American Sextet (23 page)

"I know," Fiona said softly.

"It started out very well," Ann said, her eyes
looking downward, the words contrived, as if she had decided earlier that this
was the way to begin. "We met in college. The University of Michigan.
Clint was majoring in journalism. I wanted to be a sociologist. In those days,
sociology seemed important. The sixties. Everything we did seemed
important..." Her throat choked for a moment and she coughed it clear.
"So it was good for a long time. We had two kids. He adores them. Real
nice kids. Sometimes we wonder why we deserve them..."

"Please..." Fiona interrupted, feeling the
woman's embarrassment.

"You get caught up in it," Ann continued.
"This town. The striving is terrible. I grew up in Traverse City. Do you
know it?" She didn't wait for an answer, nor did Fiona feel it appropriate
to break her chain of thought. The words had to come as she had arranged them
earlier. "We're all from somewhere else here. I know you're from New York.
Brooklyn." So Clint told her that as well, told her everything. She was
suddenly resentful, but she remained silent. The woman's pain was certainly
more than hers. "It's the pressure. Ambition. It's the great American
virtue, you know. But they don't tell you about the people that have to get
hurt." She smiled, but it was without real warmth. "They don't tell
you about the steamroller. Get in the way of that. Splat. So you're always
thinking about how to get out of the way of the steamroller and you begin to
rationalize. You tell yourself it's all public service, assign greater virtues,
mouth platitudes about great goals. At the bottom of it, we're all
scared."

She seemed to be drifting now and Fiona was losing her.

"We get dependent on other people. Most of us owe our
livelihood, our future to a single individual, to a single man's ego. We're
like satellites."

What was she driving at, Fiona wondered.

"He's not an evil man," Ann continued. "They
overwork themselves. They get caught up, carried away. Their drives become
distorted, magnified. They mean no harm. They have good instincts. It's the
value system. We all know it's hypocritical. But it's the standard of the
country."

"What the devil are you talking about?" Fiona
asked, unable to listen to her rambling any longer. Up to then, she had been
patient and polite, thinking she was referring to Clint.

"Senator Hurley," Ann said.

"I thought you came about Clint."

"I did."

Fiona got up and looked out the window. The rising sun was
hidden by a pall of dark clouds that hung low over the city, promising more
rain.

"I work for him," Ann said, her voice taking on
an edge of panic. "Clint owes his appointment to him. Don't you
understand? If the senator goes, we go."

Fiona watched, observing Ann's agony. Some of her mascara
had run.

"It was only a silly little diversion. It didn't mean
a thing to him. The girl was just a toy. Things like that have been going on
forever. He meant no harm. He was used by that journalist, set up to be
deliberately destroyed. It's just not fair." She covered her face with her
hands and when she removed them her makeup was smeared even more. "You
can't let that happen. Not to Clint."

"Clint? Now it's Clint again?"

"I'm sorry. You don't understand what it means. None
of them can stand and fight it. It's too big, too involved. Too out of kilter
with the prevailing standard ... and the girl was a whore, sleeping with six
men. My God."

Ann reached for the coffee and drank it quickly, ignoring
her trembling.

"And I'm a whore as well," Fiona said angrily.
"Hell, I slept with a married man. Your man. That makes me a whore,
doesn't it? But not him. Not dear old Clint. Or wonderful Senator Hurley and
the rest of them. They're not whores."

"Please," Ann said, her fingers running nervously
through her hair. "I'm doing this badly. Don't you see what I'm getting
at? You
can
do it. I know you can do it. Spare him. Spare the senator.
Woman to woman, I'm begging you..."

"Woman to woman?"

"And I'm prepared to give you Clint. He loves you. He
wants you. I know he does. It was false pride on my part. I know it was partly
my fault. Please, Fiona. I know you love him. You can do it. You can save him.
And have Clint."

So it had come full circle, back to her.

"You'd do that?"

"Yes," Ann said firmly. "Things move fast.
He would just hang on. Then it would pass. If the tapes remain secret, who
would know. You can do it, Fiona. Please."

"The senator? He knows you're here?"

