I ignore his attempt to make me feel guilty. I was not much more than a kid myself when Franny came to live with me, and I did the best I could to take care of her. My parental skills were lacking—I know that; I was not perfect, but I did my best. I jog on, not taking his bait.
“As for the oral sex,” he says, “she was truly dreadful when we first met. Clumsy, ineffectual, artless—not to mention downright dangerous. I had to endure the agony of her sharp, scraping teeth more than a few times.” He laughs softly. “But she was extremely willing to please, and a fast learner. Once I taught her what to do, she was excellent. I’d even go so far as to say she had quite a knack for it. Of course, the inducement I offered her probably had something to do with her willingness; she quickly learned that the consequences of not pleasing me far outweighed any reluctance she might have had. As a result, she became quite adept.”
I withhold my anger, keeping his cold words at a distance. He wants to reduce me to tears or anger or guilt. His machinations are transparent, and I am glad we’re jogging; the physical exertion diverts some of the anger I feel. He is unable to see the effect his words have on me.
“What consequences were those?” I ask.
“Not as harsh as you’re imagining. Remember, she was in love with me. She wanted to please me.”
Instead, I remember her diary, how he tied her to the dining room chair, legs spread, to punish her for a minor transgression, for wearing a red satin robe.
“What consequences?” I repeat, but he ignores me. We reach an old, concrete bridge and circle back. A blue farm truck with a wooden slat railing in the back rattles by. It is the first automobile on the road to pass us this morning.
“That’s enough for today,” he says. “Why don’t you tell me something about yourself?”
With exasperation, I sigh. The pounding of my Reeboks, as rhythmic as a beating heart, accentuates the silence. We jog down the road, neither of us speaking. Broken asphalt and small clods of dirt crunch and crumble beneath my shoes. Rameau trots along at M.’s heels, never veering from his side.
“What do you want to know?” I say finally.
“Everyone has a secret, Nora. Everyone has unresolved issues, problems they don’t, or can’t, deal with. Franny seemed to think you didn’t have any; I believe differently. I want to know yours.”
I shrug, unwilling to share anything with this man. I find his question intrusive, and his manner irritating. Over dinner a few nights ago, he quizzed me on the details of my life since Franny died—a leave of absence from the Bee, moving to Davis, a new boyfriend, occasional freelance work—and my sister, according to M., had filled him in on my life previous to her death. What more can he want? A long, white sedan with dried mud splattered on the side speeds by.
“Talk to me,” he says.
I am silent again, uncomfortable with the direction the conversation is taking. We jog past a row of trees lining the road—old country trees, some asymmetrical from a previous disease or infestation, or perhaps from a natural force, the limbs wind-torn or lightning struck. In the gray dawn, they appear ghostly and skeletal, the trunks weathered and toughlooking.
“Tell me about the men in your life,” he says, trying to encourage me. “Franny said you’re aloof with them, that you had numerous boyfriends but were never serious about any of them. She didn’t find it strange, though—she thought you were strong, courageous, much too independent to rely on a man for anything. She envied you your many boyfriends—she wanted one of her own—and even though she didn’t agree with your easy-come-easy-go philosophy regarding men, she didn’t find it strange.” He turns to me and smirks. “You were a feminist, a trailblazer, an independent soul,” he says mockingly. “She admired you for that.”
He jogs a few yards without speaking, then says, “Franny was not an exceptionally insightful woman. I think her admiration was misplaced. I think there’s another reason for your self-imposed unapproachability, something of which she was totally unaware. Tell me.”
“There is no reason. And I’m not aloof with my current boyfriend. I’m very close to him.”
“A natural response—and only temporary. You lose your sister, you turn to someone else for comfort. It won’t last.”
I feel the anger rise in my cheeks. “You know nothing about me,” I say. “Or my boyfriend.”
“Forget about him. He’s of no interest to me. I want to know why you’ve never been in love.”
I shake my head. “I’ve had lots of boyfriends,” I tell him, looking at the ground.
“But never been in love.” His voice is insistent.
“I’m in love now.”
He throws me a cold glance. “Okay,” he says, but I can tell he doesn’t believe me. “You’re in love now—for the first time, at thirty-five. Rather odd, don’t you think?”
