whatever you need to do, Dot. And thank you for your concern and your kindness. I hope you understand where I’m coming from.”

  “I don’t and I doubt I ever will. I think you’re hiding behind your religion. Going to the police isn’t about revenge. It is about justice.”

  Later that night in bed, we pick the evening apart. Frank is as radical in his anger about religion as my fat
her was. He rants for ten minutes about how religion is the source of the world’s misery and oppression of women. He can’t believe a modern woman like JJ could believe in reincarnation. And then, having vented, he falls asleep, leaving me to toss and turn as the conversation with JJ runs wild in my brain. I listen to his breathing grow deeper and more even as I feel tears trickle out of the corners of my eyes. How much happier and easier would my life and my mother’s life have been if, instead of living every day drowning in bitterness, my father had been able to let go of his past and forgive his tormentors?

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  FRANK IS OFF to work before I’ve finished my first cup of coffee. He gives me a quick kiss and tells me he slept like a log. Wish I could say the same. I call Pence. His secretary answers and tells me he’s away for two days and can’t be reached.

  “Can’t be reached? In the middle of a murder investigation?”

  “He’s having oral surgery. He’s put it off as long as possible and he’s miserable. He can hardly talk. You want to talk to his second in command?”

  The idea of explaining all this to someone who is only familiar with the rudimentary aspects of the investigation is not appealing. I pour myself a second cup of coffee and check my voice mail. I have a message from Lupe. Her voice is shaky.

  “Manny is going crazy at home. It’s worse than when he’s at work. I told him now is a good time to make an appointment with you. But he won’t. Do you make house calls?”

  Manny and Lupe’s small house in East Kenilworth is a plain, one-story 1950s ranch-style building with a detached garage and a low front deck, white with dark green trim. There’s a large playpen with net sides in the front yard. Someone’s been digging a planter bed along the deck and under the living room window. I knock on the door. Lupe answers with Carmela in her arms. Her eyes are swollen and red. She is in stocking feet, jeans, and a sweatshirt. Shoes are lined up under a small bench in the front hall. I offer to remove my own, but she stops me. She shifts Carmela to her hip. Carmela is a beautiful child with her parents’ warm skin tones and a head of curly, glossy, black hair. She looks at me and starts to cry.