The Smart One (19 page)

“Who?”

“Bev? I waited for a reaction. “Beverly? Harold’s daughter?”

“He has to see your face, sweetheart,” the redheaded man said. “Go on in.”

I hesitated, unable to move.

“Don’t be shy,” the man said. He cocked his head toward the curtain. “He won’t bite.”

I swallowed hard and walked across the room, aware of a dampness darkening the armpits of my pale shirt. When I reached the opening in the curtain, there he was, all alone, sitting straight up in a bed folded into a right angle. He looked smaller than I had remembered—his sallow skin drooping past his chin as if he had shrunk beneath his flesh—but exactly the same in every other way. There had been no transformation from man to monster.

I stared at his hands, transfixed by the very humanness of his aging flesh and liver spots.

“Who are you?” he barked.

I looked into his eyes to see if I could discern a lie. Was it an act or not? “I’m Beverly, Harold and Bernadette’s daughter.”

“The rock star?”

“That’s my sister, Joey. I’m Bev.”

“Harold’s daughter is a rock star.” He looked me up and down. “You’re no rock star.”

“I’m looking for my father,” I said. “I thought he was here with you.”

“Who’s your father?”

“Harold. Harold Bloomrosen.”

Mr. Waxman folded his arms. “Let me hear you sing something.”

“I’m not a singer. I’m Beverly. Remember? You gave me a Christmas ornament once.”

There was a flash of recognition in his eyes, and I could see that he remembered.

“Christmas?” he said. “What are you—a gentile?”

He was lying, but why? Why would he lie about something so harmless, something that revealed a kinder, gentler Sam Waxman? I looked at his eyes and got a white-cold chill. Suddenly, I knew.

“My God,” I said. “You didn’t
buy
me that ornament. You stole it. You stole it right off the tree.”

He hesitated for a moment and then waved off my comment. “Forrester Inn,” he said. “Filthy place. We should have gone back to Grossinger’s.”

“You remember,” I said.

Our eyes met and I understood that he was back, that he knew who I was. For one fleeting second, before he glanced away, I could see it there in the darkness of his pupils—the icy evil that had been able to murder an innocent young woman. My insides began to roil.

He peered past me, squinting in mock anger. “Rock star, my ass. Harold’s little girl is blond.”

I pictured him hammering down the lid on the industrial drum, our beautiful Lydia dead inside. Murdered. By this man. I could see him dusting his hands after rolling it under the house, his task complete. What did he do next? Walk inside and ask his wife what she made for dinner?

“I’m
Beverly
.” I pronounced it angrily and distinctly.

He picked up his remote control and turned on the television. I grabbed it out of his hand and pressed the Off button.

“I’m Beverly,” I repeated, my face inches from his.

“Get out of my room, miss.”

“Beverly,” I said, looking intently into his lucid eyes.

“Whatever your name is, give me back my remote.”

I held the remote control over the pitcher of water next to his bed. He eyes went from my hand to my face and back to my hand. I let the remote drop into the water, where it landed with a dull splash. I leaned in closer to his ear.

“I’m Beverly,” I said again, “and I know what you did.”

After leaving Sam Waxman’s room, I leaned against the wall in the corridor, shivering. I had just been face-to-face with a man who murdered someone, and it left me sick with shock.

A nurse wheeling a large machine down the hall stopped when she saw me. “Are you okay?” she asked. “Do you need assistance?”

“Bathroom,” I blurted, feeling a rising nausea.

She moved her cart to the side and took me by the elbow to the nearest ladies’ room.

I thanked her, then pushed my way into a stall. A violent spasm seized my stomach. I didn’t vomit at first, but broke out in a cold sweat that felt like nothing except death. Trembling, I dropped to my knees and put my face over the toilet, praying for the release of regurgitation. My hair fell over my face, and when I looked past it into the water, I saw the dark reflection. It looked so much like what I had thought were fibers floating on top of the brackish liquid in the industrial drum, that for a moment my clouded mind lost the thread of reality and a colorless human hand rose above the surface, looking exactly as pallid and clammy as I felt.

The vision startled me and made my stomach seize again.
But this time it was forceful enough to push up bile, and I vomited into the toilet—a glorious and terrible purge.

I sat against the cold tile wall for a few minutes before getting up and approaching the sink. I lathered my hands and the bottom of my face, as well as the tip of my hair that had been nicked with vomit. After rinsing and spitting, I swallowed some water to wash the burn from my esophagus. I realized, then, that it would probably do me some good to put some food in my empty stomach. First, though, I had to head back to my mother’s room to tell her I hadn’t found my dad.

