Compromising Positions (16 page)

“All right.” The light from a pair of pewter sconces gleamed on her black hair. It was pulled back into a bun, like a pioneer woman, except that a pioneer woman could not have achieved the intense ebony of Number 46, Clairol Midnight Black.

“As I explained, I’m trying to explore First Amendment privileges vis-à-vis the individual’s right to privacy inherent in Anglo-Saxon common law.” That sentence, if it could be captured and recycled, could fertilize every front lawn in Shorehaven for the next ten years. Dicky and Brenda looked at me and nodded seriously. “But I want more than a dry recital of legal doctrine and constitutional history. I want humanity: human feelings, human emotions.”

“Oh, yes,” said Brenda.

“Good. Now, what were your first reactions when you saw the initial accounts in the
Times
and
Newsday
?”

“You mean the first things that were written?”

“Yes. Before the articles dealing with your brother-in-law’s legal difficulties.”

“Well, I think I just saw that little thing in the
Times
, because it was on the page next to the obituary, and I wanted to see that the obituary had gotten in, because none of us thought to call the
Times
until late the night it happened.”

“And how did you feel about seeing the article?”

“Well, I don’t know. I mean, it was straightforward and I was very upset, so I don’t think I reacted at all.” She shrugged her shoulders apologetically.

“Sure you did, sweetie,” boomed Dicky, talking to her for the first time since I had arrived. “Remember, you got really p.o.’d when you saw they gave Norma’s maiden name, because you said everyone would know we’re related to them. Remember?”

Brenda took a deep breath and let it out slowly through pursed lips. “Yes. Now I remember,” she said softly, not looking at him. “I was concerned about the children,” she said to me. “I was thinking that it was bad enough that their uncle was murdered, and that if our name was somehow dragged into it and associated with the Flecksteins, it might be very difficult for them in school.” And for the Duncks in their role as house Jews at their country club.

“I see.” I wrote “B embarrassed abt Fleckstein assn.”

“You see, we weren’t actually all that close,” she explained. “I mean, there was some tension, and the only time we all got together was on holidays. We hadn’t socialized with them for years.”

“And Brenda thought he was a little flashy. Right, sugar? Remember, you said he was crude?”

“I may have,” she said softly. “But in any case, we weren’t terribly friendly with them.”

“Because of the tension over your father-in-law’s estate?” I asked Brenda. It was not an inquiry destined to be well received. Brenda sat back, stiffly erect in her chair. Dicky’s face turned pink, then red, then almost purple. I could see a faint stubble above his ears where he shaved his head. “I see I’ve shocked you,” I said, trying to recover the ground I’d lost. “I meant to.”

They stared at me, allowing confusion to mingle with their distaste at my ill breeding. “Look,” I continued, “that’s the whole point of my dissertation. Newspapers aren’t just a series of isolated articles. Once they begin to abuse their power, nothing is sacred. Frankly, I never met either of you before the day of the funeral, and yet I heard about your family dispute from two or three people.”

“Well, did you happen to know that we patched up that little quarrel?” Dicky demanded. “Did you happen to hear that?”

“No. And that’s just my point. The gossips aren’t interested in the fact that you reconciled. All they’re interested in is turning a normal family dispute into a
casus belli
, a veritable pitched battle.” If I couldn’t make them relax, I could at least exhaust them with my verbosity.

“I understand,” said Brenda, who obviously didn’t. Her eyebrows were pulled together, making two furrows over her small hooked nose. “Anyhow,” she continued, “things were patched up. I mean, we weren’t close friends, but at least things were more pleasant. I mean, Bruce even got Dicky some business.”

“Let bygones be bygones,” Dicky muttered.

“What kind of business?” I asked.

“Just some printing,” he answered. “For a friend of his. No big deal.” We all relaxed a little.

“All right,” I said, “let’s get to that infamous article about your brother-in-law’s association with organized crime figures. How did you feel about that, Brenda?”

“Well, let me think.” She took her thumb and index finger and delicately removed a loose eyelash from the outer corner of her eye; she placed it on the edge of an ashtray as though she couldn’t bear to flick it away. “I was stunned. Absolutely stunned. I mean, Bruce always seemed to be a nice, decent family man. A professional. The mere thought that he could be mixed up in some shady business was crazy. I mean, beyond my comprehension. Frankly, I still don’t believe it. There must be some mistake.”