Ann nodded, watching her. She hesitated, then stood up,
coming close to Fiona. In the clear light, Fiona could see her imperfections,
the masked blemishes, the pleading helpless look in her eyes. "If you need
more ... I'm not the perfect innocent that Clint thinks..."

"The senator?"

"It was only a game. I went along. Accepted the
rewards." She bowed her head. "I'm also a whore," she whispered.
When she looked at Fiona again, she was sobbing. Tears streamed down her
cheeks. Fiona took a tissue from the pocket of her robe and gave it to her.
"Can you..." she began.

Fiona took her in her arms. The woman clung to her.

"I'm so sorry, Fiona."

"So am I."

"I'm frightened."

"Who isn't?"

When she calmed, Fiona released her. "It's not the end
of the world, Ann," Fiona said. "Even if I wanted to, I couldn't. And
wouldn't. I think it's time to start fresh. You and Clint. Maybe it was a game
for me as well."

"He said you loved him..." Ann said, struggling
to regain her dignity.

"What's that got to do with the price of
peanuts?" Fiona said. "He's yours."

Before Dorothy, she might have been tempted. Not now.

"You're lucky, Ann," Fiona said.

"Lucky?"

"You have Clint--and your sons."

After Ann left, Fiona took a long, hot bubble bath, resting
her head against the porcelain rim of the tub, her eyes closed. The telephone
rang, but she ignored it. The soft warmth soothed her, but she still didn't
feel cleansed. She sighed. It was impossible to exorcise the early years,
eternities in hell, the holy spirits, heaven, saints, the will of God, and, of
course, the sins of the flesh. What exactly were the sins of the flesh? she
asked herself, opening her eyes to the misty steam, the disappearing bubbles,
revealing her nakedness again beneath the slick water's surface. What was the
real guilt here? They had no right to convict those men, to be both judge and
jury. It was wrong. Immoral. They were merely police, not society's avengers.

The bath water grew tepid and she rose quickly, feeling
suddenly dizzy, slightly nauseous. Standing before the misty mirror, seeing the
outlines of her vague form, she moved to wipe away the moisture. Then she
hesitated, afraid to confront herself. What would she see?

Wiping away the mist, she saw that it was still only
herself. Nothing had changed. There was Fiona. But was it frightened,
vulnerable little Fiona? Or evil, mischievous, selfish little Fiona who had
maliciously, capriciously, removed a single domino from the pile and watched as
the structure collapsed? She had to be punished, she decided. She could not get
off scot free. She had no right to be society's avenging angel. Nor could she
be silent in the face of the eggplant's corruption. She had to resign from the
police.

Before she had rubbed herself completely dry, the telephone
rang again. It was persistent and relentless, as if the caller knew she was
there. Finally, she answered it.

"Have you heard?" Cates said with excitement. She
muttered a vague response.

"On the radio. Justice Strauss resigned, citing ill
health." He chuckled. "And Congressman O'Haire. He's announced he's
not running again."

Her knees felt rubbery and she sat down, acknowledging the
news with a faint response. Cates continued, his agitation rising.

"But the big one is this: are you ready?" He
paused. "The Czech ambassador has defected. The ambassador. It was the
ambassador. Can you believe it, Fiona? We did it." Nothing more? she
wondered. Fellows would resign quietly, as would the general. The military had
its own form of professional suicide. And Hurley? He had little choice now. She
felt chilled to the bone, although the telephone sweated in her palms.

"I have a confession, Fiona."

"Confession?"

"I rousted him. The son of a bitch. I told him what we
had. It's obvious. Whatever it was, he was in it." He waited now for some
complimentary response. When it didn't come, he went on, but his voice carried
a hint of disappointment. "We did it, Fi. You and me."

But where is the crime, she wanted to say again? They had
no right.

"And you know what? The suspension has been lifted.
The eggplant called. He said he called you, too, but you were out."

"Did he say anything else?" She held her breath.

"Like you said. It just blew over. But a lot faster
than expected. He said it's all fixed, if we just shut up. And since there's
obviously no evidence that makes any sense, what the hell? It's over. But we
got the bastards."

"And Martin?" She was operating by rote now.

