The Ditto List (18 page)

After a sigh he hoped would wake her but didn't, D.T. went back to the bedroom. As he sank to the bed the phone rang once again. He started to pick it up quickly, then allowed it to issue three more yells at Barbara.

“Mr. Jones. I was afraid you wouldn't be home. What did you think of Esther Preston? Isn't she wonderful?”

D.T. propped himself against the headboard and balanced his drink on his belly. In the process, he noticed the Rorschachian stain on the wall beside the bed and tried to remember why Barbara had thrown coffee at him. “Yes, she is, Miss Holloway,” he said. “She is just as wonderful as you described.” He couldn't come up with it. Barbara was so angry at him so often.

“I don't know how much she told you about her situation—probably not enough—but it is truly desperate. She has this list of state institutions she's been calling to see which ones have openings in case she has to give up her house? She's put herself on
waiting lists
, Mr. Jones. Did she tell you that?”

“I know she's in trouble financially, Miss Holloway. Unfortunately, that's not the issue here. Misfortune seldom breeds its remedy.”

“What
are
you going to do for her?” Rita Holloway challenged bluntly. “Did you think of a way to get that pompous bastard to give her enough of his obscene wealth to keep her out of the poorhouse?”

“It's not that easy,” D.T. said. “First of all, Mrs. Preston doesn't want to sue him; she doesn't think she has a case. Second of all, as of now she's absolutely right. She has no case at all that I'm aware of.”

Silence. “So does that mean you're not going to do
anything?
”

“What it means is that
you're
going to have to do something.”

“What do you mean?”

“The only way we'll persuade her to let me file against her husband is if we come up with clear and convincing evidence that the guy screwed her to the wall at the time of their divorce.”

“What kind of evidence, exactly?”

“The only claim I can think of that might pay off is one that alleges Dr. Preston had more assets than he disclosed at the time, assets that she would have been entitled to share had a court known of their existence. Fraudulent concealment, is what the lawyers call it.
In re Marriage of Moondick
.”

“What?”

“That's the leading case.”

“Sounds good,” Rita Holloway bubbled. “Where can we get that kind of stuff?”

“What do you mean ‘we,' Florence Nightingale? If there's digging to do, someone besides me is going to have to do it since I don't have the time, the money, or the inclination to do it on my own hook. So what do you say, Ms. Marple? If I tell you where to look are you ready to start looking?”

She didn't hesitate a whit. “What do I do?”

“Plan to spend a lot of time at city hall over the next few weeks, for a start. Check the assessor's office, to see if Dr. Preston was the legal owner of any real property back in '65. Also check the recorder's office. They have grantor-grantee indexes, the people there will show you how to use them. See if he bought or sold any property between 1960 and 1965. Also call the secretary of state's office. See if Preston was listed as an officer or director of any corporations in the state at the time. If he was, run the corporate names through the indexes. Check the plaintiff and defendant tables in the clerk's office. See if he got sued for anything or did some suing. Talk to Mrs. Preston. Find out if he had a stock broker or investment advisor in those days. Find out where she and her husband banked. Find out the names of the other doctors in the medical group her husband was in, then find out where they are today. But don't contact them. Just give me the names and current addresses. Also, ask Mrs. Preston if she knows where any copies of their tax returns for those years are. That should keep you out of trouble for a month or two.”

“What are
you
going to be doing all this time?” Rita Holloway asked skeptically.

He raised his brows. “Me? For Mrs. Preston? Not a goddamned thing. You let me know if you decide to throw in the towel, Miss Holloway. So I can get in touch with Legal Aid and see if
they're
in the mood for a lost cause.”

“Oh, I don't throw towels, Mr. Jones. I just use them to dry my hands and once in a while to mop up blood.”

He saw a bulldog in his mind, one with a grin like hers. “Tell me something, Miss Holloway. What is MS, anyway?”

