Turn of Mind (18 page)

You didn't think, for example, that perhaps she has reason to celebrate?
asks the older woman.
That something has happened that she considers a good thing?
Perhaps not news that every woman would welcome. But she isn't an ordinary
woman.

The younger man doesn't miss a beat. He is a lawyer with a growing reputation. This is what he is like in the courtroom, in the boardroom. There is no curveball he cannot catch, no supposed revelation that he does not appear to have intimate knowledge of beforehand.

My wife is no fool,
he says
.

But you might be
, the older woman says. She takes a sip of wine but doesn't take her eyes off him
.

I don't follow.

Power is a strange thing.

It is. But what does that have to do with this conversation?

They say knowledge is power,
says the older woman.

And that ignorance is bliss,
says the younger man, derisively
.

Does that mean you want this conversation to end?

The younger man considers.
No
, he says.
I want to see where you are going.

The younger woman speaks up:
Me too, actually.

The older man is the only one not getting it. The other three are facing off . The kids are squabbling over sand toys.

The younger man is the first to break the silence.
So she knows. I haven't
exactly been discreet. If she'd asked I would have told her. It's not important.
Nothing can touch what we have.

The younger woman relaxes. She is relieved by his reply, and the tension dissipates from her shoulders. She shrugs indifferently.
There was nothing
I wanted to ask. Nothing that was worth the bother of asking. I did a little
checking on my own. Found out what I needed to know. A trivial liaison, soon
to end. That was the end of it.

The younger man smiles, an odd, almost proud, smile.
Yes, our marriage
isn't so fragile.

It most certainly is not.

Ah,
says the older woman.
But this is not about the trivial. Not in the least.
Sex is banal. I didn't want to talk about sex. I wanted to talk about the thing
that either holds families together or tears them apart. Something much more
powerful than sex or even love. Money.

The younger woman stiffens again, her features becoming rigid.
Don't
do it,
she says.

The older woman addresses the younger man.
You lock your office door. You
lock your desk drawer inside a locked room. You keep your wife out. Why is that?

The kids, of course. There are important documents in there. I can't have evidence
of confidential memos scribbled over with a red crayon.

Because of the kids?

Because it's standard protocol when taking sensitive documents out of the office.

But what would someone find if they managed to circumvent your locked doors
and locked drawers?
the older woman asks.
What if someone knew you well
enough to know where you would hide the keys?

They wouldn't find anything that would interest anyone outside corporate financial litigation,
says the younger man
.

The older woman raises her right eyebrow. It seems like a practiced gesture somehow, a dramatic device used to control others.

The younger woman interrupts.
Now, that's not quite true.
She seems incensed by the younger man's dismissive tone.

The younger man meets her eyes.
And so?

And so,
says the younger woman, and repeats,
knowledge is power.

Seems like you relinquished a little of that power. To your good friend here. Why
on earth would you do that?
Cracks are appearing in his equanimity.

Seems like I did,
the younger woman says, without looking at the other woman
. Seemingly foolishly.

So?
asks the younger man, addressing the younger woman.
So what? What
are you going to do? Turn me in? That would be against your own interests.

Absolutely,
says the younger woman.
It was a struggle, but I decided to not
disturb the status quo. Not to confront you. This discovery was just a little curiosity
I took out of my pocket and looked at every once in a while. As my dear
friend here says, it was a power thing. It made me happy.

This was always about us, not just me,
the man says
.
He is gulping his wine. He reaches over and takes the bottle from the older man, who is frankly bewildered, and pours himself another full glass.
What I took will not be
missed. I made sure of that. I didn't hurt anyone, didn't rob children and orphans.
Only institutions have standards. Small amounts siphoned off over time.
They added up. But no harm done to any human. This will never come to light.
And it's for you as well as me.

I believe that,
says the younger woman.
I believe that you tell yourself that
and mean it sincerely.

And for the kids.

I believe that, too,
says the younger woman. She turns to the little girl, brushes sand from her forehead, smooths her hair. The boy is still engrossed with his shovel and pail. He is digging a hole to China. The discussion is over as far as the younger woman is concerned. She is ready to move on. But the older woman doesn't agree. She stands up.

But this is not just between you. It is a question of morality. This
. . .
activity, must
stop. Right here and now. No more juggling of books. No more victimless crime.

No one doubts that this is an absolute order. And no one doubts that the repercussions of disobeying it would be severe.

I pause the movie. Come back mentally to the world. I ask the old man, Why would Amanda do this thing? What was her motive?

Peter seems resigned to the direction the conversation has taken.
Who
knows?
he asks.
One never knew with Amanda. Revenge? Mischief ? Perhaps she
thought she was doing the right thing: preventing a serious crime. Or saving her friends
the humiliation of being caught, incarcerated. But you haven't finished the story.

I no longer need the film to guide me. The rest has formed itself in my mind.

Back at the beach, I say. The older man is upset. His world is being shaken.

Apologize!
he tells his wife.
Apologize for your appalling behavior. I don't care
how drunk you are, you don't wreck lives for the fun of it.

