Double Delight, Page 3

  On the television screen, the animated, antic figures of impossibly good-looking young people writhed, rocked, spun, stomped to a harsh percussive music, unmistakable as the rhythms of copulation.

  Terence Greene, who was Daddy, gently shut the door of his daughter’s room, as if erasing himself.

  But where was Kim, Kim wasn’t in her room?—downstairs somewhere, Terence supposed. Quickly he checked windows, yes all the windows were locked for he himself had locked them, and checked them, numerous times. The six-bedroom brick, stucco, and wood Neo-Georgian “Custom Colonial” on two and a half acres of prime land, three miles outside the village of Queenston, would not have been Terence’s personal choice for a house, the first time he’d seen it, in the company of Phyllis’s parents, he’d winced at its size and pretentiousness—the extended width of its facade, the portico and columns and prominent brick chimneys—and the grotesque, inflated price! Even the sign had offended him—LUXURY ELITE CUSTOM-BUILT HOME PRESTIGE SETTING. For what was the house but a disguised tract home, exactly like others in the Timberland Estates development in basic design and differing only in superficial details like the color of the many shutters and the positioning of the three-car garage. Terence had wanted an older, smaller house farther out in the country, or in the village, within walking distance of the train depot; but Phyllis, like Mr. and Mrs. Winston, had loved the house; and the house was to be a wedding gift from the elder Winstons, after all—“You young people must allow us to do something for you!”

  A something that would be replicated, over the course of years, into numerous things. Terence, the son-in-law, had not felt, in the face of his young family’s enthusiasm for gifts, any protestation of his would be welcome.

  Outside, the rapidly waning March light had acquired a silvery cast. Rain splattered the windows like unwanted thoughts. Why did he and Phyllis go out so frequently, every weekend without fail? Why not stay home with the girls, for a change?

  Something, well of course it must be the summons, the summons—

  All that day, since morning, since he’d ripped open the manila envelope from the sheriff’s office, he’d been feeling uneasy. Not himself. Why?

  No right. What right have they.

  Terence was thinking of his lost childhood, how he’d been sent about, sometimes by Greyhound bus, to live with relatives; and finally placed, aged ten, in a foster home. The first of several foster homes. By the time he’d been the age Cindy was now, he hadn’t been what you would call a child any longer. Of Daddy’s early life, his children knew nothing. Phyllis, though always sympathetic, knew little. For what point was there in revealing sad, sordid facts of personal history to one who loves you, and whom you love? And, truly, Terence had forgotten most of it. Hettie’s boy, that’s his strength. Forgetting. The only household of his distant past he could recall clearly was the ramshackle old stone farmhouse in Shaheen, New York, a rural community in the foothills of the Adirondack Mountains. He’d been taken in as a child of about five, to live there with an older half-sister of his mother and her family of four boisterous children and a truck-driver husband who’d tried, not very effectively, to teach Terence to box, to protect himself from the tough farm boys at the country school, and, more successfully, to swim. Aunt Megan had loved Terence, hadn’t she? And Uncle Frank? But then, when Terence was nine, his aunt had died of pancreatic cancer, the fastest, most lethal cancer of all.

  “Daddy!—oh!”

  The outcry was indignant, furious. Terence had absentmindedly opened the door to the family room, to glance inside; he found himself staring into the shadows where on a sofa his daughter Kim and another teenager—a boy?—long straggly hair, pasty face, skinny hips?—were squirming together like eels, or had been when he’d blundered into the room. Close by them, the gigantic television set, a new purchase, loomed above them: The screen was antic with flailing, gyrating adolescent bodies—MTV, the volume reduced to near-audible shrieks and thumps.

  “Daddy, gee!—you could knock, at least.” Kim, quickly on her feet and pouting, brushed her long russet-red hair out of her overheated face, and tugged down her tiny pink sweater, so tight and fine-knit that it showed the imprints of her individual ribs; her friend, hurriedly on his feet, tugged too at his clothing, and wiped at his mouth, and gave Terence a wide, gleaming sort of smile. With startling composure, in the deep, gravelly voice of an adult man, he said, “Hiya! Mr. Greene, eh? I’m Studs Schrieber, gladtameetcha!” The boy was perhaps seventeen years old, with dark, sunken eyes, a pale grainy skin, puffy moist lips, a half-dozen earrings in each ear, and a tiny gold ring through his nostril. To Terence’s astonishment, he shot out his hand to be shaken.

