One of Us (20 page)

twenty

D
ANNY CALLED CHAPPY’S A
restaurant, but it’s nothing more than a wood-paneled dining room furnished with tables and chairs straight out of a church bingo night. Hanging directly inside the front door is a portrait of a balding man with thick glasses and a lopsided smile revealing bad teeth wearing a white T-shirt and a paper fry cook’s hat. H
ERM
is written on his hat in an elaborate script, the way children’s names are embroidered on Mickey Mouse ears. I assume he’s the proprietor.

The sole waitress in a yellow polo shirt and mom jeans looks me over. She’s a sour-faced woman of an indeterminate age and familial relation to Herm.

Beneath my mink, I’m wearing Balenciaga brocaded skinny jeans, a taupe Alexander Wang long-sleeved silk Henley, and a rope of diamonds and hand-carved jade beads.

She doesn’t seem to know what to do with me. I spot Danny on my own. He’s already here, drinking coffee, sitting at a table set with paper place mats advertising local businesses and a milky white glass vase filled with plastic flowers. I push past her.

He stands up as I approach. He has manners. How cute.

“I’ve never had a burger here,” he tells me while I take off my coat and sit down, “but I hear they’re good.”

“What have you eaten here?”

“The gravy. A lot of gravy. Over just about anything you can think of.”

He pushes a menu toward me. All the entrees are comfort food: stuffed pork chops, roast beef and mashed potatoes, chicken and waffles, liver and onions, ham pot pie. “Bowl of gravy” is listed among the traditional side dishes of french fries, coleslaw, and onion rings.

“You don’t strike me as a gravy kind of guy.”

“I’m not anymore but I used to be. I was hungry all the time.”

“That’s right. You were poor.”

The waitress appears instantly. I can tell I’m going to have a problem with her.

“Can I get a drink here?”

“Coffee, tea, and pop,” the waitress shoots back.

“That’s not what I meant. I’ll have tea.”

“You know what you want?”

“I just got here,” I reply, making no effort to keep the irritation out of my voice.

“Most people who eat here know what they want before they get here.”

“I’ll have a bacon cheeseburger, rare.”

“You want it medium,” the waitress says.

“I want it rare,” I repeat slowly. “It better be rare.”

The waitress shrugs and turns to Danny.

“You?”

“The stuffed pork chop with mashed potatoes and extra gravy.”

“Good choice,” she says and walks away.

“You weren’t kidding about the gravy.”

He smiles at me. I believe it’s a genuine smile. I have a thing about fake smiles. Fake orgasms, too. Faking in general.

“I never eat it except when I come back here.”

“You said you live in Philadelphia?”

“Yes. What about you? Where do you live now?”

“Paris. I also have a place in New York but it takes a lot to get me to come to the States.”

“What brought you this time?”

“Identity theft.”

“Someone stole your identity?”

“Yes. I’m here to get it back.”

The waitress returns.

“Here you go, hon.”

She sets down a cup of tea in front of me and refreshes Danny’s coffee.

“Thank you, hon,” I reply.

She gives me a dirty look.

“I don’t like her,” I tell Danny. “She has a bad attitude.”

“Can I ask why you called me at three in the morning?”

He’s trying to divert my attention away from the waitress. It won’t work.

“What can I say? I’m disoriented. Jet lag. I didn’t know what time it was.”

“Can I ask why you called me at all?”

“I’m going to be here for a little while and I need someone to entertain me.”

“You want me to entertain you?” he asks.

“Did I offend you? You sound offended.”

He smiles again. I’m not so sure this one is sincere.

“No. It’s just . . . I’m not going to be here much longer. I’m going back to Philly.”

“That’s too bad. We could’ve had some fun.”

I shake a few packets of sugar into my tea.

“Why did you want to see Walker? Don’t tell me he’s a serial killer?”

“Nothing like that.”

“Did it have anything to do with Marcella Greger? You asked me about her.”

“No, but we could talk about her if you want.”

