The Dog Collar Murders (23 page)

“It would be interesting if you turned up some new evidence,” Gracie said. “An investigation must be like writing a book, that’s how I imagine it. You’ve got to do your research, your interviews, follow up your leads, learn the historical background, put the ideas into context, firm up your arguments and present your case.”

“I could never write a book like that,” I said, a little enviously. “Mine would be full of dead ends, tentative conclusions, backpedaling, outright wrong assumptions. I no sooner have one idea than another sounds better. I would have had a hell of a time if I’d actually had to write my thesis on the Seattle General Strike. I loved doing the research, but I would have been hopeless at making my argument stick. Ever since junior high English the favorite criticism of my teachers was, ‘Pamela Nilsen, where
is
the topic sentence in this paragraph?’ ”

“Anybody can come up with a single point of view and push it to death,” Gracie said charitably. “Most of us were willing students of the one topic sentence school of thought. Which is probably why feminist political writing is so boring to read. The thesis comes first and then the examples are modified to fit the thesis. Any fact that doesn’t fit is thrown out. Take, for example, one of the most famous catch phrases of the movement: ‘Pornography is the theory; rape is the practice.’ It sounds great, but what does it actually mean?”

“It’s supposed to get people—women—angry,” I said. “If you just sit around discussing the ambiguities of each subject, you never get anything to change. Like in South Africa, it’s maybe okay to point out the irony of necklacing, of blacks killing blacks, but what you really want is the overthrow of white rule there.”

“I’m the last person to dispute that,” Gracie shook her head. “And I take your point. I’m sure you and I want an end to the sexual exploitation of women as much as Loie Marsh did. But what’s come to interest me increasingly is the
methods
used to effect change, as well as the nature of power itself. Democracy works through pluralism, through individuals and interest groups listening to each other and figuring out ways of co-existing. The feminist movement is so polarized that no one is
listening
anymore. All we seem to be able to do is repeat ourselves endlessly.”

“Is it really that hopeless?”

“Yes—and the most impossible thing about it all is that everyone is using their own sexuality as a reference point. They don’t say they are, but they are underneath.”

“It
has
to be legitimate for a woman who’s been raped or abused to say that porn is frightening and disgusting to her, that she wants to live her life without it, in safety.”

“But it also has to be all right for a woman who wants to explore her sexuality to do so without mass feminist disapproval.”

“I don’t know,” I said, shaking my head and thinking of Loie, “We can only speak for ourselves, yet everyone would rather speak for everyone
but
themselves.”

Gracie laughed, “So all we can write now is our autobiographies? No more theory, no more criticism, no more polemics?”

“Not if theorizing is an excuse never to deal with your own sexuality.”

“Does that mean me too?” Gracie asked in an insinuating tone.

I blushed slightly and tried for a lighter tone. “I wonder how people in twenty or fifty years will look back on this time? Will the anger seem incomprehensible, will people be more comfortable with their sexual identity, will there be new sexual identities, will sex seem less important? It certainly can’t get more important.”

“I doubt it will ever not be important,” said Gracie, touching my arm slightly as we got up to leave. “But maybe what other people do with their bodies won’t be quite as highly charged a topic as it is now. When the rainforests are gone and the polluted ocean has flooded downtown Seattle and we’re all living on top of Queen Anne Hill in bunkers to protect us from the ultra-violet rays, we’ll look back and say, ‘And we were arguing about pictures of naked people!’ ”

We went out into the night and the October air was crisp and soft at the same time. For a moment I felt an overwhelming gratitude that the world hadn’t ended or changed irrevocably while we’d been inside the B & O eating sour cream lemon pie.

Then Gracie asked, “How long have you been a lesbian?” and I was back to heart-thudding sweet panic.

“Not long,” I said.

“Me either,” she said. “Only ten years.”

“Ten years,” I said. “That’s long.”

“Not if you put in a good thirty being heterosexual before that. I’m still not always sure where to begin.” She took my arm.

“Gracie, Gracie, I should tell you. I’m involved with Hadley.”

“I know. June told me.”

“So you just want to be friends, right?” I felt relief—and a slight disappointment.

“Not exactly. But I’d accept that,” she added.

