The Mandarin Club (16 page)

She felt relieved as she returned, the home blessedly quiet at mid-day. Barry had already been and gone over the weekend. He and Jamie had taken in the latest Harry Potter movie on Sunday before Barry headed up to New York City for the week. But the debris Jamie and Rachel had left during their frantic morning getaway remained—a Corn Flakes box on the counter, a hair brush and a milky napkin by the sink.

She found reassurance in the hum of the dishwasher. At least she’d remembered to set the timer to run their bowls and cups. She began to walk the house, her methodical patrol, double-checking the locks and dead-bolting the front door.

She was alone with her thoughts as she walked up the stairway, kicking off her shoes at the landing. In the master bedroom, she ran a bubble bath, pausing to watch the foam steadily rise. She leaned against the sink with a sigh as she took the last clips from her hair and peeled off her stockings. She finished undressing, tossed her clothes on the bed, then returned to regard herself dispassionately in the bathroom mirror. After a few moments, she shut off the water and reached for a towel, before remembering it was Monday—her big laundry day—which meant no towels.

She slipped naked down the stairs toward the dryer in the laundry room. As she passed the door to Barry’s den, she stopped at his music center and impulsively reached for a Stanley Turrentine CD, some fluid saxophone to fit her flighty mood. Then she adjusted the speaker controls to throw the sound into the master bedroom suite.

She sat against the arm chair, fiddling with the dials, and then she turned and gazed about the room, feeling the chill of leather against her bare bottom. The room was all Barry, all controls and smooth surfaces. The neat-as-a-pin desk. The locked filing cabinets. The abstract graphic print hiding the wall safe. The coolness masking the infinite inaccessibility.

That was it, she realized—his infinite inaccessibility. That’s what hurt her the most. All those years of trying to rediscover his heart, to comfort him in his secret retreats, to revive his ardor. All those dollars wasted on frilly underwear she’d ordered from the Victoria Secret catalogues in a fruitless search for a renewed spark.

Despite her anger, she felt mischievous. In her noon-time escape, she searched for an old tune, a recalled scent, a mood upon which to float away as she sat right there on Barry’s chair. She savored the sensation for a long minute, then stood, tall and shameless, to leave. She stretched her calves, leaning jogger-like against the arm of the couch. For a moment, she felt fairly Amazonian. Men just might be dispensable.

A flicker of motion alerted her eyes. Her pupils locked on the back of a man’s head, then a nose in profile outside the window glass, just turning round the shrub. A face, peering past her, expressionless.

“Aaah.” It was a grunt she huffed out, lacking the volume of a scream. She darted behind the lounger, then, like a crab, scurried on hands and knees toward the stairs, her bad shoulder throbbing anew as she cursed.

She swung to her feet in the hallway, elbows to chest now, racing up the stairs as she shouted. Her arms were shaking, the image of the impassive face against the glass superimposed with all the villains she had ever feared.

She spun around at the landing just in time to see, at the louvered window in the front doorway, the silhouette of yet another figure, slightly crouched, with a gun in hand. This time she screamed, an impressive guttural scream of rage and violation. She leaped up the last few steps and raced into the bedroom, grabbing her cell phone from the dresser. Her heart was drumming as she ran into the bathroom and slammed the door.

For a second, she considered making a run back to Barry’s den with the key to the pistol he insisted on keeping locked in his desk drawer. But the den was too far to risk now.
So much for all the gun safety crap
, she thought, in a fury now.

“Goddamn FBI,” she muttered as she punched 911, leaning against the pathetic button lock on the bathroom door. “Got your man. Right!”

“Hello, this is Emergency Operations. What is—”

“I’m at 3631 Chesterbrook. There are two men trying to break in!”

“Calm down, ma’am.”

“I
am
calm! They have guns!”

“That’s 3631? What is the cross street?”

“Thirty-sixth Road. Three-six-three-one! There are men at both doors with guns!”

“Two armed men. I understand. We will get Arlington Police units on the way as we speak.”

“Hurry! Please! We
had
the police here! Where the hell are they now?”

“I’m going to stay on the phone with you. Now just stay calm. Where are you in the house?”

“I’m in the damn bathroom!” Then she stopped speaking. Over the casual settling of the bath bubbles, she could hear the creaking sounds of feet steadily climbing the staircase.

