Naked Addiction (14 page)

Chapter 20

Helen

T
he morning of her daughter’s funeral, Helen Marcus awoke from a dream in which she was wearing the same pink suit that Jackie Kennedy had worn the day JFK was shot. Helen walked into her everyday closet and scanned the tightly packed rows of blouses, skirts and dresses, each encased in its own clear plastic bag. The gowns were in a separate closet. She loved to buy pretty outfits, but she’d had fewer and fewer occasions to show them off in the past couple of years. Today, she didn’t care much about looking pretty. She just wanted to wear something black that wasn’t too short or too tight.

She finally decided on the modest dress that she’d bought as a way to get herself back to church. It was still new because she’d never worn it. Wrapping her head in a black silk scarf, she applied some opalescent lipstick. The sunglasses weren’t just for show. Her eyes were bloodshot and the bright light streaming through the bedroom curtains burned something fierce.

Helen knew she should try to eat, but she couldn’t even get a piece of wheat toast down with her coffee. Her head felt like a block of lead.

Tony didn’t do much better. He ate a couple bites of English muffin and pushed the plate aside. They didn’t have much to say to each other. Helen waited until Tony was in the shower to have a Bloody Mary. She knew he wouldn’t approve.

The air was heavy in the kitchen. She and Tania had always gabbed away before a big party at the house, preparing hors d’oeuvres and drinking white wine. Tania would arrange cold cuts on the glass platter, moving from deep red salami to rose-colored ham. But a wake was not your ordinary party and Helen didn’t have her daughter to keep her company. Her throat tightened and the tears came again.

Helen wiped her eyes with a tissue as she examined her cold-cut plate in the refrigerator. She just didn’t have Tania’s touch. She envisioned her daughter’s ivory hands with their red fingernails, making up the dessert plate. She would bake muffins, slice pound cake and then Tania would arrange them, laying the slabs like fallen dominos. But this time Helen didn’t feel like sweet stuff so she didn’t bake anything.

Helen bought two cases of Zinfandel for the guests. She saw her daughter as a sacrificial lamb and the wine as a symbol of Tania’s blood. Just like Jesus and communion. Not that her daughter was a saint or anything, but she was so young. Her murder seemed so senseless, so random and so wrong. Her death had to have a purpose, didn’t it? Maybe she had died so others could live. That’s how Helen wanted to see it anyway. She would toast to Tania’s spirit and goodness at the wake; she could feel it in the air around her already.

She’d planned to talk to the minister about Tania’s death but she hadn’t had a chance. She wanted to tell him about the lamb and the wine and the sacrifice, but she wasn’t sure he would understand, comparing her daughter to Jesus and all. Maybe she would take him aside while the guests drank their wine and ate their paté de fois gras on French bread and ask how she could ease the pain that wracked her soul and made every joint ache. Maybe he could offer her some guidance.

As she and Tony drove up to the church in the black Mercedes, she couldn’t believe how many people had come to the funeral. They were milling around on the lawn and filing slowly into the building. Feeling feverish, as if she had the flu, she wished she’d had another Bloody Mary before they left.

“Tony, for God’s sake, look at them. They’re all dressed to the hilt, like this was a damn cocktail party. I don’t know if I can face this.”

Helen had been dreading the ceremony. She wasn’t ready to say good-bye to Tania. And if that weren’t enough, she had to face a long afternoon at the wake with her relatives, who had insisted on flying out from Iowa.

Thank God they had the courtesy to stay at hotels.

Tony circled the block several times and still couldn’t find a parking spot on the street. The neighborhood was so crammed with cars he had to create his own space between two garage doors in an alley. He offered her his arm, and after considering the possibility of how it would look if she didn’t take it, she held onto the crook of his elbow.

They walked slowly, together, each being careful of the other as they stepped from the curb into the street. Tony seemed so beaten down that she felt she needed to try and overcome the usual distance between them. But with her frayed nerves, it was going to be difficult. Then she remembered the flask she’d put in her purse that morning. She squeezed his arm and he smiled down at her.