Trembling and depleted, I headed back to the elevator and up to the fourth floor. As I approached the room, I heard a faint male voice and was happy that my father had turned up.

“There you are,” I said as I entered. But the second the words escaped my lips I realized that it wasn’t my father’s voice I had heard. I covered my mouth with my hand as if I could take the sentence back.

Kenny stood and faced me. “Bev.”

I froze. It hadn’t occurred to me that he might show up despite my having taken his car. How shortsighted of me not to realize he would simply call a taxi.

“What happened?” my mother asked. “You look terrible.”

I remained at the doorway, unable to take a step into the room. “I never found Dad.”

“Are you okay?” Kenny asked.

I gave him a cold stare and said nothing. Then I turned to my mother. “I don’t know where he could be.”

“He probably went to get a cup of coffee,” she said.

There was an awkward silence, and it seemed like Kenny was searching for something to say.

“I’ll go look for him in the cafeteria,” I said, before he could speak. “And if he’s not there, I’ll go to pick up Renee.”

“I’ll come with you,” Kenny said.

I put my hand up. “No!”

“Don’t be silly, Beverly,” my mother said. “Let him come with you. You don’t even know the way.”

“I’ll figure it out.” I picked up the keys I had left on the nightstand and turned to leave, but Kenny rushed toward me. He put his hand on my shoulder before I got out the door. I turned, trying to give him a dirty look, but my eyes burned from the effort of holding back tears.

“Wait a minute, champ,” he said. “It’s
my
rental car, remember?”

“You want to go pick up your mother?” I said. “Fine.” I forced the keys into his hand, and then sat down in the vinyl chair by my mother’s bed.

Kenny hesitated. “Come with me, Bev,” he said. “Please? We need to talk.”

“I have nothing to say.”

“Do you want me to apologize right here in front of your mother?”

“No!” God, he was impossible.

“Then come with me.”

I looked to my mother, hoping I would see something in her eyes that would show me she was on my side. And there it was, as clear as rainwater. She had picked up on my neediness and would protect me in any way she could. I moved from the chair to the edge of the bed and put my head on my mother’s shoulder. She put her arms around me and I started to cry.

“You’d better just go,” she said to Kenny.

Later, my father gave me a lift back to my hotel and insisted on walking me inside, even though he was hobbled by a walking cast and a cane. After I checked in, I told him to go back and rest, and I went up to my room alone.

I noticed that it was set up exactly like Kenny’s room, with just the slightest variation in neutral colors. I dropped the key card on the dresser and collapsed on the bed, realizing it was evening already and I had never answered the hunger pangs that had jabbed at me earlier and, in fact, hadn’t eaten a thing since the morning. I considered dialing room service, but I was so exhausted I decided to close my eyes for a few minutes first. I was desperate for a short nap. Maybe even a long one.

I lay down right on top of the bedspread feeling so leaden it was like gravity itself was pulling me into a thick, dreamless sleep. Sometime later, when someone knocked hard on the door of the room, I was disoriented. I couldn’t figure out what time of day it was and why I was being awoken. I stumbled to the door and stupidly swung it open without asking who was there.

It was Kenny, carrying a pizza box.

“I thought you might be hungry,” he said.

I stood for a moment, blinking, letting myself wake up and understand who he was and what he was doing there. The smell of the pizza wafted through the cardboard and nearly made me salivate. Almost without thinking, I grabbed the box from his hands.

“Thanks,” I said, shutting the door with my hip. I walked over to the little table in front of the sofa and put the box down.

“Bev,” he called through the door. “That was a peace offering. Open up.”

I lifted the lid and took out a slice, devouring it greedily while I stood. It was hot and so delicious. Who knew they had such good pizza in Florida? This was real pizza. Brooklyn pizza.

“C’mon, Bev. At least give me the chance to apologize.”

I sat down on the sofa and put my feet up on the table next to the box.

“Go away,” I said with a full mouth.

“I’m hungry too, you know.”

So what,
I thought. I had worked my way down to the crust and was chomping through it.

“Look, I know I was an asshole,” he said. “I’m sorry. Sometimes my temper gets away from me. Can we just talk about it?”

What was there to talk about? I believed he was sorry and I didn’t care. It couldn’t erase that he was someone capable of treating me like that.

I sucked my fingers clean and took another slice from the box.

“Bev?”

