Silent Partner Page 5

  Suddenly she turned her head and saw me. She pinkened with recognition and her lips parted. We locked in on each other. As if dancing.

  Dancing on a terrace. A nest of lights in the distance. Weightless, formless . . .

  I felt dizzy, bumped into someone else. More apologies.

  Sharon kept looking straight at me. The brush-cut man was facing the other way, looking contemplative.

  I retreated further, was swallowed by the crowd, and returned to the table short of breath, clutching my glass so tightly my fingers hurt. I counted blades of grass until Larry returned.

  “The call was about the baby,” he said. “She and her little playmate got into a fight. She's tantrumming and insisting on being taken home. The other girl's mother says they're both hysterical—overtired. I've got to go pick her up, D. Sorry.”

  “No problem. I'm ready to leave myself.”

  “Yeah, turned out to be pretty turgid, didn't it? But at least I got a look at La Grande Maison's entry hall—big enough to skate in. We're in the wrong business, D.”

  “What's the right business?”

  “Marry it young, spend the rest of your life pissing it away.”

  He looked back at the mansion, cast his eyes over the grounds. “Listen, Alex, it was good seeing you—little male pair-bonding, hostility release. How about we get together in a couple of weeks, shoot some pool at the Faculty Club, ingest some cholesterol?”

  “Sounds great.”

  “Terrific. I'll call you.”

  “Look forward to it, Larry.”

  Buttressed by our lies, we left the party.

  He was eager to get going but offered to drive me home. I said I'd rather walk, waited with him while the bearded valet fetched his keys. The Chevy station wagon had been repositioned for quick exit. And washed. The valet held the door open and expectorated a mouthful of “sirs” as he waited for Larry to get comfortable. When Larry put the key in the ignition, the valet shut the door gently and held his palm out, smiling.

  Larry looked over at me. I winked. Larry grinned, rolled up the window, and started the engine. I strolled past the cars, heard the wheeze of the Chevy's engine followed by curses muttered in some Mediterranean language. Then, a clatter and squeal as the wagon accelerated. Larry zipped past, stuck out his left hand and waved.

  I'd walked several yards when I heard someone calling. Thinking nothing of it, I didn't break step.

  Then the call took on volume and clarity.

  “Alex!”

  I looked over my shoulder. Navy-blue dress. Swirl of black hair. Long white legs running.

  She caught up with me, breasts heaving, upper lip pearled with sweat.

  “Alex! It really is you. I can't believe it!”

  “Hello, Sharon. How've you been?” Dr. Witty.

  “Just fine.” She touched her ear, shook her head. “No, you're one person to whom I don't have to pretend. No, I haven't been fine, not at all.”

  The ease with which she'd slipped into familiarity, the effortless erasure of all that had passed between us, raised my defenses.

  She stepped closer. I smelled her perfume—soap and water tinged with fresh grass and spring flowers.

  “I'm sorry to hear that,” I said.

  “Oh, Alex.” She placed two fingers on my wrist. Let them rest there.

  I felt her heat, was jolted by a rush of energy below my waist. All at once I was rock-hard. And furious about it. But alive, for the first time in a long while.

  “It's so good to see you, Alex.” That voice, sweet and creamy. The midnight eyes sparkled.

  “Good to see you too.” It came out thick and intense, nothing like the indifference I'd aimed for. Her fingers were burning a hole in my wrist. I dislodged her, put my hands in my pockets.

  If she sensed rejection, she didn't show it, just let her arm fall to her side and kept smiling.

  “Alex, it's so funny we should run into each other like this—pure ESP. I've been wanting to call you.”

  “About what?”

  A triangle of tongue tip moved between her lips and licked away the sweat I'd coveted. “Some issues that have . . . come up. Now's not a good time, but if you could find some time to talk, I'd appreciate it.”

  “What issues would we have to talk about after all these years?”

  Her smile was a quarter-moon of white light. Too immediate. Too wide.

