Reversible Errors (33 page)

The North End neighborhood surrounding the Franz Center was comprised principally of worn shingle-sided homes, mingling with a few stouter structures. Arthur pulled up in front of the large, banged- up-looking brick house and spent an instant surveying the block. A group of roving boys, most wearing silky gang jackets despite the heat, were on the corner.

"You better come in," he told her. "It might not be so smart to be a white lady just sitting around." As Gillian stepped out, the chirp of Arthurs remote attracted attention from down the block. "You can watch my car from the window," he said, "and inventory the pieces as they're removed."

Susan's accommodations were referred to as supervised living.

Each of the eight residents had a separate studio apartment, and Valerie or one of the other M
. S. W
.'s was on duty twenty-four hours a day to assist. When Susan was stable and working, she was able to cover much of the expense on her own, but that was because of a large state subsidy and a grant from the Franz Foundation that supported the Center. The state funding was under constant threat, and Arthur was always writing letters or contacting his assemblyman to prevent the Center from perishing. His fathers estate-which, due to Harvey Raven's scrimping, was larger than a man of his means should have left-remained in trust as a backstop.

Susan's apartment was small and well kept these days. There were periods when her hygiene deteriorated, and she seldom thought on her own of appearances, but she complied with the social workers' suggestions about cleaning up. There was not a picture on the wall, or any electronic appliances, since sooner or later they would foster a delusion of attack. Generally, it was their mother's voice Susan heard, warning her about some invisible menace.

The Nurse Practitioner who administered the Prolixin was already there, and the shot had been dispensed by the time Arthur was through the door. Susan was ready to go. Arthur reminded her again about Gillian, as he knew Valerie had several times during the week, but Susan gave no sign of recognizing what he was talking about until she was settled in the front seat of the automobile and they were under way.

She then asked her brother without any warning, "Does this mean you're fucking?"

Raven burned from his shoulders to his scalp, but his response, as always, was measured.

"Susan, it's much nicer when you try to be considerate."

"You're fucking? I know all about fucking. Arthur doesn't know much." The last comment was clearly aimed at Gillian, although Susan did not look in her direction.

"I don't think they give degrees in that subject," Gillian answered quietly. Arthur had advised her beforehand not to allow his sister to bulldoze or terrify her, and this one response seemed enough to quell Susan. In Arthur's rearview, Gillian, as usual, appeared entirely unruffled.

When his father died, Arthur had moved back into Harvey Raven's apartment. It was comfortable in a way. Arthur had lived for years in an efficiency in a high-style building near the Street of Dreams, where even a glance down to the sidewalk in the evenings was sometimes enough to leave him defeated by the world of fashion and allure he would never join. But there had been an element of surrender in his return to the dour environment his father had always wanted him to escape. Yet there was little choice. Susan was badly shaken by their father's death, and her counselors confirmed that the apartment held great significance for her. This was the only home in which Susan Raven had been healthy. For her, the apartment represented the otherwise elusive reality of mental stability. Abandoning the place would close a door forever.

Arthur pointed Gillian to an old metal kitchen step stool, while his sister and he pursued their usual routine. The kitchen, with its white enamel cabinets, was narrow but they worked well side by side. Susan made mashed potatoes, her specialty. She worked the potatoes over as if she was putting down a subversive force, frowning and staring into the pot. Her only commerce with Gillian involved smoking Gillian's cigarettes, rather than her own.

The entree, beef stew, came from a large plastic container that Arthur had removed from the freezer in the morning. Now he dumped the contents into a large pot and added various fresh ingredients. There was probably enough here to feed twelve. When dinner was over, the substantial leftovers would be refrozen. By Arthur's calculations, there had to be a few cubes of beef in there that had been thawed every week since the early '90s. It was an appalling health hazard. But this was the way their frugal father had done it-waste not, want not-and his sister would not abide any other procedure.

Susan set the table for three, her first overt acknowledgment of Gillian's presence. Arthur dished out portions from the pot. Susan then picked up her plate and settled in the living room in front of the TV.

