Sea’s Angry and Soothing Tides
There was joy in Gregory’s home, a young woman’s screech when the letter came accepting Melinda at Radcliffe; Pamela was now away at the private school, Bennett, attended by her older sister; Brigit and Gregory had met several times for lunch or coffee, innocently they felt, both telling their spouses; Brigit talked of Robert and Kathryn, he now a senior in high school, she a sophomore, having skipped a grade. Two parents talked proudly of their children, wife or husband occasionally mentioned out of necessity, their heads tilted a bit downward, raised, gazing longingly in one another’s eyes, hands reaching toward one anther below the table, the troubled smiling, the thrill when they felt a hand on thighs, the desire never lost.
By now, too, Jocelyn had sung her last performance; Aaron was considering retiring, finally weary of the constant battles he had won over time for his eventual recognized work, for his award of a Medal of Freedom because he foresaw the health needs for the country’s less fortunate.
Mary, living with her partner Evelyn, was now the successful gastroenterologist also practicing nearby, still a visitor to Brigit’s home, loving her children as she did her nieces, the tender, loving hugs and cheek kisses when they met, the sadness at times Mary felt and wished away when she thought of Gregory and Deirdre. Brigit and hers was a friendship nothing could end.
Oh, so peaceful, so wonderful this happy, sad life. For on a day in 1964, that tumultuous year, as Gregory examined specimens, he unconsciously placed a finger on a lymph node. There was no pain. He ignored it. Yet, he had been feeling fatigue, did now. He had been working longer hours. There were some nights he had been called in when something seemed amiss at a laboratory. About a month or two later he began to feel sweaty at night. Deciding to weigh himself, he noticed a troubling loss.
~
By the next year, I thought I knew what was happening but tried to ignore it. Perhaps I shouldn’t have. They used to tell me I’d make such a good diagnostician. However, I ignored what I believed, until that day at the lab, and I just could not do more and went home to bed. I had a bad cold and was coughing. I placed my fingers on lymph nodes, thought of the weight loss. That night too I perspired more, coughed a lot. Deirdre, awakened, wanted to know what was wrong, but she had not forgotten and was obviously annoyed. She had wanted me to have sex with her, surprising me, but I was too weary. That was the beginning of another angry encounter. “I’m going to one of the girls’ rooms and sleep. I’ve got a long day tomorrow. I have to go to Boston.”
I was about to ask her to put it off for a day so she could accompany me to the doctor. I decided, though, I’d see my doctor alone, thinking she’d probably go to Boston anyway. What I didn’t know was that she was meeting Étienne while I was being initially diagnosed with the possibility of Chronic Lymphocytic Leukemia. There followed blood tests, talking and confirmation. I had cancer that could last for years and would need family support. How to tell the girls bothered me. Deirdre would take it in, think of what she could do for help. But how much, she’d be asking herself. I knew her mind, admitted the truth of her feelings toward me that I never revealed to anyone. That left my folks who would be exceedingly upset but who could not be kept in ignorance. My dad and I could talk. My mother would be terribly distressed. Mary. Mary would pretend, dress herself in her professional demeanor, then truthfully show her emotion in tears like mother’s. Oh. She would tell Brigit. If I asked her not to? She would promise, but would it come out? I believed so. And it did, later when I was in treatment and getting all those necessary blood tests. Mary kept Brigit informed.
Her children now older, Brigit had returned to nursing. We did meet one day for coffee at a shop in our town, perhaps not the best idea. We sat as she cheerily told me about Robert and Kathryn, but suddenly her face changed when she glanced at me, her eyes watery.
“Tell me how you’re holding up, Greg. I think so much about you.”
Cheerfully, at least trying to be, I told her, “Well, dear concerned one, I still work. My brain still functions in the lab. I probably will be around for years yet. If it comes to that, and I get too weary, I’ll give up my position and just, well, you know, get into some research. I imagine some of the women or the men will let me help. Say, I’d make a great assistant.”
“Oh, keep quiet.” She looked directly at me, with those eyes that always mesmerized me. “Greg, if you ever need me. Oh, damn, I wish I could be your nurse, be with you.” She looked away, forcing herself to take a sip of coffee.
“Brigit, if I ever need you, would Thomas get upset?”
“Perhaps. Maybe he would. He considers you a friend, though. Perhaps. I wouldn’t care, if you needed me. Promise that you’d let me know.”
There was that ocean again, roughly separating us, the waves washing us in separate directions. “Brigit, I . . . I love you, always will.”
“Greg, you shouldn’t say that. Don’t.” Her face reddened, I thought with pleasure, although her words were a gentle reprimand.
“We should go. The children will wonder where I am. You know, I almost wish I could go back to the night shift. But I enjoy seeing the children when I come home. Then I’m awake too when Thomas comes, unless . . . . You doctors.”
I placed my hand on her knee. She moved it hard against the touch and rose. “You tell me. I mean it. If you need me. But you have your family too, we both do, don’t we?” she spoke wistfully.
The loneliness I felt was of loss when I paid the check and we left the shop and I watched her walk away. I could not stop, watching the slight sway of her hips, her lovely legs, the red hair blown by the breeze. At that moment, the memories hurt more than the cancer, were the cancer.
~
Deirdre met Étienne who surprised her at the museum. He had persuaded the Board that they needed another member and to vote for her. Delighted, she also knew what it meant for Étienne and her, the pieces they could more easily prod the museum to take, having some control of the funds with her voice and vote. She would be the enchantress who she believed could influence votes. She did, with her soft voice, smile, and use of her practiced striking expressions at the appropriate time.
After her election to the Board, Étienne and she went to his apartment in Boston.
She called home to assure herself there was no suspicion.
“Gregory, dear. I'm so happy. I know you'll be too.”
“What happened?”
“I was elected to the museum board. Isn't that wonderful? What an honor.”
He forced his enthusiasm. “That's marvelous. The girls will be so proud of you.” Maybe.
She quickly changed tone. “Gregory, enough about me. What happened at the doctor's?”
“Oh, we just discussed the results of the blood tests.”
“And everything's O.K.?”
“Oh sure,” and he added bitingly, “What we expected. We'll talk when you get home. By the way, when are you coming?”
“Well with what's happened, it may be the day after tomorrow. But I’ll try to make it late tomorrow night. You do understand, darling.”
He felt like telling her to go to hell. “Oh fine.” Then forcing a pleasant voice, yet with the meaning quite clear, “Andrea's taking great care of everything as usual. Bye now. Got some work to review.” He barely gave her time to say, “Bye, darling.”
She ignored his anger, and turned cheerfully, expectantly, to Étienne.
He pulled her to the sofa, and she lay slowly back, unhooking her bra and letting him remove her panties. He played his hands about her body, kissed, bit, sucked where he knew it gave enjoyment: her neck, ears, breasts and nipples, between her thighs. Several times that night and the following afternoon they made love until she left him, each of them weary from the enjoyment and exertion. She must catch the last bus home with her new dresses and still feeling his hands over her body, his mouth, his slipping in and out and the ultimate sensation of her tightening around his throbbing release inside, while hearing her sounds of fulfillment.
~
She changed quickly into a sheer nightgown, crept into the bed, made certain Gregory was asleep, and reluctantly placed her arm about him, rubbing his chest lightly and his nipples. He stirred. She felt her husband move closer to her as she thought of the pleasure of Étienne, her new position, and the money they could accumulate. She closed her eyes and fell quickly asleep. Deep sleep. Ignorance. Neither she nor her companion from wartime were aware a new person had been employed for provenance of art or that soon a friend of Mary would also become a member. Nor did Deirdre know that later she would take the office of Treasurer.