  Terence had to check himself not to come forward to shake the boy’s hand: The social gesture had lodged in him so deep, it had acquired the force of biological instinct.

  He stammered, “What are you doing here? What is going on?”

  The young people answered at once, as a duet, yet uncoordinated—Kim in childlike protest, Studs Schrieber with ease. “Watching TV!”

  A rule had recently come into force in the Greenes’ household: Kim, grown alarmingly popular this past year, was not to entertain any friends, girls or boys, without informing her parents; and never any boy in her room upstairs.

  Terence strode to the television set and switched it off. Kim continued to protest, and Studs Schrieber continued to smile inanely at him, his hand extended to be shaken. “Mr. Greene, uh—? I’m Studs Schrieber, and—” The nose ring glittered, like the boy’s small, crowded-together teeth.

  Calmly Terence said, “Yes. Good. But you’d better leave, you. You’d better leave. Now. Right now.”

  “Ya, sure, Mr. Greene, I was just going, only—”

  “Daddy, you are so rude! Studs and I were just—”

  “I know, I know, and that’s fine, that’s fine, but—the visit is over now, you see.”

  “Gee, Mr. Greene, you mad or something? It’s all cool, really—ya know?”

  “I know! I know. But the visit is over for today.”

  Only reluctantly, as if he were slow to acknowledge Terence’s poor manners, did Studs Schrieber withdraw his hand; and even then he continued to smile, though wanly, with an air of being hurt. He touched the nose ring lightly. He brushed his straggly hair out of his face. He winked at Kim—was that what he did? winked?—and, as if resigned, turned to stomp snakeskin boots on his feet. (He’d been in his stocking feet, on the sofa.) He was a sinewy boy, very thin, but probably strong, like a snake. He wore black—tight black T-shirt that showed his tiny nipples, black denim, black socks and black boots. The hairs on his forearms were starkly black and wavy and Terence had a swift shuddering vision of his hairy, monkeylike naked body—the thick tufts and swirls of black hair on the torso, the belly, the region of the genitals. An animal, upright.

  Sharp-eyed Studs Schrieber saw the sick look in Terence’s face but said, affably, “Hey Mr. G., sorry to getcha all upset or whatever,” as if it were a joke between them, a masculine joke passing Kim’s comprehension, “—like I said, I’m outta here. Right, Kim? Cool!” The boy laughed, snatching up a designer denim jacket with an obscene flapping red tongue stitched on its back; he dared to grin, nose ring twinkling, at Terence. His dark eyes shone with good humor.

  Terence was trembling. But managed to maintain an air of polite calm. As, at the Feinemann Foundation, in the midst of heated, protracted arguments among fellowship judges, he was the model of reasonable behavior, dignity. He walked with the departing boy and his embarrassed daughter to the front door of the house and waited pointedly as they whispered good night; noting that they did not kiss; did not dare to kiss; and when Studs Schrieber trotted down the walk, the red tongue flapping goodbye, it was Terence who shut the door firmly after him, and bolted it.

  “Jesus!” he whispered.

  At once, Kim became hysterical. “Daddy, how could you! So rude! So low-minded! I’m so ashamed! We weren’t doing anything! You know we weren
’t! Studs will laugh at me, he’ll tell everybody, oh Daddy I hate you, I want to die!” The tilting escalation of Kim’s voice, the way in which her warm brown eyes brimmed with tears of indignation and loathing suggested how the girl had learned from her mother; Terence was stunned, seeing the mother in the daughter, and not knowing how, to whom, to respond. He tried to touch Kim but she shrank from him, exactly as Phyllis might have done at such a time, crying, “Don’t you touch me, I hate you I said!” She pushed past her stricken father, and ran upstairs to her room. For a girl who probably weighed less than one hundred pounds, her fury had the power of making the entire house shake.

  Terence took from his breast pocket the pristine white cotton handkerchief Phyllis had so carefully folded into it, and wiped his face. He was shaking, his mouth was dry. Yet he smiled. For it was funny, wasn’t it? Normal, American? Like something on TV?

