Baby Doll Games (22 page)

“Who likes the children more than they should?” Sigrid asked abruptly.
“
What
?”
“I said-”
“I
heard
what you said, Lieutenant Harald! I just don’t know what the hell you mean!”
“Don’t you?” Sigrid stood placidly, stirring sugar into her steaming cup, as she waited for the other to reply. Helen banged the dishes into the sink, then out into the drain rack before answering. "That’s a hell of a thing to accuse a children’s theater of. We all like kids or we wouldn’t be in this end of show business, would we? That doesn’t make us pedophiles.”
She slammed down the dish towel. “Do you think we’d stand for something like that?”
"No,” Sigrid said calmly. “Not collectively. But if someone among you kept it secret and hidden-•”
“No! No!
No!
How long do you think something like that could be hidden? We live in each other’s pockets.” They faced each other across the length of the table and Sigrid said, “Emmy Mion found the Gillespie child’s missing hair ribbon.”
It took a moment for the import of Sigrid’s statement to sink in, then Helen Delgado’s plump face was drained of all natural color, leaving behind mauve eyelids and lips that were now a ghastly shade of plum against the whiteness of her face.
“Oh, my God,” she whispered and held onto the table for support.
Sigrid hurried to slide a chair beneath her. “I’d prefer you didn’t mention this to any of the others yet.”
“Of course, of course,” Helen murmured brokenly. Sigrid brought her a glass of water and was relieved to see the color begin to creep back into the woman’s face.
“So that’s why Emmy was killed,” she said. “I was so. afraid that Cliff-” She clutched at Sigrid’s hand. “You know about Cliff’s temper, but I swear to you he’d never hurt a child. Or touch one in that way. It takes a sexy woman to turn him on. Always has. Before I got so fat-before he started catting around-which came first?” she asked bitterly. “The tomcat or the pig?”
Sigrid freed her hand. “What about Eric Kee or Wingate West, then?”
“Win is like a child himself when he plays with them. He’s so gentle and sweet. And Eric? No, not Eric. Emmy must have been mistaken.”
“Emmy’s dead,” Sigrid reminded her, but Helen Delgado could not be budged from her position.
Suddenly remembering that she had a spy in Canaan, Sigrid let it go. “There’s another point of confusion, Mrs. Delgado. The jack-o’-lantern heads. Ginger Judson insists that Eric Kee wore hers on Saturday, but Ulrike Innes said they were identical.”
“Rikki’s right. They are. Ginger always goes off halfcocked,” said Delgado. She sipped more water and smoothed her glossy black hair. “I heard she was accusing someone of hiding it on her, under the spiral steps. As if anyone would sabotage the production like that. She probably left it by her chair and in all the confusion, it got kicked aside. Like my paint mask.”
“Ah, yes, that paint mask,” said Sigrid. “Did you ever find the missing strap?”
“Yes, Roman Tramegra turned it up in the john down the hall.”
“You thought your husband took it?”
Helen Delgado looked at her warily. “So?”
“No reason. I was just curious as to why he would have. What was he painting?”
Helen managed a shadow of her usually raucous laughter. “Not painting, doll. Clowning. Cliff could turn a crucifix into a phallic symbol if he put his mind to it. My mask is almost the same size and shape as a medieval codpiece. Use your imagination and see where it takes you.”
“I see,” said Sigrid. She glanced at her watch and saw that it was almost six. The Pennewelf children! She impressed on Helen Delgado the need to remain silent about Emmy Mion’s hypothetical suspicions concerning the Gillespie child and hurried from the theater.
But once again, she found herself peering futilely into a locked and darkened hardware store.