As the year passed, the country began to wonder about women who wanted their freedom. There had been a story of a woman who left her children and husband to return to college and fulfill her dream of professional work. A sociologist claimed the problems with the United States’ social problems all went back to 1960 and the changes among women, civil rights, the assassinations, women using contraceptives, achieving higher positions in the professions, and in government. They were destroying the home. Woodstock, 1969, that repellant gathering of peace and love and sex. Deirdre hated it all, except when it came to her own sexual freedom. She didn’t have to worry about birth control, for she had had her tubes tied after Kaitlin’s birth. It never occurred to her, however, that perhaps Étienne, having sex with other women, which he did, may have contacted a disease he could pass to her as a bonus. Her only thought with him or any other man she should choose was that she could do what she wanted and when. Yes, she was, in her mind, the new woman who had been there years ahead of the likes of Gloria Steinem. Her exception was like many or some of the other liberated females, that she would keep her family.
The following morning, she, being the empathetic wifely companion, delayed Greg to ask questions about his illness and how he felt. He coughed some at breakfast, did not have his usual appetite, but knew this was part of what his life, perhaps for many years, would be. Deirdre showed a face of worry. “Are you all right?”
“It’s just the way it is. This will probably get worse, though, and I’ll need your help.”
“But I’m not a nurse.”
“Oh, it doesn’t require a nurse, at least not now.”
“What do you mean ‘at least not now’?”
“Well, with this illness it could go on for some years. So don’t worry about it.” He wondered whether or how much she would worry.
I’ll especially worry if it interferes with my travels. But if necessary, I can get Pamela home to look after him and have her go to school nearby.
“I'll be here when you come home. Just take it easy at work. All right. Bye, dear,” she tenderly told him, kissing him on his mouth, hugging him tightly.
Suddenly, without reason, he returned as he opened the door, reached for her, hugged and softly kissed her, running his hand along her cheek. “Sometimes,” he thought, “I do wish it was as before, when there was, or seemed to be, deep, honest feeling.” Sadly, he went to the car, started driving off, looking back to the house, the front door closed.
He did at times think back to that day in 1973, and the feeling of sadness when he saw the front door closed, wishing she had at least lovingly watched after him through an open door until the car disappeared. As he drove he also wondered whether he had been such a fool as to forsake Brigit for an image that floated to him as though that then unknown seductive woman’s feet never touched the ground, wearing that gown which showed her bosom and her bare lovely shoulders so well. As she drifted toward him, he thought of his face mirrored in those bright, smiling brown eyes.
Now, here, here he was in 1977, still able to work but feeling at times so rotten. It was post Watergate. If the country could recover from that, then, hell, he could get along. Melinda was about to start her medical internship, and Pam was in her senior year and home on vacation. “Now that was something.”
That year Deirdre wanted Pamela to come home to finish college when Gregory began to feel more weary. His physician had him go to the hospital, because his cough was suddenly worse and he had a fever. It was summer, and the girls were home. While he was undergoing tests and treatment, Deirdre decided she'd talk to Pamela about college.
“Pam, love, I think you should forget Wellesley because of dad. He's going to need help. And you know sometimes I'll have to be away.”
“Well, why can't you give up your trips? You know how much it means to me.” Naturally, Pamela also wanted her freedom. “No. I'm going back to Wellesley. Dad wants me to. You're always away. For what? For that museum you got some politician to get money for?”
Unknowingly, Pamela had thrown a dart.
~
Barry had had his way with Deirdre on an afternoon that she did meet him. He had made sure the funds went through committee and that it went to her to be funneled to the museum, at least so he thought and everyone else.
“O. K. Deirdre, pay up.” Those words angrily burned her, making her feel like a prostitute. She regained her composure, made him wait, then seriously but with a teasing look, opening and closing her eyes and then focusing straight at him, she asked, “You do have a condom, Barry?” Annoyed, he told her he did. Teasing further, delaying, to arouse him, “You must keep a huge supply. Cautious man, Barry, but you're the one I'm worried about, what gals you've been with. You know. Girl's got to be careful.” He, restraining himself from answering, forced a smile, took her hand. “So soft.”
“For playing, Barry.”
He took her to a room off his office. They moved from floor to a sofa that he quickly opened to a bed as she delayed, telling him, “Slow down, Barry. It’s more enjoyable.” Eventually she listened to Barry in ecstasy, grimaced, though she had some enjoyment.
Her attention quickly shifted back to Pamela. Now her anger flared, remembering . . . .
~
“Don’t you EVER talk to me like that, you selfish imp.” Deirdre stepped toward her, her hand raised to slap her face, stopped. “Don’t you EVER, or you'll never forget it. I won't have it, you hear?”
Pamela stepped back, her eyes widened, her mouth contorted. Whether she was to scream or cry, was hard to tell. She ran from the kitchen, but before losing sight of her mother, she shouted, “You're not a mother. Mothers love their children.” She hesitated. “You're the selfish, self-centered one. You don't care what happens to any of us. You and your precious antiques. I hate you,” and she ran toward her room crying.
“You, little bitch. Tell me I don’t love you. I gave birth to you, raised you. Gave you everything. You will apologize.” At that, Deirdre ran after her, grabbed Pamela's blouse collar, turned her, and slapped her hard, Pamela’s face reddening. Deirdre momentarily worried about a bruise. “Now get out of my sight until you apologize.”
Pamela lay on her bed, loudly crying, sobbing, simultaneously beating her pillow and raising her legs and then banging them down on the bed. “I won’t let her say those things to me, treat me like a slave. She’s always done everything she wanted. Why do I have to suffer? I’m going to see dad. Damn her,” she shouted, hoping her mother would hear.
Later Pamela, calming some, purposely took Deirdre’s car, who, when she heard the motor, promised herself Pamela would feel the punishment. After coming home, Pamela went to her father’s room. He was half asleep but looked up in happy surprise, the smile fading, seeing her drawn face
“Pam.” A pause, “Pam, what’s wrong?” He coughed a bit.
“Oh, dad, I have to talk to you. I was going to wait and come with Melinda, but she’s shopping. I didn’t want to bother you. Are you all right?”
“I’m O.K., considering.”
“Really?”
“I wouldn’t lie to you, dear. Now tell me what’s wrong. I can see it in your face.”
“It’s mom,” and her tears started again
“Come here. Sit.” He moved over, put his arm about her. “Come on. Tell me. You obviously had a fight.”
“I said terrible things. Well, it was her fault. She doesn’t want me to go back to Wellesley but to stay here. It’s not fair.” She hesitated. “She wants me to go to school near here so I can be with you and take care of you.”
“To . . . .” he stopped. “I don’t need you to take care of me. If the time comes and I need help, I’ll get the nurse to stay here. You’re going back to Wellesley. I won’t have it any other way. It’s what you want and what you’ll have.”
She smiled, wiping at her eyes. “Why are you so good and she’s so mean?”
“Pam, you have to have patience with your mother. She’s busy and smart. Well you know.” He hid his anger.
“You’ll have a fight with her.”
“That’s not your worry. I’ll talk to her. You’re going to Wellesley.”
“Oh, daddy, I love you,” and she hugged him. “I’m causing you another argument though.”
“That’s my problem. Not yours. Now calm down. Tell you what. Why don’t you tell the nurse or Andrea I’d like to have a cup of tea, and, if you want, you have a cup with me. Now go ahead.”
When she was gone, he felt the sadness return.
Sickness and sadness, a marvelous combination.
There isn’t any love between us now. Everything is habit, Deirdre occasionally allowing me to fuck her while she just lies there, hardly a breath, a sigh, oh occasionally a moan, faking an orgasm. Once in a while she’ll drive and we’ll go to the cove to watch the ocean. Yet. There’s hardly ever any conversation. I put up with it. Then there’s the music. If I want to listen, I have to go in the music room, even had to tell Mary that one day when she was home and we listened to Die Fledermaus aria, Heimat, Brigit’s favorite, and I shut the door, kept the hi-fi low. Well, once in a while we do see a play. There’s nothing very admirable about that. No. I’ve had it. She’s damn well not going to ruin my daughter’s life.
