“Ms. Gates,” said Tracy, after a moment, “I’m not entirely sure we need any more of your testimony. If you can’t control yourself, then you’ll have to head straight back to where you came from. Is that what you want?”
Robin looked sobered by the threat, the first time she’d looked defeated since she’d entered the courtroom. “No,” she said.
“Then, please,” said Tracy, “describe for this courtroom the first time you and Mr. Silver had sex.”
“It was Easter,” said Robin, “just a couple of months after the concert.”
The Gunslinger stepped out of the shadows with a gift-wrapped box in her hands. She gave it to Robin, then disappeared again. And, as she vanished, the room began to transform. Tracy knew this place all too well: the old footlocker and the strong scent of its cedar lining, the plastic bins full to the brim with Cabbage Patch Kids and Care Bears and Pound Puppies, the beat-up plaid couch with the thick wooden arm rests. It was the rec room of the Cape house, and it looked almost the same in 1995 as it did now.
“No one else was awake yet,” said Robin. “And the first thing he said to me, when I gave him his present was—”
“Oh no, you’re turning into the batty neighbor.”
“What do you mean?” said Robin.
“You’re confusing holidays,” said Michael, “just like she does.”
“How so?” said Robin.
“It’s Easter,” said Michael, “and you’re giving me a present. Presents, as you know, are for Christmas.”
“You’re ridiculous,” said Robin. “Just open it.”
Michael sighed, then started in on the package’s ribbons, its bow.
“Just out of curiosity,” said Robin, “how is it that she’s mixing things up?”
“You didn’t see it?” said Michael.
“See what?” said Robin.
“Oh, Christ,” said Michael. “Let me finish opening this and then I’ll show you.”
He finished opening the package and his face was all mirth and mischief as he pulled from it a plastic baby in a burlap swaddling cloth.
“Is this what I think it is?” said Michael.
“Yep,” said Robin. “I stole it from her yard this morning.”
Tracy had heard stories of this doll, of where it came from. The next door neighbor, Mrs. Doris Brown, before she passed away, had kept a nativity scene in her yard year round. But Michael, the family atheist, didn’t buy that. Since the only time he saw it was at Easter, when he came down to visit, he swore up and down that the woman was just losing her marbles and mixing up her holidays.
Michael contemplated the baby. He paced with it, holding it by the feet and tapping its head against the palm of his free hand. Then, suddenly, he stopped and removed its swaddling cloth. He stared down at the naked doll, dumbfounded.
“No dick,” he said.
“Excuse me?” said Robin.
Michael held the baby close to his face, inspecting its crotch.
“No dick,” he repeated. “The son of God has no dick. Now I get it. Now I know why we’re all so sexually frustrated.”
Robin guffawed, then covered her mouth, looking toward the stairs, maybe to see if anyone was coming, if they’d woken anyone.
“I mean, shit,” he said. “I knew they cut off the tip, but this is a bit much, don’t you think? We are definitely not converting to Judaism.”
Michael hoisted the baby high above his head and bellowed, “I have seen the loins of Jesus Christ, and they have shown me the light!”
Robin held a finger to her lips, trying to shush him, but she had the giggles now, and her attempt didn’t last long; soon, she was doubled over with laughter.
Michael shook the baby at the window that overlooked Mrs. Brown’s yard. “I don’t know how many times we’ve told that woman that the nativity scene is for Christmas and not for Easter. But does she listen?” he said. “NO! I mean, Jesus! Is it too much to ask that, if you’re going to put a tacky plastic sculpture on your lawn to celebrate your faith, you at least know what holiday it is? I’m no theology scholar, but this is pretty simple shit we’re talking about here. I mean, why doesn’t she put a plastic crucifixion scene on her lawn or something?”
“I don’t think they make those,” said Robin.
“I betcha,” said Michael, “somebody could make a lot of money producing plastic crucifixion scenes.”
