Control

  Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white;

  Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk;

  Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font:

  The firefly wakens: waken thou with me.…

  Now folds the lily all her sweetness up,

  And slips into the bosom of the lake:

  So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip

  Into my bosom and be lost in me….

  She lay naked and alone between her silken sheets, brow fur-rowed. Because the second verse came quite fast really, at least fast for her. But that damned first verse kept escaping her. It was that damned line about the gold fin in the porphyry font. What in the name of heaven could a porphyry font be? If she knew, it would clearly help the memorizing, but the dictionary was downstairs in the library and if she went down, this late, what if Mr. Stewart came in suddenly, bothered by the noise and asked, alarmed, what in the world she was doing with that incriminating dictionary in her hand and she would say “Oh nothing, just checking the meaning of porphyry font, I’m forgetting the silliest things these days, one morning you wake up and porphyry font is right there along with nine times nine and the next morning, whoops, quite gone.” “Unlikely,” he would say. “No, true,” she would say, perhaps beginning to fidget now beneath the glare behind those rimless glasses and he would say, “It could have waited till morning,” and she would say, “Perhaps you’re right, I’ll look it up then” and he would say, “No, it was too important to wait, why, tell me why, ‘porphyry font’ sounds like a poetic image and there is only one person in this house who uses poetic images and that is Theo, and I’ve been on to you, I’ve been on to you Miss for quite some time, and tell me here and now what is happening between you and that boy—” “Man. Man, more man than you’ll ever be, with all your money and power,” and he was screaming at her then, “We’ll see about that Miss, oh yes believe thee me, we shall see about that my lady,” and “Why in the world are your eyes closed?”

  “What?” Charlotte stared at her husband, standing by the foot of her bed, clad in his robe and, she knew, little else.

  “And what is that paper in your hand?”

  Quickly she said, “I didn’t want to bother you about it but I’ve been in such a quandary.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I will,” Charlotte said, and she touched the side of her bed. “Here.”

  He sat where she indicated.

  “It’s…” and then her words drained away.

  “What?”

  “Don’t be upset with what I have to say.” She dropped the paper on her bed table. “Please. We’ll talk about it later. But not now.” She threw the sheets back and showed her naked body. “I want you too much now.”

  He took off his robe and she reached for him and he mounted, ready, and then there came two surprises: she was moist and he did not come too quickly. She began to rock her hips and he did not seem upset with her because he kissed her, which there often hadn’t been time for in the past, and when he did come, later, he cried out as he orgasmed, certainly a first. Then instead of putting on his robe and bidding her adieu, he lay alongside and stroked her body.

  “Now your quandary.”

  “Quandary?”

  He pointed to the handwritten paper on the bed table.

  She handed it to him, suggested he read it.

  “It’s a poem.”

  “Read it and then we’ll talk.”

  “I know nothing of poetry. I have no interest in poetry. I have never understood the gain involved in studying poetry.”

  “Well I’m certainly no expert, Nelson, besides the obvious ones, the romantic ones, Shelley and the others. Byron and Keats and you know.”

  “I’ve already told you I don’t know.”

  “And I’ve already asked you please to give it your attention.”

  He did that then.

  “Here’s my quandary, Nelson—”

  “—why are you fidgeting?—why are you nervous?—”

  “—if you’ll stop interrupting—” She pulled the sheet over her. “Touch me as you just were doing. I liked that.”

  “If I’d known you liked it, I would have done it, I assure you, more frequently.’’

  “Well, you know now and our future certainly lies ahead of us so we’ll have lots of touching then, won’t we?” She was talking too quickly, far too quickly, and she told herself to slow down. Everything depended on her slowing down. “Well, as I was on my way out the door earlier today, Theo practically pounced on me —he startled me, Nelson, he truly j’ave me such a surprise—”

  “—why are you talking so fast? You are nervous.”

  “Perhaps I am, it’s this quandary in which you find me.”

  “A very long quandary it seems. And getting longer and longer.”