Before Pamela returned, Gregory called to Deirdre. Without waiting, he yelled up to her, “Pamela’s going back to Wellesley. And you damn well keep out of it.” He started coughing. Deirdre had come downstairs by now, and he could hear her breathing hard. He thought, How ironic, both of us breathless.
“Listen to yourself. Don’t you yell at me. Don’t yell. It’s bad for you. Now settle down. I only thought . . . .”
“Well, forget thinking. If I need care, we’ll get it.” Suddenly Brigit was in his mind again, but he knew she was an impossibility.
“Do you know how fresh she was, what she said to me? I won’t have it, Greg. I won’t. I won’t have a fresh child in my house. The things she accused me of. I won’t have it,” her voice rising.
“She told me she was fresh and that she misbehaved, but you upset her. She’s not my nurse, isn’t going to be. She’s going to have her schooling, becoming a young woman and the joy that comes with it, dating, studying.”
“But it makes no difference she upset me?”
“Certainly it does, but she’s a right to her life. Remember that, Deirdre. C’mon, let’s not have another fight. I can’t put up with it right now.”
“I am certainly aware you can’t. That’s why you may need her nearby.”
“NO. You won’t do that to her. You WON’T.” He slammed his hand on a the bed table, trembling. Just then, too, Pamela came in. She had heard part of the argument. “Thanks, dad,” looking to her mother and then to her father, “but you shouldn’t get so upset. I’m sorry I did this to you.”
At that, Deirdre rushed from the room, banging the door.
Good, sweet, loveable wife, get the hell out of here.
He looked at Pamela who’s face was red, her eyes again tearing. “You didn’t do anything except be my loving daughter. Remember that.”
“Boy,” a quiver in her voice but forcing a smile, “Melinda and I’ll both get it tonight. Poor Melinda. She won’t know what hit her.”
That night at home was terrible for the two. Deirdre criticized everything they did. They kept kicking gently or hitting one another to keep quiet and let their mother rant. After Andrea served dinner, they both went to watch TV.
“Pam. Let’s go see grandma and grandpa. And Aunt Mary’s there. You know, I never give it much thought, she being lesbian. She has a right to her life. Why did I bring that up? Oh, because look at dad and mom. I’m sure Aunt Mary and Evelyn argue. But I doubt it’s that bitter. Well how would we know? Anyhow, let’s go see them.”
Melinda, whom Deirdre began to respect more now that she was a M.D. and, in fact, with whom she didn’t dare interfere, told their mother where they were going.
The following day, Pamela kept away from her mother. Being warm, she went to her favorite place to read, the gardens so well kept both by her mother and a gardener.
“Pamela,” Deirdre called. “Where is she?” She saw her in the garden, reading.
“Pamela. Can you put down a book for a minute? All you do at home is read or go to your room and write those stories of yours, unless you have one of the boys from around town running after you for a date. Want to be a writer,” this last mocking. “I need to talk to you.”
“Mom, I’ll just finish this page.”
“Well, finish it.” Deirdre closed the back door and waited in the kitchen.
Rather than wait, Pamela closed the book and went inside.
“That was fast.”
“I’m a fast reader,” she answered sarcastically.
“I don’t like your tone of voice.”
“Mom, when are you going to decide that Melinda and I are women? C’mon. Admit it. We have the same bodies like yours, all filled out.”
“Don’t say another word.” She actually smiled. “I don’t want to know.”
“What? Whether we’ve done it.”
“Stop. Now.” She imagined them in bed, their lost virginity.
“Mom. I’m still a virgin. You can still love me. In your way, whatever that is. Anyhow, would it make any difference as long as we don’t get pregnant? I know about birth control, whenever it comes to that. So don’t worry. I won’t embarrass you and dad. Nor Melinda either. She’s a doctor. Hey, mom, maybe she screws every night.”
That remark unknowingly pierced Deirdre, embarrassing and angering her. “Shut up, you bitch. I don’t want to hear anymore. Stop.”
Pamela smiled. “C’mon. I’m teasing you, mom.”
“Then don’t tease. Don’t you ever.” She calmed some. “Look, I called you in, because I’ve talked to your father. We’ve agreed that you’ll finish at Wellesley. Perhaps, though, and we haven’t talked about this, you’d put off your Master’s for a while. If it were necessary, we’ll get a permanent nurse. Hopefully, that won’t happen. It’s just that I worry about him and my traveling.”
Oh, God. You and you’re traveling again. When will you stop and realize you’re a wife whose husband may need you?
There were times when Melinda, after she started her internship, had some hours off to be home when Pamela and she talked about their mother’s travels and wondered what she did, where she and that man found everything, more and more about the appearance in the house of rare pieces and, did she sleep with him? Then they’d look at each other. In the silence their faces changed to concern. “I’d be so furious with her,” Melinda told her. “But we’ll never know. Dad wouldn’t. You know, Pam, if Brigit . . . . Oh, forget it.”
“Yeah, you wouldn’t care if he did it with Brigit, because we love her. It’s all so mixed up. Aunt Mary is such good friends with Brigit, and she seems to hate mom. Something happened between them, but Aunt Mary never talks about it.”
“It’s something I can’t help thinking about.”
“Me too, but what good does it do?” She was looking at the floor, somewhat unhappily.
“What’s wrong?”
“Being home and seeing and hearing everything. At least you’re away from it most of the time. We need a good shopping trip. How about the next time you’re off, if you can get that much, we meet in Portland? I want some new dresses and some blouses, a pair of slacks. What about you?” She paused. “I go to your room sometimes and look in your closet, and I feel empty as if you had taken everything with you to the hospital.”
“Don’t do that to yourself, Pam. Listen, if you want to get away to school, go in the fall or even this summer. Dad doesn’t need you to pamper him. He’s tough, and don’t forget that. It means a lot.”
“It’s not that so much, although I want to write and learn more at school. It’s depressing sometimes living with her. She hugs me, kisses me, well you know. But, shit, she thinks I’m a kid. She keeps talking to me about sex, and I thought one night she was going to throw me on the bed, lift my legs and examine me. I sound crazy.”
“She did the same thing to me, only I never told you. I was furious. Like I hadn’t learned anything or read. As med students, I guess I never told you, the guys examined us and we did them. It was embarrassing, and weird, but we got used to it. But there she is, lecturing. I wonder how hard grandma Cunningham was with her. I’ll bet mom gave it to grandma. Oh. This is nonsense. Spending our time talking about it. Let’s go to the beach.”
The wind was picking up. The water and sky were grey, the waves larger with white caps leaping and falling on the shore and against rocks. Seagulls seemed caught in the wind, gliding with it, allowing it to carry them where it would. The sisters laughed as they brushed their hair out of their eyes, then placed their arms about one another, laughing into the breeze, daring it to part them. They let their hair go, walked, skipped over a bump of tufted grass, hollered at the gods. “Nothing can part us.”
~
1980 and I’m getting worse. I thought by now I’d be getting along better, fooling myself, I guess. Physician, heal thyself of thy wishes and desperation.
Catastrophe is part of human nature, whether we create it for ourselves or the gods of destruction hurl their venom at or entomb us in it. Mount St. Helens, fifty-one people killed, forests destroyed, including all that animal life. Why think of the billions of dollars from that eruption? Or why, later in the year, in December would someone kill John Lennon who harmed no one and gave pleasure. And why would we elect an actor Ronald Reagan President who on death would be installed as the first American god? He was on Olympus while Washington and Lincoln were on a ledge below.
Ah, all this is my life, and I either walk or lie and cough, am feverish, and my beautiful daughters must endure my weakness while my wife. My wife. Is she my wife? She did have a nurse come to the house, and I told Pamela to get herself to her Masters in Creative Writing. Often it is hard being alone, scary, wondering whether I’ll cough too hard and cause a blood vessel rupture, and Deirdre will come home and find nothing, Nothing. Only blood. Medical man that I am, my thoughts are like that. After all, physicians have problems too. They fall ill, they injure themselves, they die. Ah. Pam will be home within a few days on vacation. Melinda is on her fellowship but manages to sneak off. And Deirdre sneaks off to where?