They probably confused your brother-in-law with another Dr. Marvin Bruce Fleckstein, I thought. Dicky leaned forward.

“Those newspaper guys are a bunch of Grade A Number One creepos,” he said. “Look, sweetie, I’m not saying he didn’t have a few magazines or something in his office. He’s a consenting adult, right? But let’s not be simps. I mean, didn’t your husband ever buy a copy of
Playboy
?”

Yes. He had said he liked the interviews. “Of course. And to be perfectly honest, I’ve even peeked at them myself.”

“See what I mean?” declared Dicky. He slipped his loafers off his sockless feet and stretched out his legs. I glanced down and noticed he bit his toenails. “That kind of stuff may be a little off color, but it’s all over the place. It’s not pornography.” Brenda saw me peering at his toenails and looked upset. I pretended to be concentrating on one of the maple legs of the spinning wheel, about six inches from Dicky’s feet.

“In other words,” I said, forcing myself to look him straight in the eye, “you believe the article was a total fabrication?”

“Fabrication? You mean a lot of horse manure? Damn straight. Right, angel pie?”

“Yes,” answered Brenda, still focusing on his feet, as if her glare could force his toenails to regenerate instantly. She turned to me. “You see, Bruce and I were just friendly. We weren’t all that close. But as far as I know, he wouldn’t have gone in for those kinds of books or dirty movies or anything like that.”

“And as far as you know, he had no contact with anyone involved in organized crime? That was one of the allegations made in the paper,” I explained.

“Absolutely, one hundred percent no way,” Dicky asserted. “Listen, he may have had a couple of friends with Italian last names, but does that make them Mafia? Holy Moly, if your last name ends in a vowel, the goddamn U.S. Attorney’s office starts an investigation.”

“Unless your name is Shapiro,” I murmured.

“Who’s Shapiro?” Brenda asked.

“I get you,” Dicky said. “Very cute. Huh, huh, huh. You are one real sharp cookie.”

“Seriously, I know what you mean,” I added. “My neighbor was your brother-in-law’s last patient, and the police have been bothering her like crazy. She’s willing to bet it’s because her last name’s Italian.”

“Who is that?” asked Dicky, rather sharply.

“I know,” answered Brenda. “Marilyn Tuccio. Am I right?” She looked to me for confirmation. I nodded, feeling uncomfortable; I had violated Marilyn’s confidence. Brenda turned to Dicky. “I heard Norma telling someone that the police had asked her about Marilyn, whether Marilyn and Bruce were friendly. The police said that Marilyn was probably the last one to see him alive.”

“Oh,” said Dicky. “I hadn’t heard that. What does her husband do?” Brenda shrugged her shoulders.

“He’s a pediatric surgeon,” I responded.

“Oh. Not a godfather, if you know what I mean?”

“No,” I said. I glanced down at Dicky’s toenails again and at the blue veins running through his feet. They matched the rug. “Well, you people have been wonderfully cooperative and I truly appreciate it. One more thing. Could one of you possibly call Norma Fleckstein and see if she’d be willing to talk to me?”

“All right,” said Brenda.

“Fine. I’ll call you in a couple of days. And thank you so much. Both of you.” They smiled at me and stood up. Dicky manipulated his feet back into his shoes. “And, of course, when my dissertation is written, you’ll get a copy.”

We walked to the door, and Brenda handed me my coat, a large yellow plaid, like a good-quality horse blanket, that I had bought during my second year of college.

“I love your coat,” Brenda said, fingering it. “So English.”

“Thanks. And thanks again for your help. I’ll call you.”

“Bye,” said Dicky.

“Bye-bye,” said Brenda.

As I drove through the dark streets, illuminated in patches by reconverted barn lamps and plaster, white-faced jockeys clutching flickering lanterns, I tried to make some sense of my interview with the Duncks. I couldn’t. My mind was crammed full of a hundred different thoughts, packed so tight that it was impossible for a single idea to surface. Dicky. Brenda. How could she sleep with a man who munched on his toenails? Why hadn’t I pressed for the names of Bruce’s Italian friends? Why hadn’t I asked where they were on the evening of the murder? Why hadn’t I asked Mary Alice where she had been that same evening? Why did Fay believe Bruce was evil? It was a strong word. Why not fatuous? Absurd? Why not call him a cad, a bounder, a disturbed human being who used women to stifle his own personal pain?

