Mind Tryst

  “Everyone figures she wasn’t seeing no one around here. She must have somehow got herself someone a ways away,” said Nicole, who was a woman of forty and had a little Indian heritage.

  “How did you come up with that?” I asked.

  “Well, by the way Leah — that’s her best girlfriend — Leah says she started doing her housework at night. See, she used to drop her boy off at nursery and then either shop, do housework, or have coffee with Leah. Then, afternoons, when they could, their boys would play together at one or the other house. This gave ‘em extra time off from the kids. I did that with mine when they was small.”

  “So, how do you figure it was someone far away? I mean a ways away?”

  “Because she’d say she was going shopping and then didn’t have no shopping to talk about. And she’d be gone in the car, but no one ever seen her car at houses or stores or hotels or diners around here. And she didn’t use those mornings or afternoons to get her stuff done, because just before her husband came home she was all busy trying to get everything done.”

  “Maybe she watched the soaps,” I joked.

  “She fell behind on the soaps, Leah said.”

  “Wow,” I said. “That is something.” I was being wholly sincere. My mom watched the soaps. If she felt unwell, she fell behind on the soaps. It was a symptom of a major problem. “Did you tell Bodge all this?”

  “Bodge knows all that stuff — it don’t make it easier to find out who she was playing around with. Somebody real special, I guaran-damn-tee.”

  “Special, how?”

  “Listen, you got girlfriends?”

  “Well, yeah, I have some good —”

  “Women all of a sudden get themselves a man that takes their mind off everything — everything — kids, husbands, shopping, soaps, friends — and they say things. They lose weight because they all at once feel great and feel terrible... They always say things. I mean, in March she’s trading babysitting, shopping coupons, soaps, menus... and in April she’s all closed up and don’t have time for anybody, can’t be on the phone, don’t shop with Leah, and she’s out every morning. Maybe she’s having a little daylight delight with somebody so illegal she can’t even hint about what’s happening.”

  Nicole dragged it out as though she’d been thinking about it for years. “She’s talking about how all these years she ain’t that happy with Bob. Bob’s a good man and he don’t drink. Bob’s a fine daddy, he don’t hit the kids, and he makes a decent living. She asks Leah if she and her husband ever made love in the daylight or if Leah’s husband ever took her to the bedroom and had a nightie laid out there that he’d just like to see her in. And she says that’s the sort of thing a woman just can’t hardly say no to.”

  “I don’t get it,” I admitted.

  “Look, she doesn’t say Joe Schmoe is sure good-lookin’ and she doesn’t say, even to Leah, ‘You can’t tell a soul.’ Nothing. But she’s got these things she couldn’t resist and she don’t smile at no one at the PTA or the church or anything. Whoever had her had her good and kept her quiet. Whoever that was, he killed her — you know it.”

  I couldn’t think of a good rebuttal. “What do you mean by a guy ‘so illegal?’”

  “I don’t know. Married? Preacher? The governor? Like he’s the mayor or the sheriff or something.”

  I laughed in spite of myself. Bodge? Who could fall in love with him that fast, that hard? Then I thought of Bud Wilcox and forced my thoughts away from him. I was getting that skittish feeling one gets when there’s a crime too close to home; everyone becomes stranger than they already are.

  “So,” Nicole said, “I figure Kathy had herself a man who promised her, ‘Don’t say anything to anyone — and when we can, we’ll run away together. It’s the only way; we could never stay in this town.’ And then what he did was kill her because she wouldn’t run away and he didn’t believe she’d keep quiet.”

  Sounded to me like Nicole had him cold — or had a good soap opera. “How does a guy get hold over a woman like that?”

  Nicole smiled. She had deep dimples in her round cheeks. “Now, I coulda sworn you’d know how... but then maybe you’re just an innocent.”

  “Come on,” I laughed, “who’s that good?”

  She sobered. “I sure as hell would like to know.”