  “I’m sorry. As I say, there Theo came pouncing with this paper in his hand. A poem he’d written, he said. I said how wonderful, we all knew of his poetic ambitions, but I had to get to Tiffany’s. Take this with you and read it please, he said. I asked why and this is what Theo said: Tm teaching the boys poetry now, they have good minds and I thought that, instead of teaching them a dead poet, what if I taught them a few of mine? Because they couldn’t very well ask Shelley what he meant in “Ozymandias” they could certainly ask me what I meant since I was right there in the room with them.’”

  He read the poem again, reached for his robe.

  “Anyway, to finish, Nelson—he didn’t want to vary from the curriculum without our knowing it. In other words, he was paid to help them with their schoolwork and since this was not their schoolwork, he wanted my approval. Or our. approval, I should say. He wanted us to say yes to the poem before he gave it to the boys.”

  Nelson Stewart put his feet on the floor, sat and rubbed his eyes. “It’s one of the worst things I’ve ever read,” he said finally.

  “Isn’t it, though,” Charlotte agreed.

  “One doesn’t have to be a professional garbage man to know refuse when he sees it. My God, Charlotte, the thing doesn’t even rhyme.”

  “Now you see my quandary. How do I tell Theodore we don’t approve of his teaching this to the boys? How do I do it without offending him. Or what if he quits?”

  “He’ll be leaving soon enough, I suspect,” W. Nelson Stewart said, standing now.

  “Oh? Has he given his notice?”

  “I had planned on his departure at the end of the school year. But after ffe”-~ he slapped the back of his fingers against the poem—”well, no need to pitch the lad on the street, he is possibly a cousin and all. And certainly brilliant—”

  “—the boys like him,” Charlotte said. ‘They’ve each said that to me. Independently of the other.”

  “He may not be all that beneficial to the boys, if you understand me.”

  Charlotte didn’t.

  “Well dear God look at these words: ‘crimson petals’ and ‘fireflies’ and sweet lilies folding up and do I have to go on?”

  Charlotte asked that he please do.

  “I would never accuse another without proof. I am not so constructed. But these are rather feminine words, don’t you think? Not exactly bursting with rugged vitality, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Charlotte wished he would reach his conclusion and said so.

  “I don’t think Theo is liable to marry a woman,” Nelson Stewart said, pausing ever so briefly after the word marry. “And I don’t think I want him much around my boys.” He left the room then and no action was taken immediately. Because the next morning came the news of the sudden indisposition of his beloved Aunt Beth, which meant, of course, he had to go to Boston…

  It was a bitter February afternoon with winds that would scare a child. Charlotte stood in his bedroom, watching him pack. Nelson liked to pack himself. There was really precious little in this world Nelson didn’t prefer doing for himself. And this was to be a quick journey, one night, perhaps two. He packed lightly. In the event of trouble, he still
had clothes at Aunt Beth’s place.

  Closing the clasps, he picked up the leather bag, hurried down the stairs, Charlotte in pursuit. By the front door Theo waited, respectfully behind the boys. Nelson hugged his sons good-bye, only to discover they insisted on accompanying him outside to where his driver stood waiting.

  Pleased with their decision, he opened the door, shooed them out, kissed Charlotte discreetly. “And don’t let me hear any stories about you chasing after unattached ladies,” he said suddenly to Theo, and before the tutor could reply, Nelson went on: “You’ve got to watch your reputation as a womanizer, Theo.” With that and a laugh, he was out the door and gone.

  Theo walked quietly up the stairs to the large window, watching the children accompany their father. The driver tried helping with the luggage, was quickly rebuffed, so he contented himself with opening the door. W. Nelson Stewart got inside. “What was that last about?” Theo wondered to Charlotte, as she moved close behind him.

  “Who can be certain with him?” Charlotte said.

  And standing framed in the large second-story window, she wrapped her arms tight around Theo, and he struggled, told her sharply that the boys might see (and they did, they did, they saw their mother’s arms), but none of it mattered. Nothing he said mattered. Because they sent a message to each other quite past words. He told her she was worthy, she told him he was male, they were locked.

