The Spellman Files (16 page)

The window of Daniel’s living room is only six feet aboveground and readily accessible if you use the drainpipe that runs horizontally along the front of the building. When I saw the lights go on in Daniel’s apartment and his shadow moving about, I got out of my car and knocked on his window.

People don’t respond to window knocking as they do to doorbells or door knocking, but they do respond eventually. Daniel opened the window just as I was losing my grip on the dusty sill.

“Hello, Isabel. Is my buzzer broken?”

“No,” I said, not understanding the question.

“What are you doing out here?”

“I wanted to talk to you.”

“Okay. Would you like to come in?”

“Sure,” I said, pushing the window up another notch with the palm of my hand.

“Why don’t you go around to the front and I’ll buzz you in?” Daniel said.

I’m not sure when doors became the single mode of entry and exit in our domesticated world, but something about that hard and inflexible rule struck me as unscientific. Daniel wanted me to jump off the drainpipe, walk ten yards to the front door, wait for a buzzer, and pass a security gate and two doors to reach the same destination that a pull-up and leg throw could accomplish.

“I’ll just use the window, if you don’t mind,” I said.

Daniel stepped back as I threw my left leg over the window and straddled the sill. I swung my other leg inside and dusted off my hands.

“You might want to clean that,” I said.

Daniel remained unresponsive to my suggestion.

“Is everything all right, Isabel?”

“No.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“What am I? A golden retriever?”

“Of course not,” Daniel replied, confused.

“Three games of tennis, one happy hour, a stroll in the park, twelve beers, one glass of wine, and three home-cooked meals. What does it take?”

Daniel leaned back on the arm of his couch.

“What does it take?” he repeated.

“Four handshakes, a businessman’s hug, and a pat on the head?”

“Isabel, I need you to spell it out for me,” Daniel replied.

And so I did. I reached for his tie and pulled him close. After seven weeks, twenty-five tennis lessons, two weeks of short-term surveillance, three tennis dates and three normal dates, and ten episodes of my favorite television show of all time, I finally got my first kiss.

“You get it now?” I said as I pulled away.

“I get it,” Daniel replied as he put his arm around my waist and kissed me back.

Hiding Daniel from my parents and hiding my parents from Daniel required a more aggressive regimen than my previous exercises in stealth could prepare me for. The easiest part was keeping Daniel from my home. I explained that any unannounced visit could result in the accidental meeting of the parental unit. I explained to him that if he met the unit at this point in our relationship, he would undoubtedly break up with me. Daniel wrestled with the concept that people who sacrificed their lives to become educators could be the kind of lunatics their daughter portrayed, but he accepted it as truth.

My parents would have found nothing unusual in my behavior had it not been for the sudden sartorial changes. I don’t dress like a schoolteacher and for Daniel to believe a lie, which I believed was so observably untrue, I figured the only way to sell it was to dress the part.

I
nitially I’d rush home after work, shower, change into a tailored dress or a tweed skirt and a somewhat ironed shirt, and try to slip out of the house unnoticed. But nothing goes unnoticed in that house. If it rained, I could hide my attire with a long overcoat. On the rare occasions when I was expected to meet with a client, the outfits were essentially interchangeable. But mostly I did my best to remain unnoticed. Defenestration became my coming-and-going method of choice, but it’s hard to say what is more suspicious: a sudden, drastic change in wardrobe or not using doors.

However, the greatest challenge would occur in the middle of the day, when Daniel would want to meet for a “surprise” lunch. A patient canceled. He’s suddenly free. I’m astounded by the number of people who don’t think twice about canceling a dentist’s appointment. I railed against every cancelation, wanting to call each and every patient and shout, “Do you know what this is doing to me?!” or “Don’t you care about dental hygiene?!” Instead, I learned to change in the car. I would park down the street from the school du jour—Mission High School, Presidio Middle School, Jefferson Elementary School, etc.—change my clothes, and wait for Daniel on the street. Occasionally I’d wave to a complete stranger who had that weary haze of an educator and say, “See you next week, Suzie” or “Take care of that cold, Jim.” Daniel never noticed the awkward stare I’d receive as a response. He bought it all, and why shouldn’t he have? This particular truth was much stranger than any fiction.