My hunger losing its beastly edge, I became aware that a napkin would be a good idea. There were none around, so I grabbed a tissue from the end table and used it to wipe my face.

“Can I have a slice, at least?”

I burped.

“What?” he said.

“Go away!”

“Not until we talk.”

I picked up the remote and clicked on the television as I tried to relax and eat the second slice.
Entertainment Tonight
was on, which seemed like the perfect mind-numbing prescription. Problem was that hearing about celebrity breakups and which nightclub-hopping young actress had anorexia was so boring to me that it left my mind free to wander places I didn’t want it to go, so I clicked around, aware that Kenny remained outside my door, saying something or other I couldn’t make out. It was getting on my nerves.

Finally, I finished my slice and took another, placing it on a sheet of hotel stationery. I closed the pizza box and brought it to the door, balancing it on one hand.

“Here,” I said to Kenny as I swung the door open. “Thanks for the pizza. Now go away.”

“Don’t do this, Bev,” he said. I let the door shut and hesitated there for a moment.

“Okay,” I heard him say quietly. “I’m leaving. But I’m sorry. I’m sorry for hurting you.”

I listened to him walk away and then went back to the sofa to have my last slice. But a lump had found its way into my throat and I couldn’t eat another bite.

The next morning my father picked me up at the hotel so that we could sit together while waiting for my mother to come out of surgery. To pass the time, we brought bagels and coffee, as well as a couple of newspapers.

With sofalike cushioned benches affixed to the walls and an assortment of movable chairs so that families could gather in neat little groups, the waiting room was meant to be a comfortable place to hang around while sweating and fretting. A few televisions hung overhead, providing diversion, or at least a background hum for people too nervous for idle chatter.

Even though I had been assured my mother’s operation was low risk, I was anxious about it. At least I think I was. It was hard to tell
how
I felt, as a numbness had settled in, fogging my brain. I guessed it was just emotional overload, but I felt as if someone had spiked my coffee with Thorazine or sneaked into my room during the night and performed a secret lobotomy. In any case, I floated in a kind of haze, unable to process all that was going on.

I tried to focus. “How long should this take?” I asked my father as I fished a covered container of coffee out of the bag for him.

“She probably won’t be lucid for quite some time. They’re big on morphine drips now. Used to worry more about addiction to painkillers. Now it’s all about pain management.”

I sighed. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“What?”

“How long will the surgery take?”

“About an hour or two.”

I glanced around the room. A family of mostly obese people sat in another corner of the room, watching television, occasionally reaching into a box of Dunkin’ Munchkins. The woman in the middle held a tissue and dabbed at her nose. On one side of her was an elderly man I presumed to be her father. On the other side sat a teenage boy playing a handheld electronic game. Two boys just a bit younger sat on the floor in front of her watching television. I could tell they were all worried about their loved one in surgery, and I wanted to tell them it would be okay. I didn’t know that, of course, but I felt like whoever was in that operating room would fight like hell to get back to this family. Who wouldn’t be pulled by that kind of love and support?

The woman said something to the teenager and he got up and brought over the box of treats.

“Would you like one?” he asked.

“That’s very kind of you, thanks,” I said, and reached in to find a little chocolate ball glazed in sugar.

He offered the box to my father.

“Did you know that Krispy Kreme was in the South for many years before going national?” my father said.

The boy blinked. “These are Dunkin’ Donuts.”

“Do you
want
one, Dad?” I asked.

He shook his head, and the boy went back to his mother, whom I thanked from across the room.

“Would it kill you to just say ‘no thanks’?” I said to my father.

“You’re in a mood.”

Was I? I supposed enough emotions roiled beneath the surface to account for the snippiness with my father. I made a promise to myself to try to keep a lid on it.

I picked up the local section of the newspaper and started reading a story about a small child who had called 911 when her diabetic mother passed out, thus saving her life. I felt like I’d been reading that same child-as-hero story my whole life, and I wondered why people couldn’t seem to get enough of such a recycled tale. Why was the idea of a young child saving an adult so captivating? It had to be more than the charm of precociousness and the novelty of reversing roles. Did we just love the thought of rising above our own helplessness to save the day?

My father was sitting back on the sofa, his cast leg resting on the table in front of him. He scanned the newspaper through the reading glasses on the edge of his nose. I knew that he was coping with both Mom’s situation and the Waxmans’ drama in his own way—by filtering everything through his intellect. That was the wall around his tender heart. I reached over and gave his arm a squeeze.

He looked up at me. “She’s going to be fine,” he said.