  8

  Like No Other Store in the World

  No more than five minutes after triumphantly leaving Doyle Ackerman, smiling to herself but humming out loud, Edith entered Bloomingdale’s. The beatific feeling of revenge that filled her when she bid farewell to Doyle in the coffee shop had been replaced now by an urge toward creativity: Edith was trying her hand at a limerick:

  There once was a Yalie named Ackerman

  Who lured lots of girls to the sack—erman.

  His eyes were quite bright.

  His teeth were quite white.

  But his brains were those of a Packer—man.

  Horrible, Edith decided as she wandered along the aisles. Not only did “sack—erman” stink, the word “Packer-man” wasn’t what she meant at all—she meant one who played for the Green Bay Packers. A goon. A “duhhhhh” type. Still, she consoled herself, “Ackerman” wasn’t the easiest word to limerick around with. Now if his name had been Doyle Dane, she could have made a last line out of Milne, a man of “Very Little Brain “ or along those lines, which though hardly Shakespearean was at least a step up the literary ladder.

  It was a bit warm in the store so she took off her navy blue coat. She was wearing a frumpy dress from her old Peck and Peck days, beige with a little frilled collar. She tossed her coat over an arm and consoled herself still further with the thought that she was, after all, not a writer but a painter. Maybe not yet very good but with a chance. More than a chance, Sally said, and Sally Levinson was as tough a critic as any of them any day. Very good was in the bag, Sally said. The jury was out on the next rung though, according to Sally.

  God, Edith thought, what an incredible thing it must be to give pleasure. To sweat at a canvas, to feel so helpless most of the time, so invincible on rare occasions; but then, years later, to have a stranger say, perhaps, “Oh yes, that’s a Mazursky, isn’t she wonderful.”

  She always thought of herself, when she thought of herself as a painter at all, as “Mazursky.” She hoped Phillip wouldn’t mind. A bunch of art critics would be studying a room of Mazurskys now. In the Museum of Modern Art on 53rd. “I would rate her with Cassatt” one of them would say. “Above Cassatt, certainly, but below O’Keeffe,” another would argue. “Ridiculous,” a third would say, “Below Cassatt but above O’Keeffe.” And then a fourth would say, “Does it matter? Must we rank greatness? Can’t we just say how blessed we are that they were born, Mazursky, Cassatt, and O’Keeffe?’

  Edith got out her list now, sighed at all the things the girls needed, then put the list quickly into her purse because there, there ahead of her Bloomingdale’s was selling cashmere scarves. Long cashmere scarves. On sale. Edith stopped by the cashmere counter. Revenge and a sale on the same day, I must be on the cusp of something.

  She fingered a green scarf, because Phillip loved green with her reddish hair, and in truth it was a good color for her. But because of that, she kept buying greenies and never experimented. “May I have the muted brown one there, please,” Edith said to the shopgirl, and charged it, telling the girl not to bother wrapping it, she’d wear it home. Tossing the muted brown scarf loosely around her shoulders, she headed for the men’s shop, more specifically, the necktie department.

  The area was empty, which surprised her. In spite of her passion for the place, Edith well knew Bloomingdale’s little tricks—all the big stores had them. Macy’s, for instance, had a special crew that went out ahead of all furniture delivery trucks making sure no one was home so the furniture men could leave their “We were here, where were you?” notes. Well, Bloomingdale’s made it hard for you to shop. If there were ninety shoppers in the dress department, the salespeople all slipped down the stairs to shoes. If there was a run on perfume, all those employees snuck to the buttons area.

  “Yes?” the necktie salesman asked.

  Edith liked him immediately. He was one of those bright attractive young men who went to one of those wonderful sort of unknown schools, Colby or Bowdoin or Middlebury, and was getting his doctorate eventually. “I need a glorious red necktie,” Edith said, “but one with special properties.”