It became such a routine—car changes adjacent to public schools—that I began viewing these sessions as amateur sporting events rather than a by-product of deceit. My best time was three minutes and twenty-five seconds for a full wardrobe change. My worst time was eight minutes and fifty seconds, when I caught the zipper of my wool skirt on the tail of my linen shirt. A week after Daniel and I began our Normal Dates, Petra commented that my dress seemed over the top, as if I were performing the part of a schoolteacher in a play. But I found that I needed the clothes to remind me of the act. In my case, the clothes didn’t make the woman, they made the lie. And while I should have found my own behavior disturbing, I did not. Not until one day when I caught a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror. The arm of my sweater had twisted into a secure knot and I writhed in the backseat of my car, besieged by my own clothing.

It was time to put an end to Daniel’s surprise lunch dates. To satisfy Daniel’s desire for spontaneity and mine for restaurant food, I started dropping by Daniel’s office whenever I was in the vicinity and appropriately dressed. Since substitute teachers have a notoriously flexible schedule, Daniel was none the wiser.

The first time I was introduced to Mrs. Sanchez, Daniel’s sixty-year-old hygienist, office manager, and all-around saint, she looked me up and down and smiled politely. Then she mumbled something to Daniel in Spanish.

On my second “spontaneous” visit, approximately six weeks after Daniel and I started dating, Mrs. Sanchez told me to take a seat, that Daniel was with a patient and should be finished in fifteen minutes or so. Then I made the mistake of engaging in small talk.

“Daniel tells me you’re a substitute teacher,” Mrs. Sanchez said.

“He did? I don’t know where he got that idea from.”

Silence.

“Sorry, that was a joke,” I said, although it wasn’t much of one and it’s always a bad sign when you don’t even get polite laughter. “Yes, I’m a teacher. A substitute teacher. Aren’t kids great?”

“Yes,” she replied. “I have three grandchildren of my own.”

“That’s wonderful,” I said. “I hope you have some regular children, too.”

Silence.

“I meant that you would need to have your own kids first and then the grandchildren follow.”

“I have three children,” she replied with a polite but unsettling smile.

“Congratulations,” I said because I was losing steam.

“So Isabel, where do you teach usually?”

“Oh, everywhere.”

“Don’t you have some schools where you’re a regular.”

“Not really. I like to mix it up. Keep things interesting.”

“Well, where did you teach last week, for instance?”

Last week had been one of Daniel’s surprise lunch visits, and I’d changed my clothes outside of Presidio Middle School. It’s important to maintain consistency in lies—I learned that at a very early age.

“I was at Presidio Middle School last Tuesday and Wednesday, if my memory serves me.”

“My grandson Juan goes to Presidio. Then you must know Leslie Granville, the vice principal.”

“Oh, I don’t know her
1
very well.”

Silence.

“Him, you mean. Leslie is a man, last I checked.”

“Right,” I said, feeling the blood drain from my face. “Him. Yes, of course. I have that thing where you swap pronouns. There’s a word for it. An actual condition. Anyway. Yes, Leslie is a man.”

An act of God—the telephone ringing—saved me from any further embarrassment, but after that day, Mrs. Sanchez always looked at me like I was a person with a secret. Can’t blame her. I was.

By the time Daniel and I had been dating for six weeks, there were too many acts of deceit occupying my everyday life. It was time to come out of the closet, so to speak. I could hide my real self from Daniel, but I would no longer make heroic efforts to hide my fake self from my family. I was aware that my priorities were faulty, but I did see this evolution as an improvement. The next day, I wore a tweed skirt and sweater set and walked right out the front door. Then I did it the following day and the day after that, albeit different outfits.

On the fourth day, my father intercepted my path out the front door. Since it was only 7:00
A.M
. and my father routinely crawls out of bed no earlier than 9:00, I was already on guard.

“Good morning, Isabel.”

