Authors: William Lashner
“Just what I said. You think I created my new life only on a crime, but you’re wrong. There was something heroic, too. I didn’t hurt your sister, I saved her. Gave her the life she always dreamed of.”
“We’re supposed to believe that?” I said.
“Lou,” he called out, “let’s get on with dessert. I got a date tonight. She’s twenty-four. The jaw of a wrestler, but twenty-four. And she wants to be in the movies. Imagine that.”
“You don’t really think you can just brush us off with your bland assurances, do you?” I said.
“If I thought that, you wouldn’t be here, kid.”
“Then tell us what happened to Chantal.”
“Why ask me? Why don’t you ask her?”
“Chantal?” said Monica.
“Sure, kid. How about tomorrow? Afternoon good? I’ll set it up. About time you met your sister, don’t you think?”
“I think I’m going to
throw up,” said Monica Adair.
“That’s my line,” I said.
“No, really. Stop the car. I need to get out. Please.”
“We’re on an L.A. freeway, Monica. If we stop the car in the middle of the highway, someone will shoot us.”
“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.”
“Calm down.”
“I can’t calm down. I’m having a heart attack right here in this crappy rent-a-car.”
“But I got the premium model. It set me back an extra seventy-five bucks a day.”
“My arm. I’m seeing lights.”
“That’s the sun glinting off all the bumpers. You’re having a panic attack, Monica. You’re going to be fine.”
“How are you so certain? Are you a doctor?”
“If I were a doctor, I’d be better at golf. I like golf. Not so much the game, which is actually a little silly, but the outfits. Sweater vests, white gloves, plaid pants.”
“Shut up, Victor.”
“You don’t approve of plaid pants?”
“There should be a law against plaid pants.”
“It’s the state pant of Connecticut, did you know that?”
“Why are we talking about plaid pants?”
“Because you’re having a panic attack, and nothing cures a panic attack as quickly as garish men’s attire.”
“Is that why you wear that tie?”
“Keeps my anxiety level low.”
“Well, if I am having a panic attack, can you blame me?”
“No, not really,” I said. “Panic away.”
“It just, I think this might be the most important moment in my life.”
“Or not.”
“I’m meeting Chantal. Finally, after all these years. I’m meeting my sister.”
“Or not.”
“I am,” she said. “It’s her. I can feel it. All this time she’s been silently communicating with me. And through the tattoo and the missing painting and all the mess in Philadelphia, she’s been drawing me to her.”
“Wouldn’t it have been simpler if she called?”
“Don’t be silly, Victor. That’s not the way saints work. They don’t just pick up the telephone or send e-mail. They give mysterious messages, they place barriers in your way, they require you to move toward them on faith and faith alone.”
“And your sister’s a saint?”
“Why not?”
“If you have such faith, then why are you so nervous?”
“What if I’m not good enough? What if she rejects me? Victor, don’t tell her what I do. Promise me you won’t.”
“I promise.”
“I work in a law office. I’m dating a nice young man. I have a dog.”
“But you do have a dog.”
“Victor.”
“Monica, tell her whatever you want to tell her. That’s between you and her. I’m just there to listen.”
“You don’t believe in her. Still.”
“What did I tell you about him?”
“But maybe he’s telling the truth?”
“And maybe fish fly and birds swim.”
“But they do, don’t they? It’s a matter of faith, Victor. Do you believe in anything?”
“Pain and money. Everything else has disappointed me.”
“That’s sad. Really. No, really. You should get some help, something to change your outlook on your life. Maybe a tan, for starters.”
“What do you believe in, Monica?”
“Chantal.”
“You want to know something strange? In my own way, so do I.”
The address Purcell gave us was in West Hollywood, just north of Hollywood Boulevard. It was one of those beige apartment complexes they don’t have on the East Coast, places with names too fancy for the building, with two levels of bland apartments surrounding a small, cloudy swimming pool, with a tattooed super and rusted wrought-iron railings and the old, pale-faced lady in apartment 22 who clutches her housecoat as she answers the door for the liquor-delivery boy and tells him she was once in a movie with Jean Harlow, yes, Jean Harlow, a real star, not like these skinny little waifs they have today. The place was called the Fairway Arms, though the nearest golf course was twelve blocks south.