Helen sighed as they approached the church and all those people. As the two of them pushed their way through the crowd, people kept touching Helen on the arm and tsk-tsking.

“She was so young,” they said.

“Such a shame.”

“I’m so, so sorry.”

Helen felt somewhat shielded by her sunglasses, and managed to nod stiffly at them.

Please, please don’t ask me a question. Don’t make me have to say anything.

She did not want to break down in front of strangers. Not before the ceremony at least. They’d all be watching for her reaction. Helen had heard from a friend at the club that she’d frustrated many women who had tried to invite her to dinners and parties with the girls. After three rejections, the friend told her, they wrote her off as a bitch. Helen hadn’t felt like socializing much the past few years, making pathetic small talk with women who knew their husbands were running around on them. Most of the time, she wanted to be left alone to watch movies and read her magazines in peace. Occasionally, she’d venture out to play some tennis or have a drink at the club, but she never really enjoyed it much.

Now, just like before Tania was born, Helen would have to deal with these women alone. As she and Tony crossed the threshold, Helen could hear her Aunt Martha’s voice behind her. “It’s so sad,” Martha was saying. “She was just getting started.”

Once they stepped inside the church, Helen needed to stop a moment so her eyes could adjust to the dim lighting. They slowly made their way to their reserved seats at the front, nodding at a few friends. Within a few minutes, though, Helen felt so claustrophobic she thought she was going to explode. It was another one of those damn panic attacks.

Helen’s throat was so dry she couldn’t swallow. And that made the panic worse. What if she couldn’t swallow again?

“I can’t swallow,” she whispered.

Tony rubbed her upper arm. “Try and relax,” he said.

But it didn’t work. Her throat was constricting. She had to get something to drink.  “I’m going to find a bathroom,” she said.

“You want me to come with you?” he asked, starting to follow her.

“No, I’ll be fine,” she said. “Why don’t you find our seats?”

Helen turned sideways and pushed through the people as she searched for the bathroom. She hoped it was deserted. It just had to be.

People turned to see who was shoving them, but she didn’t stop to apologize. She was on a mission. She tried again to swallow, but the walls of her throat would not meet.

I can’t stand all these people pushing up against me.

Finally, she was alone in a hallway, but none of the doors was marked. She looked side to side, searching for the bathroom, but couldn’t remember where it was. She tried to turn one doorknob, then another. She still couldn’t swallow. She tried to gather some saliva in her mouth so she’d have something to wet the back of her throat. But nothing would go down. As soon as she saw the door she was looking for, almost without effort, she swallowed. It was such a relief. After pushing the door open, she practically dove into one of the stalls, her chest heaving for breath.
          Safely inside, she quickly pulled out the antique flask, dropping the purse in her haste. Helen took a couple of long slugs of scotch, which went down as if she’d never had a problem swallowing. They coated her throat as the calming heat swept through her chest. She breathed in deeply and exhaled. Her heartbeat began to slow and she felt herself begin to relax.

The flask was engraved with a monogram, GTL. She’d come across it at an estate sale and fantasized about its former owner. It had to be a man. She’d originally bought it for Tony, but she liked it so much that she kept it for herself. As she took another big sip, that familiar warmth crept over her, like a lover’s embrace. She sighed.

Helen lingered in the stall a little while longer, not really knowing how much time had passed, only that a number of other women had found the bathroom, too.

“The line outside is all the way down the hall now,” one of them said, primping at the sink.

“Yeah, it’s almost as bad as a concert,” another one said.

Helen pulled her hair away from her face, straightened her dress, and pushed open the stall, staring straight ahead. The girls smiled awkwardly at her and gave her their condolences as she washed her hands.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, attempting to smile.

She forced herself into the hallway, wobbling a little, and found her way back to the pews. The sharp staccato of voices had quieted into a more comfortable allegro, or at least it seemed that way to her. The rough edges of the crowd had ebbed away. Her mind felt numb again.

Thank God
.