Chapter 25

Personal notes of Dr. Christa Ferrell, re: Corrie Makaroff
[Tuesday, 3 November
-
Success! Anne Harald called to say the first pix look good & that she’ll probably definitely use the Makaroff case to illustrate the Social Services part of her series. I can't push Corrie too hard, but I didn’t think it would hurt to speed things along. Accordingly, I called Mrs. Berkowitz this morning; told her I thought we ought to intensify & that I’d fit Corrie in for an extra session this afternoon.]
When Corrie returned today, Mrs. Berkowitz was very distressed. “She seems to be backsliding, Dr. Ferrell. She wet the bed last night. She hasn’t clone that since school began. And she wouldn’t talk to Tanya last night or this morning.”
I reassured Mrs. Berkowitz that such regression often signals an inner turmoil that might foretell a major breakthrough and she immediately brightened. “Do you really think so?”
[NB-the adoption’s being held up until I give Corrie a clean bill of mental health O everyone hopes it will come soon.]
“Tanya says that as soon as the judge gives her to us, she wants to call Lyle and me Daddy and Mother,” Mrs. B. confided. “Isn’t that wonderful?”
She stood there in my waiting room, in her neat wool skirt and practical flat shoes, with pride and wonder on her thin face. She already has one daughter of her dreams, and I am determined that she shall soon have a second daughter well and whole.
Since I’ve begun seeing her, Corrie has lost the rest of her baby fat and has grown an extra inch in height. This November day, she wore blue plastic boots, bright blue stretch pants, and a white pullover with a flower appliquéd on her tummy. Her curly brown hair was held away from either side of her face with little flower-shaped plastic barrettes but she seemed wan despite a lingering summer tan.
I took a chance today and prepared the scene before she came. The G.I. Joe and Barbie dolls that represented Ray and Darlene lay on the low hassock with the “sisters” on a nearby chair. I had found a miniature toy hammer and I placed it on the floor by the hassock in plain view.
At four years old, Corrie understood very well that Darlene s “ginger ale” wasn’t a soft drink; and from the baby doll play I’ve observed these past few months, I know that she and Tanya tried to keep Darlene from drinking too much. They knew alcohol distorted her personality.
So we sat down beside the toys in our usual position and talked about how people sometimes said or did things they really didn’t mean.
“Like sometimes you and Tonier squabble and maybe you even say ugly things to each other but later wish you hadn’t.”
Corrie looked at the little bear sitting so close to the schoolgirl doll.
“Grown-ups do the same thing,” I said. “They may wish afterwards that they hadn’t and then it’s too late.”
Keeping my voice as casual as possible, I said, ‘I’ll bet even Ray and your mommy used to yell things to each other at times.” Corrie scooted away from my side and spent most of the session curled up in the wing chair with those two figures that represented Tanya and herself. She mimicked a few skirmishes between the bear and the schoolgirl, but her blue-green eyes kept darting over to the hassock. When it was time to return the toys to the shelves, she put away the Barbie doll but did not offer to touch either the G.I. Joe or the hammer.
But I can feel it in my bones. Inside that small head,
something's happening!
[Called Anne H. after Corrie left &told her that tomorrow's session would probably be the climactic one- that I have Corrie poised for the catharsis which must precede reintegration. Should make for wonderful photographs.]