"What did I do?" whispered Gillian.

"That's part of the drill."

"You don't eat together?"

Arthur shook his head. "Her show is on. Its the only thing she can watch without getting zooey."

"Which is?"

"You ready? Star Trek."

Arthur held his fingers to his lips to caution Gillian against laughter, and she had to stuff half her fist into her mouth to keep silent. Apparently finding it a safer subject, Gillian then asked about Rommy's case. She had not heard about Harlow's ruling and seemed pleased for Arthur's sake by the news.

"What's your next step now, Arthur?"

"I can't think of anything. I've filed every motion, issued every subpoena that makes any sense. There are absolutely no jail records left to show who was or wasn't in the House of Corrections on the night of the murders. Jackson Aires won't let anyone talk to Erno's nephew, and Muriel's not about to give him immunity, and the judge can't force her. As of June 29th, the limited discovery period closes. I think I should just run out the clock. After Harlow's findings, it's really on Muriel to try to do something to undermine Erno's credibility before we go back to the Court of Appeals for a ruling on whether the case can proceed."

Arthur's biggest challenge was likely to come from Reverend Blythe. As expected, dealings with the Reverend were entirely a oneway street. After their first meeting, the Reverend no longer deigned to call Arthur directly. Instead, he had an aide who phoned every day for a detailed briefing, information Arthur was obliged to share because Rommy, who had been thrilled by Blythe s visits to Rudyard, had requested that Arthur do so. There seemed to be no countervailing courtesies. Although Blythe now referred to himself as Rommy's spiritual counselor, and claimed Arthur and he were a team, the Reverend ignored Arthur's efforts to moderate Blythe's rhetoric or even to gain advance warning of when the next blast would issue.

"I'm scared to death," said Arthur, "that with all this stuff about 'racist oppressors' he'll infuriate the Court of Appeals."

"But they have to let you go on, wouldn't you think? Erno can't be disregarded, not without a full hearing. Isn't that what Harlow was saying?"

That was how Arthur saw it, but he had failed many times in his career to guess correctly about what judges would do.

When the show was over, Susan rejoined them for dessert. She loved pastry. Then the dishes were washed and everything was shelved. Before Arthur left the apartment, he opened the freezer and replaced the container of stew.

in the dim stairwell of the three-flat, Gillian followed while Arthur led his sister down. These old tenements were as solid as destroyers, but the maintenance here had been neglected. On the treads, the carpeting in several places was worn to the backing, and amoeboid forms spotted the walls where the plaster had rejected the paint.

There were few occasions when she got out, besides work and uncomfortable visits with her sisters, so Gillian had actually found herself looking forward to this evening, and she had not been disappointed. It had pleased her enormously, much as it had on the first occasion, to watch Arthur's adroitness with his sister and his persistent, loving manner.

As they drove back, Susan gave him a precise recounting of the Star Trek episode. Like everyone else in the joint, Gillian had watched her share of TV, and she asked a couple of well-versed questions about Kirk and Spock and Scotty, to which Susan responded with eagerness. When they arrived at the Franz Center, Gillian got out of the car to say good night and to take Susan's place in the front seat. And there on the curb, with the year's longest light still in the sky, Gillian briefly met the other Susan Raven. Her hand came up somewhat awkwardly and she pumped Gillian's arm too hard. But she made unwavering eye contact, and Gillian could feel herself recognized in an entirely different way.

"It's very nice to see you again," said Susan. "I'm glad Arthur has such a nice friend."

Arthur walked Susan in. Gillian lingered just outside the Centers front door to have a cigarette. She found herself strangely moved. When Arthur reappeared, Gillian, who never cried, had to push away tears. Arthur noticed at once, and as they were on the way back to
Duffy's, Gillian explained that she had finally seen Susan as she was capable of being, almost as if a pair of eyes had stared at her out of a forest. Arthur mulled her remark for several blocks.

