‘Mother eventually finds out, but, amazingly, she doesn’t object. In fact, she tells her older son, whom she knows to be a practicing homosexual, “Why can’t you be more like your brother?”?’
Ronald stopped there, his eyes moving down and to the left as he retrieved a memory. I watched his tongue wash across his lips and his eyes harden, but his voice was almost without inflection when he resumed speaking.
‘The maid is impregnated by the second son a few months later, even though his mother supplies him with boxes of condoms, condoms in a wide variety of colors, textures and flavors. Predictably, the mother becomes enraged when the second son reveals his love’s delicate condition. Predictably, she berates her hapless son. Fade to black. Ho-hum.
‘Enter a new actor, a catalyst, a man to stir the pot, to ratchet up the tension. He is Aslan Khalid, the entrepreneur who supplied the little maid to the Portola family. Initially, Aslan is as outraged as Margaret, insisting that his property has been damaged and compensation is in order. But then, in the course of a single hour, he abruptly switches tactics. Maybe, he tells Margaret, the little maid should be allowed to give birth. The resulting child would carry David Portola’s DNA and be entitled, not only to his support, but to his lifestyle.
‘Much discussion naturally follows, a period of bargaining, of hard, hard bargaining, until both parties agree that abortion, followed by a liberal outflow of capital from the mother to the entrepreneur, is the only rational solution to their mutual problem.
‘From that day forward, the pressures on Mynka, when she flatly refuses to consider an abortion, are unrelenting. Her religious objections — so sorry, God wouldn’t approve — are instantly dismissed. She’s beaten and threats are made against her life. Not only by the procurer, but by the mother as well.
‘It’s as hard for David. He’s still a child, barely seventeen and home-schooled. Except for Riverside Park and the few clubs Margaret let him join, he knows nothing of the outside world.
‘Margaret assaults him by the hour, a two-pronged attack designed to sap his will. The first attack is entirely personal. She tells him the little maid is less than nothing, a toy to be discarded once the novelty wears off. He loves her only because he, too, is less than nothing, an utter failure whose manhood is a lost cause.
‘?“Why can’t you put it together, Jerk?” she demands to know. “That buck-toothed whore doesn’t love you. How could she when you are what you are? No, that bitch smelled money all the way from Poland. Just find a rich asshole, a punk kid who’s never seen a woman naked, and get him hot enough to screw you without a rubber. Face it, Jerk, you don’t even know if the kid’s yours.”
‘At the same time, she offers him a way out, a solution. If she wishes, she explains, she can have Mynka shipped to a country where doctors perform abortions without asking too many questions. With Aslan, it’s only a matter of money. And, of course, once shipped out, Mynka will never return.
‘?“Do you understand what I’m telling you, David? You’ll never see her again. It’ll be the same as if she died.
‘?“But that doesn’t have to happen. Things can go back to the way they were. You can screw the little Polack from morning to night. In fact, you can even pretend that you’ll live happily ever after. All Mynka has to do is refrain from giving birth to a child bearing Portola genes, a child the family will be supporting for the next twenty fucking years.”
‘The saddest part is that David and Mynka can never return to “the way it was,” to those first hot days when their bodies and emotions were perfectly synchronized. David probably knows this, but knowing and accepting are two different things. And David is so young, so isolated. He wants to believe the past can be restored and who can blame him? Besides, the child in Mynka’s womb isn’t the issue. The fetus will be dealt with, one way or the other, of that he’s certain. The issue is whether David and Mynka will be forever parted.
‘Eventually, though he claims to love her still, David joins the merry chorus: abort, abort, abort. Do it, let it be over, let equilibrium be restored. He begins to wonder if Margaret isn’t right, if he isn’t being played for a fool. Surely, if Mynka loved him, she’d do this little thing rather than be parted from him forever.