The two visitor spots in the underground lot were taken, so we parked where we could, space 22 to be exact. No harm, I figure, since the old lady’s car had probably been repossessed in 1959. At the complex’s front entrance, Monica danced around a bit and then finally pressed the button for apartment 17.
Monica was about to press it again when a voice came from the speaker. “Who’s there?” A female voice, strangely familiar.
Monica froze, unable to respond, her hand still reaching for the button like the hand of Michelangelo’s Adam reaching toward the white-haired guy.
“Mr. Purcell sent us,” I said into the speaker. “We’re here to see Chantal?”
“There’s only the two of you?”
“That’s right.”
“Come on in, then,” said the voice as the buzzer buzzed. “And don’t worry about Cecil. If you keep your hands in your pockets, he won’t bite them off.”
Cecil turned out to be a dog, white with one spotted ear, a blunt nose, and a body like a single clenched muscle. He silently rose from
his spot on a chaise by the pool, jumped down, aimed himself at us, and trotted our way. He wasn’t big, his back was the height of our knees, but it only took a second look to realize that this torpedo-shaped thing could take me apart with a leisurely snap of its jaw and jerk of its neck. I put my hands in my pockets. Cecil took that as a sign to close upon us even faster.
I stepped back, Monica stooped down. She reached out her hand, palm up. Cecil swerved toward her, stopped suddenly, sniffed Monica’s fingers, tilted his head as if confused by something, and then rubbed her hand with the muzzle of his nose.
“That’s a nice boy, that’s a sweet boy,” said Monica. “He’s just like Luke, all he wants is to be hugged.”
“Cecil, come here,” came a voice from the side of us.
The dog gave Monica’s hand a quick lick and then trotted over to a now-open door and rubbed his nose against the leg of a tall young girl in jeans and a T-shirt. She was pretty and blond and stared at us with a flat, unselfconscious gaze. Bryce. How could I have been surprised?
“He doesn’t usually take to strangers,” said Bryce.
“Is he yours?” said Monica, standing.
“He belongs to the super. But I take care of him.”
“How are you, Bryce?” I said.
“Fine. I figured it was going to be you, what with the tattoo and all.”
“Do you know Chantal?” said Monica.
“I guess, if that’s what you’re calling her.”
“What do you call her?” I said.
“Mom.”
“Oh, sweetie,” said Monica, stepping toward her. “Look at you. Look how lovely you are. Do you know who I am?”
“No.”
“I thought you said your mother’s name was Lena,” I said.
“It is. Or was. Or something, I don’t know. It’s L.A., right?”
“How about your father? Who’s your father, Bryce?”
“He lives in Texas. His name is Scott.”
“Scott, huh? You see him much?”
“Holidays and stuff.”
Just then from behind Bryce appeared her mother, no more the competent poolside secretary. She was wearing jeans, a loose white shirt, her blond hair was pulled into a ponytail, her hands clutched nervously together.
Monica took a step forward. “Are you Chantal?”
The woman nodded.
“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. Hi. I’m your sister. Monica. How are you? Oh my God, I can’t believe I finally found you.”
And with that, Monica burst into tears and lunged forward, reaching out to embrace her long-lost sister and her niece. Blinded by love and longing, by a need that was raw and unyielding, swept away within the obsession that had taken hold of her life from its earliest dawning, she didn’t notice how Bryce shied away, she didn’t notice Cecil sneering as he scurried back to his spot on the chaise by the pool, didn’t notice the expression of panic and fear on Lena’s face. She didn’t notice any of it, because for a moment the gaping hole in her life had been filled with something rich and full, something loving and warm, something close to hope.
We’ll call her Lena,
because that’s the name she called herself. Lena sat primly on the edge of her sofa, her hands clasped together on a knee, her lips tense. Lena had been in a few movies many years ago. Theodore had been able to help her get the roles when she was still in high school. She had been Girl Number Three in a Chevy Chase film, she had been Sue Ellen in a slasher flick that actually made a ripple at the box office. She wasn’t one to blow these accomplishments out of proportion. With a shrug she told us there were thousands just like her, pretty girls who made a little money and had a little fun but never had the talent or fierce determination to make a career of it.
“Mom, do you know where that shirt is?” called out Bryce.
“Which shirt?”
“The one with the things on the you-knows.”