  “We are very long today on glorious,” he assured her. “A truckload of glorious arrived from our Jersey plant. But you’ll have to be specific on the special properties.”

  “It must be absolutely guaranteed one hundred percent gravy resistant.”

  He snapped his fingers. “Damn; sold the last one an hour ago.”

  They both laughed then until Edith got excited. “I’ve got it, I know what I’ll do, I’ll buy him a tie and then I’ll hand him another box with a bib in it.”

  The salesman said, “Lady, that is funny.” He leaned on the

  glass countertop and really started laughing. Finally, he bent

  down, opened the side of the counter, and took out perhaps a

  dozen silk ties.-

  Edith began to spin.

  The young salesman blinked.

  Edith took her muted brown cashmere scarf and held it out at both ends, spinning slowly around, her arms rising to above shoulder level, an awkward Pavlova.

  Across the men’s shop, the suit buyer looked over.

  Edith continued to spin, and her arms went higher, straight up now.

  A woman from Scarsdale, who had been buying socks, began to scream.

  The tie salesman began to run around the counter.

  Edith’s hands were clenched now. Still high, her body still spinning.

  The suit buyer rushed to the security phone.

  Edith smashed her fists straight down toward the glass counter, through the glass counter, and, of course instantly there was blood and then Edith jammed her arms together, forcing her wrists into the shards of glass, twisting her wrists back and forth in rhythm.

  The buyer dropped the phone, the lady from Scarsdale cratered, the tie salesman could only stand and watch now.

  As Edith raised her arms up high again, palms facing her, the inside of her wrists close to her eyes, and as the blood bubbled down, any onlooker would, of course, have been shocked, but if that onlooker could have forced his way past the shock, forced his concentration onto Edith’s face, he might have wondered at the expression reflected there; was it possibly relief? Could it have been joy? Perhaps exultation… ?

  PART TWO

  TRACKERS

  1

  Routine

  Haggerty stared down into the dead eyes of the red-haired woman in the blue coat and waited for the light-headedness to come. There were times, especially when he allowed himself more than several shots of decent whiskey, when his who
le life seemed to have been nothing but shoot-outs and stake-outs and blood-baths and pain, and still he could not rid himself of the lightheadedness. Whenever he first looked at a new corpse it would unbidden come. Eric knew of his affliction, his wife had known. That was all. It wasn’t anybody’s business; besides, Haggerty didn’t trust a whole lot of people.

  Two once, one now.

  And here it came, so he Med a yawn, covering his face with his big hands, and though he felt giddy, he knew it would pass. And it did. He could stare down at the woman now, without fear.

  Without much fear, anyway.

  Around him on the dark steps there was considerable activity: coming slowly to consciousness, another woman, bits of broken glass or crystal by her. And working with their quiet efficiency, members of the Crime Scene Unit were doing their job. Taking pictures, ferreting out whatever might be useful: hairs, prints, fibers, skin, blood.

  Haggerty picked up the dead woman’s purse, hesitated only a moment It always seemed to him like what it was, an unseemly invasion. Sometimes with women it was like a zoo in there, but he could tell as he opened this plain object now, that the corpse had been, when previously allowed to breathe, neat if not fastidious.

  Her name was Alice Oliver. Librarian. Scarsdale. Single.

  American Express. Texaco. Thirty-eight dollars… twenty-six cents. And a single seat for tonight, the sixth of February, 1981, for A Chorus Line.

  Alice my dear, Haggerty thought, it was a great musical, and I hope you’ve seen it already. What a shame it would be to wait all those years to see it and then this the evening of the show.

  Haggerty had no interest in theatre, but he loved musicals. If he had a hobby it was that. He saw them all, not just the Fair Ladys. Flahooley—he’d been there for its expiration. And Portofino. Buttrio Square. Thirteen Daughters. Kelly even. One performance but he’d caught a preview. Not to mention his prize, Breakfast at Tiffany’s, which closed in midweek before it opened.