He used the doll to illustrate his point, nodding and pointing as necessary. “See,” he said, “you’ve got Jesus over here, and then you’ve got the two thieves over here and here. And of course we can’t forget about Mary, with the cherry, and Mary Magdalene, and the Romans—”
“Stop it!” said Robin. “You’re killing me.”
Michael put the baby down. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Thank you for my present.”
“You’re welcome,” she said. “Now, sit. I’ve got something to tell you.”
Michael sat on the floor of the rec room. He grabbed a raggedy old Cabbage Patch Kid and held onto it as he said, “I have a bad feeling about this.”
Robin sat across from him and took hold of his hand, the Cabbage Patch Kid slumping in his lap now.
“I’m just going to come right out and say it,” she said.
“OK,” said Michael.
“Carl Jacobson,” she said.
“The football player?”
“Just once,” she said. “At a party. I was playing my guitar, and he was looking at me just the right way, and there was a lot of Schlitz involved, and—”
“Just once, meaning what?” said Michael. “I mean, you and I haven’t even—”
“No, not that!” said Robin. “We just made out for a while.”
Michael took his hands back, wrapped his arms around the Cabbage Patch Kid again. Then he reached out and grabbed a Pound Puppy for good measure. “Why did you tell me?” he asked.
“What do you mean?” she said. “I wanted to be honest with you. Isn’t honesty what great relationships are built on?”
“Great relationships are built on kindness,” said Michael, running the Kid’s fat hand over the Puppy’s mottled fur. “Consideration,” he said.
“And me telling you wasn’t kind?” she said. “That wasn’t considerate?”
“No,” he said. “I know who you are, Robin. I know what you are.”
Now she seemed taken aback. She scowled a bit. “What am I?”
“A bonafide fucking rock star,” said Michael. “Or as close to a rock star as a 17-year-old can get.”
“And what does that mean?” said Robin.
“It means,” said Michael, “that I knew about Carl, and about the other guys before him, but that I accepted that was part of the deal in being with you. I accepted it and ignored it. And you keeping quiet about your indiscretions aided that cause.”
“So,” she said, “you’d rather I didn’t say anything?”
“Yes!” he said, hurling the toys back in their bins. “I’d rather you let me labor under the delusion that a pretty girl would ever be interested in me, could ever be satisfied by me and me alone.”
High above, on her platform, Tracy looked out into the darkness, both to avoid looking at the awkward scene playing out before her and to see how the jury was reacting. But she couldn’t see them at all. It was as if they had disappeared, as if maybe they weren’t there after all.
Robin was on her knees now, stretching her limber body toward Michael. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders as she said, “You do satisfy me.”
He kissed her then, and she kissed him back. They made out with wild abandon as he pushed her backwards and got on top of her.
“Have you no decency?” shouted Tracy. “You’re a married—”
But they weren’t listening. And was he even the same person now, or was he, in fact, the version of himself from all those years before, the unmarried one?
Does it matter? asked a voice in her head.
Robin began to tug his pants off. Tra
cy caught sight of the slightest hint of her uncle’s ass crack and that was it; she was done. She banged her gavel down three times on the broken sounding block, splintering it further.
“That’s enough,” said Tracy. “Guards!”
The Swordswoman and the Gunslinger tore out of the darkness, then tore Michael off of Robin, the Swordswoman yanking his pants back up as they did.
Robin stomped over to the Gunslinger and threw a haymaker, dropping the woman to the ground, but stumbling over herself in the process, falling flat on her face.
“Stand up,” said Tracy. “All of you.”
The Swordswoman grabbed hold of Robin and yanked her up, pulling her off to one side. The Gunslinger, wiping at her bleeding lip, grabbed hold of Michael.
“Ms. Gates,” said Tracy, “I have one final question for you, before you’re dismissed.”
“Yes?” said Robin.
“When Mr. Silver emailed you on the evening of January 22, 1998 to end your relationship, to what did he attribute his decision to call things off?”
“He told me he couldn’t understand why I hadn’t told him about the drummer from Berklee,” she said. “He wanted to know why he’d had to find out from his cousin. Or his cousin’s husband. Or something.”
