Necessity (16 page)

In fact, thinking back now, she is distressed by the vastness of her ignorance about Bert in those days. They had been married more than a year. She shared his bed and his life. She didn't like most of his friends but she knew them—she believed she knew
all
of them.

She believed she was married to a construction magnate.

It wasn't until later—less than a year ago—that she found out about the rest of his business operations.

Troubled by her naivete of those days she has tried to reason it out:

I'm not an innocent … I didn't just parachute in yesterday … How the hell could I remain oblivious for so long? There must have been plenty of evidence. Clues all around …

You don't see what you want not to see. It's partly that. And it's partly that Bert has a compulsive way of compartmentalizing everything in his life. There was always that remoteness in him, right from the beginning: he made you aware that you were only seeing as much of him as he wanted you to see.

For a long time it was more than enough. Living with Bert was exciting: it was like watching a performance by a great actor—the unpredictably explosive kind who radiates danger. There've been times when he's put her in mind of Brando, of Robert Duvall—even when he's at rest there's an electric menace that hangs in suspension around him like heat lightning ready to strike.

You never knew whether a night in bed with Bert would be a seduction or a rape.

Not that he ever actually treated her roughly. Once they were married he behaved toward her in an Old World manner that was simultaneously reverential and condescending; always he was a conscientiously generous lover. Yet there was always the feeling that at any moment he might explode.

She remembers Jack Sertic, his mind a stagnant pond, saying to her more than once, “Al lives at the edge. Right at the razor edge.”

She might have been a crystal statuette—an image that defined not only her status but the extent of her influence over Bert's decisions.

And the longer she lived with him the more she realized how little she actually knew about the nature and range of those decisions.

There were entire compartments of his life about which she knew absolutely nothing. When she first stumbled across clues to the hidden compartments she ignored them; when they persisted she became troubled; finally it was no longer possible to pretend they didn't exist. There was a world of evil—perhaps Bert inhabited it only part of the time but it dominated him, it described the way he was—it defined
who
he was. And the more she learned about it the more she feared him for the child's sake.

By the time the baby was born she knew it was no good: it was out of kilter. As the bureaucrats might say, this was not a suitable environment in which to raise a child.

The baby was hardly a day old when for the first time she saw Ellen in Bert's arms and the decision grenaded into her mind:
I have got to take her away from him.

38
Monday morning she flies all the way to Texas to make telephone calls. At the Dallas-Fort Worth airport, watching automated tram cars move silently in and out of their stations like boats piloted by invisible Charons, she dials the number of the Third Avenue apartment and listens to it ring three times before the machine picks it up.

He hasn't changed the recording. The voice is still her own: “This is seven six six two. There's no one near the phone right now but please listen for the sound of the beep and then leave your name and number on the answering machine tape. We'll get back to you as soon as we can.”

She hangs up without leaving a message.

At least he hasn't changed the number. Maybe he's still hoping she'll get in touch.

It was worth a try but the result is worthless. If he'd answered the phone himself she'd have known at least that he was in the city. If the nurse had answered it would have suggested that Ellen was there in the apartment. That's assuming the same nurse still works for him. But this way? Nothing.

She dials the number of the cabin at Fort Keene. It rings twice; a man's guarded voice answers: “Five four six one.” She recognizes the soft bass growl—Philip Quirini's voice. She's hoping to hear background sounds—other voices—but nothing comes through. She hangs up on him. With luck he'll dismiss it as a wrong number.

Damn. Philip would be at the cabin anyway; he's there all summer, he and his bovine wife in charge of the household. So you still don't know a thing, really.

You know you can't put it off any longer. This is the call you knew all along you were going to have to make. Come on—get it over with.

She places the call.

“Hello?”

“Diane? This is Madeleine.”

“You're kidding me.” Then: “Matty?”

“Yes dear. The same. The very same.”

“Matty—are you all right?”

“I'm getting along.”

A stretch of silence. “Well. Well,
well.
” Then: “Where on earth are you calling from?”

“Just say it's long distance. How've you been?”

“Me? I'm all right. A little tennis elbow. Al and—we got wiped out last week in doubles.”

“It's all right. You can mention his girlfriend's name if you want. I assume he has a new girl?”

“Several. You know Al—”

She can picture Diane: dark, long-limbed, tan, big brown eyes flashing with excited speculation.

“Matty, what the hell happened to you? Where are you? My God, if you knew the—”

“I can imagine. I'm all right. I'm fine. I won't go into detail. He earned it, you know. He asked for it.”

“Al?”

“Of course. Who else?”

“He was awful mad, honey. He didn't say it but you could see—”

“That's hardly surprising. Nobody bugs out on Albert LaCasse. I walked off with his pride. How are the boys?”

“Fine, fine.” Diane is nervous; her laugh is off key. “You know teenagers. The last week before school starts again. They're staying with a rowdy crowd in one of those grouper beach houses on Fire Island. Screwing all the girls and drinking all the beer. My God—you remember when we all first met, out in the Hamptons? Jesus. Think how much things change.”

“How's Jack?”

“Jack's all right. Up at the cabin right now with Al. I guess they've been shooting venison for the freezer.”

Bingo.

Passengers hurry by; she can't help smiling at them. Into the phone she says, “Nothing's changed much, I gather,” and watches a uniformed steward push an old man in a wheelchair toward the boarding gates. The old man is listening to a Walkman and conducting an invisible orchestra—sealed in a private world of music that no one else can hear. A loudspeaker blares: “Mr. Emil Schnarf, Mr. Emil Schnarf, please pick up a white courtesy telephone.”

In as casual a voice as she can manage she says to Diane, “How's Ellen? Have you seen her?”