‘Love, hope, resentment, suspicion, rage. David has always been volatile and now these emotions rocket through his brain almost from moment to moment, seizing him by turn. When he’s alone with his beloved, his heart melts. When Margaret is present, his blood boils. At all times, he’s afraid. He’s afraid that he’ll be left all alone, that he’ll again become a trapped and helpless child.
‘That particular Friday is one of the worst. Aslan will come to fetch the little maid on Saturday afternoon and Margaret wants the whole mess over and done with. Twice during the day, she slaps Mynka. Then the dinner is late, the soup tepid, the roast charred, the souffle too rich, the coffee burnt.
‘Finally, toward the very end of the meal, Margaret again becomes violent. David makes a half-hearted attempt to intervene, but finally backs away. Mynka is dragged to the cold room and forced inside. I’m watching, of course — watching is the only thing I’m really good at — and I find myself wondering if David will find the courage to at least open the door. He’s too strong for Margaret, even at seventeen. He can stop this if he wants to.
‘But then, I’m also strong enough to make my will felt, yet I sit and watch, all the while molding the events into a single, seamless anecdote I intend to share with my friends.
‘?“I’ll let her out when I’m ready,” Margaret tells David. “And you, Ronald, you make sure Jerk doesn’t open that door. If he does, I’ll beat the child out of that bitch myself.”
‘Jerk is beyond himself. As the seconds tick by, he begins to sob. He has to do something, but he doesn’t know what. He paces back and forth, toward the cold room, away from the cold room. He has to let her out. He can’t let her out. She has to abort her child. She won’t abort her child.
‘Ten minutes pass, then twenty. The emergency buzzer rings again and again. Help me, help me, help me.
‘When Jerk can stand it no longer, he yanks the door open and Toad comes forth on her hands and knees, shivering uncontrollably. Jerk begs her: “Please, please, please. You have to. You have to.”
‘I’m sitting at the kitchen table, watching, waiting. I know that Jerk has gone over the edge. I know because I’ve been to the edge so many times myself. The pressure is tearing Jerk apart and he has to relieve it. If not, he will explode, literally, into a million pieces. He hops around Toad as if the floor is hot. He groans and pounds his hand into the wall until his knuckles bleed. “You’ve got to,” he keeps repeating. “You’ve got to.”
‘Then it’s done. A cast-iron pot, an antique, sits against the wall only a few steps from where Toad kneels. Also cast iron, a ladle rests inside the pot. Jerk doesn’t hesitate once he’s made up his mind. There is no moment of indecision. He grabs the ladle, raises it up, brings it down.
‘Toad collapses without a word of reproach. Maybe she knows it’s coming, maybe she’s known all along. Jerk looks down at her for a moment, at the little river of blood that makes its way toward his feet. Then he drops the ladle, raises his head and howls at the ceiling. He doesn’t stop until Margaret comes downstairs, until she steps into the room and says, “Do you have any idea how much this is going to cost us?”?’
THIRTY-THREE
Adele walked into the room and directly up to Ronald, ignoring me altogether. ‘You have the right to remain silent,’ she told him. ‘Should you waive that right, anything you say can be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to be represented by an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you.’
This was the big surprise. Only Ronald didn’t look all that shocked. When he turned to me, his lips were pursed, his eyes flat and impenetrable. ‘I don’t get it,’ he said. ‘I thought we understood each other.’
‘You did a good job, Ronnie,’ Adele said. ‘You’ve convinced me that you were in the room when Mynka Chechowski was killed. But the other part, the part about who swung that ladle? How do I know you’re not covering up for your mother? How do I know you didn’t swing it yourself?’
With no choice, Ronald turned to Adele. ‘Margaret wasn’t there and I’m just not capable.’
‘That’s good, La Bamba. That’ll work fine. You’ll get up on that old witness stand and tell the jury, “I’m so, so sensitive. I couldn’t possibly have committed such a horrible crime. Please acquit me.”?’
Ronald took a moment to consider his situation, then said, ‘What if I deny this conversation ever took place?’
‘Too late. We’ve recorded every word.’