Chapter 26

Hoping to forestall one of Roman’s incredible inedibles, Sigrid stopped at a crowded deli on Hudson Street and stood in line to order a roast chicken, macaroni salad, and a quarter-pound of fresh mushrooms while a local easy-listening radio station broadcast premature Christmas carols for the less-than-merry clientele around her. When she got home, however, she found Roman amid pots and pans in a kitchen redolent of sauerkraut, smoked pork, and German sausages.
“A
Berner Platte
stretches so
nicely
he said, busying himself with the oven. “Two can be served generously or three moderately. And if Oscar’s coming-”
His voice trailed off and he seemed unable to meet her eyes.
His self-consciousness fueled Sigrid’s.
“He isn’t,” she said. "There was an opening at the Friedinger and I thought I d make it an early night.”
“-since last night was so busy?” hung unspoken in the green-and-white kitchen.
Sigrid dumped her cartons on the tiled countertop. “Mushrooms,” she croaked. “Salad- But
Berner Platte's
a great idea. We can save the chicken for tomorrow,”
She unbuttoned her raincoat and went out into the vestibule to hang it beside Roman’s.
“Ale?” asked Roman, setting out bottles and two beer steins. “Or do you want something more full-bodied? I mean, something more
stimulating
,? I mean-” His face registered horror at his clumsiness.
“Ale’s fine,” she answered tersely and withdrew to freshen up and, with a little luck, give Roman time to bring his adjectives under control. She hung up her jacket, put her blouse in the laundry hamper, and changed into a dark red turtleneck sweater, which she’d bought because it was comfortably loose and knitted of plain thick wool. That its rich warm color flattered her own coloring was an unsought bonus.
As she came back down the hall, the gate bell rang. Sigrid pressed the intercom button. “Yes?”
“It’s me, honey,” said Anne Harald’s disembodied voice.
Sigrid buzzed the lock release and, peering through the darkness, saw her mother maneuver through the gate with a large flat box.
“I thought you and Roman might be in the mood for pizza,” she said gaily as Sigrid opened the door. An I aroma of olive oil, garlic, and oregano wafted in with the chill night air.
“A
party!”
Roman exclaimed. “What fun!”
He kissed Anne heartily upon the cheek, relieved her of the pizza, and immediately popped half of it into the microwave to reheat. “We can begin in Napoli and wind up in Bern. Now the
only
decision,
mes petites
, is should we stay with ale or switch to Chianti?”
Ale won unanimously and Sigrid set the table while Anne filled their glasses and Roman brought the first half-pizza to the table in great ceremony. Sigrid drank deeply and was beginning to relax when the gate bell rang again.
“Now who-?” wondered Roman. “Sit, sit, my dear. I’ll get it.”
He went out to the intercom and they heard his deep “Yes?” An instant later, he stuck his head in the door and hissed, “Sst! It’s
Oscar!”
before hurrying back to open the front door.
Anne glanced at Sigrid in amusement. “Why did that sound like ‘Fly! All is discovered!’?”
“God knows,” Sigrid said, apprehensively taking another swallow of her ale as she heard Nauman’s baritone mingle with Roman’s bass.
“Guess what Oscar brought?” Roman boomed. “MouseKey and baklava.”
“How sweet,” murmured Anne.
Nauman added his coat to the collection building in the hall and joined them looking blown and buffeted by the wind. “I couldn't get the top of my car to stay up,” he complained. “Hello, Anne.”
She smiled up at him and gave him her cheek to kiss.
“I thought you were going to an opening tonight,” said Sigrid, willing herself not to redden under her mother’s watchful eye.
“Decided against it. Hope you don’t mind?”
“Not at all,” she said stiffly and rose to set another place for him.
“What opening?” asked Anne and while Oscar explained about Chinese calligraphy, Roman looked at the table critically. “All we need are some egg rolls or won ton soup and we could be the UN.”
“We could eat with chopsticks,” Anne suggested with a mischievous glance at Sigrid.
“No, we couldn’t,” said her daughter Which reminded Oscar of the Koreans that morning and he proceeded to make a witty and visual tale of their inventive use of western tableware.
“You went
out
for blueberry muffins?” blurted Roman. “But that was what
I
planned to make for breakfast.” Anne’s hand froze in midair and melted mozzarella slid off the piece of pizza she was serving Oscar Her eyes, so similar to Sigrid’s in color if not in size, darted from Sigrid’s face to Oscar’s and back to Sigrid’s again.
“Is that for me?” Oscar asked mildly.
“Hm? Oh. The pizza. Yes,” said Anne. "Siga, honey, I’m afraid I’ve got pizza all over your tablecloth. Isn’t this one my mama gave you? If you’ll get a damp cloth-” She looked confidingly at Oscar as Sigrid seized the excuse to leave the table. “You know the nicest thing about pure linen is that you
can
bleach it if you have to. Not like polyester. Of course, lemon juice and sunshine-thanks, honey. I’ll just sponge the worst of it.”
Doing his own bit to smooth over the awkwardness, Roman chose that moment to bring in his succulent
Berner Platte
in its earthenware casserole dish. He set it in the center of the table and removed the heavy lid with a dramatic flourish,
“Voila!”
Unfortunately for the effect he wished to create, the cooked sauerkraut had shrunk away from the surface of the dish to reveal two large white potatoes. Nestled between those rounded shapes was a swollen pink knackwurst.
There was a moment of stunned silence, then Anne began to giggle.
“Oh dear!” said Roman, fumbling for something with which to stir the dish as Oscar threw back his head and hooted with laughter.
Sigrid rolled her eyes in resignation. “Maybe we should have put a notice in the
Daily News
.”