  ***

  I got my call from Janice. It was bad news and I chose to confront it head-on. I couldn’t avoid Tom forever, and I suspected there was more to the story than Janice had told me. I left a message on his machine, he called me at work, and I asked him to drop by for a beer. I told him there was something I needed to discuss with him and I allowed my attorney’s voice to convey the gravity. I had to buy the beer, of course.

  His appearance had changed since I first met him. He called it his winter growth. His hair was shorter on top and he grew a beard that enhanced his mountain-man appearance. His dark hair, dark beard, and hooded eyes made him look sinister when he was serious, but when he smiled and his brown eyes twinkled, he looked more handsome than he actually was. His beard, still short and trim, made him appear larger.

  “What’s up? You sounded so serious.”

  He came in and followed me to the kitchen. I handed him a cold bottle of beer and went back to the living room, where I had a glass of wine on the coffee table. I didn’t sit down. I stood to talk to him. “I want to ask you something and it is serious. I happened to be talking to one of my friends back at Cook, Connally, and Emory and she remembered hearing about your incident — the domestic homicide, the coroner’s inquest, and the murders of your wife and daughter. She remembered something you didn’t mention. You were the only suspect in the murders of your wife and daughter.”

  Shock widened his eyes. His mouth stood open and he stared at me as though I’d shot him a fist to the gut.

  “True?” I asked, wanting to get this over with fast.

  “God,” he said, breathless. He ran a hand through his hair, short on top, longer in back. “God, Jackie. True. Jesus, I wasn’t charged. Did your friend happen to tell you how it was I became the only suspect?”

  “No. Was that psychopath charged? Was anyone ever charged? It’s creepy. I’d love it if you’d explain.”

  “You didn’t tell anyone about this, did you?”

  My chin went up; I was suddenly afraid to be targeted as the only one who knew. I wanted backup. “My friend knows, Janice Whitcomb, at the firm. She told me. Why?”

  “Well, damn, because I sure as hell don’t want some character assassination like that going around here. Christ, I didn’t kill my own family; how could I do that? I know who killed them.”

  “Jason Devalian?” I asked. I had the facts now.

  He stared at me for a long moment. “She just happened to remember the name of the murderer, too? Come on, why don’t you admit it — you checked me out. You always do that when someone appeals to you?”

  I shrugged. I’m not that tough, but I can look tough if I have to. “I mentioned your name when I was visiting in L.A., Tom. That’s all. You told me this story, it happened in the city I had lived in and where I still have friends, and no one around here knows anything about it. Janice picked up on it, remembered it vaguely, and looked through a newspaper file. I didn’t ask her to —”

  “Roberta knows,” he said, raising his voice. “Why didn’t you ask Roberta?”

  “Don’t shout at me, please. Why don’t you stay cool and tell me what happened. I don’t know you and it’s reasonable that I should get the facts and the truth about you. And I did ask Roberta about you before I even let you grout my bathroom tiles. She said she thought you were a nice guy who had had an unfortunate experience.”

  “What if I hadn’t told you anything about it at all?”

  “That would have been unfair of you,” I said. “I don’t know that I could have done anything about it.”

  “I haven’t been fucking unfair!” he shouted. He was visibly angry with me. He trembled and one fist was clenche
d, with the other gripping his beer. “I told you more about me before I touched your hand than I know about you. You come out here alone, changing your life, leaving your friends, having no particular reason, and for all I know you could be running from the law. But you’re having me checked out.”

  “Okay, look, I thought I’d get your side of the story. Nothing about this discussion feels good to me either. You asked me for a date right at the time I told a friend about you. Now, she called me with some information. She took it upon herself to research this. I wouldn’t feel safe not listening to what she’d learned. I don’t want to make trouble for you or hurt you.”

  “Why didn’t you ask me for some of the details, then? Why’d you have me investigated? And if you’re going to have me investigated, why don’t you do a thorough job and get the answers? Don’t you have any instincts about people? Can’t you tell if they’re decent people or liars?