  “I was hoping you wouldn't be angry after all these years.”

  “I'm not angry, Sharon. Just puzzled.”

  She worried her earlobe. Her fingers flew forward and grazed my cheek before dropping. “You're a good guy, Delaware. You always were. Be well.”

  She turned to leave. I took hold of her hand and she stopped.

  “Sharon, I'm sorry things aren't going well for you.”

  She laughed, bit her lip. “No, they really aren't. But that's not your problem.”

  Even as she said it, she came closer, kept coming. I realized I was pulling her toward me, but with only the faintest pressure; she was allowing herself to be reeled in.

  I knew at that moment that she'd do anything I wanted, and her passivity touched off a strange meélange of feelings within me. Pity. Gratitude. The joy of being needed, at last.

  The weight between my legs grew oppressive. I dropped her hand.

  Our faces were inches apart. My tongue strained against my teeth like a snake in a jar.

  A stranger using my voice said, “If it means that much to you, we can get together and talk.”

  “It means a lot to me,” she said.

  We made a lunch date for Monday.

  Chapter

  5

  The moment she disappeared behind the gates, I knew it had been a mistake. But I wasn't sure I regretted it.

  Back home, I checked with my service, hoping for a call from Robin, something to make me regret it.

  “Your board is clear, Dr. Delaware,” said the operator. I thought I detected pity in her voice, told myself I was getting paranoid.

  That night I went to sleep with a head full of erotic images. Some time during the early morning hours I had a wet dream. I woke sticky and cranky, and knew, without having to reason it out, that I was going to break the date with Sharon. Not looking forward to it, I went through the motions of a normal morning—showering, shaving, swallowing coffee, dictating reports, killed another couple of hours filing and skimming journals. At noon Mal Worthy called and asked me to reserve Wednesday for a deposition on the Darren Burkhalter case.

  “Working on Sunday, Mal?”

  “Brunch,” he said. “Waiting for a table. Evil never rests; neither can the good guys. Going to be seven attorneys on the other side, Alex. Have your bullshit detector finely tuned.”

  “Why the army?”

  “Multiple pockets. The other driver's insurance company has assigned two of their downtown hotshots; the estate's sending another. The drunk who rammed them was a fairly successful building contractor—there're some bucks involved. I told you about the brakes, which gives us the auto manufacturer's mouthpiece and the one representing the dealer who serviced the car. The restaurant that served him the drinks makes six. Add to that a county attorney because we're claiming inadequate lighting and insufficient cones around the ditch, and you've got seven in toto. Intimidated?”

  “Should I be?”

  “Nope. It's quality that counts, not quantity, right? We'll do it at my office, get a little home-base advantage. I'll start by reading off your qualifications, and as usual, one of them will cut it off before it gets too hoo-ha and stipulate to your expertise. You've done this before; you know the whole thing's supposed to be fact-finding, polite, but I'll be there to cover your ass if it starts to get nasty. The insurance guys will probably put up the biggest kick—their liability is clearest and they've got the most to lose. My hunch is that, rather than attack your information per se, they'll question the validity of early childhood trauma as a concept—is it scientific fact or just shrinky bullshi
t. And even if it is, how durable is the damage? Can you prove that a traumatic experience at eighteen months will warp poor little Darren for life.”

  “Never said I could.”

  “I know that and you know that, but please be more subtle on Wednesday. The important thing is they can't prove he'll be fine. And if it goes to trial, believe me, I'll make damn sure the burden of proof will be on them. A jury is going to feel mighty sorry for a cute little tyke who wakes up from a car nap only to see his father's head sailing over the back seat and landing right next to him. Videotaping your sessions was a beautiful touch, Alex. The kid comes across wonderfully vulnerable. In a trial situation, I'd get to show every second of footage—all that hyper stuff—along with the Polaroids from the accident. Nothing like a bloody head to get the old sympathy juices flowing, huh?”

  “Nothing like it.”