“Why would I want to talk about someone I don’t know?”

“She was your nanny’s cousin. It’s rare for one family to experience two such bizarre and violent deaths. Statistically, it almost never happens.”

“You sound like you’re preparing expert-witness testimony.”

He laughs.

“I’m sorry. Force of habit.”

He takes a sip of his coffee and watches me while trying to seem like he’s not watching me. Shrinks: they’re so predictable. Always looking for a psychosis here and a syndrome there.

I’ve dealt with a few. The first I can barely remember it was so long ago. I can still recall his office, though, filled with toys and dolls and art supplies.

I was six. Gwen and Anna were up in arms because I had killed a cat, although technically speaking, I never admitted to doing it. When Anna accused me, I said, “I didn’t kill it. It was still alive when I left it hanging in the tree.”

That one still makes me chuckle.

I didn’t know what Anna expected. She was always telling me stories about the Nellies being hung. How it was the worst way to kill someone. How it took so long for them to die. How they were forced to hang there with the ropes cutting into their necks, having the life choked out of them, suffocating in front of their loved ones, their bowels emptying and the blood vessels in their eyeballs popping while they bit off their tongues.

Her tales were riveting. Of course I was going to be curious and want to experiment. Kids will be kids.

Anna told Gwen what I had done, a small betrayal but still a betrayal. Neither Gwen nor Walker would have ever dreamed of punishing me or, worse yet, having a heartfelt conversation with me. They’re both consummate avoiders. Walker talks around things and Gwen retreats inside her icy loveliness, where it seems rude to intrude. However, they also both loved their property and taking strolls around it, and I’m sure the thought of dead critters found dangling in the oaks and maples when they least expected it was very unappealing to them. I’m pretty sure this is why they decided to seek professional help for me. Nothing came of it. I told the shrink what he wanted to hear and I learned how to bury.

After Anna died, I was sent to another shrink, Dr. Brown Ball. (She had a large brown ceramic ball sitting on the top shelf of her bookcase
and I could never figure out what it was for. I suppose it was meant to be decorative even though it was the antithesis of the word. She also had a gray cube but it didn’t excite me the way the ball did.)

Gwen and Walker were concerned that I might suffer some kind of trauma after watching Anna burn. I pretended I did. I gave Brown Ball some of the best performances of my life. Boo hoo! I miss my nanny. I have nightmares about my mommy and daddy catching on fire, too. I’m afraid to have birthday candles on my cake. Then I miraculously got better.

But my all-time favorite shrink was the psychiatrist at my boarding school, Dr. Slow Puller, so named because a girl once heard some teachers talking about going out with him and his reluctance to bring out his wallet and pay at the end of the evening. We took it one step further and assumed it also described his sex drive.

I had the best time with him. To this day I miss our sessions. I let him think I was a complete psycho. He thought I killed Courtney. It was so obvious, although I never let on that I knew what he was thinking, just like I won’t let Danny know I’m on to him, too.

“From what I’ve heard Marcella’s death wasn’t that bizarre or violent,” I tell him. “Someone hit her on the head. Big deal. And Anna’s was a suicide.”

“A suicide doesn’t count?”

“Not really.”

“You seem detached from your nanny’s death.”

Oh, boy, here we go. Shrink-speak!

I take a drink of my tea.

“It was a long time ago. Believe me, I was devastated when it happened. My parents sent me to a very good psychiatrist. She helped me a lot.”

“I’m glad to hear that. Did you have anything to do with your nanny’s death?”

I’m impressed. Even Slow Puller never came right out and asked me.

“I was ten.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“What would you do if I told you I did it?”

“Nothing. What could I do?”

I sit back in my chair and play with my beads. I’m not afraid of him.

“How about an exchange of information? You tell me something, I’ll tell you something. I’d like to know how you feel about your mother.”

“My mother?”

“Yes, your mother. Your mentally ill, baby-killing, ex-con mother.”

“I love her.”