“Ma’am? Is this the Lavin-Paulson home at 3631 Chesterbrook. My records show that—”

“They’re
inside!
” she whispered frantically. “They’re coming up the stairs.”

Rachel would never be a docile victim. She set the phone on the counter and searched for a weapon, any weapon. She grabbed the hair dryer with one hand, a heavy silver brush—an antique with a formidable handle—with the other.

She stepped into the bath, leaning on the damp tiles as she crouched expectantly. Over the crackle of the 911 operator’s voice coming from her cell on the counter, she could hear a distant siren. She switched off the noisy phone. Her mind was surging, searching for an escape. Her knees were moist, sweat mixing with steam.

“Touch that door and I’ll blow your fucking head off!” she shouted into the silence. She could hear the floorboards squeak, then someone’s footsteps scuffling away from the other side of the door. “I’ve got a gun in here and I know how to use it!”

The cell phone rang, startling her before she snatched it. She cradled the hair dryer under one arm, her eyes still intent on the locked door.

“Mrs. Paulson, do you hear me?” The 911 operator was shouting in her ear. “We have units in your—”

“They’re in my damn bedroom!”

“Hello? You in there, Ms. Paulson?” The voice from outside was deep, and quite close. “Open up.”

She stopped her breathing a moment and, ignoring the telephone, considered her options.

“Is the intruder in sight?” said the voice beyond the door.

She spit out a response: “Who are you?”

“Arlington County Police. Are you being held?”

There was another voice at the bedroom doorway now—softer and younger. There were sirens approaching fast down the street. “Got you covered, Mike. We’re clear downstairs.”

“Ms. Paulson. Can you open the door? Please put down your gun and show us your hands!”

Her eyes were darting about as she thought. It took another few seconds for a clear picture to emerge from her confusion, for her to comprehend.

She sank to the edge of the tub and sat, slowly setting down her chosen weapons as she began to shake. She gathered herself and spoke into the phone: “Operator, what are the names of the officers in my house?” She could make out the squawk of walkie-talkies in the foyer and her bedroom.

“Ms. Paulson! Put down your weapon.” The voice behind the door was all business now. “Come out with your hands up. Please!”

“Greer and Paschetti,” the operator said.

Rachel closed her eyes very tight. She could hear more shouts outside on the lawn.

“The officers are in the house with the pass key your husband gave Arlington Police.” The operator was insistent now. “They were coming back over to drop off the key when they saw some suspicious activity and heard screams inside—”

“Officers?” Rachel called through the door. “What are your names?”

“Officer Paschetti and Officer Greer. Arlington Police. Now please put down your weapon and we’ll secure the residence.”

How much dignity could she muster? She waited as long as she could. “Guys, uh, I don’t know how to say this. . .”

“Come out with your hands clear!” The voice had grown stern. “You sure you’re alone?”

“Yeah,” she said, trying to compose herself at the door, “and, uh, two things.”

“Yes?”

“Well, first, I lied. I don’t have a gun in here.”

“Just come out. We’ve got the door covered.”

“And, uh, second, the, uh, the towels are all in the laundry. So, if you’d grab me a robe from the closet, please, I’m afraid I’m buck naked.” Then—what else to do?—she opened the door and strode purposefully out, palms pointed skyward.

The uniformed officers were locked in identical Police Academy firing stances, deployed about her bedroom with their guns drawn. Officer Greer, the one she suspected she had seen at the den window, stepped forward tentatively. There was a terrycloth robe in his left hand.

It was several hours later, after a couple of Coors Lights and a long Monopoly game with Jamie, before her nerves began to settle. She followed the boy around, sitting at his elbow until he finished his science homework, and shampooing his hair when he bathed.

“You sure you’re OK, Mom?” the boy asked. He scrunched up his nose, his head cocked, as he searched for some clue, still suspicious after her bland reassurance.

She struggled mightily to suppress the scenes of the day—the cops, the humiliating scene in the bedroom. She labored to expunge it all, to bury it in the file of Embarrassing Moments Never to be Relived.