I wanted to ask, Why me? Why are you interested in me? I’m not an intellectual—I’ve never read Lacan—or Foucault. I’ve never been to New York and about the only place I’ve been in Europe is the Hardanger Vidda in Norway.

Then Gracie’s hand moved up my arm to my shoulder. “There’s something very attractive about you, Pam.”

“There is?” I quavered. And added in a deeper voice, “I like you too.”

She stopped me away from the streetlight and gave me a kiss. Her lips were firm and cool and tasted of lemon. “Something to remember me by,” she said.

“I’ll remember,” I said.

Hadley was watching TV when I came in.

“Gracie says hi,” I chirped.

Hadley grunted.

For some reason a wave of affection for her traveled through me. I liked her long body and her easy ways, her Texas accent, her funny smile. I liked her better than anybody I knew. Good old Hadley.

I sat down beside her and together we watched the end of
Sunset Boulevard.

Far too early the next morning Penny and Ray appeared with Antonia. The anxious parents loaded us with soft toys, expressed milk, formula and advice before setting off to Bellingham for a meeting of Washingtonians Against Contra Aid.

“It’ll be more fun when she’s older,” I said sleepily, watching Hadley cradle Antonia in her arms, all the while looking into her tiny face and making cooing noises.

“Oh Pam, it’s fun
now.
You just lack the maternal instinct.”

“Probably,” I agreed, and went off to the Canal Market to buy the Sunday paper and some croissants for breakfast.

But at noon Hadley went off to the Espressomat to “check on her patients,” as she said, and I was left in charge of Baby A. After an all too brief half hour of fun and games with me and her baby rabbit, it was two hours of tears, followed by a brief nap and then an interminable quarrelsome period, neither smiles nor tears, just relentless unhappy noises.

I walked her up and down. I tried to interest her in her toys. “Hey, what about this rabbit?” I said. “Nice rabbit, Baby A.” I told her stories and sang her songs. I said, “I don’t look
that
different from your mom, give me a break.”

Still, she whined. Finally I felt so exhausted that I simply lay down on the couch with her on my chest and said, “We’re resting now. And that’s that.”

We both fell asleep.

I woke to the sound of footsteps coming quietly down the long dock. It had gotten darker and begun to storm while Antonia and I were sleeping. Rain lashed the picture windows and the rowboat knocked against the dock. For a moment I panicked. What if this was one of my guests already? I hadn’t had a chance to make coffee, much less prepare myself emotionally. Then I looked at my watch and saw it was only seven o’clock. Thank god, Penny had gotten back early. I carefully placed Antonia on the couch and got up to meet her.

But as I moved through the darkened houseboat to the side door I caught a glimpse of the figure through the window. It wasn’t Penny.

It was someone wearing a cap and a jacket. He or she was moving steathily along the wall of the houseboat and in his or her hand dangled a long length of something.

Okay, I said to myself. Breathe deeply. Remember to throw your whole body into your kick and block. Now’s your chance to practice what you’ve learned. You have the advantage; it’s dim and they can’t see you. They don’t even know you’re here. You can just push them into the water and call the police.

At that moment, Antonia began to shriek.

We’d never discussed what to do in my self-defense class if you happened to have a thirteen-week-old baby on your hands.

“Shhh,” I whispered.

The footsteps stopped at the side door and a hand turned the knob. There was no way I could get from this end of the houseboat to the other end, where the kitchen door led to the back deck and to the stairs up the hillside. Not fast enough, and not with Antonia. So I did the next best thing. I grabbed Antonia and slipped out the glass door to the deck facing Portage Bay, just as whoever it was came in the house.

Unfortunately I realized as the driving rain and wind slammed the door shut behind me that this was the door that automatically locked. The intruder had seen me silhouetted against the glass and had gone out again, blocking the side deck and the way to the stairs. He or she was still unrecognizable, but moving quickly.

I did the only thing that occurred to me: clutching Antonia I jumped into the rowboat, slipped off the knot that held it fastened to the deck and floated off into the dark water.

“Don’t tell your mother about this,” I said, as Antonia sputtered, too surprised to cry. “Just sit there and I’ll get us out of this.”