“It’s hanging in the bathroom, on the shower rod.”
“Thank you.”
We were sitting in the living room of Lena’s small apartment at the Fairway Arms. The sofa was faded, the chair slightly greasy from age, but the paint on the walls was fresh, and the pictures were bright, and the television was a wide-screen LCD hooked up to all kinds of electronic contraptions. Compared with the wreck I had waiting for me back in Philadelphia, Lena had done pretty well for herself, and for Bryce, too.
Lena had been married, she told us. Her husband’s name was Scott. He was a cowboy, who had traded in his horse for a limo. He had
driven Theodore and Lena to a premiere one night. Scott hit on her, they hit it off, and the hits just kept on coming. He was older than Lena, and drastically good-looking, with an edge of anger that both scared and attracted her. He was a mistake from the start, but at the time she was nineteen and desperate to get out of the house. Theodore was strict about her hours, her life. No drinking, no late-night dates, no clubbing. She was young enough still to enjoy her life, she thought, and certainly young enough to ruin it on her own, so she ran off with Scott. They lived in Texas for a while, came back here after she had the baby. Scott thought it was the perfect time to hit up Theodore for some money and a job. But Theodore, who was still angry at the whole elopement thing and knew how to hold a grudge, told him to hit the pavement. After a while, as their debts grew and taking care of the baby got so hard, Scott finally hit the road. That’s when Theodore came once again to her rescue.
“Mom?”
“What, honey?”
“Can you come here a moment, please?”
A look of sweet exasperation. “What is it, Bryce?”
“I need something, I don’t know what.”
“Can you give me a moment, please?” said Lena.
“Of course,” said Monica. “Go.”
Lena went. I looked at Monica. She was overcome with some sort of unbearable emotion. She straightened her shirt, wiped at her eyes.
“She’s borrowing my jewelry,” said Lena when she returned. “She has plenty of her own, Theodore’s so generous, but she feels more mature wearing mine. I don’t know, I can’t remember ever being that young.”
“I can,” said Monica. “And it was brutal.”
“Oh, you didn’t have much trouble, I’m sure, a girl as pretty as you,” said Lena.
“I filled out a bit later,” Monica said, “but I was quite the gawky adolescent.”
“How did Theodore save you?” I said.
“He gave me a job, made sure my money problems were handled, made sure I finished school. It wasn’t handouts he was giving, it was
better. He was giving me myself back. What I am now I guess I owe to him. And the way Bryce has grown up has been because of him, too. He took responsibility for her from the start. As soon as Scott left, Theodore sort of became the father figure in her life.”
“When’s the car coming?” called out Bryce.
Lena looked at her watch. “Any minute.”
“Egad. Do you have that barrette?”
“On the bureau. And not too much makeup. You know Uncle Theodore doesn’t like too much makeup.”
“I know, I know. But I need something.”
“Where’s she heading?” I said. “A date?”
“No, thank God,” Lena said. “Bryce is only fourteen. She’s going to a screening. At the house. Theodore makes a big party out of it.”
“You’re not going?” said Monica.
Lena looked at Monica and smiled. “I’d rather get to know my sister.”
Monica glowed from the light of the compliment, her eyes watered.
Lena said that she now worked for Theodore. In the company. She was listed as an executive producer on some of the movies, but all she did, really, was answer the phones, manage the office, handle crises on the sets. It was a little stressful, working for Theodore was always stressful, but the pay was enough to keep the apartment and take care of Bryce. She dated some and had a few steady boyfriends in the last couple of years, but mostly she spent her time at the office, at Theodore’s house, or with Bryce. It was not the life she always dreamed of, but it was a good life. The mistakes she made had been her own, and everything good, besides Bryce, had come from Theodore.
“He’s been very kind to me,” she said. “You wouldn’t know it by looking at him, but he has a heart of gold.”
“You’re right,” I said. “I wouldn’t know it by looking at him.”
Lena gave me a pained expression just as the buzzer buzzed. She stood. Bryce ran into the room. Tight jeans, silk cowboy shirt, hair straight, makeup bright. She didn’t look fourteen, she looked weirdly adult, older than her mother.
“I’ll be right down,” said Bryce into the intercom before coming over to hug her mother. She said good-bye to Monica and then turned to me and gave me a puzzled look before saying, “I guess I’ll be seeing you.”
