Skin Deep (22 page)

She could barely believe it. Dr. Monks had called her that Sunday morning to see how she was doing. Perhaps it was standard patient care with him, but she could not help but feel flattered.

Just last week he was interviewed in
Newsweek
about breakthroughs in face transplants—how he and a team of other surgeons had used MRI imaging to distinguish bone from muscle so that computer programs could assist surgeons in eliminating a major technical and psychological concern—patients looking different from the way they did before disfigurement. The new techniques allowed them to determine the precise amount of underlying fat and muscle to remove from donor cadavers to transplant with blood vessels and skin. So far three overseas patients had undergone successful facial transplants. Likewise, new strategies to combat immunosuppression were proving successful enough to outweigh the risks.

The media had cited him as a world expert, yet on the phone he was the modest friendly man she had come to know. He was pleased to hear that the discomfort was less than she had anticipated. He reminded her to sit up and use a cold compress for the bruising. She said that she was doing all that, and he approved to her delight. “Good for you. I wish all my patients were like you.”

Then he told her to take Vicodin for discomfort. Also no heavy activities for a week, no driving, no exercises, and no sexual activities. The last words hummed in the open telephone line for an awkward moment, which she quickly filled with, “Of course not.” And she wondered at the force of her promise, hoping that he was hearing the pledge of a good patient and not the assurance that she was in complete estrangement from Steve yet available at a later date.

He went on to remind her that if she went out she should wear sunglasses to protect her skin and to hide the bruises that would peak in two days. Before he hung up, he said he would like to see her on Wednesday to remove the stitches.

She said, “Fine,” thinking how she could barely wait.

When Steve left Jackie's office, he headed to Carleton to give Dana his last paycheck to help cover her cosmetic procedures. As it was the weekend, she had asked if he could drop it off instead of mailing it. By the time he pulled onto their street, he wasn't sure why he didn't call ahead. He wasn't sure why he did or didn't do a lot of things of late. It was as if he had become a stranger to himself.

He had counted on Dana being at home. Yet he had not counted on her having company. Sitting in the driveway was a gold Lexus SUV that he did not recognize.

He turned off the headlights and sat behind the wheel, wondering what to do. A year ago, it would have been unthinkable that he'd feel like an intruder in his own home, in his own marriage. Yet tonight he was pretend-married and Dana was pretend-divorced and entertaining another guy. And here he was dropping off a check to help grease her success.
Hey, pal, you familiar with the term
sap?

Steve knew in his heart of hearts that he should just leave. Put the check in the mailbox and head home. Or drop it off tomorrow morning so she could deposit it. If Dana had male company, she'd be rightfully upset at his appearance.

Worse, he really couldn't predict how he'd react. They were estranged, and in their separation Dana had a right to date. But the thought of her desirous of another man was like an ice pick in his chest.

As he put the car in reverse, the front door opened and Dana's silhouette filled the frame. She recognized his car and stood watching him. If she wanted him to leave, she would have closed the door. Instead, she opened the screen door and waved him up.

He pulled behind the Lexus, thinking that maybe this was the official turning point: that she would introduce him to the guy she was dating—get it out in the open as the next step toward divorce.

As he gathered the check from his briefcase, all he could think was that he didn't want to lay eyes on the guy. Didn't want to know who he was. Didn't know if he could maintain civility. Before he got out, he removed his service weapon and locked it in the glove compartment.

When he reached the door she let him in. “Jesus!” he said as he stepped into the foyer.

“It looks worse than it is.”

Dana's eyes were swollen and bruised red and purple. And for an instant all he saw was the dead cyanotic head of Terry Farina. “What the hell happened?”

“I had an upper lid lift.”

“Did he do it with a hammer?”

She smiled. “The bruising's natural and will be gone in a few days.”

“You going to go to school like that?”

“I'll cover it with makeup. Besides, there are only two days left of classes. Want to come in?”

“Only if I'm interrupting something.” He handed her the check.