  “What happened is this — your law-firm friend can get it verified via the police reports. The man who was harassing me, whose voice was on the phone recorder after hours at my office threatening to kill me, was institutionalized at the time my wife and four-year old daughter were killed. My whereabouts at the time were harder to establish because I was with a woman whose identity I didn’t want to disclose. I was a suspect for a whole fifteen minutes until — scared to death — I gave them her name.”

  “And you told them who you thought killed them?” I asked.

  “I told you that, too — Jason Devalian. Mental patient who is saner and smarter than you and me together. They wanted me. They didn’t want the real killer; they wanted me.”

  “You said he was an inmate.”

  “At a minimum-security hospital. I believe he left for less than an hour; it couldn’t be proved. Later he was charged with arson at a time when he was an inmate, and they managed to prove in that case that he sneaked out of the hospital, did his crime, and sneaked back in. I know he did it. He knows he did it.”

  “Why were you reluctant to use your alibi? The woman was married or something?”

  “Shit, Jackie — where’s your imagination?” he asked with a sarcastic sneer. I imagined tears in his eyes. His voice was lowered but no calmer. He behaved as if I’d uncovered a turd patch in his life. “She was a patient,” he said more quietly. “It got me canned. Check it. It checks.”

  He hadn’t opened his beer. He turned away from me and went into the kitchen, where he put it back in the cardboard six-pack and closed the refrigerator door.

  “I’m sorry I’ve upset you,” I said. “I’ll tell you again: I didn’t have you investigated — the information came to me. I couldn’t ignore it.”

  “Save your breath. You called back to L.A. and dug up the stuff; you had to have done that.”

  “No,” I said as calmly as I could. “Not at all; I have friends who worry about me, that’s all.”

  “I’m out of here,” he said meanly. “I don’t need this. You got your stuff now; you think you know what you have to know. You couldn’t trust me; you couldn’t handle it another way. What are you? A woman or an investigator? I thought our worries would be about one likes fish and one likes beef. I didn’t grill you, for Christ’s sake.”

  He wasn’t hearing me, or chose not to believe me. “Why not? If you think there’s more to me, why don’t you ask me?”

  “Because my mama told me to live and let live. Because I figured that if there’s some personal stuff you want to share at some point, trust me with it, you’ll let me know. Since I don’t need to fix you, help you, or protect myself from you, I thought I’d enjoy your company and let you be. We haven’t even kissed, for Christ’s sake, and I don’t usually pry for all the details of a personal life with people who are still new acquaintances.”

  “Are you saying that you think I shouldn’t have asked you about this story? That I should have gotten to know you first? Is that it?”

  “We’ve known each other a few months now. We’re not steadies. You ought to have a feeling for whether you’re afraid of me. If there’s something scary about me, you never let on.”

  “I didn’t have to be afraid of you to listen to what my friend had to say,” I said truthfully. I wasn’t afraid of Tom. He had made me feel safe up to now. My only reason for not letting him sleep on the couch the night I came home from L.A. was my penchant for privacy.

  “I didn’t expect you to be an operational, that’s all. I suppose you want my medical records.”

  He had thoroughly pissed me off. “It’s a high-risk society. I wouldn’t mind.”

  “Well, you’re outa luck, babe,” he said, his voice calm now and his eyes clearly narrowed in annoyance. “I haven’t been to a doctor in five or six years. See ya around, Jackie. I hope you’re satisfied that I’m not a criminal, because Coleman would be a bad place to have that around.”

  “It was never my intention to spread gossip. I was told you weren’t charged or indicted. I wanted the details and your side. If that can get you this riled up, you and I have nowhere to go from here.”

  “I guess not,” he said. And he left.

  His story checked further. He was investigated and suspended for having a personal relationship with a patient and never went back to work for the state. He must have been terminated for breach of ethics. And Jason Devalian did commit a crime as an inpatient — one that got him locked up a little tighter, in the state penitentiary.

  For two years.

  5

  “Can we talk?” Tom asked me.