The pews had filled up so it was standing room only along the rear and side walls. She knew her daughter was popular, but she had no idea that Tania had had this many friends. As Helen approached Tony in the center of the front row, she saw him looking at a young woman wearing a purple velvet dress that hugged her rather large breasts.

What kind of dress is that to wear to a funeral?

“Who is that?” Helen asked as she sat next to him and placed her purse on the floor underneath the bench.  

“Who is who?”

“That girl you’re staring at.”

“I don’t know. Must be one of Tania’s friends.”

Helen settled back as much as she could, rearranging her dress so it didn’t bunch up on one side. She watched a young man, dressed in a black shirt and pants, limp past her. He was staring straight ahead, his face tight and pale. He had hollowed eyes. She nudged Tony.

“Look at that strange boy,” she whispered. “Isn’t that Linda Henry’s son?”

Tony shook his head and shrugged, shifting his attention to the white cross in front of them. He seemed pretty distracted. Agitated even. A few minutes later, Helen saw a single tear trickle down his face. She took his hand and squeezed.

Her eyes went from the coffin, to the flowers, to the collage of family photographs the two of them made the night before. Then everything went blurry, as if she were underwater. That’s how it had been when they were putting the collage together. They’d spent hours going through envelopes of photos, searching for the right ones. Neither of them could stop crying for long. Helen reached into her purse and pulled out a tissue, wiped her eyes and blew her nose until she could see clearly and breathe normally again.

If it wasn’t one thing, it was another. The strap of her dress kept falling off her shoulder under her blazer. She’d forgotten that she’d lost ten pounds since she’d bought the thing, five in the last two days alone. Even though she’d been cooking for the wake, she hadn’t eaten much of anything. The thought of food sickened her. Scotch went down much more easily.

She felt guilty that she hadn’t asked Tania more about her life in San Diego that last weekend she’d come home. Helen had been living in a fog of depression for so long she didn’t know how to find her way out of it, let alone how to focus on her daughter’s well-being. Now she wished she’d felt stronger and tried harder. Maybe if she’d shown more interest in her daughter, Tania would’ve told her that some new boyfriend had been giving her problems, or that an old boyfriend was stalking her. Maybe then Helen could’ve stopped this whole nightmare from happening.

But Tania was never one to confide in her mother. Ever since the pregnancy, it had become increasingly obvious that Tania kept many things from her. Helen now knew that her worries had been warranted. Only this time it didn’t feel good to be right.

Chapter 21

Alison

A
lison gathered up her courage to brave the crowd and pay her last respects to Tania. A little unsteady on her black, high-heeled shoes, she teetered up the red-carpeted aisle to the front of the church. She could feel people looking at her, wondering,
Who is that underdressed nobody? 

Only a few minutes before, she’d been standing next to Ken Goode at the back of the church, feeling assured that she could make it through the service without getting too upset. But now, as she approached Tania’s polished oak coffin alone, she felt a shawl of emotions drape itself around her shoulders. She’d only met Tania a month ago, but she’d grown very attached to her.

Alison joined the line of people waiting to touch the coffin or say a few silent words. She gazed at the yellow poster board that was covered with photos of Tania, her family and friends.

God, I miss her.

Alison leaned in for a better look at a blurry picture of a young Tania and two adults, probably her parents, standing together in front of a two-story house, surrounded by trees. Most of the other photos were larger and clearer. In one of them, Tania had her arm around an attractive older woman who was blond but otherwise looked just like her. Alison figured she was Tania’s mother. They were together in a relatively recent shot, too, taken at Tania’s college graduation. A glowing Tania stood with her mother on either side of an older man. Tania was looking up and smiling coquettishly at him as she held onto his arm. He looked very familiar. Something about that wide-mouthed grin, the laughing eyes and the cowlick that puffed over to the left. Alison felt the wind go out of her.

That older man was Tony.

Oh, my God. It’s Tony. He’s Tania’s father. I slept with my friend’s father.