She led him into the kitchen and toward the family room. He followed her, sensing another's presence and steeling himself for a face-off with some guy he'd prefer to kick in the groin than shake hands with. But sitting on the couch was Lanie Walker, and he felt a cool rush. “Good to see you, Lanie.” Which was never so true. Lanie was a close friend of Dana's, supportive and amusing at times. But she was also nosy and officious.

“Good to see you, too. How you doin'?” She was drinking a glass of white wine.

She knew perfectly well how he was doing. “Just dandy.”

“Would you like something—Coke or juice?” Dana asked.

“I'm fine.” Dana returned to the couch. “I thought you were only going for the Botox.”

“We talked it over and agreed that it was a good idea to get the lids done.”

“You mean his next Mercedes payment is due.”

She gave him a dismissive look, but Lanie snickered. “No,” Dana said. “It was my decision. And if it makes you happy, he did the procedure at half the usual fee.”

“Caught the weekly special.”

Lanie cut in. “In another week you'll never know she had it done. And she'll look great.”

Except for the swelling and discoloration, Dana's eyes did look more open. The flesh on her upper lids was tight and smooth but not stretched to perpetual shock like half the TV anchors. The crease above her nose was gone. “Looks like you got the Botox, too.”

“You don't approve of that either?”

He knew he sounded sour. He felt sour. And it was totally irrational. He resented her not telling him. He resented being out of the loop. He also resented Lanie because they looked so together on the couch—her new closest confidante and coconspirator in reinventing Dana's looks and the rest of her life.

“You have to admit the guy's a real artist,” Lanie said. “Did you know he's famous for pioneering all sorts of procedures including face transplants? Like that Canadian guy who got burned. They used cadaver tissue and he's like new again. I mean, she got the best in the business.”

Steve nodded, thinking Lanie also probably gave Dana the name of a good divorce lawyer. They chatted some more, then he got up to leave.

“So you think that professor guy killed that stripper?” Lanie asked.

“The investigation is ongoing.” He checked his watch. “Bye.” And he left the room.

Dana followed him to the front door. She whispered, “I think you were rather rude to her.”

“Not even close.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” The flesh around the sutures was discolored and swollen, but her eyes were definitely more open. He looked into them and wanted to lose himself. “Is this the last of it?”

“As soon as he can schedule me, I'm going to get my nose fixed.”

He nodded.

“You don't approve.”

“No.”

“If it's any consolation, I'm paying with my own money.”

“It's not the money. I like your face the way it is.”

“It's something I've wanted to do forever, so I'm getting it done.”

He nodded.

She studied his face. “What's your problem?”

“The more you get done, the less you look like yourself.”

“I think I know where you're going with this. This is not about you.” She opened the door.

“Are you still going to look for another job?”

“I don't know. I haven't turned in my resignation. I think I might miss the kids. Maybe I'll wait another year.” There was a moment's silence.

“I miss you.”

She nodded.

“Are you dating anyone?”

She sighed. “No. Are you?”

“No. Want to go out? Maybe dinner or a movie?”

“I don't think it's a good idea. Thanks for the check.”

He headed back to his car, thinking about the gun in the glove compartment.

On Monday morning Earl Pendergast was brought to Boston Municipal Court on New Chardon Street near Government Center. The presiding judge read the charge—one count of murder in the death of Terry Farina. He asked Pendergast if he understood the charge and Pendergast said that he did and that he was innocent. The judge said that it was not a trial and he could not make a statement.

At that point, the Assistant District Attorney Mark Roderick argued that bail be denied because of the seriousness of the crime and the fact that Earl Pendergast posed a severe risk of flight. He was, in fact, scheduled to leave Boston for London in two days.