“He couldn’t understand why you kept the affair from him, even though he had specifically asked you to keep your affairs from him?”
“That’s right,” said Robin.
“So,” said Tracy, “it would be accurate to describe Mr. Silver as a hypocrite, would it not?”
Robin rolled her eyes. “Since when is it a crime to contradict yourself? People change, sometimes from day to day. Hell, I’ve lived my entire life as a walking contradiction.”
Tracy looked around as the rec room faded and the courtroom reappeared, and she found the jury whispering to each other, nodding their approval. Yes, they seemed to be saying. Contradiction is good sometimes. Necessary even. She was losing them. But they had to see. She had to make them. “But your life is over because of your own hypocrisy,” she said. “Shot by a fan you spurned after writing an album of songs begging the masses to adore you.” Tracy shook her head, trying to push aside the memory of the tearful, snotty mess she’d been on the day she heard the news. “Ms. Gates, do you wish the same fate for Mr. Silver?”
“No,” said Robin.
“Neither do I,” Tracy said, and suddenly the courtroom fell silent. The whispers stopped and the gawking commenced. Had she really just said that? Out loud? While trying to win this case? “We’re not just here to protect women from him,” she said, stumbling for what to say next. “We’re also here to protect him from himself.”
She banged the gavel down once more. “The witness is excused.”
Robin gazed longingly at Michael. Then, with a firm nudge from the Swordswoman, she stepped out of the light, fading back into the darkness from whence she came.
23
The Attention the Kiss Deserves
He stared now at two of the more audacious members of the jury. The first was a brown-skinned woman—not a redhead, Tracy realized, surprised, having thought the jury was nothing but. She wore a purple bathing suit, the left side of it an inexplicable gash of fish-net, from just below her breast to just above her hip. She had blue hair, green sunglasses, and dangly gold earrings that reached all the way down to the purple choker that held the suit up and her enormous chest in.
Beside her sat a redhead, one of the many, in a white kimono with purple trim, a magenta corset beneath it that was half leather and half skull-patterned lace. She wore a pair of handcuffs on her left wrist, a purple rose and its thorns on the right, and she held matching Comedy and Tragedy masks in each hand. The right half of her face was covered by her hair and three mascara-lined tears rolled down her left cheek. Tracy stifled a laugh. The woman’s big 80s hair—that was tragic. But the rest of her get-up, all the half-assed attempts at symbolism, that was almost funny.
Michael shook his head as the two jurors stared at him, their eyes narrowed, their lips pursed. “This is a joke,” he said. “How much more of this is there? How long until this shit wears off?”
“This is no joke,” said Tracy. “And it doesn’t end until you admit your guilt and accept your—”
“Okay then,” Michael said to the women he’d been eyeing. “I’m guilty.”
“Of what?” said Tracy.
“I don’t know,” he said, turning to face her now. “You tell me!”
Tracy shook her head. He wasn’t ready yet, but that wasn’t a surprise. She knew he wouldn’t be. She knew it would take the whole journey to get him there.
“I would like to move on now,” she said, “to your relationship with Ms. Jennifer Worthing.”
“Jenna?” said Michael. “Don’t you mean Mrs. Jenna Silver? If you insist on being official—”
“She doesn’t belong to you,” said Tracy, “no matter what her driver’s license says. She was born Jennifer Worthing and—”
“So she belongs to her father then?”
“Excuse me?” said Tracy.
“Worthing was her father’s name, and he left when she was five. So, why not give her the name she chose, rather than the one she was saddled with by that good for nothing—”
The lights changed, without Tracy doing anything and without, it seemed, Michael doing anything either. Onto the stage—for it was a stage now, not the courtroom anymore, and not their stage but something bigger—danced someone, a woman, a woman who said, “How about the two of you quit your bitching and let’s get on with this?”
It was Jenna and the story Tracy was about to see play out was legend. Michael fell to the floor at the sight of his wife dancing in as her younger self. From his pocket, he withdrew a tiny paintbrush.