Alison’s eyes stung, then glazed over with tears. She tried desperately to hold them back, but they began to spill down her cheek as she remembered being with Tony in the hotel room, how he’d slapped her and made her face sting. She touched her cheek where he’d hit her and it felt hot. She remembered him guiding her into the bathtub afterward, as if a tub of hot suds and a glass of champagne could make the horror of it all go away. Afterward, she remembered his hands rubbing her breasts as she lay, emotionally paralyzed, on the quilted satin bedspread.

When her eyes were able to focus on his face in the photo again, she felt herself shudder, as if someone else were controlling her body. Part of her wanted to run out of the church, but she also didn’t want to turn, even a little, toward the front row because she knew he’d be sitting there, watching her from only a few feet away, with his wife, Tania’s mother, by his side. Alison took a deep breath and tried to calm down, but it was no use. She took in the familiar scent of Chanel for Men and her shoulders and spine went stiff. How could she have missed that smell?

Alison tried to rationalize it away.

You didn’t know. And besides, you’d already stopped seeing him by the time you met her.

Somber music swelled throughout the hall as the organist began to play, signaling that the service was about to begin. She heard Tony clear his throat behind her and that was it.

I’ve got to escape before he comes over here.

She pushed out of line for the coffin, walked briskly toward the center aisle, turned and followed it to the back, where Goode was standing. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see people turning their heads and watching her as she flew past.

There goes that underdressed nobody again.

A man in his sixties with a girl about twelve caught her eye near the door. He was craning his neck in search of a seat, clutching the girl’s hand as if she were his lifeline. Alison saw a familiar look of discomfort on the girl’s face. She felt her throat go tight and her eyes glazed over again.

Not her too.

She’d been that girl’s age when Grandpa Joe started coming into her room at night. Alison looked at the old man, clutching that girl’s hand, and remembered the way her grandfather’s penis had felt in her own hand, his rough fingers tightly wrapped around hers as he stood next to her bed. He would tell her to be quiet, get under the covers with her, and rub his hands inside her flannel nightgown. He’d press his thing into her thigh like a stick, and then push it inside her, grunting. Her only escape was to let her mind go numb, try to ignore the pain, and pretend it was happening to someone else. After he’d finished, he’d kiss her cheek and say, “Goodnight and sweet dreams.” Alison would cry and rock herself to sleep, fantasizing about the next time when she would yank so hard on his dick that Grandma Abigail would hear him cry out. Alison felt like running over and whispering in the little girl’s ear, urging her to do what Alison had never had the guts to do. 

Run. Tell someone. It will be okay.

She finally reached where Goode was standing and pushed in between him and a snotty twenty-something woman who looked like she’d spent two hours in the bathroom getting ready that morning.

Goode must have read the distress on Alison’s face. “You okay?” he asked softly.

Alison nodded as nonchalantly as she could, adding a weak smile for good measure. Now that she’d realized Tony was Tania’s father, she wanted to tell Goode— about his bad temper anyway. She doubted that he’d had anything to do with Tania’s murder, but what if he had?

The snotty woman pushed over to let someone in next to her, pushing Alison’s shoulder even closer to Goode and his muscular arm. He didn’t seem to mind the sudden intimacy and neither did Alison.

The morning sunlight sent streams of color through the stained glass windows, illuminating the narrative scenes of Christ on the cross. It was a vast contrast to the dark-paneled Baptist church to which Grandma Abigail used to drag Alison on Sundays, dressed in a white lace dress from K-mart and shiny, white vinyl shoes. Alison’s grandparents never could afford clothes like the other kids’, so as she grew older and more aware of fashion, she had to find creative ways to buy them herself. It wasn’t like she stole them. She merely switched price tags, careful not to tear the fabric when she removed the plastic tab from a cheap garment and inserted it into the threads of the one she wanted.

Alison picked up a fold of her new dress. The material was so soft and comforting, nicer than anything she’d owned before, yet so inexpensive. It was almost free. She felt Goode’s large, warm hand envelope hers and give it a squeeze before he let it go.

“You sure you’re all right?” he whispered.

Alison nodded. His calm seeped up her arm as if it was coursing through her veins, and spread throughout her body.