I was in the hospital again for about a week. I don’t remember. But I do remember Brigit coming to see me, bending over me, kissing me on the mouth, oh so softly, and I reached up and brought her closer to me so I could feel her mouth more warmly and the touch of her pliant, soft breast. We stayed together like that for some time until she rose, placed her hand on my forehead and then slid it down along my cheek, the way she would when she wanted to calm me when I was angry about something at the lab in Boston.
Something peculiar happened. The nurse Deirdre hired appeared less often. Somehow, Brigit managed that and took care of me. She told me Thomas didn’t mind. Her children are now fifteen and twelve. I’ve seen them occasionally. Kathryn resembles her in many ways, probably will be as fetching as her mother. Oh well.
Pamela came home. When she saw Brigit, she halted, looked at that stunning woman, the two of them staring, then moving toward one another. Pamela spoke first. “Brigit. Oh, Brigit. What are you doing here?” and then hugged her, kissed her cheek. They stood there for a bit hugging one another. I wonder what was in their minds. Love between them was obvious.
Pamela then looked at me, my smile. She hurried to me. “Dad,” and she hugged, kissed me. Looking back at Brigit then again at me, “Are you O.K.?”
“Sure. Don’t you see my nurse making sure I don’t do anything bad?” Bad, that was the wrong word. I did want to be in bed with Brigit, to make love to her as though it were for the first time. I wanted her warm, lithe body naked lying against me. I wonder if she thought about it. She must have. Anyhow, after a few days, Brigit had become used to the house and occasionally went looking about from curiosity, perhaps wanting to know how we lived. I never said anything. Once I called to her. “What are you doing?”
“Oh, nothing, Looking at this museum you have in the house.”
It was sometime about then when Pamela was upstairs. Neither of us could help ourselves.
After, we heard Pamela coming down the stairs and Brigit slipped quickly from the bed and straightened her clothes and brushed back her hair. I think Pamela knew when she came to the door. There was her somewhat surprised look, her quick gaze going from Brigit’s hair, reddened face, to her skirt. But if she suspected, she ignored it.
Pamela looked at me, hesitated, and came in when I motioned. Pamela walked to Brigit, looking intently in her eyes. Of course Pamela knew. “I hope you’re making him happy. He needs that,” she stopped a moment, “and you.” Her face flushed. She was uncertain about continuing. “Brigit, there's something I’ve wanted to say.”
Blushing again, she blurted, “You all belong together.” Her voice dropped. “But you’re both married to others. Oh, God and damn.”
Brigit had cheated on Thomas, I on her, more so than I thought on Deirdre. I know she was screwing that Frenchman and God knows whom else. What did it matter anymore? Except for Brigit’s pain.
I knew Pamela would talk to Melinda. “If only,” perhaps Pamela was thinking. “But onlys don’t count.” She paused, stammering, “I love you both. I’m going back to my room. O.K.? probably write a little.” She hurried off.
After she left, and despite the love and hugs exchanged, we all felt awkwardness. Watching after Pam, Brigit turned to me. “Well, that was close.” She smiled. “Love, you’re – I’m – stuck now. Listen, though, we’re not giving up ever again. I won’t let you go.” I told her, “Never.” She sat beside me, holding my hand. Looking at the open door and to the darkened space beyond – it seemed her shoulders shivered – whatever was beyond there, she didn’t say, just held my hand more tightly.
She looked back at me. “I do love your daughters, Greg, and I intend to take care of you all, regardless of cost – except for my daughter – and son.”
She sat silently for several minutes and then told me what she saw, an art piece with doors that aroused her curiosity, thinking she had seen it in a magazine. The shiver in her shoulders must have been an image in her mind that made her wonder, frightened her. In the dark she saw something painful.
For now, though, her expression serious, her eyes intent on me, her voice low, she muttered, “Greg, I'm going to get Pam.”
“What’s wrong?”
“If I'm right, you'll soon find out.”
Brigit went upstairs, “Pamela, I need you.”
Startled, her eyes widened in fright. “Is dad all right?”
“It’s not your dad. I want you with me to look at something downstairs. I don’t feel comfortable about looking through your dad’s or mother’s possessions.”
“Well,” Pamela answered somewhat irritated. “I wouldn’t think you would.” She paused. “Now I am curious.”
They went to the darkened den where there was a wardrobe, with drawers behind closed doors. Brigit opened them. “Pamela, let’s look in a drawer, it’s such an unusual piece, but I wouldn’t do it without you here. I just stumbled on this when I was looking around the house at the antiques. I can’t deny I’m curious. You know the saying,” she smiled, “a woman’s curiosity.” She was suspicious regarding such obviously expensive antiques and did want to see inside.
“I just don’t want to do anything that may bother or hurt you, your sister, or your father.”
Pamela did catch the omission of her mother. Was Brigit just a jealous woman after all? Was my love misplaced? “Well,” her voice somewhat cold, “open it,” although now Pamela was not only curious but frightened.
Brigit realized what was going through Pamela and placed her hand gently on her arm. She opened a drawer in which there was a key, perhaps inadvertently left, and brought out some papers with numbers and also references to museum pieces.
Pamela stopped her. “You have no right. I don’t.”
“Pamela. Listen to me. I’m asking you to trust me. You must. This is important. You’re a grown woman and have to learn to take it.” Brigit’s impulse was to hug her. There were tears in her eyes that Pamela noticed. “I trust you, Brigit,” she said uncertainly, still frightened looking at the papers Brigit held.
“Come here. Let’s sit. I didn’t want to ask your father just now. He, he’s, oh damn.” And she started crying.
Pamela moved quite close to her, their thighs touching, and placed her arm about her shoulders. “Brigit. You love him. I know it. Melinda knows,” she told her tenderly.
Brigit brushed at her eyes. “Oh damn, Pamela. I’ve been clumsy. I didn’t intend it this way.”
“Here wipe your eyes.” Pamela’s hand shaking, she took a tissue from her jean pocket. Brigit sniffled, wiped. “I need another,” wiped, shook her head. “We’ve got things to do here. You don’t need a weeping woman on top of it all.”
“O.K., Brigit. Go ahead and let’s see what’s in there.”
Brigit opened another drawer and unthinkingly pulled out additional sheets with a series of numbers with dollar signs, places of deposit, and dates.
“What is that?”
“Pamela. You’re mother is very methodical. Let’s see.” Brigit hesitated. I have no right.
Pamela looked at the bottom of the paper, seeing Total: $14 million in her mother’s handwriting. There were also references to offshore and Swiss accounts, all in her name. They looked further and found certificates of deposit, a number of large-figure withdrawals.
On another list were references to some museum pieces, sold by her, with the notation, “Étienne took these from sites (unnamed).”
“Brigit. My mother’s a thief. Oh, God. She can’t be. She’s all kinds of things sometimes. I admit it. I’ve even hated her. This will kill dad, blow up the whole family, all of us.”
“Pam,” and Brigit held her closely. Now Pamela was crying and shaking. “Shh. Shh. It’s something we’ll deal with.” Brigit kissed her cheek, pulling her tightly to her. “You’re going to be a brave woman, dear. Shh.”
“Oh, Oh, my God. We’ll be in the papers. Dad will be ruined, the family so shamed.”
“Stop, Pam. We both have to calm down. We have to tell your dad.”
“Oh, my God, Why the hell is she my mother? That Fucking Bitch.”
“It’ll be all right. Nothing can hurt your dad. He’s too well thought of. And I promise, I’ll protect you and Melinda.” However I can, I’ll do it. They’re my children too. She paused. “However I can. Damn. Why did I ever look?”
