“We’ll have to talk about this when I get back, Sam. There isn’t much love or sentiment between us, but there are times when I need to talk with a mother, when I want to discuss things, to understand things that a woman would raise in conversation only with her mother. Ginny has cheated me out of that, and I no longer expect it of her. She can’t influence me, and her antics no longer hurt me. But I don’t know if I’ll be able to watch her drown. Have you spoken with my papa?”
“I played chess with him night before last, and I see where you got your powers of concentration. He didn’t say ten words during the game. Quite a guy.”
“Who won?”
“Need you ask? He was downright vicious. But, he’d just served me a terrific porterhouse steak dinner, so I forgave him. Do you have your phone number in Florence?” She gave it to him.
“Get there safely. If anything should go wrong, remember that Florence is only a eight-hour flight away and call me. I love you.”
“I love you, too, Sam. Bye.”
At times, Kendra amazed him. Sam propped his feet up on the desk in his den at home, locked his hands behind his head, and let a grin slide over his face. He’d been worried silly about her—whether she’d be able to communicate with the help of her tourist-book Italian and, especially, whether she would convince anyone in the food industry to talk with her about Italian food habits. He’d bet anything that she had a few stories to tell, and not all of them would be amusing. And no matter what she told him, he’d never believe that she hadn’t had to fend off the advances of a couple of Italian males.
The Romans were a handsome people, and the men knew it and prided themselves in their looks. And they loved beautiful women of any color. But if he had to worry about a woman’s fidelity, he didn’t have much going for him. In any case, Kendra was not and never would be a pushover for any man, and that included him.
But something had to be done about Ginny Hunter, because Kendra would never be happy as long as her mother was in trouble. It didn’t help that he disliked the woman intensely.
During his first free period at school the next day, Sam phoned a close colleague. “Hi, Dita, this is Sam. Are you free for lunch?”
“Sure. What time?” He told her and they agreed to lunch at La Belle Époque, his favorite restaurant.
Dita’s peers considered her an expert in behavioral psychology, and he hoped she could shed some light on Ginny Hunter’s prospects for improvement. He hoped she wouldn’t divulge their conversation.
“I’m too close to this to be objective, Dita, and I’d appreciate your confidence in this matter.” Without naming names or disclosing his relationship to the characters involved, he described what he knew of Ginny’s behavior. “Those close to her think she’s a sociopath. I have my own views. Do you think she can be helped, that she can be guided to change her behavior and outlook?”
“Whew! You aren’t asking for much! I think a really good therapist can do her some good, but she doesn’t seem the type to cooperate with a therapist. If she remains in jail, she’ll convince herself that the world owes her plenty and she’ll never accept that she wouldn’t have been in jail if she hadn’t broken the law. If she gets a humanitarian for a judge, she may get forced treatment, which she’ll accept in order to get out of prison.”
“I hope so. But how do you cure a manipulator who’s willing to drag everyone she knows down to the bottom of the pit?”
“Her first and maybe greatest problem is her inability to love and to identify empathetically with another person,” Dita said. “She may be slightly autistic.”
“I thought of that,” Sam said, “but after getting to know her ex-husband, I ruled it out. Still, it’s possible. Do you think a social agency can handle this kind of illness?”
“I doubt it. She should go to a private clinic, and the therapist should be a woman. If it’s a man, she’ll try to seduce him.”
He couldn’t argue with that.
Finding the crab-cake sandwich as delectable as ever, he savored it along with a plain lettuce salad. “Thanks for letting me pick your brain. I hadn’t thought a clinic was the place for her, but it’s worth a try. She’s not related to me, but she means a lot to one of my dearest friends.”
“I wish her the best, Sam, but I know that won’t come easily.”
How well he knew that. Ginny had not only alienated what would have been her support group; she had made them a part of her problem. If only Kendra would shed that awful burden. As much as he hated Ginny’s relationship with Kendra, he understood how difficult it must be to walk away from your own mother when she was obviously in trouble. He was expecting Kendra to do it, but could he if he were in her shoes? It was something to which he had to give serious thought.
Ginny had taken her situation in hand and was applying her special brand of subterfuge. She asked to see the warden, and, after several tries, was granted an audience. “Good afternoon, ma’am,” she began. “Since I’m sitting here doing nothing, maybe you could use me to teach these women how to do hair, manicures, facials, and massages. I’m pretty good at things they do in a spa.”
The warden looked hard at her with a stern and forbidding expression. “Some of the inmates deserve a break, and they’d probably enjoy learning how to fix themselves up. But you’ve got a record of ignoring rules and acting like the law is for everybody but you. You’ve had plenty of breaks, but you always end up back here. So don’t try anything clever. I’ll see who’s interested.”
Three days later, having worked ten to twelve hours each day, Ginny had become the darling of the “privileged” inmates. One inmate, a big woman of questionable sexual preference, loaned Ginny the two dollars needed to make a phone call.
She phoned her brother. “Ed, I think I’ve done enough penance. I’ve been doing charity work here. If you come and vouch for me in person, I may be able to get out on bail.”
“How much is the bail?”
“Practically nothing. The warden said it’s been reduced to twenty-five hundred.”
“I see. And that’s practically nothing. I’d like to know what kind of charity work you’ve been doing. If I bail you out, I know I’ve seen the last of my twenty-five hundred. But if you get into trouble again, any kind of trouble, no matter how small, I will testify against you, and I certainly won’t bail you out again. Stay out of automobiles, unless you’re in the backseat.”
She didn’t care how much he lectured. He could say whatever he liked. She’d promise him anything in order to get her freedom. When she received word that she could go, she tried not to show jubilation.
After all, if Ed had behaved like any other brother, he wouldn’t have allowed her to spend a single night in this snake pit
.