“No, not odd. I just never found the right man.”
“You’re lying. There’s more to it than that.”
“I was busy with my career,” I say. “And before that, with college. 1 didn’t have time for an intense relationship, or the inclination. I didn’t want to get seriously involved with anyone.”
M. is silent for a moment. Then he looks at me. “Now tell me the real reason,” he says.
I am quiet. I know the answer to that question—I’ve had years to think about it—but he’s the last person in whom I’d confide. We jog past the Sierra Sod building, our run nearly over, and turn left onto Montgomery.
He waits for me to respond. When I don’t, he says, “Franny wanted desperately to be loved, but until I came along, she had no one. You had numerous boyfriends, but refused to allow yourself to get close to any of them. You don’t see it now, but the two of you are flip sides of the same coin. You’re more alike than you can imagine.”
This makes me smile to myself: he may have guessed correctly that I have a few hidden problems, as do all people, but there are no two women more different than Franny and me. He’s way off base, and he doesn’t even know it; he’s grappling, trying to get a hook in me and coming up short.
“Maybe I didn’t get close to any of my boyfriends because I just wanted to have fun—no serious involvement, no commitment, just fun and games.”
“Maybe,” he says, “but I doubt it. You’re holding back on me, Nora.”
A bicyclist in blue bike shorts and a white top rides by, nodding to us beneath his bike helmet. We are back where we started, on the corner of Montgomery and Rosario. M. stops, and so does Rameau. Panting, the dog’s tongue lolls on one side of his mouth.
I put my hands on my hips and face M., looking him in the eye. “You don’t need to know anything about me,” I say. Then I shrug. “There’s nothing to know.”
My sweatshirt is soaked at the neck, and drops of perspiration dribble down my forehead, which I wipe with my sleeve. M., neither sweating nor breathing heavily, looks as if he’s about to begin a jog, not end it.
I look down the road. From here, I can see the front of my house, and parked at the curb is Franny’s black fin-tailed Cadillac. It’s been there since she died, and now the battery is dead and it doesn’t run. I could never bring myself to drive it, but I couldn’t sell it, either. At first, the neighbors complained about its unsightly presence, its sheer enormity, its ugliness, but when they realized it belonged to Franny, the complaints stopped. Now we—everyone in the neighborhood—pretend it doesn’t exist. The car just sits there, day in, day out, like a bad memory that won’t go away.
“You haven’t told me anything about Franny,” I say. “She could talk to you and give good head—so what? I want to know what she left out of her diary.”
“You shall,” M. says, “you’ll learn more than you want to.”
He turns to leave, but I grab him by the arm. “Now,” I say. “I want to know something now.”
M. removes my hand. Curtly, he says, “Curiosity didn’t kill the cat—obstinacy did. Something Franny never learned. Something you’d better learn before it’s too late.”
My breath catches. Was that why he killed her? Her stubbornness over something? But what? A ripple of fear, chillingly cold, goes through my body. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I say.
M. just smiles, then he and Rameau jog up Montgomery, leaving me behind.
On the northeast corner of Eighth Street and Pole Line Road, secluded behind a tall, dense wall of dark green shrubbery, lies the Davis Cemetery. It is hidden away, as if it were a family secret, something not to be exposed.
I drive through the Eighth Street entrance and follow the curved, asphalt road to Franny’s plot. The road was recently paved, the surface a bituminous black. This is not one of those old, run-down cemeteries with cracked headstones and bare, stippled walkways and dirty tombs cramped together like row houses in a high-density, low-rent neighborhood. Here, neatly trimmed lawn, stretching out like a gently waving blanket in the wind, completely covers the sloped land, and shade trees are scattered about, interspersed among the grave sites.
I park along the edge of the road close to Franny’s plot, in the newer section of the cemetery, and get out of my car. I just attended a Saturday-morning Jazzercise class, and I’m still wearing my workout clothes—a red leotard, black Capri tights, and a zip-up hooded sweatshirt. The sky is blue and flawless, one of those late-winter, crisp morning skies, with an icy coldness in the air that seeps through your pores and tightens your skin. I walk across the lawn, past granite and marble headstones, blades of newly cut grass sticking to my tennis shoes. A half-dozen birds, magpies, with shiny black feathers and snowy-white bellies, hop on the lawn, searching for insects, not bothered by my presence. I am the only person here this morning.