  “About what?” I replied coyly. I resort to coyness only when so dismayed I don’t know what else to say or do. I had not expected to hear from him. I was unsure of my feelings at this point. I knew I wanted him to let me off the hook; to absolve me of the crime of sneakiness, of investigating a friend. I secretly wished he could also make all this heavy-duty wreckage of his past life disappear. I wasn’t prepared for it to be worse.

  “About my thoroughly unreasonable behavior. I’m sorry about the way I reacted. I think it was the surprise, the way you hit me with it. You’re a clever lady, Jackie. You did the right thing and you did it straight. I was an ass.”

  “Well, there. We’ve talked about it. Was that an apology?”

  “It was the first half of one. I’d like to see you.”

  This threw me further off balance. “I thought we established that it’s going nowhere. I don’t hold a grudge. You’re off the hook, I won’t gossip about you, and I’m sorry about the way that conversation went. I never intended to broadside you. I didn’t purposely investigate you and I mean you no harm. It was all a coincidence, my finding out.”

  “Okay, fair enough. I see how that scenario could happen. That seems to unhook us both.”

  “Good. Let’s call it done —”

  “Come on, Jackie, don’t make me beg. Seriously, have you looked around Coleman lately? There aren’t many single women and single men. Except for that one foolish display of temper, we get along okay; we like each other. Temper isn’t a problem for me. On that subject, feeling cornered I guess, I got hot. You gotta understand — I’m not as screwed up as I was then... but I am still accountable.”

  “Maybe we could meet for a sandwich or something,” I suggested. There’s an old singles rule: Keep it simple and public till you’re sure.

  “We could, but I’d like enough privacy to talk. I’d like to explain myself, if possible. And I’d like to exercise my option of asking you about yourself.”

  “What do you have in mind?” I didn’t respond to part two — I always had the option of saying, “None of your business.” I wasn’t afraid of my past; I was haunted. There’s a difference.

  “I’d like to make you dinner.” I was silent for a moment that seemed to stretch out. “Listen, I don’t want you to feel in any way vulnerable. You should tell Roberta or somebody that you’re coming out to my place for a home-cooked dinner.” Again, I didn’t accept or decline. I said nothing. “It’s pleasant out here, quiet and pre
tty; we can talk, and I’m a halfway good cook. I was once a short-order cook at a greasy spoon for about six weeks. I miss you,” he said. I swallowed. “More than you, I miss the anticipation I had that we were going to be friends. See, Jackie, I don’t think we had a personality conflict; it was a misunderstanding brought on by me. By my reaction to what you’d heard from your friend.”

  Well, I missed the anticipation, too. I had started thinking about having a relationship that involved movies, dinners, laughter, camaraderie, and touching. Not the least of which was touching. I am a healthy woman with a body that is not dead yet, though for a good eighteen months after losing my son, I suspected I was down to a half a brain atop a useless anatomy. I had slowly come back to life after that. I longed for Sheffie; I always would. I knew I was among the living when I recognized that I was longing for other things as well.

  Also, a skeptic to the end, I’d checked his story out, and he was never charged with any crime. Although it hadn’t been my intention to investigate him in the first place, it was in the second place, after his display of anger. I was not going to share that. “Okay,” I said. “What time?”

  “Seven?” he asked.

  Seven it was. It gave me time to go home, drop off my homework, take a quick bath, and freshen up — a new ritual of mine since I shared an office with a smoker. I asked myself all that afternoon and during my preparation what it was I wanted from this situation. What I did was lie to myself in the way only a woman who has been a long time without a man will do. I do not mean that in the biological sense; it wasn’t that I was craving sex.

  I wanted to be hopeful, I rationalized. I was ready to restore some things to my life that I had learned to do without. I wanted someone like Bruce in my life: a good friend of the male gender. If Bruce had still been around when I started breathing again, I would have attempted to reconcile with him. Having someone is so good. I wanted to have someone to talk to about cases, something to look forward to, and the physical contact that lends reassurance and affection.