  “A jury will fucking believe the concept, Alex. They'll see no way this kid could ever be normal again—and let's face it, can any of us guarantee something like that could ever heal? The other side knows that. They've already thrown out hints of settlement offers—penny-ante bullshit. So it's just a question of how much, how soon. Your job will be to tell it like it is, but don't get too academic. Just stick to the old ‘to the best of my psychological knowledge' line and we'll be fine. I've got my actuary working overtime, want to hook these bastards so tight they'll be paying Darren's rent at the old-age home.”

  He paused, added, “It's only fair, Alex. Denise's life is shattered. It's the only way for someone like her to beat the system.”

  “You're a white knight, Mal.”

  “Something eating at you?” He sounded genuinely hurt.

  “No, everything's fine. Just a little tired.”

  “You're sure?”

  “I'm sure.”

  He said nothing for a moment. “All right, just as long as we're communicating.”

  “We're communicating perfectly, Mal. Quality, not quantity.”

  He was silent for a moment, then said, “Rest up and take care of yourself, doc. I want you in peak shape when you're dealing with the seven dwarfs.”

  I called Sharon just after noon. A machine answered—my year for them. (“Hello, this is Dr. Ransom. I'm not in right now, but I'm very interested in receiving your message. . . .”)

  Even on tape the sound of her voice brought back memories . . . the feel of her fingers on my cheek.

  All at once I had to be rid of her, decided to do it now. I waited for the emergency beeper number that therapists typically include at the end of their tapes. But she didn't mention one.

  Beep.

  I said, “Sharon, this is Alex. Can't make Monday. Good luck.”

  Short and sweet.

  Dr. Heartbreaker.

  An hour later her face was still in my mind, a pale, lovely mask drifting in and out of my consciousness.

  I tried to chase the image away, succeeded only in making it more vivid. I surrendered to reminiscence, told myself I was being a horny jerk, allowing my little head to think for my big one. Nevertheless, I sank deeper into time-buffered memories and began wondering if I'd done the right thing by breaking the date.

  At one, hoping to exchange one lovely mask for another, I phoned San Luis Obispo. Robin's mother answered.

  “Yes?”

  “This is Alex, Rosalie.”

  “Oh. Hello.”

  “Is Robin there?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know when she'll be back?”

  “She's out. With friends.”

  “I see.”

  Silence.

  “So, how's the baby, Rosalie?”

  “Fine.”

  “Okay, then. Please tell her I called.”

  “All right.”

  “'Bye.”

  Click.

  The privilege of owning a mother-in-law without having to do the paperwork.

  Monday, I struggled through the morning paper, hoping the venality and low-mindedness of international politics would cast my problems in a trivial light. It proved effective, until I finished the paper. Then that old empty feeling returned.

  I fed the fish, did a wash, went down to the carport, started up the Seville, and drove into South Westwood to do some grocery shopping. Somewhere between frozen foods and canned goods I realized my basket was empty; I left the supermarket without buying a thing.

  There was a multiplex theater up the block from the market. I chose a feature at random, paid the early-bird discount price and sat low in my seat along with giggling teenage couples and other solitary men. The show was a low-grade thriller graced by neither coherent dialogue nor plot. I walked out in the middle of a sweat-soaked love scene between the heroine and the dashing psychopath who was going to try to carve her up for postcoital dessert.

  Outside, it was dark. Another day vanquished. I forced a fast-food burger down my throat, headed for home, then remembered that the newspaper had been temporarily therapeutic.

  Evening. A new edition. A blind vendor was hawking it from a curb on Wilshire. I pulled over, bought a paper, paying with a dollar bill, not waiting for the change.

  Back home, I called my service—no impersonal machine for old Alex. No messages either.

  Stripping down to my undershorts, I took the Times and a cup of instant coffee to bed.

  Slow news day; most of the evening special was a rehash of the morning edition. I stuffed myself on swindles and subterfuge. Found my eyes blurring. Perfect.

  Then I was brought abruptly back to focus by a story on page 20.