The waiting room door opened and a nurse came in. My father looked up at her expectantly, but she walked over to the Dunkin’ Donuts family and addressed them in hushed tones. The woman with the tissue nodded thoughtfully. I hoped they were getting good news about their loved one’s surgery. After a few moments the nurse left and the family conferred, looking relieved. I let out an extended breath.

I read the paper for a while longer without much interest. When my father finished and folded up his section, we traded. Still, I couldn’t focus. I got up and walked to the window, which overlooked another part of the hospital building. Look
ing down, I could see a section of the parking lot and some palm trees planted around it to provide some shade from the scorching Florida sun.

The door to the waiting room opened again and I looked up, hoping it was someone coming to fill us in on the progress of my mother’s surgery.

It was Kenny.

I stayed where I was. Kenny glanced quickly in my direction and approached my father. They shook hands and spoke for a few minutes about my mother’s surgery before Kenny approached me.

“I know you still hate me,” he said. “But since you accepted the pizza, I thought you might accept this.”

He handed me a shopping bag. I looked inside and saw a box of charcoals and a sketch pad.

“I never see you sketch anymore,” he said. “You used to enjoy that. I thought it might help pass the time.”

I pictured Kenny thinking hard about something he could get for me that would be meaningful, and then driving around greater Boca Raton looking for an art supply store. It was a thoughtful gesture, but I wasn’t going to forgive him. I couldn’t. Still, I accepted the gift with a quiet “Thanks” and took a seat.

“You can draw a picture of me with fangs if you want. Give me mean, crazy eyes. Hell, make a life drawing and miniaturize my…” he held his hands in front of his crotch.

He was trying to make me laugh but I just felt embarrassed. I didn’t need everyone in the room to know I’d seen him naked. I shushed him, and he smiled at me, holding his thumb and forefinger a half inch apart to indicate how small I should make him. I rolled my eyes and pulled the sketch pad out of the bag. Kenny took the seat across from me.

I wasn’t yet sure what I was going to draw—only that it
wasn’t going to be Kenny. I took out the charcoals and put them on the seat next to me.

It had been a very long time since I sketched, and I didn’t realize until that minute how much I’d missed it. It had always been a kind of meditation for me, but I gave it up during my marriage to Jonathan because he had been so dismissive of my work. “It’s fine,” he would say. “It’s just not
art.”

I closed my eyes for a few moments trying to conjure an image. And then, there it was, as vivid and precise as could be. I opened my eyes and started drawing. I began with a heart-shaped face with a high forehead, framed by unruly curls. I took my time with the large almond-shaped eyes spaced far apart, and gave richness and depth to the irises, being sure to leave a crescent of white space where the light reflected. The nose was long, but smooth and straight. The mouth was all Hollywood—broad and smiling, with dark lips and big white teeth. The cheekbones were also cut like a movie star’s. I worked and worked, stopping occasionally to hold it at arm’s distance for a better perspective. When at last the face seemed done, I shaded an area around it, leaving a halo of light. I was a little surprised by the final image, as I expected the eyes to look as happy as the smile, but there was a sadness in them. Was that clumsiness or my subconscious at work?

Still, I was pleased with it and turned the page around to show Kenny, who had been sitting quietly the entire time.

He stared at the picture silently, and I just waited. I thought the likeness was good, but was my memory playing tricks? Would he recognize this face?

Finally he said, “It’s her. It’s Lydia.”

I nodded.

Kenny looked somber, and I worried that I had angered him with this drawing. But there was no fury in his eyes—only a softness, which touched me. I still wasn’t forgiving him,
but I couldn’t help feeling sad for what he’d lost. I was sorry I’d drawn her. I considered ripping out the page and tearing it in half.

“Can I have it?” he whispered, his hand on his mouth as if he were afraid to even ask.

I carefully tore it from the pad and handed it to him. “It’ll smudge,” I said, “so be careful.”

“I should have bought fixative, right? I forgot about that.”

“Hairspray will do in a pinch, if you can get your hands on some.”

“You need hairspray?” said the heavyset lady. She rummaged in her purse and pulled out a travel-sized aerosol can. She smiled and her whole face looked so different, so pretty. I hadn’t noticed her complexion before—it was milky smooth.

Kenny thanked her and took the hairspray. He shook the can, pulled the cap off, and held it about an inch from the picture.

“Stop,” I said. “It’s not good to get that close.”

“It can be,” he said, “if you give it a chance.”

