Acts of Love (23 page)

“Miss Abrams, you said that you met Ted Waring in a bar?”

“Yes.”

“Do you spend much time in bars, Miss Abrams?”

“Objection,” Reardon called out. “The witness is not on trial here.”

“I'm trying to establish her reliability,” Fisk protested.

“You may proceed. But carefully, Mr. Fisk,” Judge Carruthers warned.

“Do you spend a lot of your free time in bars, Miss Abrams?”

“My brother-in-law owns the Handley Inn. I spend some time there.”

“And were you in the habit of picking up men there?”

“Objection.”

“Sustained.”

“How long did you know Ted Waring?”

“Like I said, about two weeks.”

“And was it your impression that he loved his wife?”

“If he did, it sure seemed like a strange kind of love to me.”

“Were you seeing other men at the same time you were seeing Ted Waring?”

“I don't remember. No. I don't think so.”

“On the night of this escapade, were you drinking as well?”

“I wasn't drunk.”

“Had you been drinking?”

“I may have had a glass of wine, I don't remember.”

“Did you call the police that night, Miss Abrams?”

“No.”

“Did you call a neighbor for help?”

“No.”

“Why not? After all, you just testified that you were terrified.”

“I just didn't, that's all.”

“How long did Mr. Waring stay in your house after this supposed attack?”

“I don't remember, maybe a half hour.”

“You allowed someone to linger in your house who you were physically scared of?”

“I didn't know how to get rid of him.”

“Miss Abrams, isn't it true that you were more interested in Ted Waring than he was in you?”

“No.”

“And weren't you hurt when he didn't pursue a relationship with you?”

“No. It wasn't like that.”

“I have no further questions for this witness.” Fisk sat down abruptly, washing his hands of her.

Lucy Abrams, a cold bead of sweat running down her cleavage, stepped from the witness stand and walked back past Ted. This time she did not look in his direction, but she was certain she heard him snort at her approach.

 

H
E HAD FALLEN
, already, into a pattern, or at least the semblance of a pattern. He drove straight back to the Royalton Oaks after the trial each day and sat in the gray living room, waiting for the night.

Sometimes he tried to read, but the words blurred and he found himself going over the same page again and again. Even old favorites—Chekhov, Cheever—provided no escape. Most often he simply sat, listening to the sound of the neighboring apartments ricocheting through his—the elderly woman above him who took a bath each night exactly at six, the improbably loud splashing reverberating against the ceiling; his neighbor's opera; another's arguments over the phone with his mother—incidental music to his own scattered thoughts. Some nights he stirred only to fix himself dinner, anything that he could cook quickly, that required no thought to prepare or to eat, and picked at it while he continued to listen.

Other nights, though, reassured by the shield of darkness, he got in his car and drove for hours.

He drove by Sandy's house, his daughters somewhere within.

He drove by the lot where the Briars' house was just beginning to rise, the foundation's stumps black and menacing in the night. It was to have been his project, and now someone else was building it. He wondered, in an offhand manner, how much they had bid and whether they were subcontracting out the wiring and the plumbing.

And always, he ended up driving by the house on Sycamore Street.

He had never had a home before; the very concept was alien, unimaginable. His family had moved seven times before he struck out for Hardison at sixteen, his mother always thinking that the next house would solve the problems within, though the next house grew even smaller, tightening around the violence, convulsing it. This time, as he drove slowly by and looked at the darkened windows, he thought of the basement he had refurbished, his tools lined up and polished with Germanic precision, chisels, mallets, hammers hung according to size, the worktable oiled and waxed, the saw blades routinely sharpened, all surely coated now with a thin film of dust. Stashed in the very bottom of the flat files in the corner there were drawings he had done years ago, when he had first held the architecture-school catalogues loosely in his grasp. He had practiced then with finely sharpened pencils, rulers, slide rules, and compasses, copying the formal layouts he studied in the library. He did not know the proper calculations or considerations, but he spent long hours with his sketch pad and his flat edges, making meticulous drawings of the houses that were lodged in his head—imitations of plans that he had never had the heart to throw away.

It was past midnight when he pulled up to the parking lot behind the Royalton Oaks, and though he had to get up early in the morning, he was in no hurry to wash up and go to bed. He slept fitfully now, waking at four, five in the morning, the specifics of his dreams lost, perhaps thankfully, but the
sense
of her around and about and within him, a tourniquet of memories and regrets, those too. Small things. That he hadn't bought her the pendant for her thirtieth birthday that she had been hinting at for months, hadn't bought it
because
she had been hinting at it, and he, sensitive to any form of manipulation, took umbrage. A flat silver heart, stretched and asymmetrical, a silly thing, really, in the jeweler's window on Main Street. He had gone back that Christmas Eve to buy it for her, but it was gone. That he hadn't told her he was impressed by what she did, but that he didn't want to hear the details of disease because of his own weak stomach (he fainted at blood tests, once, even, during an operation scene in a movie, causing the management to call an ambulance). But he was proud of her, simply that. He had never thought to regret Lucy Abrams, had never been dented by her enough to consider her as anything more than the most spectral of moments.

There were too many other things.