She waited for Pamela to calm some. “Come, dear. We’ll go see your father.”
~
When Pam and Brigit came back to my room, they both looked as though they had had an argument or had emerged from a confessional booth, damned, to be saved only by countless Hail Marys that perhaps would erase their tear-blurred eyes.
“Dad,” Pamela started.
Brigit interrupted. It was then I saw Brigit holding a sheaf of papers. “Let me, Pamela. O.K.?”
Pamela nodded a “yes.”
“Greg,” Brigit began. “I was looking at the art works, wondering how there could be so many and some seeming so unusual. I called Pam, because the wardrobe fascinated me, having, I think, seen it in a magazine. I wanted to look inside. I guess I shouldn’t have, I know.”
I was struck that she would have done that, as though she were possessing my home. However, I wasn’t that annoyed, because I wouldn’t stop her from doing anything here. It was as though it were her house, that my children were hers. That we had lost all those years was what truly bothered me. I waited for her to continue.
She appeared as though she expected disapproval, but continued. “Pamela and I agreed that I’d talk.
“I think there could be something funny going on with Deirdre.”
I thought she was going to tell me about love letters full of innuendo and explicit sex talk.
“She could be holding back objects from the museum. It’s possible she’s not only been misleading the museum but her partner. Maybe I’m all wrong and want to believe this.”
“Is that what those papers are you’re holding?”
Her eyes were now filled with tears, and she had a difficult time answering me. Pamela, too, looked terrible, her face white, her hands shaking, even though she tried to hold them close to her sides.
“Dad.” Pamela never hesitated. “She’s a thief. My mother’s a thief,” she shouted and sobbed loudly. “She’s probably cheated on you too.” She inadvertently looked at Brigit, perhaps thinking about finding us. I don’t know. It made no difference. “She’s no good, dad. I can’t stand it. My mother, your wife, our mother, Oh. What about Melinda?”
I sat stunned. What bothered me at the moment was Pamela and thinking of Melinda, then my disbelief. “Brigit, I don’t believe this. I admit I’ve had some bad thoughts about her,” as I glanced at Pamela. I began to cough and couldn’t stop. Brigit came to me, rubbed my back and forehead, “I knew I should have approached this differently,” as she lightly continued rubbing my back, hearing her whispering to herself, “How differently? Impossible.” I coughed more.
“Here, lie back on the pillows.” She raised them so I would be able to cough without choking. My arm pits were wet, my head and face hot. I could feel perspiration in other parts of my body.
“Pamela, go get a warm, wet towel and a dry one, please,” Brigit asked her.
“I hate this, Greg. I just Hate it. I didn’t want to . . . .” She stopped. Then she put the papers in my hand. “Here. When you feel calmer, please, dear, look at them. You’ll agree with me, I’m sure. I’m so sorry.” She did feel terrible. There was no doubt. But she would tell me later that she didn’t care a bit for Deirdre but for me. And for the girls and what we all would have to endure.
As I read through the papers, Pam came with the towels. Brigit gently wiped me. She looked at Pamela as if to say it was O.K. what she might see Brigit do. She helped me off with my shirt and wiped more and dried with the towel. I wondered what she thought of my body now. I had lost some weight. What difference did that make? She started to reach for my pajama bottoms, stopped, turned to Pamela again, “Let’s let your dad do this.”
“No. Don’t leave. This can wait.” I watched my daughter and waved my hand for her to come sit beside me, likewise with Brigit. With both women beside me, I slowly and with some stammer told them, “We’ve got to report this. Oh, Jesus. What the f . . .,” I started to say; “whatever possessed her?” But I knew. She needed money and recognition, more than I could give her. “Perhaps,” I thought, “it was the war.” But it wasn’t the war. It was in her character, buried in that effervescent, extroverted facade of hers. The one that enraptured me and cheated me of Brigit. Brigit knew what she was then and what she is now. Is she pleased?
As though knowing what I was thinking, Brigit interrupted my thoughts. Neglecting Pamela, she said, “Dearest, I’m so awfully sorry. I feel hurt and hated to tell either of you. I even thought of trying to forget it, but that was impossible.” She turned my head toward her. “Gregory, if you think I’ve had my revenge, forget that. I just feel so horribly rotten inside. She reached across me to Pamela’s hand, limp at first, but then pressing into Brigit’s. “For you too, Pamela. You have no idea.”
“I do,” Pamela murmured. She started shaking, crying loudly. “My mother. My mother. How will I ever get over this?” She shook. Brigit rose and sat beside her, pulling Pam to her, holding her very tightly, and allowing her to cry into her shoulder.
~
The following day, giving herself time, as well as Gregory, Brigit pondered over Mary’s knowing a museum Board member and whether to draw her into this. She also knew that Deirdre had been elected Treasurer perhaps two or three years ago. That explained her opportunity. It was self-explanatory. She hesitated, still concerned for Gregory and his daughters.
Another day passed. Uncomfortably, she decided to confront Gregory with her idea. She also wanted Pamela to listen, wishing Melinda could be with them. However, while she thought and asked herself what right she had in Gregory's family affairs, the enormity of Deirdre's activities swayed her.
She drove to the house, waited, trembling some but determined. When Pamela let her in, Brigit told her, “Pamela, I know what we . . .”
The word struck Pamela. We. Is she now part of our family? Is she the one suffering? Perhaps she is for us. She loves dad. It's obvious. Always has. But she’s got her own children and husband. I should feel hateful after finding them pretending they hadn't, call it what it was, been fucking. But why didn't I care then? Why now? Because of my thieving mother who doesn't give a damn for us. She's going to end up in jail and embarrass us all. Just stop. You love Brigit, told her so. She loves dad. She does care what happens.
Without thinking Pamela quickly put her arms about Brigit, kissing her. Surprised, Brigit thought she knew what Pamela was thinking, kissed her back, moved her away. “Come, let's go to your father. I believe I know how to settle this.” But, then, there could be unknown consequences for them. What though? “Like hating me.” She shook her head to clear her mind, her heart beating faster; she wished to ignore it, but she was now determined.
Gregory was in the music room, the door open, because Deirdre was away again.
“Dad. Brigit is here.” Hearing her name, he smiled, shut off the high fi, looked brightly at Brigit and Pamela. “Oh. I’ve been waiting for my nurse. Here. Take my pulse.” He put out his wrist. “It’s fast, doctor. Have you got a fever?” The innuendo though obvious, she placed her hand on his forehead. It was warm. “Pamela, please get the thermometer. He’s not smart enough to take care of himself.” He did have a fever. Brigit decided that would not stop her.
“First, why don’t you get in bed and rest?”
“What do you think my music is?”
“I know.” She felt the embrace of love in her heart, aware they had just exchanged their feelings for one another. “Are you sure, though, you wouldn’t want to lie down.”
“I’m sure. I’m no different than yesterday.” He knew she had something she wanted to say. “Tell us, Brigit.”
She laughed. “I’m too transparent. Some woman.” Maybe that’s how she got him so easily. “Gregory, Pamela, I’ve got an idea. Mary knows someone on the museum Board. If so, perhaps we can get her to talk to the person, ask him to call a meeting or something like that, to check the finances.” By now she was nervous, troubled she was interfering.
“Well,” Gregory answered, “that’s keeping it in the family. It’s the family that’s going to suffer from the whole rotten thing anyhow.”
Brigit quickly took to Mary. “Try her, Greg.” Mary will be hesitant. Or maybe she’ll be glad. We both love that woman.
That evening, Gregory called Mary, asked her to come over alone after her dinner. She and Evelyn had now bought a house. Brigit had also called her home, lied, something that bothered her terribly, and said that Gregory wasn’t feeling too well. She’d explain later. She turned red-faced from the phone. Pamela pretended not to notice. To ease the awkwardness, Brigit told them, “Well, we’ve got a guest nurse for the rest of the day. Tell Andrea to take time off so we’ll have privacy.” Her voice caught, “I’ll make dinner for us.”