The judge then asked Pendergast to enter a plea, and his attorney, Alden Goodfellow, said, “Not guilty.” The judge then ruled that bail was denied. For the second time, Attorney Goodfellow argued that since the Commonwealth did not have a strong case Pendergast should not be denied bail, in fact, a nominal bail should be set. He explained that Professor Pendergast had never been arrested before, that he had no criminal record, that he had worked in the community, and was a popular educator and beloved professor at Hawthorne State, and that evidence in the case was at best circumstantial. Nothing had been presented to connect Pendergast to the actual crime scene, nor was there an established motive, nor did he have a history of violence, nor had he ever posed a threat to Ms. Farina or others.

The judge dutifully listened to Attorney Goodfellow then agreed to set bail at one million dollars surety. He then asked the attorneys to check their schedules for a probable cause date, which was agreed to be in three weeks. With the slap of the gavel, the arraignment was adjourned, and Earl Pendergast was returned to the Nashua Street jail to wait to see if friends, family members, and neighbors could raise the $100,000 cash bail so that he could be released on personal recognizance.

 

By the evening, the story was all over the local news channels about the arrest and arraignment of the English professor held for the murder of an exotic dancer. Interviews were held with colleagues, neighbors, and Pendergast's brother, who said it was a travesty of justice to hold an innocent man. Pendergast's attorney said that he may have made some mistakes in the past but he had paid dearly for them and was innocent of any wrongdoing and that whatever evidence prosecutors had was, at best, circumstantial.

Meanwhile, Captain Reardon asked Steve to continue with the investigation of Professor Earl Pendergast while pursuing other leads.

Like Mr. Hyde.

SPRING
1975

It was the best and worst night of his fourteenth year. It was the night he got a standing ovation for his Romeo and the night he wished he had died for real.

He had known Becky Tolland since third grade. She had gone to middle school with him; she was in his catechism class at Holy Name Church. She was currently in his homeroom at Franklin High, where they had joined the drama club. But it wasn't until they got the leads in
Romeo and Juliet
that they became more than childhood friends.

Of course, Lila was proud he had gotten the role, boasting to friends and neighbors about his delivery when he practiced the script with her, saying that he had a natural gift of dissociating himself from his own being to become somebody else. Yet her bragging made him uncomfortable, not just because of the attention but because he could detect a note of sadness in her voice. She had been praised in high school and college for her own acting skills, but her adult life was a string of go-nowhere performances.

On opening night she and his father sat in the tenth row. Every so often he'd glance their way and see her flash him the thumbs-up sign and a wide grin. He had delivered his lines with such credibility that following the famous “But, soft!” soliloquy in the Capulet orchard scene, the crowd burst into applause. When the final curtain came down, the audience gave a standing ovation that continued for two curtain calls. Each time he looked, Lila was applauding, her face wet with tears. And his dad made victory punches in the air.

Looking back, he knew it was the happiest moment of his life—onstage before a cheering crowd and proud parents, holding the hand of his first real girlfriend. A moment he would remember forever.

Later that evening, the whole cast and crew—some two dozen kids—piled into the function room of the Casa Loma, a local Italian restaurant where they celebrated with pizzas and Cokes and filled the place with youthful exuberance. His mom would pick up him and Becky at eleven.

At around ten, when the crowd began to thin, he and Becky receded to a booth in the rear, and like some of the other kids, they began making out. He had kissed her before, mostly theatrical air kissing—the equivalent of shaking hands for thespians. Because she was still wearing makeup, his mouth and lower face was smudged red, as was his shirt collar.

At eleven o'clock the manager flicked the lights that it was time to go. The handful of kids made their way outside.

It was a cool April night with a million stars blazing overhead. He had never felt more alive and sucked in the night air as if to drain the atmosphere, thinking how he could not wait until tomorrow evening's performance. Across the parking lot his mother waited for them in her car. In the light he could see her beaming from the driver's seat.

He took Becky's hand and followed the headlights. But as they drew near, Lila's face looked like the film of a smile played backwards. They got into the backseat, and he could feel her eyes glare at him in the rearview mirror. “Hi,” he said, feeling a little charge in his chest.

Becky said hello, calling her Mrs. as she always did, but Lila did not respond. She looked back at them both, then rammed the car into gear and pulled away.