She was still addled later in the evening, after Jamie was asleep. She finally settled into bed after ten and began to read the morning’s
Post
.
Pathetic
, she thought as she lay in an oversize tee-shirt.
Big Washington expert and I haven’t even read the local section news
. It was happening more often these days. She’d begun once more to live in fear of being found out, ignorant of some crucial development, exposed for her failure to stay on top of the game. Maybe she
was
a fraud.

The ring of the bedside phone startled her. She checked Caller ID, then snatched the receiver at the second ring.

“It’s Alexander.”

“Hi. I know. I’ve been screening calls.”

“I tried you a bunch of times earlier. I was a little worried.”

“I wasn’t picking up. Sorry, I just checked out for a bit. I’m afraid I made rather a fool of myself today.”

“The office that bad?”

“Wasn’t really the office, though that was tough, too. I had a little mix-up with my security detail. Long story.”

“I figured when your secretary said you’d left for the day at noon. . .”

“I just. . . couldn’t manage the whole scene today. Heavy Monday, that’s all.”

“Are you OK?”

“Yeah, I guess. I’m finding it hard to get in rhythm. I just need to climb back on my horse.”

“Is that Turrentine you’re listening to?” Alexander asked, impressed.

“Yeah.”

“So, what exactly were you running from today?”

“Running? I don’t know. From work, marriage, all of it. I feel like road kill. I just can’t balance it all sometimes. I mean, sometimes I feel like I’ll never be good enough at anything.”

“Whoa.”

“And how about you? How was
your
day?”

“Rachel, I’m worried about you.”

“Tell me. Surely it couldn’t have been worse.”

“OK, well, it went great, actually,” Alexander conceded. “A little peculiar, in a way. I kind of need to fill you in on something I’ve been working on—it’s about TPB. It may complicate your—”

“Are you writing about the bombing?”

“No. It’s a China story.”

“Because that’s over, Alexander. They figured it out. The FBI’s got their guy.”

“They’ve arrested somebody?” Alexander pressed. “Really? There’s nothing on the news yet.”

“No. No,” she stumbled, “he’s dead. The guy who did it supposedly blew himself up.”

“Who was he?”

“Alexander, you know, you can’t use this. I don’t even know if it’s been released yet. I mean, I just walked out of the office at noon, and I’ve been kind of out of it ever since.”

“Rachel! It’s
me
. Alexander! I’m not going to file some story on this tonight. I just have a passing curiosity about somebody who damn near killed me and one of my best friends!”

“
Best friends
?”

“You are. I mean, at least.” He paused. “What should I say?”

“It’s OK. Best friends is OK, I guess.”

“What’s going on with you?”

“And what is going on with you, Mr. Reporter, and what is this China stuff you’re writing about that’s going to cause me such grief? Did I say something indiscreet that morning at the Willard?”

“Rachel! No, you didn’t say anything indiscreet. And, yes, my story is something that will affect you. It’s a piece that gets into stuff about your firm—Mickey Dooley even. But damn it, wait a minute. What’s the deal with the FBI investigation? I have a right to know, don’t you think?”

She waited, wanting her head to clear, wishing she was back on the parkway with the wind washing over her. Her elbows were on her knees, one hand pressed at her temple. The tee-shirt was becoming too warm, bunching at the hips.

She sighed, exhaling long and slow. “Alexander, it was just some guy, apparently. Some guy who was pissed off at Porter. It was just some business deal gone bad. He lost his millions and then just lost it. Went crazy. I guess he wanted to take Alan Porter with him.”

“Apparently? You sure they’re not getting pressure to close the case?”

“No. Talbott’s confident they know what they’re doing. The bomb was kind of amateurish, Hickman says. Crazy stuff. ‘No big sin. No big virtue.’”

“Oh.” Alexander waited to make sure she was done. “That’s Steinbeck, by the way.”

“I know.”

“
Grapes of Wrath
: ‘Ain’t no sin. Ain’t no virtue. There’s just stuff people do.’”

“Just stuff some people do.”

They fell silent for several moments. She realized once more how she hungered for that trust, that shared space. Even across the telephone wire, it felt as if Alexander was there in the bed with her. There was none of Barry’s irritating busy-ness, his intolerance for spontaneity, his obsession with control.

In that long silence, her mind meandered from murder to motherhood, from work to home, and back to the whole weird scene beginning with her moment in the den. As she ruminated, her path ahead was suddenly clear. She decided; she would live this way no longer.