  The unfortunate incident in the family room had occurred shortly after six; the cocktail party at the Hendries’ was scheduled to begin at six; but it would not be until six-forty that Phyllis emerged from Kim’s room, and came downstairs to join Terence, after having comforted the girl. During this time Terence, the loathed Daddy, paced about in the foyer, in the dining room, in his study. His heart was, still beating hard, his mouth was still dry. If it hadn’t been for the nose ring, he was thinking. Or the flapping red tongue. If—

  Phyllis, in her cream-colored pleated dress, was still lovely; and not nearly so angry as Terence expected. She’d been crying, but the color was in her cheeks, and her gaze, meeting Terence’s, was sympathetic. They clutched hands, like survivors. “Doesn’t it always happen, Terry? Just as we’re going out?”

  “Is Kim—all right? She seemed—”

  “If it isn’t one of the girls, it’s the other. Cindy all day, punishing me for mentioning so very discreetly that, yes, she is a bit overweight—she is, why pretend otherwise?—and now Kim, flaunting this boyfriend of hers. Do you think it’s Freudian?—unconscious? Adolescent girls and their mother?” Phyllis laughed, wiping at an eye, carefully, not to smudge her mascara. “It has nothing to do with you, Terry—don’t blame yourself. It’s all between daughter and mother, and mother happens to be me.”

  Phyllis was breathing hard, yet composed. Like an actress who has stormed through a difficult, demanding, brilliant scene.

  Terence said, awkwardly, “This—‘Studs Schrieber’—is he—”

  “Oh, isn’t he something! The hair, the nose ring! The voice!” Phyllis shuddered.

  “You mean you know him?”

  “Of course I know him, Terry—he’s always here, lately.”

  “He is?”

  “I’ve spoken with him, and he understands the rules. He understands me. He’s rather sweet, actually. A senior at Q.D.S. One afternoon, when you weren’t around, he fixed the garbage disposal for me.”

  “Him? That little bastard? ‘Studs’? Sweet?”

  “The Schriebers live in that big plantation-style brick house on Manor Drive, you know the one. The boy’s real name is Edward, Jr. I call him ‘Eddy.’ And he’s much nicer than some boys his age, believe me.”

  Phyllis was chattering as Terence, a bit dazed, helped her into her coat; an ankle-length golden-russet cashmere coat of surpassing beauty. A line of Heraclitus ran through Terence’s brain like a needle—A man cannot see that to which he is closest. And it seemed suddenly to Terence that an actual needle had pierced his brain; he was blinded, paralyzed; his hands shot to his face, to shield his eyes, as Phyllis asked what was wrong? what on earth was wrong now with him?

  Terence wanted to request of Phyllis that, for once, they stay home. With the girls, and with each other. Just that night.

  “Terry, are you ill? Oh, Terry—”

  “—not ill, I just think—If—”

  “Please don’t you disappoint me, too. It’s been a hellish day, I’m so looking forward to enjoying myself.”

  So Terence recovered his composure, and smiled at his anxious, vexed wife; smiled to reassure her, he wasn’t ill, only perhaps just a little shaken, but already it was past, overcome.

  As they left the house by way of a kitchen door entering the garage, Terence carefully activated the burglar alarm system. At once a magical force-field of pulsating, highly potent energy leapt out, in a labyrinthine pattern through the house, upstairs and down, and in the basement. Peace of Mind Guaranteed With Arcadia Burglar & Fire Alarm Systems. 24-Hour Central Station Monitoring. Fully Insured. Security Our Business.

  So Terence Greene knew, all would be safe in his absence.

  The Trial

  A sun-dazzled but cool, windy day: June 17.

  The first time Terence Greene saw Ava-Rose Renfrew, several blocks south of the Mercer County Courthouse, Trenton, New Jersey, he had no idea who the striking young woman was, of course; nor even that, in the midst of rush-hour traffic, he’d slowed his car to stare fixedly at her. A gypsy girl? Here? In Trenton? He was lost in the unfamiliar city—if not exactly lost, he’d missed his exit off Route 1 and had had to take the next exit, hurriedly, fearing being shunted across the Delaware River into Pennsylvania; now he was winding his way back toward Broad Street, in a maze of narrow one-way streets, skirting the edge of what appeared to be an economically devastated neighborhood—weatherworn brick rowhouses, debris-littered sidewalks, abandoned hulks of cars at the curbs. Where was the courthouse? As in one of those panicky dreams of things falling, slipping, sliding, melting even as you reach out to grasp them, Terence envisioned circling the courthouse forever.

