Authors: Kathy Reichs
“Oh, Mom, I’m so glad you called! How are you? I can’t talk now, I’ve got someone on the other line, but can I catch you a little later?”
I smiled. Katy. Always breathless and spinning in a thousand directions.
“Sure, hon. It’s nothing important, just wanted to say hi. I’m going to dinner with Gabby tonight. How about tomorrow?”
“Great. Give her a big kiss for me. Oh, I think I got an A in French if that’s what’s on your mind.”
“Never doubted it,” I said, laughing. “Talk to you tomorrow.”
Twenty minutes later I parked in front of Gabby’s building. By some miracle there was a spot just opposite her door. I killed the engine and got out.
Gabby lives on Carré St. Louis, a charming little square tucked between Rue St. Laurent and Rue St. Denis. The park is surrounded by row houses with unpredictable shapes and elaborate wood trim, relics of an age of architectural whimsy. Their owners have painted them with rainbow eccentricity and filled their yards with riotous bouquets of summer flowers, making them look like a scene in a Disney animation.
There is an air of capriciousness to the park, from its central fountain, rising from the pool like a giant tulip, to the small wrought-iron fence decorating its perimeter. Little more than knee-high, its frivolous spikes and curlicues separate the public green of the plaza from the gingerbread houses encircling its perimeter. It seemed the Victorians, so prim in their sexual prudery, could be playful in their building design. Somehow, I find this reassuring, a quiet confirmation that there is balance in life.
I glanced at Gabby’s building. It stands on the north side of the park, the third one in from Rue Henri-Julien. Katy would have called it “wretched excess,” like the prom dresses we’d scorned in our annual spring quest. It seemed the architect couldn’t stop until he’d incorporated every fanciful detail he knew.
The building is a three-story brownstone, its lower floors bulging into large bay windows, its roof rising to a truncated hexagonal turret. The roof tower is covered with small oval tiles arranged like the scales on a mermaid’s tail. It’s topped by a widow’s walk bordered in wrought iron. The windows are Moorish, their lower edges square, their upper borders ballooning into domed arches. Every door and window is framed by intricately carved woodwork painted a light shade of lavender. Downstairs, to the left of the bay, an iron staircase sweeps from ground level to a second-story porch, the sworls and loops of its banisters echoing those of the park fence. Early June flowers bloomed in window boxes and in oversized pots lining the porch.
She must have been waiting. Before I could cross the street, the lace curtain flicked momentarily, and the front door opened. She waved, then locked the door and double-checked, shaking the handle vigorously. She swooped down the steep iron staircase, her long skirt billowing behind her like a spinnaker on a downwind run. I could hear her as she drew near. Gabby likes things that sparkle or jangle. That night a ring of small silver bells circled her ankle. It jingled with each step. She dressed in what I’d dubbed Nouveau Ashram in grad school. She always would.
“How ya doing?”
“Good,” I hedged.
Even as I was saying it, I knew it wasn’t true. But I didn’t want to discuss the murders, or Claudel, or my lost trip to Quebec City, or my broken marriage, or anything else that had been plaguing my peace of mind lately.
“You?”
“
Bien
.”
She wagged her head from side to side and the dreadlocks flopped.
Bien. Pas bien
. Just like old times. But not quite. I recognized my own behavior. She was hedging also, wanted to keep the conversation light. Feeling a little blue, but suspecting I’d set the mood, I let it go and joined in the conspiracy of mutual avoidance.
“So, where should we eat?”
I wasn’t really changing the subject since there hadn’t actually been one.
“What do ya feel like?”
I thought about it. I usually make such choices by imagining food on a plate in front of me. My mind definitely prefers a visual mode. I guess you could say, when it comes to food, it’s graphics, not menu, driven. Tonight it wanted something red and heavy.
“Italian?”
“Okay.” She considered. “Vivaldi’s on Prince Arthur? We can sit outside.”
“Perfect. And I won’t have to waste this parking place.”