Thus, in effect, Brigit moved in that day and took over the home. Still somewhat nervous, she wanted to shower, wished she had brought a change of clothes. Later she asked Pamela if she could use Melinda’s vacant room and bathroom. She wanted to rest, if she could. She would run a bath, rather than shower, and then rest, perhaps sleep for a while.
Hearing the bath running, Pamela knocked. “Brigit, may I come in?”
“Why yes. I decided to lie in the bathtub, relax.”
“That’s what I wanted to see you about. Brigit, I’m scared, really scared. I think of what’s going to happen and it makes me so nervous. I feel as though there’s always going to be a black mark against us. And here we are conspiring against my mother. My conscience, maybe. I know Melinda is feeling it. We talk when she has time. She said she’d get time off and come home. I told her you’re here a lot. She was glad but worried about your family.”
“Pamela, my family is fine. I know the children are O.K. The maid will get dinner. If he needs me, Thomas will call.” She wanted to tell Pamela she felt comfortable here but said nothing. “I’m nervous too, Pam.”
“I was thinking, what if my mother suddenly appeared. What would happen?”
“If that happens, we’ll take care of it then. Now don’t worry about that. You know what happens when women face off against one another. Besides, your dad is here. He’s no weakling. He can handle her himself.” Suddenly Brigit stopped, looked straight at Pamela, realizing she had revealed so much of herself.
“You hate my mother, don’t you? You hope she’ll go to jail, and she will.”
“Well,” Brigit stammered. “Well, one time I did hate her.” She decided to be honest. Why avoid the truth? Pamela was a very intelligent woman. “Maybe I still do, but there’s no reason. I have my own family. I’m aware you know your father and I love one another. There’s no sense in denying that. You probably think I’m a terrible woman, deceitful. But I despise what’s going to happen with your mother and what’s she’s done.”
Ignoring the last of her words, Pamela answered, “I did once think you were trying to destroy our family when you first appeared. But I knew better. I trusted you almost from the beginning. And I meant what I told you. I do love you, Brigit, and I still wish . . . .”
“Shhh. I know.” And they kissed again, hugged, held each other tightly, crying for themselves, one another, and the horror of Deirdre.
“Pamela,” softly, “You wet me, Brigit. Is it O.K. if I get in the tub too?”
“I’ll leave, if you prefer, but it won’t embarrass me if we’re in here together.”
“No. You can stay. It doesn’t faze me either. We can relax and talk.” She undressed. “The water’s so nice and warm.”
~
Mary did come alone and promised not to tell Evelyn.
After the greetings and cheek kisses, Mary told them she did know a doctor on the Board. They did want to protect the papers they found. So, the next day, Mary put them through a Xerox. Returning them, she tried to stay calm but couldn't prevent her outburst.
“Fuck your Deirdre, Greg. I knew all along she was poison. Godamn you, Greg. I tried to tell you.”
“Shut the hell up, Mary.” His voice was raspy.
Mary stepped back, startled both by what she said and her brother's temper. Worried about the effect on him and Brigit whose presence her temper had neglected, she started to apologize, to Pamela, Brigit, and him. She choked back her tears but then placed her hand to her mouth, crying, her face wretched. She looked at Brigit whose face had become pallid. Mary reached out her arms for her. “Oh, dear. I didn’t mean to hurt you, not for anything. I love you so.”
Brigit tried to smile. There was no need for apology, for Mary was thinking of her and how Greg had abandoned her for a temptress. “There’s no need, Mary,” she weakly replied. “I love you too, and I understand what you meant. It just . . . .” and she stopped, trying to hold back tears for the past. Both women were hugging, Pamela gazing, relaxed some. This was her family. Here was love, something Melinda and she had missed from a fiendish mother who had borne them.
Gregory pushed himself from the sofa, and went to them, pleading softly, “Don’t. It's all right. I realize what I did. Please, Mary.” She released Brigit, and leaned into him. “Forgive me,” through her sobs. “Oh, God, forgive me, both of you.” She tried to fake a laugh. “But I won’t take back a word about that bitch.” She sniffled some, wiped lightly at her eyes. “I’ve got to call Evelyn. I promised. She feared there was something wrong with Greg when I wouldn’t tell her why I was coming.”
The thought of Evelyn cheered and softened her. One day they would marry, if that were ever allowed. She wanted to get back to her, to feel Evelyn’s arms about her, the tenderness, the softness of her body, her scent. But this wreckage Deirdre had created. That must be taken care of. She called the doctor in Boston, told him she’d come down for a day and would tell him then why it was urgent to see him. You’re a dead woman, Deirdre. That fake cosmopolitanism, that desire for fortune and social upper crust. What are you going to do when you fall into the sewer you created for yourself?
~
Deirdre appeared at home suddenly about two days later to find Pamela out and Brigit alone with Gregory. She walked into the bedroom, surprising them, having seen Brigit tending Gregory, taking his temperature, wiping his forehead, helping him get ready for a doctor’s appointment. He stood partially undressed.
“What’s going on here?” She startled them.
“You’re home,” Gregory calmly told her. “You were gone long enough. Did you see your Frenchman?”
She ignored him. “What is she doing here?” She glared at Brigit.
Brigit, quite calm, answered her, “I’m taking care of your husband. I’m a nurse, remember? And,” her voice hardening, “you’re never here when he needs attention.”
“And nurses fuck like the rest of us.” Suddenly Deirdre stopped, knowing she had condemned herself, then staring at Brigit, her face hardened, her eyes bright with hatred, “Well, you go and finish, nurse dear. You don’t need me.” She thought of Pamela. “Where’s Pam?”
Brigit answered calmly, sarcastically, “I told her to go out and enjoy herself, that I’d take care of everything.”
“Well, I hope it was a good fuck, dear,” and Deirdre abruptly left, decided to look at mail. Then she saw it. The letter was from the Board requesting her appearance for a hearing. Her heart raced. She forgot Gregory and Brigit immediately, thinking that she must get to Étienne. She also told herself she would never enter this house again. She walked quickly to the bedroom. “Gregory Hurwitz. I’m leaving this house. I’ll get a lawyer if and when.” She had no idea of how ironically she had spoken.
Gregory looked at the crumpled letter she held tightly in her hand.
“What’s that letter, Deirdre?”
She glanced at the letter. “I have a Board meeting in a couple of days. That can’t be of any interest to you. Nothing I do apparently is. The two of you, get out of my bedroom. Get a sleazy motel room for yourselves. I have to pack.” She hesitated but could not hold back. “I’ll be leaving this house. You can fuck here, although who knows if it comes to a divorce.”
“Well, Deirdre, before we enjoy ourselves, why don’t you explain these.” Gregory then went to a drawer where he had hidden the papers. “Brigit,” he knew he shouldn’t have used her name, “found these and thought they might explain some of the museum pieces in the house. Oh, and that money I’ve never seen.”
“What are you talking about? And that bitch has already taken over my house. Look at her like she’s the protecting Virgin Mary. You fuck her in our bed, don’t you?”
“Or MY bed. And don’t you insult her.
“Now explain these.” He held out the papers.
Her face paled, her hands shook, and she felt a shock through her body as though she had placed her finger in a socket. She felt unsteady, as her eyes seemed to fail her. She did manage to move to him more slowly than she intended. Her body it seemed was failing her. Her heart pounding, she reached, managed loudly, “Give me those. They’re . . . .”
“They’re proof that you’re a liar and a thief. Now get the hell out of my house. Call your lawyer.”
She steadied herself, her voice low and menacing, “I’ll get you, Gregory. You watch your back. And while you’re at it, protect that bitch, hiding in the corner there, your . . . .”
“Whore? Is that what you were about to say, Mother?” as Pamela walked in.