“Is everything okay?” he asked.

Still she said nothing, just jerked her head around to check for oncoming cars as she pulled into the street. He looked at Becky, who raised her eyebrows as if to ask what the problem was. After a minute of crackling silence, he asked again, “Is something wrong?”

Lila flashed him a look. “Yes, something is wrong. What the hell have you been doing?”

“What do you mean? We were just having pizza.”

“Looks like you had more than pizza.”

Baffled, he looked at Becky, who indicated his face. Her lipstick was all over him. Immediately he pulled his hand out of hers and began wiping his mouth. Lila shot Becky a savage look.

“It's okay. I can walk home,” Becky said.

“You're not walking home,” Lila growled. “It's nearly midnight.”

“But I can call my parents. There's a phone booth at the gas station up there.”

Lila said nothing and roared past the Gulf station.

For several minutes they rode without speaking. Becky kept glancing at him, but he just kept his face out the window, feeling mortified. The lights from the street flickered and silence filled the car like toxic fumes. When they reached Becky's house Lila slammed on the brakes. She said nothing, as Becky jumped out. “Thanks for the ride. Good night.”

He got out to walk her to her door when Lila said, “Where do you think you're going?”

He tried to tell her, but the words had no air. “G'night,” he muttered, and watched Becky walk up the path and go inside. He wanted to get in the rear seat, but he knew Lila would object. With his heart slamming he slipped into the front. Without a word she jammed the shift into drive and peeled away. After another minute, he couldn't stand the tension any longer. “What's wrong?”

“What's wrong?” she snapped, and turned to him. “Your little friend is a goddamn little slut is what. Your face is painted with her.”

“W-what're you—” But before he could finish, she backhanded him in the mouth, the diamond of her engagement ring catching his upper lip and splitting the skin. He grabbed some tissues from the box on the dashboard. “I'm bleeding,” he said in disbelief.

“Good for you.”

“What's your problem?” he yelled, outrage burning through fear. “It's just makeup. We weren't doing anything.”

Through her teeth she snarled, “I don't want you seeing her again.”

“How come?”

“Because she's a slut.”

“No, she isn't.”

“Don't tell me she isn't. She's a little slut, and everybody in town knows it.”

“What are you talking about?” His mind scrambled for something solid to land on. Did Becky Tolland have a reputation that he knew nothing about? Maybe some kind of secret parent network that shared dark rumors about kids? That didn't make sense. If there were a buzz about Becky Tolland, it would be all over Franklin High. He'd know about it. There was no such buzz. It was Lila's own paranoia. She was jealous, and the realization hit him like a hammer.

After a brittle moment, she brushed back her hair. “Are you fucking her?”

It was the first time he had ever heard her use that word. In fact, it had crossed his mind that Lila may not in her entire life have ever uttered that word, imagining her uncorrupted by such a vulgarity because she was so proper and didn't want to offend Jesus. “W-what?”

“You heard me. Are you
fucking
her?”

This time she pronounced the word with such violence that a jolt shot through him. Her face was white and drawn, the flames of her hair rising like fire from her skull, her eyes crazy-askew in the streetlights. He could barely recognize her as the same woman who just hours ago applauded him with tears of joy. It was if some dark malevolence had taken possession of the woman who had raised him. “Don't talk that way,” he whimpered.

“Don't go stupid on me. I know what you kids do. Answer me: are you
fucking
her?”

“No, I'm not.”

“You're lying.”

“No, I'm not lying.” His voice was a thin warble. Whatever came over her made him wonder in terror if she was losing her mind.

She nodded. “After all I've done for you. After all the sacrificing, trying to bring you up right.”

Against his will, he began to cry. “What did I do wrong?”

In a flash she snapped down the visor mirror. “Look at your face and shirt.
Just look at you.
”

“We were just fooling around. Everybody was.”

She continued nodding as if in private conversation with a voice in her head. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Did she go down on you?”

