“What does that mean?”
He paused before answering, as if collecting his thoughts. “You know what Dorrie did for a living, John?”
“Yes.”
“Yes. Of course. How could you not, you two were so close.” He sipped at his drink, for courage. “Well, I didn’t. I just saw an advert on the machine from a young woman who sounded like good company for an old bachelor on a cold night. I pecked out an e-mail in reply—carefully, carefully, one little letter at a time. Oh, it took me forever. But these women won’t respond to a message that looks ragged or in any way distressing. They’re quite choosy—as, I suppose, they need to be.”
I pictured Stu on his computer in the office, scanning through the ads on Craigslist, finding himself tempted by several and finally responding to Dorrie’s. Was it the phrase “well educated” that had attracted him? I couldn’t see him being drawn in by “tantric masseuse.” Though who the hell could say. Before this, I wouldn’t have pictured this man hiring a massage girl at all.
“When I came to the door, she was startled to see me. And so she should have been. But no more startled than I was to see her. In her photo...she’d covered her face with a hat, John, how could I have known?”
“And
“Time.” He leaned over the table to where a bookcase stood against one wall. With one finger he tugged a slim volume off the shelf.
“For Christ’s sake,” I said.
“It’s the best photo I have of myself.”
“It looks nothing like you!”
“Thus does vanity blunt the sharpened edge of truth,” he said. “In the words of a better writer than I.”
“Fine,” I said. “She placed an ad, you answered the ad, you met at the door, you were both mortified. What happened?”
“I invited her in, just to sit, to talk. To take the edge of the shock off. I was there in my robe, she in what I suppose were her working clothes, rather daringly cut under her coat. There was no way to disguise what we had each intended. We might have cried or laughed; she seemed willing, thank heaven, to laugh.
“We took a drink. I asked her about her work, about why she’d never used it in her writing—what a fascinating set of stories she must have had to tell. At which point, I recall, she asked me how I would feel if she told this particular story, the story of meeting me, and I allowed that I’d prefer if she didn’t.
“We had a second drink. I did, anyway. I don’t think she did. We talked some more.”
He closed his eyes again.
“The money, John. It was sitting there, out on the table. I’d left it there, for the girl to see and take. They hate having to ask for it, and I hate offering it. So I’d left it out, and it was there between us, and we’d been
He looked at me then with the saddest eyes I’ve ever seen. Tortured, really. But not tortured nearly enough.
“No,” I said. “You didn’t.”
“She was so beautiful, John. So beautiful. And it’s what she’d just told me she’d done with a hundred other men. Surely I wasn’t worse than all the others. I may not be young, John, and my hand may shake, but I’m still a man. I still—” His face contorted into a grimace and he began to bawl, silently, his chest heaving.
“Goddamn it,” he said, biting off the words viciously. “I was a right bastard. I gave her the money, I pushed it on her, I begged her to service me. I’d be quick, I said. Just a touch would be enough. And then she needn’t feel bad about taking my money.”
He tossed back the last of the whiskey in his glass, wiped the back of one hand across his eyes.
“She walked out, of course. Very politely. Too politely. She should have slapped me, should have thrown my money in my face. But she just said, ‘I’ll pretend you didn’t say that, Mr. Kennedy. Because in the morning you’ll wish you hadn’t.’ And she walked out. And I didn’t see her Friday. And on Saturday I sent her an apology. And on Sunday she was dead.
“But not because of me, John—I won’t believe that. Maybe she was angry with me and she had every right to be...maybe she was afraid I might retaliate in some way, though I wouldn’t have done anything, god, I’d never...but she didn’t kill herself because one old drunk made a lewd advance, or out of fear her filthy old professor might expose her secret. She didn’t. She wouldn’t.”
The last thing I felt I owed this man was comfort. But I gave it to him anyway.
“No,” I said, “she didn’t. She was murdered.”
He looked up at me with his quavering, red-rimmed stare. “Good lord, John, what are you saying? She wasn’t. Was she?”
I reached out, took hold of the bottle between us, gripped it by the neck. There was a part of me that wanted to raise the damn thing overhead, swing it down against his skull, smash it and him to bits. For what he’d done to Dorrie. For what he’d wanted to do.
He saw this in my eyes—I could tell, since I saw sudden fear in his, combined with an odd look of resignation, maybe even of relief.
It took an act of will to make myself let go.
“Yes,” I said. “She was. And I’m glad it wasn’t you that did it. I’d have killed you if you had.” I saw him flinch. “Without a moment’s hesitation, Stu. You’d be dead now, you understand? And you’d deserve it.”
It was just an impulse to be cruel, a need to lash out, to make someone else hurt the way I hurt. But I realized when I said it that it was true. Maybe I should have known before.
When I found the man responsible for Dorrie’s death, I’d kill him.
I wouldn’t be able to hold myself back.
There wasn’t will enough in me.
WILLIAM BLAKE,
SONGS OF EXPERIENCE
I sank beneath the earth, in the slow metal cage the MTA provided for the wheelchair-bound and infirm. It drew me down, to the deepest point in New York City’s subway system, eighteen stories below street level. Four miles north of Columbia on the 1 train, in the wilds of Washington Heights, the 191st Street station was almost literally the end of the line, before Manhattan dead-ended at the bend of the Harlem River and looked fearfully across the water at the Bronx. The train left you on a platform marked with smears of grime and decades of accumulated rot. It was damp and it was cold and the walls themselves looked tired, faded, the chipped mosaic tiles of the sign spelling out