“Mother. Mother?” Pamela’s eyes filled with tears. “Mother. Shit. You hate all of us. When I needed a hug, even advice, where were you? Robbing? With that Frenchman? Did you ever love us, Melinda, Kaitlin. Oh, Kaitlin,” and she sobbed. “Get out of our lives, whoever you are. I heard it all. Any love I thought I had,” she continued sobbing. “Oh. damn,” and she ran to Gregory, who himself weak from the confrontation, held her as tightly as he could and led her to the bedroom chaise to comfort them both, while Brigit, scared for Gregory, glared at Deirdre as she went to make certain he was all right. “Why don’t you just get your things and leave? This man is sick. Sick, you hear me, and somehow I’ll take care of him for as long. . . .” And she stopped, her face colorless, thinking of Gregory dead.
~
In Belmont, she went to Étienne’s house that felt more like home to her. She was weary of all those years of Gregory’s illness. Here she felt secure from that eventual fatality, increasing her enjoyment of her sexual encounters with her lover-business partner. Here in Boston and Belmont, she was Étienne’s wife. He was attentive and kept no photos of the Frenchwoman to remind Deirdre of her temporariness. Although occasionally she recognized she was a paid mistress, more like a prostitute, she also knew the apparent admiration of Belmont’s and Boston’s social whirl. Here she was rid of Gregory and the concerns of motherhood. Melinda and Pamela were grown women who also were no longer her problem. If necessary, they could rely on their father until that CLL killed him, soon she hoped. No more unwanted sexual humoring. The visions of their encounters disgusted her, his more difficult breathing when she handed or mouthed him, or as he entered and moved to her pretended willingness. No more. Now she was alone until Étienne came. Only it wouldn’t be until after her meeting with the Board. Until then she was alone. I’m alone. Jesus, oh Jesus, God, I’m scared. What are they confronting me with? I’d almost just as soon have Gregory with me. I’d welcome his fingers and hands, his penis pulsating in me. I don’t want to be alone. Where the hell are you, Étienne?
She hardly ate anything, walked continuously about the house, put on the TV. Nothing satisfied her. She undressed late, lay naked on the bed, and in an attempt to quiet herself, she placed her fingers below, moved them inside, sucked the wetness, rubbed, trying to arouse herself by imagining Étienne, as she did so many times lying on her back allowing Gregory inside her. But she stopped, turned on her stomach. Wetting her pillow with tears, she was a woman moaning a family death. Perhaps she should return to Gregory, even though it would mean begging. That is what she would do. She’d be a helping wife, even though she no longer cared. I never loved him. You knew it from the beginning. It was a game. But somehow I’ll make it up to him and the girls. Do you really want that? You took him away from that weak bitch just to show your power to tantalize. And what did you get for it? Why the hell didn’t you stay with Étienne, marry him? Crap. I don’t know what I want. Tomorrow. I’ll take care of that too. Charm them as I always have.
~
Her first activity of the morning when she woke from a restless sleep was to place a call to Étienne who was in Philadelphia where he said he had to see an art dealer who could help them. She asked him to come to Boston that day because of the meeting. She wanted to talk to him afterwards. She had already called and told him about the meeting, of her concern regarding the tone of the person who contacted her.
“Well, what did you do to cause any unease, if there is any?”
“I don’t know,” she lied.
“Don’t play games with me, Deirdre. What’s it about?”
They want to ask about some money and contributions to the museum.” She hesitated. “They may ask about provenance. I don’t know,” she desperately replied.
“ Calm yourself. Are you telling me everything? I can take care of provenance. What about the contributions?”
“Nothing. Nothing. I can’t think of anything,” she answered plaintively.
Étienne caught her tone, the dread. He never told her he had talked to an ally on the Board who told him there were questions about her, that he was uncertain whether it involved Étienne; but the ally would be in touch after, or even during, the meeting.
Finishing the conversation, she went angrily through her wardrobe. He’s questioning me. Should I worry? I can handle him. Forget it. I have a date with my hairdresser. But what to wear? She decided on a rose-colored dress adorned with small sequined flowers from the bust to the waist, print on the skirt. At the hairdresser early, the woman shaped her hair to show its wave that curved just above her neck. The manicurist did her fingernails in light red. Her lipstick matched. She wore Indian turquoise earrings that hung below her hairline. Satisfied, after lunch, which she barely ate, she took a taxi to the museum.
The meeting began as usual. Deirdre looked directly at each member, holding her back erect, forcing herself to smile when necessary, pretended to take notes, until the chairman addressed her. “Mrs. Hurwitz.”
Though she felt her heart quicken, she answered calmly, smiling flirtingly at him, looking away, then back; for she knew he had always wanted to approach her privately but was too afraid.
The chairman cleared his throat, saddened. “Mrs. Hurwitz. You’ve met the auditor.”
“Yes.”
“He seems to have found some discrepancies. We need your answers.”
“Why, of course.” Now her voice shook slightly, her poise disappearing some.
“Mrs. Hurwitz,” the auditor continued. “There are over $14 million dollars that appear unaccounted for.”
She managed. “I don’t know why.” She felt herself failing, wondering how long she could maintain the costume in which she psychologically tried to clothe herself.
Now he was direct. “We’ve called in an investigator. Bluntly. The money’s missing, and we believe you know where it is.”
“You what?” she managed unbelievingly. “You’re accusing me of theft? Do you understand what you’re saying?”
“Very well. You can make it easier if you just tell us . . . . And, naturally, there’s some question about the provenance of several pieces.”
“This is absurd. I resent what you are accusing me of.” The self-assured, tantalizing woman was disappearing, the costume falling, leaving her naked, unprotected. She interlaced her fingers. “I resent this,” she said more quietly. Recovering some, she told them, “I’ll gather everything I have, all my records, and report to you tomorrow at which time I’ll expect an apology.”
The man’s voice hard, “We will give you until tomorrow not only to tell us about the funds but also the pieces we suspect were stolen that you and your partner, or one or the other, sold to the museum. And please, Mrs. Hurwitz, all exits from the city will be watched. In the meantime, if you don’t mind, we have a policewoman who will be with you tonight and with whom you’ll return tomorrow. We will also be calling in the FBI. If we are wrong, you will receive our deepest apologies,” this last sounding rather sarcastic.
Deirdre stood her full length, showing herself an assured, desirable woman. “You bring on your guard, gentlemen,” she coldly told them. “I’ll see you tomorrow and expect that apology and legal compensation when I sue you for defamation.”
~
Although the plain-clothed policewoman accompanied her to Étienne’s Boston apartment, Deirdre slammed the study door to close her out, and desperately called Étienne; but he was already on his way to Boston. She sighed. He’d know what to do.
“There’s food in the refrigerator,” she told the policewoman. “Go and make yourself something. I’m eating later. And, oh, you’ll have to sleep on the sofa, but it is comfortable.”
“Don’t worry about me, ma’m.”
With that, Deirdre, for now, self-satisfied, waited for her lover and protector from the war in which they fought together. She smiled remembering yet still troubled by the horror they had endured.
Later, the front door opened. The policewoman waiting, surprised him, but not overwhelmingly. “And who and what are you doing here?” he asked pleasantly.
“I’m here to guard Mrs. Hurwitz.”
“Oh. She does need that. She’s been threatened,” he smiled. “I’m Mr. Moreau, owner of this flat. Mrs. Hurwitz, I presume, is in the study.”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He started for Deirdre. “Oh, don’t follow. I’ll protect her. You just amuse yourself with the television. Perhaps we can all have a coffee in a little bit.”
“What happened, Deirdre? Be honest with me. No screwing around.”
“Étienne, love.” She hugged and kissed him, felt the coldness of his lips. She moved back. “They’ve accused me of taking money. They also questioned where we got some of the pieces and where some are.”
“What money, Deirdre?”
“The money they paid us.”
“Is that all? Where is it? How much?”
“Your questions. They’re confusing me.”