As I pulled into the driveway, I saw Bob’s car parked in front of the garage door. He had beaten me home. I stowed the attaché case under the front seat of the station wagon and strolled inside, trying to look casual. “Hi,” I called out. Bob was sitting in the living room, jacket off, but tie still on; he was only half relaxed.

“Hi,” he answered, his long, slender legs stretched out in front of him. “Where were you?”

“No place special.” I leaned down and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “I mean, no one was free and I didn’t want to go to a movie by myself, so I just drove around and did a little shopping.”

“Shopping? That’s nice. Where?” He was the casual cop, coolly manipulating the interrogation so the suspect would get a false sense of security.

“At A&S.” A local department store. “They’re open every night.” Damn, I thought. I just should have said “A&S” so he could have checked and discovered it was open. This way, I was volunteering too much information. It looked suspicious.

“Buy anything?”

Why not simply tell him where I had been? What could he do to me? Disapprove? Yell? Throw a temper tantrum on the living room floor? “No. You were right. I did gain a few pounds. Nothing I tried on looked right.” Not bad for a spontaneous lie. But how do adulterers handle it? Do they have a prearranged alibi with a friend? Do they make up a detailed scenario so intrinsically boring that their spouses tune out after the first sentence?

“Well, let’s go upstairs,” he said.

“Okay.” I tried to sound casual. “Did you pay Mrs. Foster?”

“Yeah. You owe me four fifty.”

We walked into the bedroom and he closed the door quietly. “How was your day?” I asked.

“Fine.” He watched me as I undressed, his finger crooked over the knot of his tie. He watched as I took off my bra. Intently. I wondered if he were really anxious for sex or just examining his territory to make sure there was no scarlet “A” on either breast. I took off my slacks, and then my underpants. If he were any sort of detective, he’d notice that half the elastic was hanging out of the waistband and realize that I’d never wear a pair of torn pants if I had a rendezvous to fuck another man.

“Come here,” he said. Maybe I was wrong. He had just been standing there, waiting for me because he wanted me. He knew I wouldn’t do anything. Just as I knew that he wouldn’t. He was too regular in his sexual habits, too involved with his clients to risk being away from his desk in a hotel with a woman and missing a phone call. “Judith.” I walked to him and put my arms around his neck.

He didn’t respond. Instead, he stuck his finger into my vagina.

“Bob. What are you doing?”

“Nothing.” He took his finger out. I pulled away.

“What do you mean, ‘nothing’?”

“Nothing. What’s the matter? Can’t I touch you?”

Of course, he could touch me. But in all the years we’d been together, he’d always started out with at least two long kisses, to show me he wasn’t out just to get laid. “What do you mean, ‘Can’t I touch you?’ You know you can, but you never just stick your finger into me, like I’m a pot of chocolate pudding.” Thank God, I mused, I was as dry as an eighty-year-old Victorian maiden aunt. Tension seems to draw my juices to other parts of my body, joints that grow stiff with fear and need fast lubrication.

“Do we have to do things the same way all the time?” he demanded. “You’re the one who always wants to try new things, Judith. So I try and what happens? You pull away.”

I went to my closet and put on my nightgown. “I’m not pulling away.”

“Good,” he said, and took off his clothes and sat on the edge of the bed. Outside the wind began to blow. A branch scraped against the window. “Come here.”

“No.”

“No? What does that mean?” He looked up at the ceiling, as if imploring the gods to help him understand. “Don’t you love me?”

“Yes, I love you. I just don’t feel like doing anything tonight.”

“Are you tired?”

No. “Yes.”

“Christ. I thought a night out would do you some good.” He stomped over to his pajama drawer, as best he could with bare feet, and put on a pair of blue ski pajamas his mother had given him for Chanukah. Then he marched to his side of the bed and climbed in. I got into my side and leaned back against the headboard. “I know why you did it,” I said to him.

“Look, Judith, can’t we talk tomorrow? I’m exhausted.”

“Sure. Tomorrow you’ll be home by ten and you’ll only be tired. Then we can have a real friendly, peppy talk.”

“Is sarcasm necessary?”

“Would you prefer blatant hostility?”

He puffed up his mouth and cheeks with air and slowly, squeezing his lips together like a tire valve, breathed out. It was a signal that despite his staggering fatigue, he was willing to be tolerant. “All right,” he sighed, “what’s bothering you?”