“Dad, what are you doing up so early?”

“I thought I’d watch the sun rise.”

“How’d it go?”

“I missed it by a half hour. Who knew it was so early?”

“Are you deliberately blocking my path out the door?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“What’s new?”

“Nothing much.”

“Your clothes say otherwise.”

“I wasn’t aware that my clothes were on speaking terms with you.”

“Oh, they are.”

“What are my clothes saying?”

“They’re telling me that you’re up to something.”

“Harsh words from fabric, wouldn’t you say?”

“The dresses, Izzy, they’re suspicious,” my father said, slowly raising his voice.

“Dad, I have to be across town in ten minutes,” I replied as I slipped past him and opened the door. “I’m going to instruct my clothes not to speak to you anymore. I hope you understand.”

I notice that Stone has jotted down my habit of window entry and exit in his notebook. His scribble is borderline illegible and difficult to read upside down. Usually I’m pretty good at that sort of thing, subtle upside-down reading, but I stare just a little too long.

“Isabel, would you stop trying to read my notes?”

“I wasn’t.”

“Yes, you were.”

“No, I was not.”

Stone puts down his pen and stares at me sternly. “How old are you?”

“You know how old I am. It’s in your notes.”

“Answer the question.”

“Twenty-eight.”

“Last I heard, twenty-eight was an adult. You can legally drive, drink, vote, marry, sue people, go to prison—”

“What is your point, Inspector?”

“I’d like you to act your age.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means it’s time to grow up, Isabel.”

His reprimand strikes me harder than it should. I want to believe that his remarks are a product of endless hours of parental brainwashing, but I know that’s not the case. Stone’s made his assessment of me all on his own.

I look down at some etchings on the wooden table that I made during my childhood-through-adolescent interrogations. I try to forget about why I am here. I try to avoid thinking about all the words that must have transpired against me in this very room. I try to forget that he has already interviewed every other member of my family. Well, almost every member. I try to think about anything else, but Stone brings me back to reality.

I
returned home that night prepared for a second wave of wardrobe-related interrogations, but another conflict was brewing that distracted everyone from my comparatively benign outfits. I found Rae standing alone in the hallway, staring myopically at her bedroom door.

“Rae?”

My voice shook her out of a daze and she turned to me. “Have you been in my room?” she asked.

“No. Why?”

“Somebody has,” she replied and tapped the door with her index finger. It creaked open and she turned to me for confirmation of some sort.

“Rae, don’t jump to conclusions,” I called out to her, but I knew it was to no avail. Rae has had a deadbolt on her door since she learned how to install deadbolts two years ago. We all have deadbolts on our doors and, with the exception of the two-year period of time when mine was removed for drug-related offenses, this is standard fare in the family. We’re really into privacy, especially since we have no respect for it.

I continued up the stairs to my apartment. A few moments later, I heard a door slam and the stomping of the feet of a one-hundred-pound person. I exited my apartment and followed the footsteps into the living room.

“You old hack, what gives you the right to steal my stuff?” Rae shouted upon entering the room.

Uncle Ray barely looked up from the television when he replied, “Kid, I had a job to do and the batteries on my camera were dead, so I borrowed your digital. I was in a jam. What’s the big deal?”

“You picked three locks, entered a room with a sign that says
NO TRES-PASSING
, searched premises for a camera that was hidden under my bed in a lockbox, and then took it. I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU CALL IT IN THE OLD COUNTRY, BUT WHERE I COME FROM THAT’S CALLED STEALING!”

Rae rushed past me as she stormed out of the room. I could hear her mutter under her breath, “This means war.”

As she would later describe, Rae snuck out that night to “blow off some steam.” I sat in my apartment, proofreading a surveillance report that David refused to accept until I located the five typos on my own, because, he said, “I wouldn’t learn otherwise.” I heard a familiar creak on the fire escape and caught sight of Rae, dangling from the final rung on the ladder as she made the three-foot leap to the ground. I checked the clock and it read 9:30
P.M
. I decide that on the off chance Rae missed curfew, someone would be there to prove it.