Her voice changed quickly, from urgent yips to a throaty drone. “MS is a disease of the myelin and the cells that produce myelin. Myelin is the insulation, so to speak, that covers the nerve fibers. When the disease hits, the myelin falls off and is replaced by sclerotic plaques, or a kind of scar tissue. Then the nerves short-circuit, creating a long list of problems of the kind Mrs. Preston suffers from. Half a million people suffer from it.”

“What causes it?”

“That's the problem, of course. No one knows. Current research is centered on the immune system. The most promising recent development is the isolation of the gene that codes for myelin protein.”

“You mean it may be a virus?”

“Yes. Of a type.”

“No cure?”

“No, although removal of white cells from the blood has given some promising indications. But the strange thing with MS is that there is frequently a complete and spontaneous remission. For entirely unknown reasons. Also, of course, there can be a worsening of symptoms, occasionally to the point of death.”

“Nasty.”

“Most. Mrs. Preston is on the bad side of the ledger, unfortunately. What change there is seems in her case to be invariably for the worse.”

“Sad.”

“You don't know the half of it, Mr. Jones. I suppose it was pretty warm in her house while you were there?”

“A little.”

“Heat exacerbates the symptoms of MS. Brings on episodes, as they're called. Spasticity. Incontinence. Weakness. Backache. I'm sure Esther was in a great deal of discomfort while you were there, Mr. Jones, though I'm also sure you never sensed it.”

“No. She seemed quite comfortable.”

“Well, don't be fooled. Euphoria is a symptom of the disease, too, oddly enough.”

“You're kidding.”

“No. Most of the time I think it's a benefit, but sometimes it makes the patients do less than they should for themselves. Esther, for example, won't let me buy her an air conditioner.”

“I don't think that's euphoria, Miss Holloway. I think that's pride.”

“Of course it is.” Rita Holloway paused, as if to calculate how much truth he could take. “You know what she does almost every evening?”

“What?”

“Reads books aloud. Onto tapes for the blind. You know what she does with ten percent of the money she gets for her disability?”

“What?”

“Gives it to her church. You know what she does every Saturday afternoon?”

“Give me a break, Miss Holloway. If I'm going to represent a saint I'd just as soon not know about it. It might cramp my style.”

“I just don't want you to slough this off, Mr. Jones.”

“We'll see what we can do, Miss Holloway.”

“You bet we will, Mr. Jones.
You bet we will
.”

If only Sol would give him odds.

As he replaced the receiver a groan crawled toward him from the living room. He dog-eared another page and trudged reluctantly to meet it. At times like these, after he had committed what she viewed as treason, Barbara invariably sought either a slashing confrontation or a rending lust. D.T. definitely was not prepared for the former, and just at the moment the latter sounded oddly repellent as well.

When he reached the living room she was sitting up on the couch, the afghan that had covered her bare legs now bunched at her feet, which were shod in grimy waffled running shoes. She rubbed her eyes and shook her boyish head. Given her daily regimen, he kept expecting her to turn cadaverous, but she kept looking like Mitzi Gaynor. He wondered if it was the bean curd or the tofu that did it.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi.”

“Is it okay I'm here?”

“Sure. Why wouldn't it be?”

“I saw the note.”

“Oh. Lucinda. She's a client. She got beat up by her husband last night. She slept on the deck.”

“Where is she now?”

“Home.”

Barbara woke up. “You mean you let her go
back
to the bastard?”

D.T. raised a peaceable hand. “No, no. She's with her mom and dad. In Reedville.”

“Where's that?”

“In the valley.”

“Must be a thousand degrees out there.”

“In the shade.”

They paused, wondering how to get to where their history dictated they had to go. D.T. didn't feel it was his obligation to explain his failure to pick her up the night before. At least not until she asked about it. The more he thought about it the more certain he was that he was not only blameless but triumphant. He had done something nice; he had saved Lucinda. Of course Barbara doubtlessly felt a similar rectitude. Whatever she had done with Bernie she had done with provocation. Barbara's every breath was the result of provocation.