  Not even a story, just filler: a couple of column-inches next to a wire-service piece on the sociological structure of South American fire ants.

  But the headline caught my eye.

  PSYCHOLOGIST'S DEATH POSSIBLE SUICIDE

  Maura Bannon

  Staff Writer

  (LOS ANGELES) Police sources said the death of a local psychologist, found this morning in her Hollywood Hills home, probably resulted from a self-inflicted gunshot wound. The body of Sharon Ransom, 34, was discovered this morning in the bedroom of her Nichols Canyon home. She had apparently died sometime Sunday night.

  Ransom lived alone in the Jalmia Drive house, which also doubled as an office. A native of New York City, she was educated and trained in Los Angeles, received her Ph.D. in 1981. No next of kin have been located.

  Sunday night. Just hours after I'd called her.

  Something cold and rank as sewer gas rose in my gut and bubbled in my throat. I forced myself to read the article again. And again.

  A couple of column inches. Filler . . . I thought of black hair, blue eyes, a blue dress, pearls. That remarkable face, so alive, so warm.

  No, you're one person to whom I don't have to pretend. No, I haven't been fine, not at all.

  A cry for help? The implied intimacy had angered me. Had it blocked me from seeing it for what it was?

  She hadn't looked that upset.

  And why me? What had she seen in that quick glance across the shoulders of strangers that had led her to think I was the right one to turn to?

  Big mistake . . . old Alex fixated on his own needs, soft white thighs and pillowy breasts.

  No, I haven't been fine. Not at all.

  I'm sorry to hear that.

  Dispensing vending-machine empathy.

  I'd reeled her in, not giving half a shit. Enjoyed the feeling of power as she floated toward me, passive.

  If it means that much to you, we can get together and talk . . . and let me fuck your ears off.

  It means a lot to me.

  I clawed the page free from the paper, crumpled it, and threw it across the room.

  Closing my eyes, I tried to let myself cry. For her, for me, for Robin. For families that fell apart, a world falling apart. Little boys who watched their fathers die. Anyone in the world who goddam deserved it.

  The tears wouldn't come.

  Wait for the beep.

  Pull the trigger.

  Chap
ter

  6

  Later, after some of the shock wore off, I realized that I'd rescued her once before. Perhaps she'd remembered it, had constructed a time-machine fantasy of her own.

  The fall of '74. I was twenty-four, a brand-new Ph.D., caught up in the novelty of being addressed as Doctor but still as poor as a student.

  I'd just returned to L.A. from the Langley Porter Institute in San Francisco to begin my fellowship at Western Pediatric Hospital. The position came with a jawbreaker of a title: National Institute of Mental Health Postdoctoral Scholar in Clinical Psychology and Human Development, jointly appointed to the hospital and its affiliated medical school. My job was to treat children, teach interns, do research, and come up with a paper or two the chief psychologist could co-author.

  My pay was $500 a month, which the IRS had just declared taxable. There was barely enough left over to cover rent and utilities on a dingy Overland Avenue bachelor flat, plain-wrap food, discount clothing, thrift-shop books, and ongoing life support for a moribund Nash Rambler. Not covered was an eight-year accumulation of student loans and debts filed too long under Miscellaneous. A number of bank creditors delighted in dunning me monthly.

  In order to earn extra money, I took on nighttime gigs playing guitar in dance bands, the way I'd scratched by in San Francisco. Irregular work with spotty pay and all the bar food I could get down between sets. I also let the University psych department know its illustrious graduate was available for free-lance teaching assignments.

  The department ignored me until one afternoon in November when one of its secretaries had me paged at the hospital.

  “Dr. Delaware, please.”

  “This is Dr. Delaware.”

  “Alice Delaware?”

  “Alex.”

  “Oh. It says here Alice. I thought you were a woman.”

  “Not the last time I checked.”

  “Guess not. Anyway, I know it's short notice, but if you're available at eight tonight, we could use you.”