  All weekend, Terence had been anticipating Monday morning with a thrill of expectation. Instead of commuting to New York by train, he would be driving to Trenton in his own car. Instead of disembarking at Penn Station and walking to the Feinemann Foundation offices on Park Avenue, where everyone deferred to him, he would be checking in at the Mercer County Courthouse, as an anonymous New Jersey citizen. His number, 551. How his heart lifted!

  And then, suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, as Terence turned a bit blindly onto a busy street, the young woman ran heedlessly, against the light, in front of his car. How curiously she was dressed! How splendid her waist-long mica-glinting hair, whipping in the wind! Terence smiled to see her. Other drivers sounded their horns, a truck driver whistled out his window in masculine derision, but Terence merely smiled. His impression of her was imprecise, but he guessed that she was in her mid-twenties; very pretty; snub-nosed, with a fair, healthy complexion. She wore an exotic silk jacket or smock, emerald-green, with a multicolored design on its back; her legs, slender and urgent in running as a dancer’s, were a startling daffodil-yellow. Distracted from driving for a moment, Terence followed the running girl with his eyes. He saw her continuing without hesitation across a second street, this time with the light, and bound up the steps of a squat gray building—Trenton Police Headquarters.

  Terence Greene would always remember: The morning of June 17 was raw, bright, and gusty, like flags flying.

  There was no entry to the Mercer County Courthouse except by way of the front doors. Terence half-ran up the hill, and then up a flight of stone steps; he carried his attaché case, bulky with documents, and a copy of that morning’s New York Times. How imposing the courthouse was, looming above him: a sepulchral public building, built in 1903, grim gray granite, stolid columns, a portico like a heavy brow. Terence felt the weight of it, the sinister dignity, as an indicted man might feel it being brought to his trial.

  Why this urgency, this expectancy. Breathless from the steps.

  Inside, though he was already late by five minutes, Terence had to wait in line to pass through a metal detector overseen by a sheriff’s deputy. Hurrying then, with a pack of men and women who appeared as unfamiliar with their surroundings as he, down a long corridor and to a stairs, led by signs for the Jury Assembly Room. Inside, the courthouse was far less formidable than its exterior. It was an antiquated place, poorly lighted and poorly ventilated, smelling of disinfectant, backed-
up drains, human perspiration. Terence passed the Mercer County Clerk’s office, the Mercer County Family Services office, the offices of Juvenile Welfare, Adult Probation, Drug Counseling, Dependent Children. How somber the atmosphere, how subdued the men, women, and teenaged children, most of whom were black, who stood about waiting in the corridors! As soon as Terence saw the Jury Assembly Room—a long, cavernous, low-ceilinged and fluorescent-lit room in the basement, so crowded that a line backed out into the corridor—he began to wish that he was somewhere else.

  But, politely good-natured as always, he smiled at the brisk female administrator who oversaw the line; he signed in, received his JUROR badge, threaded his way through the crowd until he found a seat as far away from the television set (which was on, and loud: a game show in frenetic progress) as possible. On all sides, people were chatting, laughing. Not one of them looked like a Queenston resident. Most were dressed very casually—sports clothes, work clothes, T-shirts, jeans, even, on one massive, muscular young man, brief runner’s shorts. Terence in his navy blue gabardine suit felt uncomfortably out of place. At least he had brought a newspaper, and his work. The crowded atmosphere, the noise and bustle, agitated his nerves, but he would lose himself in the privacy of his own thoughts.

  Pursuing Justice?—and why, and where.

  Hettie’s boy. Too late?

  And so, with maddening slowness, the hours passed.

  The hours passed, and, to Terence’s disappointment, no panel of jurors was called to the courtrooms on the fifth floor. Had he come so far for nothing? He read the newspaper thoroughly, he took a sheath of grant applications out of the attaché case, read, made notes, tried not to be distracted by the damned television set.… One of the grant applications was from a woman poet now in her early eighties, who had had a distinguished career in the 1950s, as Terence recalled, but, in recent years, had been eclipsed by the virtual flood of younger poets, and nearly forgotten. Poor Myra Tannenbaum! Terence had assumed the woman was no longer living.