“Is that where you were?” Barbara asked him suddenly, while he was scripting the impending battle. “When you were supposed to be taking me to dinner?”

“With Lucinda. Right. And Doc Faber. At the hospital. She called just as I was about to leave for your place. He broke her nose. I was afraid he'd killed her baby, too.”

“What baby?”

“The one she's carrying. The husband likes to punch at it. I forgot all about you till it was too late. I called about eleven but you were gone. I'm sorry,” he added lamely, quickly wishing he hadn't.

“Me, too, D.T. I should have known it was something important.”

She had yielded without a struggle. Knowing he was in the right she had acted reasonably, more reasonably than he deserved. D.T. felt his body unwrap with the thought.

Casting about for an appropriate reaction he became a drizzle of apology. “I could have called sooner. I just forgot. It all happened so fast, I … On
top
of it all, her husband tried to run us off the road while I was driving her to the hospital.”

Her eyes popped. “You're not serious.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Did you call the police?”

“No.”

“Why ever not?”

“She wouldn't let me.” D.T. hurried on. “Did you go wine tasting?”

She hesitated. “Yes.”

“How was it?”

“Fine.”

“How's Bernie?”

“Fine. He knows a lot about wine.”

“I'll bet he does. How much does he know about us?”

“Nothing, D.T. You know I don't talk about us. Not outside a structured context.”

“Good. I guess.”

“We stopped at a nude beach on the way back, D.T.” Barbara struggled for a hustler's smile. “Want to see my sunburn? It's in an interesting place.”

“Maybe later.”

“
Definitely
later.” Barbara gave him her lusty look, the one that activated levers in his cock.

“You want something to eat?” D.T. asked.

She shook her head. “We stopped for tempura after the beach. I think I'll go run some of it off. I feel all bound up.”

“How far?”

“Three miles, maybe? I'll be back in twenty minutes. Why don't you fix yourself something and when I get back we can play.” She stood and faced him and laid her wrists atop his shoulders. “I really am sorry, D.T. I shouldn't have gone with Bernie; I don't even like him. He thinks women are turned on by dirty words and money. So, well, you know how I am when I think you've screwed me.”

He knew. She was a walking seismograph, hyperalert to signs of insult and neglect, and since she lived in a world that specialized in those commodities she was always uncovering ample evidence of deeds that required a militant response. Barbara wrote letters to congresspeople and to editors and to the makers of everything from tampons to breakfast cereal, protesting less-than-pristine courses of commercial or political conduct. She asked strangers to put out cigarettes. She urged the obese to run and to eschew red meat. She was a dogmatic evangelist on a dozen subjects. She spent several nights a week at workshops run by women who called themselves facilitators and held degrees from land-grant colleges that somehow entitled them to tell others how to live their lives. She urged D.T. to take bee pollen daily, and to ejaculate as frequently. She held nothing to be as sacred as her body, unless it was her sex.

Barbara ran twenty miles a week and ate only fruits and nuts on weekdays. On Tuesdays and Fridays she pumped iron. On Wednesdays she fasted. She did not shave her shins or beneath her arms but regularly trimmed her pubis. She stemmed the flow of menstrual blood with sponges from some idyllic sea. She took a handful of vitamin supplements daily, and drank steer's blood when she could get it. She read only fiction penned by women and laughed only at jokes that slandered men. She knew six poems of Sylvia Plath's by heart. She thought the accepted usage of pronouns in the language was criminally inspired, and refused to say anything bad or even funny about lesbians. She tried to have sex at least four times a week. She had no objection to monogamy in theory, but she often proclaimed that she knew of no marriage in which the wife wasn't getting regularly raped by her mate. With the possible exception of the day her tubes were tied, her own divorce—which D.T. had handled a year before he began to handle more of her—was the touchstone of her life. She thought D.T. was a truly special man in a world full of macho creeps, except on days when she thought he was the biggest chauvinist asshole who ever walked the earth. Still, he thought she wanted him to bend his knee and risk a second ditto.