"The truth," he said then, "is that for me, that person, the woman who just spoke to you-she's always there, you know, the shadow of the girl I grew up with."

"She was in good health as a child?"

"That's how it usually is with schizophrenics. It just happens. She was fourteen. And I don't think you'd ever have guessed. I mean, she was eccentric. She collected soldiers and staged battles. That was unusual for a girl. She kept rocks from the riverbank, and was compulsive about figuring out how old each one was. She couldn't sleep until she had them in chronological order. But we all thought she was brilliant. Well, she is. And then one day, she was naked in the corner of her room and wouldn't come out. She'd smeared her shit all over herself. She said my mother's mother had come back from the dead to tell her my parents were talking about her in code.

"That scene," said Arthur sighing, "that scene is in my head like a movie poster under lights. You know, framed next to the doorway of the theater? It's there every time I walk in to see Susan. Because it was one of those instants when you realize that everything about your life from top to bottom is now different."

"It must have been devastating."

"That's the word. For my parents, at least. I mean, as soon as they heard the word 'schizophrenic' they knew they were doomed. And they were right. My mother was out the door in two years. I was nine when Susan got sick, and I didn't know what to think. I mean, the truth, the ugly truth, is that I can actually remember being happy."

"Happy?"

"She was so bright. She was so beautiful. Susan was the starring attraction. The Great Susan. That's what I'd always called her in my head. And suddenly she'd been swept aside. I cringe, remembering it. Not just the childishness. But because I was so wrong. The dumbest, funniest, saddest part is that I still idolize her. Maybe I almost feel obliged to, so that somebody on earth really knows how tragic it is. The Great Susan," said Arthur again.

"Yes," said Gillian. Arthur brought the sedan to the curb in front of Duffy's. She looked toward the squat bungalow, but she was not quite ready to give up the conversation. "I had a brother like that," she said. "Whom 1 idolized."

"Did you?"

"Yes. Carl. He was my favorite. Carl was four years older. Oh," she said, in a sudden rush of feeling, "he was gorgeous. And wild. I adored him."

"Where is he now?"

"Dead. He died on a motorcycle. He lived out his fate in eighteen years." She cleared her throat and declared, "He was the first man I ever slept with."

Somehow, after a moment, she found the resolve to turn to Arthur. He stared, but it was a dense, thoughtful look. She could see him laboring to comprehend what this meant to her. Here, as so often before, she was startled to discover what a grown-up Arthur Raven had become.

She found she had lit a cigarette, without even thinking that she was defiling the perfect environment in Arthur's fancy car.

"I've shocked you," she said.

He took some time before he answered, "Of course."

"Yes," said Gillian. She closed her purse and went to toss out the cigarette, then drew it back to savor one last puff. "Of course, it's shocking. I've never really known what to make of it, so, frankly, I don't think of it at all. Because I wanted it to happen. It was more confusing afterwards -over the years. But at the time, I was pleased."

To a fourteen-year-old it had been momentous but without any sinister aspect. As a judge, she routinely sentenced men -fathers, stepfathers-for the sexual abuse of children and deemed it unpardonable. But her own experience resided in a category beyond the social expectations of the law. She had been willing and seductive. And she loved Carl far too much to burden him with blame, even in memory. They had always been one another's favorites. From an early age they shared a certain purchase on things, usually expressed in telling glances. He was her pal while she warred with their parents. So many other young women craved his attention and his beauty. One night, Carl cam
e h
ome staggering. He cuddled her. She clung. Nature provided the momentum. The next morning, he said, Tm more fucked up than I think I am/ T liked it,' she told him. There were two more occasions. She listened for his arrival, and went to him. She went. After that, he began to lock the door to his room, and angrily rebuked her when she dared to ask why. 'Sometimes it comes to me, what I've done, and I want to pull the ears off my head so I can't hear that. This is insane,' he said. 'Insane.' She'd succeeded in repelling him. That was the most painful part. They'd barely spoken in the months before his death.