She had shoulder-length black hair and a thin dark Jewish face with prominent cheekbones. Tall, maybe five seven, with black eyes. It was hard to tell her age, but there was a sense about her of intelligent maturity which put her on my side of thirty.
She said, “Come in, Mr. Spenser. I’m Susan Silverman,” and came around the desk to shake hands. She was wearing a black silk blouse with belled sleeves and white slacks. The blouse was open at the throat, and there was a thin silver chain around her neck. Her breasts were good, her thighs were terrific. When she shook hands with me, I felt something click down back of my solar plexus.
I said hello without stammering and sat down.
“Why don’t you take off your coat?” she said.
“Well, it’s supposed to make me look taller,” I said.
“Sitting down?”
“No, I guess not,” I said and stood up and took it off.
She took it from me and hung it on a rack beside hers. Hers was white too, and the two coats overlapped on the rack. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.
“I don’t think you need to look taller, Mr. Spenser,” she said. When she smiled the color of her face seemed to heighten. “How tall are you?”
“Six one,” I said.
“Really? That’s surprising. I must admit you don’t look that tall.”
“Even with the raincoat?” I said.
“Even with that,” she said. “You’re so wide. Do you work with weights?”
“Yeah, some. How could you tell? Your husband lift?”
“Ex-husband,” she said. “Yes, he played tackle for Harvard and stayed with the weights afterward.”
Ex-husband! I felt the click again. She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. She had red polish on her fingernails and a thin silver bracelet around her left wrist. Small coiled earrings matched the bracelet and necklace. Her eyes had a dusting of blue shadow, and her lipstick matched the nail polish. Her teeth were very even and white, slightly prominent. Her hair was shiny and done in what we called a pageboy when I was in high school. There was just the slightest suggestion of laugh lines around her mouth.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Spenser?” she asked, and I realized I’d been staring at her.
“I’m trying to find Kevin Bartlett,” I said and handed her one of my cards. “Mr. Moriarty suggested you might be able to tell me something about him.”
“Have you talked to Mr. Moriarty already?” she said.
“In a manner of speaking. He seemed a little cautious.”
“Yes, he is. Public school administrators are often cautious. What did he tell you about Kevin?”
“That he came from a good family and lived in a nice house.”
“That’s all?”
“Yeah. I think I offended him.”
“Why?”
“Because he pouted and stamped his foot and sent me down here.”
She laughed. Her laugh sounded like I’d always imagined the taste of mead. It was resonant.
“You must have teased him,” she said.
“Well, a little.”
“Arthur does not respond well to teasing. But, about Kevin,” she said. “Do you want to ask me questions, or do you want me to hold forth on what I know and think?”
“You hold forth,” I said.
“Have you met Kevin’s parents? You must have.”
“Yes.”
“What do you think?”
“Bad. Role identity is screwed up, no real communication.
Probably a lot more than that, but I only met them twice. I think they probably drink too much.”
“Okay. I’ve met them several times and we agree.
Kevin’s a product of that. He’s a very intelligent kid, but he too has his roles tangled. And, at fifteen, going through adolescence, he still hasn’t resolved his Oedipal conflicts.
He’s got some problems, I think, with gender identification, and strong problems of hostility toward both parents for different reasons.”
“Are you suggesting he’s homosexual?” I asked.
“No, not necessarily, but I think he could go that way. A dominant, but largely absent mother, a successful, but essentially passive father. Strength seems associated with femininity, resentful submission with masculinity, and love, perhaps, with neither.”