We angled across the square, passing beneath the large broadleafs that arch above its lawn. Old men sat on benches, talking in groups, surveying their fellow citizens. A woman in a shower cap fed pigeons from a bag of bread, admonishing them like rowdy children. A pair of foot patrolmen strolled one of the paths that crisscross the park, their hands clasped behind them in identical V’s. They stopped periodically to exchange pleasantries, ask questions, respond to quips.
We passed the cement gazebo at the west end of the square. I noted the word “Vespasian,” and wondered, once again, why the name of a Roman emperor was carved above its door.
We left the square, crossed Rue Laval, and passed through a set of cement pillars marking the entrance to Rue Prince Arthur. All this time no words were spoken. This was odd. Gabby wasn’t this quiet, or this passive. She was usually bursting with plans and ideas. Tonight she’d simply yielded to my suggestion.
I watched her, discreetly, from the corner of my eye. She was scanning the faces we passed while simultaneously chewing on a thumbnail. The scrutiny didn’t appear to be absentminded. She seemed edgy, searching the crowded sidewalks.
The evening was warm and humid, and Prince Arthur was jammed. People swirled and eddied in all directions. The restaurants had thrown open their doors and windows, and the tables spilled out helter skelter, as though someone planned to arrange them later. Men in cotton shirts and women with bare shoulders talked and laughed under brightly colored umbrellas. Others stood in lines, waiting to be seated. I joined the line outside Vivaldi’s while Gabby walked to the corner dépanneur to buy a bottle of wine.
When we were finally settled Gabby ordered the fettuccine Alfredo. I asked for veal piccata, spaghetti on the side. Though seduced by the lemon, I remained partially loyal to the vision of red. While we waited for our salads, I sipped a Perrier. We spoke some, moving our mouths, forming words, saying nothing. Mostly we sat. It wasn’t the comfortable silence of old friends accustomed to each other, but a dialogue of uneasiness.
I’m as familiar with the ebb and flow of Gabby’s moods as I was with my own menstrual cycles. I sensed something tense in her demeanor. Her eyes didn’t meet mine, but roved restlessly, continuously exploring as they had in the park. She was obviously distracted. She reached for her wine often. Each time she lifted her glass the early evening light kindled the Chianti, making it blaze like a Carolina sunset.
I knew the signs. She was drinking too much, trying to blunt the anxiety. Alcohol, the opiate of the troubled. I knew because I’d tried it. The ice in my Perrier was slowly melting, and I watched the lemon resuscitate itself. It dropped from one cube to another with a delicate fizzing sound.
“Gabby, what’s up?”
The question startled her.
“Up?”
She gave a short, jittery laugh and brushed a dreadlock from her face. Her eyes were unreadable.
Taking her cue, I moved once again to a neutral topic. She would tell me when she was ready. Or perhaps I was being a coward. The price of intimacy would be its loss.
“Do you hear from anyone from Northwestern?”
We’d met as graduate students in the seventies. I’d been married. Katy was a preschooler. I envied Gabby and the others their freedom back then. I’d missed the bonding experience of all-night parties and early morning philosophy sessions. I was their age but lived in a different world. Gabby was the only one with whom I’d grown close. I’ve never really known why. We look as different as two women can. We did back then. Perhaps it was because Gabby liked Pete, or, at least, pretended to. Flashback: Pete, military-crisp, surrounded by flower children high on grass and cheap beer. He hated my grad school parties, masked his discomfort behind cocky disdain. Only Gabby had made the effort to break through.
I’d lost contact with all but a few of our classmates. They were scattered across the States now, most at universities and museums. Over the years Gabby had been better at maintaining ties. Or perhaps they sought her out more.
“I hear from Joe now and then. He’s teaching at some podunk place in Iowa, I think. Or Idaho.” American geography had never been Gabby’s strong suit.
“Oh yeah?” I encouraged.
“And Vern’s selling real estate in Las Vegas. He came through here for some sort of conference a few months ago. He’s out of anthropology and happy as a clam.”
She sipped.
“Same hair, though.”
This time the laugh sounded genuine. Either the wine or my personal charm was relaxing her.
“Oh, and I got an e-mail message from Jenny. She’s thinking of getting back into research. You know she married some yo-yo and gave up a tenured position at Rutgers to follow him to the Keys?”
Gabby didn’t usually mince words.