I stop in front of Franny’s gravestone, a simple marker flush to the ground. My mother and father and Billy are to her right, and an empty space is on her left. When my parents died, I was surprised to learn my father had purchased a family plot, five spaces. What had motivated him to secure sites for my brother, Franny, and me? Didn’t it cross his mind that we would marry and move away and choose to be buried next to our spouses, most likely in a different city, a different state, even? Sometimes, I make light of his decision—perhaps there was a sale, two plots for the price of one. Other times, his prescience gives me pause. I see the empty grave site, and I wonder if I shall lie there, like Franny and Billy, without a future, our family eternally intact but without heirs to guarantee perpetuity.
I close my eyes. The smell of winter is still in the air—the green smell of wet grass from yesterday’s rain; the lingering, ashy odor of an extinguished blaze in a nearby fireplace. I think of what M. said.
Obstinacy killed the cat—something Franny never learned
. What did she do that was so obstinate that he would kill her over it? Since then, he’s refused to elaborate on his statement. I told the police what he said, that he practically admitted to killing her, but they said it was only hearsay, that they needed physical evidence to go after M.
Opening my eyes, looking at Franny’s grave, I realize I came here for strength and guidance. I’ve not made much progress with M. I jog with him three days a week—when Ian has not stayed overnight at my house—and I no longer have trouble keeping up with him, but the information he gives me about Franny is inconsequential. Instead, he wastes my time, quizzing me on
my
life,
my
beliefs,
my
feelings—of which I tell him nothing. I’m an intensely private person, and I don’t share my life easily with other people. And I see the way he looks at me; I know what’s on his mind. He wants to fuck me—a terrible prospect, but it would be less intimidating than giving him bits and pieces of my soul. I could use his desire to my advantage.
Suddenly, I know what I’m going to do. I suppose I knew all along. Kneeling down, I run my fingers lightly across Franny’s gravestone. My fingertips read the etched inscription as if it were braille; the cold letters—which render a premature, chiseled finality to her life—exude an unsettling chill that travels the length of my spine. I promise her, once more, that I shall find her killer.
In his den, M. has one of those large sectional sofas in a reddish-brown color, chestnut, that wrap around a wall. The lights are dim, the mood ersatz romantic, and he sits opposite me in an easy chair.
I dressed carefully for this evening, and I look good in an eggplant-purple dress that clings to my body. A zipper starts at the V-neck and runs all the way to the hem. Underneath, when M. gets past the zipper, he’ll find a lace push-up bra and thong bikini panties, a garter belt and nylons, all in black. Tonight, I am here to seduce.
I slip off my high heels and lean back on the sofa, putting my legs up on the cushions. If M. thinks he can string me along for months, doling out inconsequential facts about Franny, he is wrong. And if he thinks he can emotionally overwhelm me the way he did my sister, he is wrong again. Men are not that difficult to understand. I’ve controlled all the men in my life, and I can control M. By the time I’m through with him, he’ll tell me everything I need to know.
“You want to fuck me,” I say.
M. does not reply, but I see one eyebrow lift. He has a drink in his hand, a martini, and he raises it to his lips. The light is behind him and a shadow covers his face, filling in the contours, hiding his eyes. He’s wearing a dark shirt, something soft and silky, and, sitting in the shadow, he looks vaguely mysterious. I see an image of him with a knife in his hand, carving my sister’s torso. Feeling a sharp tingle of misgiving, I bring a hand to my stomach.
“Playing the seductress, Nora? That’s rather transparent, don’t you think? I expected more from you, something not so obvious.”
“Sorry to disappoint,” I say, taking a sip of my drink, scotch and water, to wash the image of Franny away, to bolster my courage. “But I’ve always found sex to be the most direct route to a man’s …” I hesitate.
“A man’s what?”
I shrug. “Mind, heart, soul, pocketbook. Whatever.”
He leans forward and sets his drink on the table beside him. “And what would your new boyfriend think about this philosophy of yours?”