Tracy said, “When you met Ms. Worthing—”
“This isn’t when I met her,” said Michael. “We’d been living in the same townhouse for over two years at this point.”
“Okay then,” said Tracy. “When you and Ms. Worthing began your relationsh—”
“Why don’t you just shut up and watch?” he said.
Michael was working on the last corner of a 48-by-48 foot backdrop with the tiniest brush he owned, a 9/128” red sable that he normally reserved for painting ceramics. Behind him, only Jenna’s lingering feet were left, shuffling and skittering across the floor. Try as he might to stop himself, he could not help but glance over his shoulder in between strokes. He could not help, he had told Tracy once, but stare at the girl to whom the feet belonged.
Through the accident of her DNA, Jenna Worthing was possessed of the same idyllic body the Greeks had sculpted two thousand years before. Statuesque, all hips, she was more woman than any girl he had ever known. She spun slowly in her tight black leotard, her arms reaching upward, those full, womanly hips thrust outward, and her head back, her auburn hair falling downward in a matted mess, away from her sweat-soaked brow, from that soft, girl-like face of hers, that face that was, as always, devoid of any of the embellishments—the rouge, the eyeliner, the lip gloss—that might have more fully given her the façade of a grown woman. Wisps of hair clung to each of her apple cheeks, and a heavy, wet lock of it was strewn across those petite lips of hers, which curved upwards at the corners in the devilish little grin that seemed her most cherished facial expression. When she lifted a leg off of the floor, he could see that her foot was dirty, blackened from dancing atop the rubber floor for most of this cold winter’s day. He turned away from her once he realized that he’d been staring at the cracks between her toes, and he wondered what he’d been looking for. Some splotch of pure, innocent pink? Who knew? Michael tapped at the bulge in his right jeans pocket, where he kept his wallet, inside which there was still, undoubtedly, a photograph of Robin. Then he painted some more.
Jenna sat down beside him when she was done, legs stretched out in front of her, arms stretched backward to support herself as she stretched. She smelled deliciously awful, her scent a funk
y potpourri of perspiration and peppermint patties, burnt rubber and Bolognese sauce.
“Nobody,” she said, panting in between gulps from her liter of spring water, “is ever going to notice this.”
“I will,” he said.
“I admire your dedication,” she said, laying her head on his shoulder, her labored breath hot against his neck, her hair clinging to his cheek.
“Me, too,” he said. “I mean, I admire your dedication. Not mine.”
“Thanks,” she said. “I wish that it would start paying off. Y’know?”
“You’re too harsh on yourself,” said Michael.
She patted him on the shoulder as she stood to go. “Aren’t we all?”
Michael watched her walk away. Her leotard was riding up in the back, her firm bottom glistening with sweat. Robin, Tracy knew, wouldn’t have been caught dead in the same situation. And that was what Michael must have been thinking about: Robin, running around looking for a sweater to wrap around her waist, or walking backwards toward the door, trying not to stumble over her own feet.
Jenna paused at the stage’s side door and looked back at him. “You want to walk back to the house together?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah.”
The bitter December wind whipped at them as they trudged across campus through the freshly fallen snow.
Originally founded when Thomas Jefferson was in office, Kimball College sat atop a wooded hill high above the city of Haverhill. Down in the city, along the banks of the Merrimack River, there had once been a thriving shoe industry. Now, like much of the city, the factories sat boarded-up and crumbling. But up here on the hill, behind the brick and iron fence that surrounded the whole of the campus, there remained a happy, hippy community of bohemians and n’er-do-wells. In the midst of a quiet residential neighborhood, the campus’ sprawling lawns served as something of a public park, where children rode their bikes and families walked their dogs and where, from September to May, the student body was like the circus come to town—a rainbow of world cultures, of hair colors, and of sexual deviances in this place that had been, for almost two centuries, nothing more than a coven for rich men’s daughters.
Missing Mr. Wingfield Page 16