I’m stunned. I expected so much better from him, yet at the same time, I realize this means he fully understands the rules of the game.

“That’s awesome!” I cry. “You love her. What a perfectly meaningless thing to say.”

“Do you love your mother?”

“Oh, no,” I scold. “It’s still my turn. How can you love someone who betrayed you like that?”

“My mother is mentally ill. She can’t be held responsible for her actions.”

“That’s a nice, neat rationalization, but you’ve never really believed it deep down inside, have you? When you were a kid you blamed her. Why couldn’t she be normal like the other moms? And you must have hated her for getting sent to jail and leaving you.”

I watch him carefully. He’s good at hiding his feelings.

He toys with the handle of his coffee mug and stares for a moment into the black liquid before raising his equally dark eyes to me and saying blandly, “Hate’s a strong word.”

“She killed your sister,” I remind him.

“I have no memory of my sister. I was only five years old when she died, and she only lived for a week. It’s not as if I lost a person I knew and loved.”

“That’s cold,” I say and mean it.

“I’m not saying her death hasn’t made an impact on me. I think about her all the time, but not in the form of a person. She’s become a sort of symbol to me.”

“A symbol of what?”

“My life that didn’t happen.”

I have one of those, too, I think, but don’t reveal to him: a life that didn’t happen.

“Now it’s my turn,” he says. “Why did you kill Marcella Greger?”

I didn’t see this coming, yet at the same time, I saw this coming. He’s going for the brutally direct approach. He’s hoping his outrageous accusations will shock me into confessing.

I’m losing interest in this game.

Our waitress appears with our meals. She sets a burger and fries down in front of me and a plate of something unidentifiable covered in rubbery brown goo in front of Danny.

“Enjoy,” she says and saunters off.

Danny reaches for his knife and fork.

“The others I can understand,” he says while sawing away at his gravy. “Anna was your nanny. You had an intimate relationship with her. There would’ve been endless opportunities for her to wound you. And that girl at your boarding school, what was her name? Courtney. At that age in that setting, the reasons for you wanting her dead would also be endless. Maybe she started a nasty rumor about you or stole a boyfriend. Or maybe she stole a girlfriend?”

He pauses to stick a bite into his mouth and chew contemplatively.

“But Marcella Greger I can’t figure out,” he goes on after he’s swallowed. “How could that little old lady get in the way of the fabulous Scarlet Dawes?”

I blink at him.

He cuts off another bite of pork chop and holds it aloft.

“A toast,” he says. “Not so very long ago one of your ancestors stood by and watched one of my ancestors die a grisly death, and now here we sit having lunch together.
Salud!
”

His phone rings.

“Do you mind if I take this call? It could be important.”

“I don’t mind.”

I dig into my burger. Herm got it right. It’s barely cooked and the beef is surprisingly good.

Danny holds his phone away from his ear.

“I mentioned to a friend of mine that I was having lunch with you.
He’s a police officer here in town. He says he’d like to talk to you. Something to do with an encounter you had last night with Officer Smalls.”

“No problem,” I tell him. “I’ll be there as soon as I’m done eating.”

I take another bite. Blood dribbles down my chin.

I reach into my bag for my new handkerchief.

THE POLICE DEPARTMENT IS
housed in a small, serious, brown brick affair. The interior is low ceilinged, poorly lit, badly heated, and furnished with cut-rate office-supply-store metal desks and chairs constructed with the sole intention of making people want to stand up. It smells of overheated coffee and pine-scented disinfectant with an underlying odor of vomit near the front doors.

Officer Billy Smalls sits in front of a desk wearing the expression of a child told to sit in the corner. The man on the other side of the desk is much older, with a head of short, spiky gray hair like the bristles of a steel-wool brush and some of the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. Traces of his former good looks are still evident in his face, but the clothes are pitiable even for someone in a profession not known for its fashion sense: a blue tie with orange stars on it, a flannel shirt, a pair of hopelessly wrinkled and outdated khakis, and some kind of hiking boots with yellow laces.