Why weren’t there any oars in this fucking boat? Then I remembered. Hadley had taken them out to revarnish them yesterday. The wind was blowing in more than gusts and a alarmingly strong current seemed to be taking us quickly away from shore. The rain came down like needles.

“Help,” I shouted, but no one came out of their houseboat. We must be already too far out to be heard. I saw the figure on the deck hesitate a moment, then slide the canoe, which
did
have paddles, into the water, get in and begin to paddle out to us.

I wished I could believe that whoever it was sincerely wanted to help me and Antonia.

There was nowhere to go and nothing to do but wait. I couldn’t hide. The rain poured down and the waves swirled us out into the dark bay. No boats were out tonight, the weather was too bad. The houseboats along the shore rocked eerily. I could barely see, my glasses were useless in the rain. I began to shiver. The wind was cold out here and in a sweatshirt, jeans and no shoes I wasn’t prepared for this, nor was Antonia, in her little blue sleeper. I’d grabbed her blanket but that wouldn’t keep her warm or dry for long.

“Oh baby,” I said. I hugged her close to me and suddenly my fear passed and I felt terribly angry. No one was going hurt Antonia if I could help it.

The paddling was swift, if unprofessional. As the canoe came nearer I saw it was a woman, a tall woman with her hair hidden under a cap.

“Hanna!” I shouted desperately. “Listen, Hanna. I never wished you any harm. I can understand why you felt afraid of Loie and Nicky telling people what they knew about you. But listen—Hanna. Please! You can’t keep killing people. You’ve got to stop sometime. Too many people know. You can’t kill all of them—so what’s the point of killing me?”

The woman stopped paddling, as if she were thinking, then in a sudden furious burst she was alongside. The tallness and slenderness were the same, but the nose was quite different.

“Sonya!” I said.

I know she wasn’t thinking. There were so many things she could have done: knocked me out with a paddle, overturned my boat. Only a desperate person would have sprung out of the canoe at me. She landed at one end of the rowboat. I put Antonia down and she let out a wail of complete indignation. Sonya and I grappled. Her strong ugly face was contorted with emotion and she was breathing furiously. I felt her vicious grip around my neck and all of a sudden I remembered what to do. We’d broken a lot of chokes in my class. I poked Sonya in the eye, flung her arms sideways and flipped her sideways—out of the boat, into the water.

Unfortunately I lost my balance too and plunged headfirst after her.

The first thing I heard when I surfaced was Antonia wailing. Then a hand pushed my head back under the icy water. I lunged for the rowboat, choking on water. The hand pushed my head down again, long enough so that I began to lose consciousness. With every ounce of strength I had left I grabbed on to the rowboat, brought my feet up to my chest and kicked out. I caught her right in the windpipe.

I heard her suck in water and go down. I hauled myself up the side of the boat. Antonia was still crying. Sonya flailed helplessly out of reach.

Was Sonya going to drown? Should I let her?

Like a pair of otters, two women kayakers were upon us.

“Is that a
baby
crying?” one asked, even as the other was extending a paddle to Sonya.

“Yes,” I gasped. “This woman has just been trying to kill us.”

A
N HOUR LATER, STILL
damp and chilled, I sat in the living room of the houseboat with Miko, Oak, Edith Marsh, Mrs. Sandbakker, Hanna, Penny, Ray, Hadley and a cop, trying to explain what had happened. One of the kayakers had testified she saw Sonya leap at me, and the police had found a leash and a dog collar on the floating dock. Sonya must have dropped them when she jumped into the canoe.

The police had gotten there sooner than I’d had any right to expect. I still didn’t know why but they’d immediately believed my story over Sonya’s protests that it had been me trying to drown her, that she’d only been acting in self-defense. Two cops had taken her, wet and hysterical, off in their squad car, while the third cop had stayed to get our statements.

“I thought it might be someone in the videos,” I said. “But I believed it was probably Hanna. I thought the only way to get the truth out of her was to get everyone here and have a confrontational scene. I’ve seen you on stage, Hanna, you don’t crack when you’re playing a part, only when you can’t keep it up any longer. I thought seeing David again would do it.”