But the younger woman interrupts him, addresses the older woman directly.
No apologies are necessary because no apologies will be accepted. None
would be acceptable. You betrayed my trust.

You see?
the older woman says.
Trust does matter. Betrayal is a serious act.

The younger woman considers this.
Fair enough,
she says. She picks up a hard-boiled egg.
But seven hundred years ago I would have taken stronger
measures.

And what would they have been?
the older woman asks. She is amused.

I would have buried this under a waning moon in your yard, as medieval women
did with their enemies.

And
. . .
?

You would have commenced to rot.
The younger woman pauses.
Of course
you are already rotten in mind and spirit,
she says. Both men, the older and the younger, sit up and pay attention. This is serious. These are words that can't be unsaid.

This would pertain to the body. It would start inside. With the heart. Then
the other organs. You would start to stink out. The decay would reach your
outer epidermis. It would start to disintegrate. And the scavengers would take
care of the rest. Your eyes. Your genitalia. Your extremities—your ears, toes,
and fingers.

The older woman laughs at this. She seems delighted.
I always forget you
studied medieval history before medical school. What a potent combination!

This is not an anecdote,
the younger woman says.
It's a warning. You would
be well served to pay attention to it.
And she begins to put the picnic things away, as if a reasonable conversation between reasonable people has just concluded.

Magdalena is no longer writing. The notebook and pen lie in her lap.

What about the men? And the children? What were they doing while these
things were being said?
she asks.

They are the audience. The necessary audience. For these women are nothing if not expert dramatists.

But the children!

Yes, the children. Exactly.

But what happened next?
she asks.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. The effects of the wine wore off, they drove home together in one car, crowded elbow to elbow. The little girl was too young to have taken it in. The boy kept his own counsel. No adverse effects.

They arrived home, unpacked the car. The women kissed each other, kissed each other's husbands. The husbands shook hands. They went into their respective houses. And continued as if nothing had happened.

So your marriage wasn't over,
says Magdalena. It is not a question
.

Peter speaks.

It may have suffered a temporary hiccup. But no one moved out. No one served
papers. The younger man and woman continued to exhibit the same respectful
camaraderie. If it was an act, they performed it well. No one ever saw a crack in it.

What happened to the money? I take it that the
. . .
theft
. . .
or whatever it
was, stopped,
asks Magdalena.

Yes. There was never any scandal, no trial, no prison. But the couple ceased going on expensive trips, buying costly furnishings, rugs, artwork. Still, they continued to live seemingly happy lives.

And what about the two women?
asks Magdalena.

The same. It was as if the day had never happened. As if a group memory had been erased.
A folie en quatre
dissipated.

The bearded man speaks up.
And you remember,
he says to me.
Of all
things, this story survives.
He sighs heavily.
It'd be best if this conversation
hadn't taken place,
he says.

He gets up to leave, and something about the way he stands, favoring his right leg, causes something to spark. You're Peter, I say.

He sits down again.
That's right,
he says.
That's right.
He smiles. It is a lovely smile.

Peter! My dear, dear friend! I lean over and hug him. No, hold him. I have trouble letting go.

It's been years! I say. What made you stay away so long?

Actually, it's been just eighteen months since I left. But it's seemed like a long
time. I didn't have much reason to come back here. Not until
. . .
recent events.

You mean Amanda being murdered?

He gives a short laugh.
Yes, that.

How are you holding up?

Not great. Thanks for asking. It's funny—well, not funny, but naive—for people
to think that just because there's been a split all emotional connection is broken.

I know. I saw it all the time at the hospital. The divorced couples had the most touching scenes in the recovery room.

Magdalena touches my arm. I flinch and draw away.
It's time to get dressed,
she says.

I look down and realize I am still in my nightgown. I blush. Of course, I say. I'll be right down.

But something happens. At the top of the stairs I lose my bearings. There was an idea in the back of my mind. Some intent. Now gone. Just a dim hallway, lit only by light coming from open doors.

Through them I glimpse neatly made beds, sun streaming through windows. I feel a vein throbbing in my neck. I cannot get enough air. I reach my arms out straight, touch a wall, make contact with a rectangular plastic plate. I know this. The light switch. I flick it on. Royal blue walls. Photographs of smiling people. How can so many people be so happy all the time?

I flip down the switch, plunge everything into shadow. Up, illumination, down, despair. Up down. The satisfying, familiar click. I know what this is. I know what it does. My body begins to feel comfortable again, my breathing evens out. I continue what I'm doing until the blond woman comes and leads me away.

Some things do stick. I do what my neurologist friend Carl suggests and scan my memory.
Just see what pops up,
he says.
See where it leads you.
Exercise those neurons.

Surprising things. Not what I expected. No weddings, no funerals. No births, no deaths. Small moments. My cat, Binky, up a tree when I was five. A pair of my underwear blowing off the clothesline in the wind and into Billy Plenner's yard next door when I was in seventh grade— something that he never let me forget. Finding a five-dollar bill on the floor of the roller-skating rink and feeling rich. Rolling in the grass in Lincoln Park with Fiona, nine years old.