“Sure,” I said.
“I won’t be late,” she told her mother, then skipped out the door.
“Nice kid,” I said.
“She’s my heart,” said Lena. “My life. I’d do anything for her. Everything that ever happened is worth it because of her.” She paused for a moment, clutched at her hands again. “I suppose you have questions.”
“Yes, of course we do,” said Monica. “But it’s okay. You can talk about it later if you want.”
“I haven’t even thought about it in years and years. It’s all like a dim memory of a movie I saw a long time ago, that starred someone I can’t quite remember.”
“Let’s talk about it later, then,” said Monica. “When you feel more ready.”
“Do you have a good life, Monica?”
“I suppose.”
“What do you do?”
“I work in an office. I have a boyfriend.”
“I’m glad,” said Lena. “I’m glad it worked out for you. How’s Mom and Dad?”
“Fine. Sad. They never got over your going missing.”
“It would have been worse if I stayed. I was sad when I left, but I had to go. The way Theodore explained it, I didn’t have a choice. It was the only way.”
“The only way to do what?” I said.
“To save everyone,” said Lena. “To save the family.”
This is what Lena said she remembered. The details that slipped through her repressed memory of those days were vague. She had a hazy picture of her mother’s face. Her father, she remembered, was big, so big. And she liked to dance. She especially loved the concerts and the recitals. And her red shoes. She remembered being both so excited and so scared when she appeared on that television show. She had some memory of the joy of her childhood, but what she remembered even more was the terror.
“Terror?” said Monica.
“I could never escape it,” said Lena.
He was always there, bigger than she, stronger than she, reaching for her, hitting her, grabbing her, hurting her. Touching her. Touching her where he shouldn’t have been touching her. Making her do terrible things. She didn’t understand, she was too young to understand, and even so she knew it was all too terrible to tell anyone. Everything that he did to her and made her do to him.
“Who did this to you?” I said. “Was it Teddy? Teddy Pravitz?”
“Who is that?”
“Theodore.”
“What are you thinking, and why do you call him Teddy Pravitz?”
“That was his name then.”
“I don’t remember that. But no, of course not. He never touched me, ever. But he listened. He was the only one who listened. He was nice, and he gave me candy and gifts, and he listened. I told everyone, and no one believed me, no one did anything. I told Mom, I told our priest. No one.”
“What about Ronnie?” said Monica.
“No. He thought I was making it up, too. But Theodore believed me. And he saved me. He took me away.”
“Who knew Theodore was taking you?” I said. “Who did Theodore tell?”
“No one. Not Mom or Dad, not his friends. No one knew. It was all a secret. If anyone was told, Theodore said, I would be put back into the house, and nothing would happen, and I would be at his mercy again, for the rest of my life. Or, if I
was
believed, I would be taken out of the house, and he would go to jail, and the family would be torn apart. I didn’t want him to go to jail, I just wanted it to stop.”
“Was it Daddy who was hurting you?” said Monica.
“Don’t you know, Monica? Don’t you know?”
“No, I don’t,” she said.
“Thank God. Then it stopped before you were born. Or it was only about me, which is what I always thought anyway. The thing that scared me when I thought about it was that it would keep happening with someone else. But Theodore told me that the only way to stop it and to protect me, to protect everyone, to keep the family from tearing
itself apart, was for me to go away. That it would stop if he took me away, took me away to safety.”
“Who was it, Chantal?” said Monica. “Who was touching you? Who was hurting you?”
“You really don’t know.”
“No, I don’t. Who?”
“Which means it did stop. For everyone. Which is such a relief. Which means what I did was right. That leaving was right. For everyone.”
“Who was it?”
“My brother,” she said. “Our brother. It was Richard.”
“Richard?”
“And no one would stop him. It might have been jealousy, it might have been something he was born with, but no one would stop him. I wanted to kill him, to kill myself, until Theodore came along.”
“I don’t understand,” said Monica. “Richard?”
“He was so much bigger than me, so strong, and so angry. I couldn’t stop him, I just couldn’t.”
“Oh, you poor thing,” said Monica, slipping closer to Lena on the couch. “You poor, poor thing.”
She reached for her sister, she put her arms around her, pulled her close. The two women broke into tears together. The lights dimmed, the camera pulled back, the music swelled.