“Where’s the money?” He grabbed her shoulders. “Where? Come. We’re leaving here.”
“How? We can’t get out.”
“Deirdre, love, you’ve forgotten the war. Diane? And by the way, how’s your husband?” The question was intentionally mocking and threatening. Obviously, there was no way he would have been aware of the encounter in Cape Astraea. Deirdre grimaced while feeling the sting of a slap. Recovering, she not only feared him but the policewoman. “She’s,” Deirdre emphasized, “out there.”
“Don't worry, I said,” he gruffly answered, smiling grotesquely. “It will be easier than Diane.”
“ But there'll be a replacement soon.”
“ It’s no matter, and then it's off to my private plane.”
“What?”
“How did you think I got here so fast? We’re getting out.”
“Where?”
“It’s my hideaway. Be patient, lover.” The sarcasm scared her more.
“I don’t think . . . .”
“Stop thinking. Just do. Follow me. I’ve never let you down, love.”
He had never frightened her before but did now. She felt a jolt throughout her body, shuddered, felt the rising pimplings along her skin. Why? Be careful. He’s hiding anger. He’s never behaved like this with me. I wish he’d kiss me. Hug me, or feel my breasts, show some feeling toward me. What? Oh shit. What have I done? I can handle him. You sure? I can. I know I can whenever I want to turn it on. And I will as never before.
He interrupted. “Deirdre, get behind me. We’re going out there. She’s probably getting restless. We’ve been in here too long. Remember, behind me.”
They went to the living room. Smiling, as though there had been something conspiratorial happening, the policewoman rose and said she was just about to get them. The smile changed as she stood. She raised her arm bent at the elbow either to strike or protect herself as Étienne pushed her arm aside, held it with one hand and with the other turned her quickly before she could strike at him with her leg, tightened a grasp on her throat cutting air and blood, cracking a vertebrae in her neck, as she slowly sank to the ground.
“C’mon. Let’s go.”
“You killed her. Now they’ll really be after us, you goddamn fool. You think we’re fighting Nazis?”
“Oui, mon amoureuse prostituée”
“You fucking bastard.”
“Come,” and he grabbed her arm, pulling her down the hallway as she stumbled repeatedly, struggling uselessly against his strength.
She started to scream. Before she could finish, he slapped her hard across her face, knocking her head sideways. “Shut up, or you’ll end up like that woman we left lying on the floor. A third Diane,” as he grimly feigned a laugh.
“All right, now just get on your feet, and let's get out of here.”
Shaking, terrified, her voice unsteady, “Why are you treating me like this? What did I do to you?” Forcing some composure, “I love you, and you call me a whore, drag me like you didn't get enough for your money. Is that the way you treat the loyal woman who loves you, a love you have always returned? “ She forced herself to cry. “I resent your cruelty. You probably left marks all over me.”
He smiled, spoke endearingly. “Shut up and stop your whimpering. That policewoman upset me. They’ll find her soon, if they haven’t already. She’ll recover eventually. I suppose I should have outright killed her, not just shut off the breathing and – oh you heard it – that little crack – I'm sorry, dear one. Just shut up or else. Hurry. We have to get to my plane.”
He drove toward the West End, turned into a narrow street, while asking about the money. “Now where is it, Deirdre?” Frightened again, she told him, “It's in a Swiss account and one of the islands.”
“Which? Where? The numbers. You were planning to tell me.”
“I was. I was. I swear it. I love you, Étienne, and would never hurt or betray you.”
“And you weren't going to cheat me, or,” and he laughed, “share it with your cuckold husband?”
“I resent that.” She reached in her purse, pulled out the crumpled papers, moved still closer to him, placing her hand on his thigh, “Here. Here's all of it just as. . . .”
He interrupted. “Just what?” taking her hand and moving it to his zipper. “A little fun first,” he growled. “Thanks, Deirdre.”
He sped a bit faster, reached across, brushing her breasts. “One last feel. Oh some more.” “Then stop. It’s dark here.” She tried keeping her voice soft, seductive.
He sped a little more.
“What are you doing?” She cried out.
“Making out with you, dearest Deirdre.”And he thrust open the door, shoved, “No more deceit.” He shoved harder against her fearful crying out and resistance, forced strongly between her thigh and ribs, “And no jail time,” he loudly laughed, as her head hit the edge of the sidewalk and she rolled onto the street. To be certain, he ran over her, pressed hard on the gas pedal as he turned again in the direction of the airport tunnel, looking about to determine whether anyone had seen or heard. He knew there was blood on the car. He decided to leave it at the outer edge of the car rental, not caring when it was found. He had given a false name and license, something he was accustomed to with the friends he had made during the war.
He took a cab, his face covered by a pulled-down hat and coat collar upward. He told the driver in a muffled voice to take him to the private area, waited for the cab to leave, filed his papers, giving a false flight plan, ran, waited impatiently for the control tower to give him permission to take off. By the time he was in the air, both the policewoman’s and Deirdre’s body had been found. In the ambulance, they were able to rouse the policewoman.
Étienne’s escape was wearying yet well planned. After island hopping, he eventually landed in Morocco, took a flight to Rhodes and went to an inconspicuous house in a narrow, ancient alleyway. He would figure later how to get the money, believing he would never be caught. Yet, he did not need her filchings, for he, too, had kept funds from her. But he had Deirdre’s signature, if he so decided. His actual need was to kill a betrayer. Diane, Deirdre, intermingled in life and death.
By morning, in Boston and in Maine, the newspapers told of the two women, one injured badly, the other, Deirdre Hurwitz dead, whether hit and run or deliberate, the police would have to determine, though they already knew. They issued a description of Étienne, although it was quite unlikely they would find him. Eventually they would contact the FBI and Interpol.
A day later the headline read, “Prominent Art Connoisseur Apparently Murdered.”
~
When the police arrived at Gregory’s home, both Pamela and Brigit were there. Everyone overwhelmed, no one knew what to say. Brigit recovered sufficiently to call Thomas and tell him what happened and that she would stay with Gregory to make certain he was all right. By now Thomas was beginning to weary of her lengthy visits with Gregory, although she was always present for Robert and Kathryn who knew she was there when they needed her, whether before or after school, or if they had problems. She could never neglect being a mother for anyone or anything.
With this horror enveloping the house, she did feel guilty. She had dug into places in the house she shouldn’t have. She had revealed the withheld secrets. She had hurt Gregory and his daughters. Would they blame her?
For now, everyone was crying, gasping, and breathless. Gregory, when he recovered some, immediately called Melinda. “Dearest.”
“Hi, dad.”
“You have some time?”
“Right now I do. One of the interns is seeing a patient of mine. What’s up?” Obviously she hadn’t seen any papers or no one had said anything to her.
“Melinda. It’s your mother.”
“Is she away again? Are you O.K.?”
“Melinda, hon,” he choked some, “Melinda, she’s dead.”
“What? How?” She shivered.
“The police in Boston say she’s been murdered.”
“Daaad,” she screamed. “How? When?”
“No one knows. Can you come home? I’m making arrangements to have the body shipped here.”
Melinda was crying now. “Oh, dad, are Pam and you going to be all right ’til I get there?”
“Yes, dear. What about you?”
“I’ll manage, dad. I’ll be home in the morning. O.K.?”
“Yes. Just be careful. O.K.?”
“I will,” she sobbed. Off the phone, she ran from the emergency room to her room, lay on the bed shaking the length of her body. She could not control herself. Her roommate came in.
“Melinda. They said you ran out. Are you all right?” She watched Melinda’s shaking body, sat beside her, rubbing her back.
“It’s my mother. It’s unbelievable. Someone murdered her.”
Her roommate stopped rubbing, stunned, recovered. “Can I get you a sedative?”
“I guess,” as she continued shaking. “Yes.”
By the next morning, having recovered some, one of the doctors asked if she could drive. He would get someone to take her, and she agreed.
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