I exit through the front door, unnoticed, and head up the block in Rae’s direction. I hang back until she reaches Polk Street. As much as she likes to mix up her routine, there are certain habits I can trust. Polk Street is only a few short blocks from our house and she requires a public place to choose her target and practice her technique.

She enters a café and leaves shortly thereafter, eating what I believe to be a brownie. I decide the trip is worth it, since I’ve already caught her on one offense: sugar on a school night. Rae weaves her way down the street and I realize she’s already chosen her prey. I close the gap between us, confident that I’ll remain unnoticed.

Rae shadows a man in his midtwenties, with creative facial hair and a standard assortment of tattoos, into the Polk Street Bookstore. Rae is fourteen but she looks thirteen and she is roaming solo nearing ten o’clock on a school night; she is not as incognito as she imagines she is. I wait outside for the right opportunity to reveal myself, instead of entering the bookstore and spoiling her fun.

The tattooed guy leaves, without any books, which doesn’t surprise me. I step away from the doorway and wait for my sister to follow. She exits at an appropriately timed pace and follows the man down the street in the direction of the Tenderloin. I remain on their tails, still unnoticed.

Rae’s subject turns left onto Eddy Street and she follows. My anger is brimming as I realize that she has no intention of turning back. After years of drilling into Rae’s head all the dangers that lurk around the corner, it’s shocking to watch her actually turn that corner.

The tattooed guy makes another left turn at the end of the block. Rae rushes to the corner to avoid losing a visual. Once my sister rounds the bend, I do the same. The tattooed guy turns left one more time, finishing the final segment of a complete loop. I want to scream at Rae a litany of
Are you an idiot?
–related comments, but I am still convinced there is a lesson to be learned and I hold my tongue until I reach the corner.

This time I hear voices, and when I peer around the bend, I see Rae and her subject in the shadows of an office building under construction. The tattooed guy cages Rae between his arms as he leans against the red brick.

“Sweetheart, what are you doing?” he says in an affected whisper.

“Nothing. Just going for a walk,” Rae replies.

“At this time of night?”

“I needed some fresh air.”

“You know what I think?” he says.

“How would I know that?” she answers.

“I think you were following me.”

“I wasn’t,” she snaps back nervously.

“You like older men, is that it?”

“That’s definitely not it, definitely not.”

“I could teach you a few things.”

“Izzy? Can you please help me now!” Rae shouts.

I take out my knife and flick it open. Tattooed Guy recognizes the sound and turns to me as I round the corner.

“Get the hell away from my sister,” I say calmly, while trying to invoke the spirit of Lee Van Cleef.

“Take it easy, ladies, there is enough of me to go around.”

I pick up my phone and pretend to dial 911. “I hope that line works for you in prison.”

The tattooed guy considers that possibility and decides to call it a night. He offers Rae a suggestive wink. “See you around, kid.”

I watch him until he disappears into an alley down the street. Then I shove Rae against the wall and remind her that we had a deal.

“I agreed to trim my recreational surveillance significantly, but not entirely.”

“You were loitering in the red-light district after curfew. Do I need to remind you that you’re fourteen years old?”

“I am allowed to stay out after curfew when accompanied by a family member. You were with me, so I figured it was okay.”

“When did you spot me?”

“At the bookstore. I wouldn’t have followed him if I didn’t know you were there.”

I shake my head, unable to respond. I grab Rae by the arm and drag her down the street. “Let’s go home now. I’ll deal with you later.”

We walk up Polk Street in silence, until Rae predictably breaks it.

“Did you see the way he winked?” she asks.

“I did.”

“I hate it when people wink.”

“I know. You’re not getting away with it anymore. I hope you understand,” I tell Rae.

“Can we negotiate?” she asks.

“I’m afraid this one is nonnegotiable.”

In the interrogation room later that night, my parents—using a tag-team method—lectured Rae for two straight hours on the potential dangers of recreational surveillance. My parents have a gift for seeing the negative in things. I can assure you, if a danger existed, Rae learned about it that night.