"I think he's had it. All he needed was one hard push.
They tried to fuck us over, Fi."

When she didn't respond, he said, "Well? What do you
think?"

"I think it's..." She wrestled with herself.
"Great. Just great."

He was disappointed.

"I thought you'd be ecstatic. I thought you liked
poetic justice." After a long pause, he bucked himself up. "One other
thing. The captain wants us to be at this Catholic chapel on Michigan Avenue,
the one near the cemetery. At four."

The request puzzled her.

"Apparently somebody's funeral," he said,
detecting her confusion. "He said it's orders."

"Orders?"

So it was business as usual. It wasn't uncommon for
homicide officers to attend the funeral of a victim.

"A murder victim?"

"I hope so. Maybe he's putting us on real work for a
change."

She debated whether or not to go. She was going to resign
anyway. Yes, she decided, I'll be there. She would do it by the book. But
quietly. No fanfare. No parties at the F.O.P. A simple, professional death,
like the rest.

"I'll pick you up in a couple of hours," Cates
said.

"No," she said abruptly. "I'll go
myself."

Again, there was a long pause.

"I thought you'd be pleased," he said before
hanging up.

She timed herself to arrive precisely at four. Oddly, there
were no mourners. Cates, the eggplant and Dr. Benton sat in the front row.
Organ music drowned the appropriate dirges. On the dais in front of them was a
large, expensive looking coffin with four gold handles. As she came forward,
her high heels made tapping sounds on the stone floor and the three turned to look
at her, then turned away. She genuflected and slid into the pew beside Dr.
Benton, who patted her arm.

"Dorothy," he whispered.

"Dorothy?"

She was stunned. The eggplant and Cates stared straight
ahead as a young priest walked to the pulpit and began the Requiem Mass. The
voice of a small, unseen choir began to sing.

As the ritual progressed, her fury increased. How dare he?
Paying for this out of the money he had stolen. An obvious salve to his
conscience. She glanced at the eggplant's impassive profile, the lips tight,
the hooded eyes glazed and indifferent. Yet, despite the anger growing in her,
she found herself responding to the spirit of the Mass, imagining the bruised,
much abused body laid out in the dark coffin, once more being subjected to men's
need of her, men's hypocrisy.

The service was quickly over and the men rose. They stepped
to the dais, each grabbing one of the gold handles. Dr. Benton motioned her
forward and she moved to join them. Despite the years away from the Church, she
found it too powerful to resist and made the sign of the cross, as she had done
a thousand times before.

Lifting the coffin she felt the pull of its weight and
needed two arms to keep it balanced. She moved ahead cautiously as they
followed the priest down the center aisle. It had finally begun to rain and the
childish image of God crying, which was her mother's early explanation of rain,
jumped into her mind. She felt sick and powerless and ashamed.

They hefted the coffin into the hearse and the driver
closed the door before he jumped into the driver's seat. The hearse drove
slowly toward the adjacent cemetery.

"It's not far," Dr. Benton said, motioning them
into his car. The eggplant got in beside him and Cates and Fiona got into the
back seat.

"Somebody apparently cared enough," Cates said.
"At least she didn't have to get burned."

When there was no response, he shrugged and brooded
silently. In the rearview mirror, she suddenly saw the eggplant's eyes. She
wondered if behind their stoic emptiness, he was smiling.

After a short drive they arrived at the opened grave.
Cemetery workers quickly placed the coffin on a mechanical device and lowered
it into the gaping hole. The priest said a prayer and sprinkled holy water into
the grave. Fiona crossed herself. One of the cemetery workers yawned.

Dr. Benton was the first to grab a handful of dirt and
throw it into the grave. It made a hollow drumbeat on the coffin's lid. Cates
did the same. Then both men turned and started back to the car, leaving the
eggplant and Fiona alone. She watched him staring into the grave as the
cemetery workers, shovels poised, waited for them to leave.

"Make you feel good?" Fiona whispered bitterly.

"What the hell." He shrugged, still staring into
the grave.

"I suppose she deserved a good send-off. She worked
hard for it." The indignation began to seep out of her. She bent down and
grabbed a handful of dirt.