“Not lately. He's had her up in the mountains all summer. I guess they're coming back to the city next week. Good
grief
”—Diane's voice soars and squeaks—“you've got to tell me what you're up to. Where you are. What you've been doing. I'm just
dying
to know. Come on—give!”

“I'm doing fine, dear. I've made a new life for myself down south here. You wouldn't believe it but I've been going with a cop. Big enough to dismantle Bert by hand. But a real gentleman all the same.”

“Hey, hey. Tell me more!”

She pictures Diane in her big apartment on Central Park West—probably wearing a designer outfit that's the ultimate in summer's day brevity, surrounded by her collections of porcelain figurines and miniature paintings, some of them hardly an inch square and painted with a one-hair brush. Acquisitive Diane with the fullest acreage of clothes closets you've ever seen.

“He's a nice cop,” she invents, “believe it or not. Poor as a churchmouse. He's got three kids by the former wife. Adorable brats.”

She's thinking: How amazing I ever thought of making the gift of my friendship to Diane. What a pathetic creature—her boundaries defined by pretentious brand names and that Park Avenue shrink with his clientele of Valium addicts. You could trade a hundred Dianes for one Charlie Reid or even one Marian or Doyle Stevens and you'd still be incomparably ahead of the game.

But in those days you didn't know any better. You had no Marian, no Doyle, no Charlie to compare her with.

You haven't missed Diane once. Or any of that crowd. And here you're already missing the Stevenses and you feel like hell about Charlie even though you'll see him again within twenty-four hours.

My God. How is it we become so damned valuable to one another—so painfully important?

Into the phone she says quietly, “By the way, do you remember Stan what-was-his-name, the one who published those fashion magazines?”

“I remember him.” Diane's voice has gone chill. “What about him?”

“I just got a glimpse of somebody who looks just like him,” she lies. “Do you ever see him any more?”

“No.” Very curt now.

“Too bad. Must have been terrific while it lasted. They say he's a real stud.”

“I wouldn't know about that.”

“Sure you would. You used to meet him in the afternoons in that apartment he keeps on the floor above his offices. You had what they call a torrid affair with him for nearly a year. It always amazed me Jack never found out about it.”

Diane's voice is nearly inaudible now. “How'd you know about that?”

“I did print work up there before we all met. I saw you in the building several times. You didn't know me then—you wouldn't have recognized me.”

“You never said anything …”

“I know how Jack is about that sort of thing.”

“He'd break my arms and legs. Just for openers.”

“You must have known that when you were seeing the guy.”

“Of course I did. But that was part of the fun of it. I mean, nothing's fun if you don't take a few chances, right? I mean, right now you're taking a hell of a chance just calling me on the telephone—you know that.”

“I'm pretty sure you won't tell anybody about it. You won't mention I called. You haven't heard from me at all.”

“Well of course, Matty. If that's what you want.”

“If Bert finds me because of anything you might let drop—I hate to do this, dear, but you understand I might have to talk to Jack about you and Stan.”

There's a beat of silence; an audible indrawn breath; finally Diane says, “I see.”

“I thought you'd understand. I'll probably call again sometime.” She puts on a Texas drawl: “You have fun now, y'hear?” And hangs up.

Turning away from the phone she's feeling bleak and angry with herself. All right: you were never truly friends; you never liked Diane. World's largest aggregation of expensive make-up. Brings a whole new meaning to the word “shallow.” Always primping in mirrors. Flirting with anything in pants—including Bert—whenever she was out of Jack's sight and thought she could get away with it.

All the same it's a cheap shot: a shabby way to treat a woman who's never done you any harm.

But it'll keep her quiet. And you've accomplished what you came here to do: you've confirmed that Ellen is at the cabin.

She looks up at the airport clock. Forty minutes to spare before the flight to San Francisco.

She's thinking: Charlie, you may not be a cop with three adorable kids but I do believe you're big enough to dismantle Bert by hand. Question is, would you have the guts for it?

39
The feel of his body is good. He's as accomplished a lover as she might have expected: relaxed, confident.

She could close her eyes and imagine anyone. Replace Charlie in her fantasies with someone else. But she doesn't want to. She covets no one but Charlie.

She knows it is a perilous way to feel. The danger signals are up; these qualms are sounding the alarm.

At the moment she just doesn't care.

She watches him, watches everything he does. She wants his hands and his mouth to be all over her. It's been so long since …

But finally there's no more time for languid reflection. Accelerating sensation whirls her. She's losing her bearings. Afraid at first; but she abandons herself to it and rising ardor becomes a hungering breathless impatience: she craves him with an unsuspected greedy voraciousness.

She hears herself cry out, full voice. It is an impetuous sound of vehement joy: the frenzied triumph of an escape to freedom.

Climax.

“Oh God, Charlie. Oh God.”

40
On the plane to Chicago he's businesslike: plans, routes, timing. But then impulsively he seizes her hand, kisses her fingertips, gives her an astonishingly shy smile.

Christ, this is no good. What have I got myself into?

The steward comes by, topping up coffee cups, and the captain's voice blares from what sounds like a torn speaker: “For you passengers on the right side of the plane, we've got Lake Tahoe coming up a few miles to the south in just about a minute here.”

She says, “Story of my life. I'm always on the wrong side of the plane to see anything.”

“I'll fly you over Tahoe any time. After we get back.”

It makes her look away. Broken clouds below the window; the mountains are a deep green, almost black.

He says, “You still haven't told me why you went and changed your hair. I liked it better before.”

She is thinking: what if I level with him? Why not tell him the truth? The whole truth and nothing but the truth. Charlie'll listen. He'll understand.

She turns to look at him. He's got his nose in his coffee. She studies his face. Her scrutiny draws his attention, then his frown. He says, “What's the matter, my pretty?”

She shakes her head in reply and looks out the window again.