I rolled my eyes and made him give me the hairspray. I wasn’t going to have this conversation. “Just let it dry,” I said as I sprayed a fine mist over the page, “and then it should be set.”

He put his hand on my arm. “I really am sorry.”

“I know.” I gave the lady back her hairspray and thanked her again. She told me her name was Doreen and that her husband was having double-bypass surgery, even though he was only forty-four.

“I have three kids,” she whispered, her eyes lit with fear.

“I’m sure the surgeon is very skilled.”

She nodded. “The nurse said it was going well.”

She looked like she needed a hug, so I gave her one.

I heard the door open behind me and turned to see if an
other nurse had entered with an update for either of us. But it was Renee Waxman, followed by a male aide pushing Sam into the room in a wheelchair. Renee pointed to an empty spot next to my father, and the aide parked the wheelchair there and then left.

I glanced at Kenny, whose jaw tightened. He said hello to his mother, and then took a seat near the window with his back to his father.

“How are you feeling, Sam?” my father asked.

“I think I left the water running,” he said.

My father took off his reading glasses. “What water?”

“The hose. The goddamned hose.”

“There’s no hose,” my father said. “You’re in the hospital. Remember?”

Sam’s eyes were unfocused. “It’ll flood the tomatoes.”

“The tomatoes are fine,” Renee said.

“They’ll get flooded. I forgot to shut off the hose.”

Renee glanced at my father and shrugged. “I shut it off,” she said, “just before we left.” She sat back, satisfied.

“You? You
never
shut off the water. Never do a damn thing. Can’t even clean up your own messes.”

Renee looked like she would cry. “Just relax, Sam,” she said, her hand hovering over her mouth. “Everything is fine.”

“Who are all these people?” he said angrily, as if he was accusing us of something.

“You know Harold, of course,” she began, “and that’s his daughter, Beverly. You remember Bev?”

“The drug addict.”

“That was Joey,” my father said matter-of-factly.

“Who’s that man next to her?”

“That’s our son, Kenny,” Renee said.

“Right. Another drug addict. And who are those fat people?”

His voice carried clear across the room and I cringed. Kenny looked furious. He rose and approached his father.

“Shut the fuck up,” he said quietly though closed teeth.

Sam looked at Renee. “What did I say that was so bad?”

I turned to Doreen. “I’m so sorry.”

She waved it away.

“Beverly, let me see what you drew,” my father said. I could tell he was eager to change the subject, but I didn’t want to bring the page over to that side of the room.

“It’s nothing, really,” I said.

“It’s not nothing,” Kenny said. He picked up the drawing and brought it over to my father, who held the page out and stared at it.

“Oh,” my father said, his face changing. I thought I detected a chink in his emotional armor, but he quickly recovered. “It’s fine work, Bev.”

“May I see?” Renee asked.

I glanced at Kenny, unsure what to do. He shrugged and took the picture from my father.

“Here,” Kenny said, handing it to his mother.

I tensed waiting for her reaction. She stared at it for a few moments and then silently handed it back to Kenny. She opened her purse, extracted a tissue, and blew her nose.

“Let me see it,” Sam barked.

Kenny’s body looked as rigid as a marine’s. He held the drawing with two hands right in front of his father’s face.

“Recognize this woman, Sam?”

His father stared hard.

“It’s Lydia,” Kenny said. “You remember
Lydia
, don’t you?”

Sam’s eyes bulged. He swiped at the picture and Kenny pulled it away, but not before his father’s hand had brushed over it. Kenny looked at the picture and then turned it toward me.

“Didn’t smudge!” he said triumphantly, like he got a chance to protect Lydia and succeeded.

Sam leaped from the chair and pulled the page from Kenny’s hand. “I don’t know this woman!” he yelled. “Don’t tell me who I remember!”

Kenny tried to grab it back but Sam ripped the page in half and dropped it on the floor before sitting back down in his wheelchair. I think I gasped.

“Well that’s
perfect
,” Kenny said, his voice rising. “Maybe Bev should draw her again so you can kill her a third time!”

“You’re crazy,” Sam muttered.

Kenny rolled his eyes.

“This man is a drug addict!” Sam said to Renee, whose sniffles had turned to sobs.

“Sam, don’t,” she said.

“Get me out of here,” Sam said, trying to turn his locked wheelchair around. “I left the water running.”

Frustrated that he couldn’t move the wheelchair, Sam got up and walked toward the door. It opened just before he reached it, and Sam was face-to-face with a familiar-looking man it took me a moment to recognize out of context.