“Well, she’s gotten some sort of adjunct affiliation and is busting her butt on a grant proposal.”
Another sip.
“When he lets her. What gives with Pete?”
The question hit me broadside. Up to this point I’d been very cautious in talking about my failed marriage. It was as if the gears of my speech were jammed on the subject, and releasing them would somehow verify the truth. As if the act of arranging words in rows, of forming sentences, would validate a reality I wasn’t quite ready to face. I avoided the topic. Gabby was one of the few I’d told.
“He’s fine. We talk.”
“People change.”
“Yes.”
The salads arrived and for a few minutes we concentrated on dressings and pepper grinding. When I looked up she was sitting very still, a forkful of lettuce suspended over her plate. She’d withdrawn from me once again, though this time she seemed to be examining an inner world, rather than the one around her.
I tried another tack.
“Tell me how your project is going.” I speared a black olive.
“Huh? Oh, the project. Good. It’s going good. I’ve finally gotten their confidence and some of them are really starting to open up to me.”
She took a bite of salad.
“Gabby, I know you’ve explained this, but tell me again. I’m just a physical sciences type. What exactly is the goal of the research?”
She laughed at the familiar demarcation between the physical and cultural anthropology students. Our class had been small but diverse: some studying ethnology, others taking linguistics, archaeology, and biological anthropology. I knew as little about deconstructionism as she did about mitochondrial DNA.
“Remember the ethnographies Ray made us read? The Yanomamo, and the Semai, and the Nuer? Well, it’s the same idea. We’re trying to describe the world of the prostitute through close observation and interviews with informants. Field work. Up close and personal.” She took another bite of salad. “Who are they? Where do they come from? How do they get into hooking? What do they do on a daily basis? What support networks do they have? How do they fit into the legitimate economy? How do they view themselves? Where—”
“I get it.”
Perhaps the wine was having its effect, or perhaps I’d tapped into the one passion in her life. She was becoming more animated. Though it had grown dark I could see that her face was flushed. Her eyes glistened with the light of the streetlamp. Or maybe the alcohol.
“Society has just written these women off. No one’s really interested in them, except those who are somehow threatened by them and want them gone.”
I nodded as we each took a bite of salad.
“Most people think girls hook because they’ve been abused, or because they’re forced into it, or whatever. Actually, a lot of them do it simply for the money. With limited skills for the legitimate job market, they’re never going to make a decent living and they know that. They make a decision to hook for a few years because it’s the most profitable thing they can do. Peddling ass pays better than slinging burgers.”
More salad.
“And, like any other group, they’ve got their own subculture. I’m interested in the networks they construct, the mental mapping they do, the support systems they rely on, that sort of thing.”
The waiter returned with our entrées.
“What about the men who hire them?”
“What?” The question seemed to unnerve her.
“What about the guys who go down there? They must be an important element in the whole thing. Are you also talking to them?” I rolled a forkful of spaghetti.
“I— Yeah, some,” she stammered, clearly flustered. After a pause: “Enough about me, Temp. Tell me what you’re working on. Any interesting cases?” Her eyes were focused on her plate.
The shift was so abrupt it caught me off-guard. I answered without thinking.
“These murders have me pretty uptight.” I regretted saying it immediately.
“What murders?” Her voice was becoming thick, the words rounded and soft on the edges.
“A pretty nasty one came in last Thursday.” I didn’t go on. Gabby has never wanted to hear about my work.
“Oh?” She helped herself to more bread. She was being polite. She’d told me about her work, now she’d listen to me talk about mine.
“Yeah. Surprisingly there hasn’t been much press. Her body was found off Sherbrooke last week. Came in as an unknown. Turns out she was killed last April.”
“That sounds like a lot of your cases. So what’s rattling ya?”
I sat back and looked at her, wondering if I really wanted to go into this. Maybe it would be better to talk about it. Better for whom? For me? There was no one else with whom I could do that. Did she really want to hear it?
“The victim was mutilated. Then the body was butchered and thrown into a ravine.”
She looked at me without commenting.
“I think the MO is similar to another one I worked on.”
“Meaning?”
“I see the same”—I groped for the right word—“elements in both.”