He wasn't even sure he knew what she meant, but the suspicion was appalling. “What?”

“Is there lipstick on your dick, too?”

“You're sick, you know that? You're sick.”

She tried to swat him again, but he blocked it. “You shamed me and you shamed yourself, you know that?”

“But how? It was only a little kissing.”

“Yeah, with Becky Tolland, who does it for any boy who looks at her.”

“That's not true.”

She turned the wheel hard, then braked. With a jolt they were home.

Without a word she got out of the car and slammed the door. He sat there for several minutes, trying in vain to compose himself, trying to make sense of what had happened. Then he got out and slouched from the driveway, into the house, and up the stairs to his room, grateful that she had receded to the family room and that his dad was in bed.

He did not see her the next day because she slept late, and in the afternoon she drove to Boston to audition for a movie. Three days later, she returned, her face strained with disappointment. She did not get the part. When she showed up, she went right to her room without speaking.

It made no difference if it was the failed screen test or the Becky thing. Lila was miserable and didn't emerge from her room the entire next day. Meanwhile, his father flew out the first thing Saturday morning for a golfing weekend in Myrtle Beach. Anxious about Lila suffering in her bed, he spent the day cleaning the house and doing laundry, alert for any cue that she was emerging from her gloom. By evening she still hadn't emerged, and his worry peaked. She had not eaten for more than twenty-four hours, so he made a tuna sandwich and heated a can of soup. He assembled the plate and bowl on a tray with a small bunch of daffodils from the garden and waited for nearly two hours until he heard her flush the toilet.

Trembling with each step, he carried the tray up the stairs, not knowing if she would be normal or still fuming hatred for him. He could take anything but that. Anything. No matter how irrational she became—and she seemed to be getting worse—he could not suffer her rejection. It was the one thing that could extinguish his will. And he'd do anything to win her back.

For a long moment he stood by the door balancing the tray, his blood throbbing throughout his body, uncertain if she'd let him inside, dreading that she would. He tapped the door. “Mom?” No voice. No sound of movement. He tapped again, this time a little louder. Nothing still. He tapped a third time, saying, “Mom. I've got some dinner for you.”

Nothing.

“Mom, please, you've got to have something to eat.” He could hear the echo of her own words when he was sick in bed.

With relief, he heard some movement within. Then faintly her voice, “It's unlocked.”

He opened the door. The room was dark. But in the hall light he could see her sitting up in bed. He turned on a small lamp. She was dressed in her nightgown with her hair pulled back. Her face was blank as he approached. A sour odor laced the air. “I made you some tuna. It's all I could find, but I put chopped tomatoes and green olives in the way you like it.”

He placed the tray on her lap with relief that she accepted his offer. But she said nothing. “I didn't know what you wanted to drink so I brought water. You want milk or tea?”

“Water is fine,” she said, her voice flat.

“Want me to open the window?”

She nodded.

He pulled up the shades and opened the window. The sky was purple in the sunset.

“I don't want the soup.”

He removed it and she took a sip of water. He watched her, struggling to come up with something to say, desperate to get her talking normally. “I'm sorry you didn't get the part.”

“Makes no difference.”

Her words made him sadder still. “There'll be other roles.”

She took a bite of the sandwich. He watched her, wondering what was going on inside of her. Wondering what it was like being her. Wondering if she would ever be happy, truly happy. If her ship would ever come in.

Without looking at him, she said, “You can leave.”

“No, it's okay.”

“I prefer to eat alone.”

“Okay.” He moved to the door. He started to close it behind him but stopped halfway, his hand still on the doorknob. He took a deep breath. “You still mad at me?”

She turned her face toward him and studied him for a moment. Her face was blank, her eyes flat. His heart pounded so loudly that he was certain she could hear it across the room. Then in a clear voice, her eyes trained on him, she said, “I don't want you to see Becky Tolland again.”

“Okay,” he said, knowing at that moment the syllables rising up from the bottom of his soul were like a pledge to Jesus.