The judge’s previous order tied her hands, but, as Houdini proved more than once, one only had to apply a little ingenuity to slip through a few chains. If only she had a bit of lipstick! Going out into the street with her face bare was something she hadn’t done since she reached puberty.
Ed met her at the gate and, for reasons she didn’t understand, she felt bereft that her own brother didn’t hug her. Where had that thought come from?
Hell, I don’t need his hug,
she told herself
. I just needed to get out of that miserable place.
“You’re out now,” were his first words. She stared at him.
“But let’s get this straight,” he went on. “If you get behind the wheel of a car, if you say a word to Kendra, or if you go near her home or her job, you’ll go back in jail, and I’m through with you for good. That’s my agreement with the authorities when I paid your bail, and I mean to enforce it. If you get into trouble, I’ll appear against you as a friend of the court. One of these days, you’re going to get behind a wheel and kill somebody, because you can’t drive. Furthermore, you don’t have a license. So if you can’t behave like a reasonable adult, you shouldn’t live among reasonable people.”
He headed to his car. “Get in, and let’s go.”
After weeks without an airing, her apartment had a strange, musky odor and smelled of the decayed stems of sunflowers she had bought for the table so as to convince old man Dunner that she was a woman of taste and refinement. She opened her bedroom window, looked out, and her shoulders sagged.
Same old alley
.
A check of her refrigerator with its rotting vegetables and meats served as a reminder that she was broke. It had been a one in fifty chance that she’d have an accident while driving Dunner’s rented car, and she’d almost gotten away with it, telling the police that it was Dunner and not she who’d been driving when the car crashed into a wall. But when Dunner recovered sufficiently to be interviewed, he’d sworn that he’d never sat behind the wheel of a car in his life, supporting his daughter’s testimony. The police had arrested her on the street as she walked to work. She could have made one call, but what good would it have done to call Phil, the owner of the beauty salon? She’d called Ed, and he’d hung up on her.
Broke! She didn’t have the price of a dozen eggs. Pushing her pride aside, she called Phil. “I need work, Phil. Can you get me some appointments?”
“Get you some . . . Where the hell have you been? You left your customers high and dry. I fill your book with appointments, and you don’t show. Give me a break!”
She had to level with him or he wouldn’t budge. “Phil, I’ve been in the clinker, and I just got out. I got into an accident while driving a car, and I didn’t have a valid driver’s license.”
“They don’t keep you in jail for that, babe.”
“You can check it, Phil. It was . . . uh . . . my second offense. I couldn’t make my one phone call, because they took away my pocketbook.”
“Uh . . . That’s a real bummer. Look! I’ll give you two days, but if you mess up, you’ve had it.”
“Thanks, Phil. I can be there tomorrow morning.” And unless she could find some change somewhere in the apartment, she’d have to walk.
After throwing out all the food in her refrigerator and washing the appliance thoroughly, she sat down and laughed aloud. Except for a half a can of stale coffee, her thousand dollar, stainless-steel, custom-built refrigerator was empty. She sat at her kitchen table for about an hour considering her options and concluded that she didn’t like any of them. But she had to eat. So she dressed in a woolen jacket and pants, sweater, and boots, turned a raincoat inside out, and put it on. Then, she took a woolen blanket used for picnicking and threw it over her head and across her shoulders. She conceded that her hands would freeze, but that was a price she had to pay.
As shrewd as ever, Ginny walked over to the corner of Kalorama and Connecticut—where the pedestrian traffic was heavy—sat down on the cold pavement, lowered her head, and held out her hand. Three hours later, she had one hundred and twenty-three dollars and fifteen cents. With her masquerade still in place, she stopped at a small grocery store, bought what she would need for a simple meal, and went home. After shedding the layers of clothing, she cooked, ate, took the first private shower she’d had in three weeks, and went to bed. If she could give at least three massages a day, she could pay her rent, and she’d be fine. She could always pick up a few dollars with her hand out.
She was not a fan of Washington’s public transportation, but it served her well the next morning, and she got to the beauty salon on time. “I want you to know,” Phil said when she walked in, “that I’m sick and tired of your shenanigans. The first time you mess up, you’re outta here. You got that?”
“Don’t worry, Phil. I learned my lesson.”
“Your first customer doesn’t come in till ten, so shampoo for Clara. She’s already running behind.”
What could she say? He knew she didn’t do shit-work. But she’d be back on her feet as soon as she could figure out how to get some money out of Kendra without going back to jail. Then Phil could take his job and shove it.
Ginny couldn’t know that with the changes in Kendra’s life, she had become a stronger and mentally tougher person. With the experience of having worked, studied, and negotiated with the chefs and managers of cooking schools in Rome, Florence, and Verona behind her, Kendra took a train to Venice for a day trip.
“I may never get back to Italy,” she told herself, “and I can’t afford to miss Venice.” She walked into St. Mark’s Square, found a table, and sat down. Even in the damp and chilly weather, she could appreciate the attractiveness of the square to the millions who visited it annually. She had never seen so many pigeons, and after dodging the ones that seemed to want to land on her head, she hoped she never saw another one. She ordered coffee and ice cream and settled back to enjoy the sights.
“Who is sitting here?” a good-looking Italian asked her.
Having learned the ways of the locals, she looked at him with a show of disinterest. “Why?”
He ignored her challenge and sat down. “I’m Mario. You want to go for a ride on a vaporetto? Is very nice.”
She’d read about the vaporetti and the use that lovers and tourists often made of them. With a studied glare, she said, “Yeah. But not with you.” As if it was no big deal, he spread his hands, flexed his shoulder, and left.
Lesson learned: any female tourist with money would do.