 

H
E LAY IN THE DOUBLE BED
, eyes open to the ceiling. The building was quiet now, the only sound left the faint hum of a television a few doors away, the remnants of canned laughter. He thought if he listened carefully enough, he would hear his neighbors breathe, sleep. He tried shutting his eyes, but though they ached from exhaustion, they would not remain closed.

He had held her head on his lap, the tunnel, the blood, held her head on his lap, noticing, even then, that she had freshly washed hair, and, for some absurd reason, he kept brushing it away from the wound, wanting above all else to keep it clean, unstained.

He remembered the smell, the shine, the soft sheet of hair as he brushed it away, away.

This is the question that haunted him: Who had she freshly washed her hair for? For him, his return? Or for her date with Dr. Neal Frederickson?

He turned on his side and pulled the blanket over his head.

 

T
HE NEXT MORNING
, Officer Frank Banyon testified that Ted Waring had a blood alcohol level of .300 the day of the “occurrence”—three times the legal definition of drunk.

“Officer Banyon,” Reardon continued, “can you tell us what you saw when you arrived at the scene?”

“Ted Waring was sitting at the foot of the steps, cradling his wife's head. Julia Waring was standing nearby. Ali Waring was in the rear of the room.”

“Did Julia say or do anything?”

“She turned to me when I came in and said, ‘He did it. He shot her.'”

“He?”

“Mr. Waring.” Banyon raised his arm and pointed with one stubby forefinger directly at Ted's face. The jury turned to see Ted, who had been picking once more at the hangnail that was now a scarlet sore, look up stubbornly.

“Did Julia seem confused or unclear in any way about this statement?”

“Not at all. She repeated quite clearly, ‘He shot her. He shot my mother.'”

“Did Ali dispute in any way what her sister was claiming?”

“No.”

“I have no further questions.”

Fisk approached the witness with a look of mild disdain. “Would you say that Julia Waring appeared upset when you arrived?”

“Yes. I'd say she was agitated.”

“And would you consider an agitated child who has just witnessed the most devastating accident a reliable witness?”

“Objection. That's a medical question,” Reardon called out. “This witness has no authority in that field.”

“Sustained. You will restrict your testimony only to describing what you saw,” Judge Carruthers instructed.

Fisk did not miss a beat. “Officer Banyon, what did Ted Waring say when you arrived?”

“He said, ‘It was an accident.'”

“Did he seem surprised at his daughter's behavior?”

“Yes.”

“Isn't it a fact that he appeared to be in utter disbelief?”

“I suppose.”

“What did he do then?”

“He said to her, ‘Tell them the truth, Julia. Tell them what really happened. It was an accident.'”

“Thank you, Mr. Banyon.” Fisk turned on his wafer-thin loafers and walked to his desk, smoothing his pants as he sat.

Banyon looked around uncertainly, mildly disappointed that his moment was over so soon. Only when Judge Carruthers gave him an encouraging nod did he rise to relinquish his place on the stand. He slipped briefly in his new, highly polished black shoes as he stepped down, and he made his way out of the courtroom with his usually pallid face a shiny pink.

Reardon waited until the heavy oak door at the rear closed slowly behind Banyon before he called his next witness. “The defense calls Dr. Samuel M. Peloit.”

A compact man in a navy suit strode confidently down the aisle to the front of the court. His skin had the deep orange hue of a permanent tan, and his thin hair, a similar color, was combed over his glistening crown and sprayed into place. The smell of his Aqua Velva formed a corona about him as he paused to be sworn in. Once seated, he meticulously straightened his shirt cuffs before looking up at the prosecuting attorney.

“By whom are you employed, Dr. Peloit?” Reardon began.

“The Hardison County Coroner's Office.”

“And how long have you been employed there?”

“Eleven years.”

“In what capacity do you serve?”

“I am the chief medical examiner.” Peloit had a smooth and objective voice that often belied the gruesome subject of his speech. Though this came quickly and naturally to most in his profession, he'd had to work hard to achieve such matter-of-factness.

“And from what institutions do you hold degrees?”

“State University at Albany, undergraduate. Cornell Medical School.”

“And can you tell us what, if any, professional groups you are a member of?”

Peloit leaned forward. “The Hardison County Medical Society, the New York State Medical Society, the American Medical Association, the American Association of Forensic Sciences…”

“Am I right in assuming that we don't need to belabor this?” Judge Carruthers interrupted.

Fisk nodded.

“Your Honor, the prosecution moves to have it recognized that Dr. Peloit is a medical expert in forensics,” Reardon said.

Judge Carruthers nodded. “So noted. You may proceed.”

Peloit leaned back, disgruntled. They weren't even going to give him the chance to list the numerous articles he had published, the speeches he had given, the number of cases he had examined.

“Are you familiar with the case of
The People
versus
Theodore Waring,
Dr. Peloit?” Reardon asked, calling his attention back.

“I am.”

“What, if any, examination did you do in conjunction with this case?”

“I examined the body of one Caucasian woman, aged thirty-six, Ann Leder Waring.”

“And did you determine the cause of death?”

“The cause of death was a single gunshot wound to the head.”

“Can you describe the wound to the court?”

“The bullet made a hole one-eighth of an inch in diameter one inch above the left eyebrow.” A hint of excitement crept into Peloit's voice despite himself. There weren't nearly enough bullet holes in Hardison County to suit his taste, or his ambition. “There were no powder burns,” he added, quickly returning to objectivity.