tongue wagging its way into me. For a moment, I thought I was going mad, mixing my lovers up.
On the way home, I pounded the steering wheel. If J can make love as tenderly as T, then what do I need T for? But maybe T can make love as harshly as J. Could I train him to? Could I cross-train these guys, make them interchangeable?
Must ask R about this.
What kind of a slut am I? I wonder. Am I nuts or just perverse?
Fascinating! And I find I'm beginning to respect her for dealing with Waldo in such a magnificent sangfroid. Seems to me she beats him at his own game.
But the following day, August 8, she receives another envelope. If Waldo sent it, he probably did so prior to their Thursday lunch.
Friday
A rubber tied in the middle full of – yuk! I immediately threw it in the trash. Then I called W, told him what had just arrived. ‘If it really is semen,’ I told him, ‘I'm sure it isn't his.’ ‘Now why do you say that, love?’ ‘‘Cause I'm sure he's impotent, an impotent little toad. He couldn't produce a bag of scum if he wanted to. It's probably diluted mayonnaise.’
Long silence. ‘I've been thinking about this since we spoke yesterday, and the more I've thought about it the clearer it is to me it has to be a woman.’
‘Now why do you say that?’ I asked, taking a page from R.
‘It's more than just being catty, love. There's something definitely female-cruel about those letters. Diabolically cruel, I might add. Strikes me this person is some kind of witch.’
'Well, dear, I think it's a man, and he's probably a fruit, too. You know what they're like W. I mean, a man as worldly as you.’
‘Are you trying to tell me something, love?’
‘I'm just saying I know it's a man, a pathetic sick excuse for one. Sending me a scumbag filled with yuk! Did he think I'd feel threatened? Me! Barb Fulraine! No, dear, it only makes me laugh!’
‘Well, love, go tell your shrink all about it.’ Pause. ‘I wonder if it's him. Maybe he's got a crush on you. Wouldn't surprise me, you know, since everyone else around seems to.’
On Monday, August 11, more neurotic fissures open up in her already fragile analytic relationship with Dad:
Monday
At session, told R about the second condom, why I think it's W who sent it, what we've said to each other back and forth, and what I think he's trying to do.
‘He wants me to confide in him, tell him all my secrets. He can't stand it that I come here. He considers you his rival. That's why he said it wouldn't surprise him if you were the sender.’
‘Do you think the man's dangerous?’
‘No. What he's doing is cowardly.’
‘Now you're trying to infuriate him?’
‘That's right. I want to provoke him, make him go too far. Then, if I'm successful, I'll have him cold. I might even be able to file criminal charges against him.’
‘I think sometimes in our sessions you've tried to provoke me, make me go too far.’
‘Why would I want to do that?’
‘I think it's the way you play people. You mentioned that there's been some trouble between T and you. Want to talk about it?’
‘No! I want to talk about my dream. Rather, I want you to talk about it. Solve it for me, Dr. R! Release me from it! Do that and I'll be forever in your debt.’
He tried. I was truly touched, even though I didn't buy much of what he said. It all goes back, he believes, to Mom and Blackjack. Pretty good hunch, I guess. When we parted, I saw something caring and sorrowful in his eyes. Touched again, I thanked him for all he's done for me. ‘Sometimes I get so mad at you,’ I told him, ‘but you know it's not personal. It's my rage at my father transposed to you. Anyway, I just want you to know how grateful I am for all the efforts you've made with me and for putting up with all my shit.’
‘Thank you for saying that,’ he said.
In the car driving home, it suddenly occurred to me that my horsemanship is such an important part of my identity that it's inevitable that anything important to me would be dramatized in my dreams in terms of riding and horses. I also thought that maybe this analysis idea wasn't so smart after all, that I'm going to have to reconsider going on with it after the first of the year and that maybe I'd do just as well going back to card readers and psychics.
Tuesday
This time the little squirt went too far! And gave himself away! He sent a baggie containing tender, long, blond girlish head hairs mixed with short, rough, curly black ones, the latter presumably pubic. By this he's telling me my worst fear has been realized – Belle's being used as a sex slave in a brothel. But what the little stinker doesn't know is that there're only three people on this earth with whom I've shared my fear: J, R, and himself! So that settles it. W deserves to be strung up by his balls, but that would be too good for him. He'd love all the attention he'd get, the martyrdom.
Still I'm relieved. Now that I'm certain it's him, I don't feel menaced anymore. Rather a sense of clarification, that this is how things stand. A feeling of vindication, too, coupled with a feeling that now the power's swung to me, it's all in my hands now.
Later, at the club, I thrashed Greta 6-1 6-0. And she thinks she's my rival for the Woman's Cup! Feeling her hatred out on the court only encouraged me to battle harder!
Doris called from Florida. I told her about the letters. She wasn't too interested until I told her who sent them. The she got interested. ‘What're you going to do about this?’ ‘Call him on it, call the man to account.’ ‘Better be careful, Barb,’ she said. ‘W's powerful. He could do you damage.’ ‘You don't get it, Mom. It's my turn now, it's me who can do the damage.’ ‘Listen to me, Barb – don't get high and mighty just because you have the Fulraine name. Since you and Andy split up, it doesn't count for much. You're back to being Barbie Lyman to W's crowd. Don't chew off more than you can swallow.’
She made me so mad I hung up on her.
Great stuff! It's nine o'clock and I still can't put the diary down. In two weeks and a day, Barbara and Tom Jessup will be killed, and there're things in her diary that point toward a suspect I hadn't considered.
What could Waldo have been thinking? If he really was the sender, and it certainly sounds like it was, he had to know Barbara was onto him. Waldo may have been malicious, but he wasn't stupid. There was no other way to interpret the things Barbara was saying to him.
So, how threatened did he feel? And if he felt badly threatened, to what lengths was he willing to go?
Certainly if it came out that he'd sent Barbara horrible anonymous letters, his position in Calista's upper crust would be severely undermined. At the very least, he'd lose his column, the mainstay of his existence, the excuse for his lifestyle and the only rationale for his superficiality.
But would he really kill to protect himself – get hold of a shotgun, pull a fedora down to his eyes, then march into Barbara's love nest and blast her and Tom four times?
That seems improbable considering how devious he was and the cowardice of an attack by anonymous letter. Still, who can know what a man like that might have done if he believed his reputation, the very currency of his life, was in jeopardy?
It's all very strange and the end game stranger still. For Barbara had more than one game going those final days: her game with Waldo, her game with Dad, and her high-risk game with Tom:
Wednesday
3:00 p.m. at the F. T was waiting when I arrived. He looked upset.
‘What's the matter, darling?’
‘I can't go on with this. I just can't!’
He told me that last night that awful couple looked at him with scorn. Also how when he paid them, he felt their contempt even more.
‘This isn't me, B,’ he said. ‘I've done my best, but I just can't go on with it.’
‘Well, it's a little late to tell me that, T, don't you think? A little late in the game to back out.’
