For all that, I was curious about what it was that had turned Michael off like that. Was it that he didn’t want to be involved with someone whose family was suddenly helping to sell his patient’s tabloids? Was he really so unaccustomed to being stood up, was that the reason? Could his pride not tolerate coming second, second not to my husband, but to my kidnapped son? Or did the news of the kidnapping only confirm his worst suspicions, that I had been seeing someone else all along and that that someone, Simon, had been caught in sordid circumstances, taking my son from school? Michael Gardiner would not have wanted any part of that. Was it that, or was it a little of everything? Or did he just find someone else, someone else with a pancake-flat stomach, someone younger, and was it crêpe-flat?
Joe busied himself selling shares he had originally borrowed to pay for and applying the proceeds to repay other loans in order to get more credit and so on in a desperate and admittedly enervating attempt to delay our final day of reckoning. It occupied so much of his time and thought that he was, in a sense, able to justifiably claim exhaustion as an excuse for not looking for another job. He told me to trust him, which did not mean that he wanted my trust. It was too late for him to really mean that. What he meant was that he didn’t want me to bother him while he rearranged the deck chairs on the Titanic. Any suggestion that he look for a job, however quietly and sympathetically offered, was regarded as carping and treated as a casus belli.
The first of the Simon-related legal proceedings, the one they called the committal hearing, was approaching. Joe and I were forced to spend time with Simon’s prosecutors so that they might get our stories straight. We were warned that when the hearing started, the press interest in us, in my alleged relationship with Simon, and in Joe’s relationship with the prostitute Angelique, would intensify. It was against this background that I went to see my father.
I chose a time I knew my mother would be out. She went shopping every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday morning. It was a vocation. Food had to be fresh, she insisted. My father was delighted to see me but was disappointed I had come without Sam.
“Where is my grandson? Where is Sam?”
“He’s at school, Dad. It’s a school day. I have something to talk to you about.”
“Is something wrong? Is it Sam? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong with him. He’s fine. It’s not Sam but . . . Dad, we’re in some trouble now and I—”
“What trouble? Polizia?” he laughed.
“No, don’t be stupid, Dad.”
“I was joking, Anna, tesoro, what is it? You look like . . . in your face . . . it’s serious?”
“I don’t know where to start—”
“Anna, tell me! You want me to have another heart attack?”
“Dad, I don’t think I’ve ever asked you for anything—”
“I give you everything.”
“I know you have, Dad, but—”
“This about money?”
“Yes, it is, but also—”
“That’s good. I’m relieved. If it’s money, it’s okay. You can always get more money. If you work hard, you get some money. Anna, I’m relieved, tesoro. I thought maybe something was wrong with Sam and I—”
“Dad, will you let me finish?”
“You finished. You need money. How much?”
“Dad, it’s not as simple as that.”
“Why not?”
“Dad . . . Joe lost his job.”
“Why?”
“It’s complicated.”
“So we sit down and you tell me.”
“He talked the firm into doing something which ended up costing the firm a lot of money. They lost a whole lot of money and so they took it out on him.”
“Was it . . . honest?”
“What do you mean, ‘honest’?”
“Was it legale?”
“Of course it was legal.”
“Anna, calm yourself. You know I’m going to help you every way I can. But you hear on the news about these things with the big companies’ . . . casini. I just want to know the . . . everything.”
“Okay, well, I guess you’re going to know everything.”
“Good.”
“Dad, you remember I’ve told you that I’m going to have to go to court to testify about Simon taking Sam? It’s coming up soon.”
“But that didn’t have nothing to do with you.”
“Yes, and that’s what we have to tell them.”
“So? So there’s nothing you can say wrong. I still can’t believe it. I liked that Simon. You think you know people. He fooled all of us, eh!”
“Dad, Joe is going to have to testify too.”
“Okay, so he has nothing to hide either. Okay?”
“It’s not quite that simple.”
“Why?”
“Dad, when Simon picked up Sam from school that day he took him back to his place.”
“Yes, I know you said he didn’t touch him or nothing. He didn’t touch him, did he?”
“No, but . . .”
“But what? Anna, what did he do?”
“Nothing, but . . . there was a woman there.”
“Where?”
“At Simon’s place.”
“So? Did she touch him? She didn’t touch him, did she?”
“No, no, she didn’t touch him. In fact, it seems that . . . she was actually the one who called the police.”
“So? So what about the woman? We should thank her.”
“Dad, she’s . . . a prostitute.”
“Oh, Simon. Anna, it happens with men. Yes, I read it in the paper. The woman Simon was with was a prostitute. But still . . . we should thank her, yes? She didn’t give Sam drugs or nothing?”
“No drugs. Chocolate milk, I think. Dad, Joe knows her.”
“What do you mean?”
“Joe’s been seeing this woman once a week for about two years.”
“The puttana?”
“Yes.”
“Che bastardo! Va a morí ammazzato! Anna, I’m very sorry, tesoro.”
My father came to me and hugged me.
“You’re a beautiful girl. You know that. I don’t understand him . . . It’s . . . it’s the way men are. They . . . I’m sorry. She was in it with him, this puttana? It’s not making sense. Then why did she call the police?”
“I don’t know, but I had to tell you. It’s going to come out.”
“What?”
“It’ll be in all the papers . . . that Joe knew this woman. I wanted to tell you first, and Mum. Dad, Joe and I . . . we have problems, big problems in our marriage.”
“You can get over it.”
“We’re probably going to lose the house.”
“Why? Joe will get another job.”
“We’re mortgaged up to the roof.”
“You tell him to come and see me, honest, man-to-man. I help you with the roof. He’ll tell me how much you need until he can get a good job.”
“Why do you need him to tell you? I know how much we need.”
“How much do you need?”
“It’s a lot. We own very little. Joe took out a second mortgage.”
“Anna, I tell you. He talks to me and I help him till he finds a good job.”
“Jesus, Dad, it’s not that simple.”
“Why not?”
“I think he’s planning to leave me.”
“Why do you think this?”
“Dad, he was seeing a prostitute once a week for two years.”
“He’s a stupid man, Anna. You mustn’t think about it. You should make him happy. Try to make him happy—”
“Dad!”
“It’s with him . . . la virilità . . . le palle. Make him feel a man. He can feel you think he’s a . . . buffone, pagliaccio. It’s why you have only one kid.”
“Dad, it’s a terrible marriage.”
“I didn’t choose him, you did. I just pay for the wedding. He comes to me, man-to-man . . . if he tells me the truth with the numbers I
will help him till he can get a good job. You won’t lose the house. Also, you have to change your way with him and start to make him happy, like a man again. Maybe you shouldn’t be working.”
“Dad, I’m the one with the job!”
“Yes, all right. Is true. He should tell me where the deposit on the first house has gone.”
“This isn’t going to work.”
“Anna, you have to try.”
“Look how quickly you’re forgiving him everything.”
“I was not forgiving him everything. You must do that. But now we have to face all what is now.”
“What about . . . ?”
“The puttana.”
“Well, yes, that.”
“Anna, I am sad for you. But what can we do? You chose him. He is your husband and my grandson’s father. I will do everything I can for you, tesoro.”
“And if he leaves?”
“You can make him stay. You’re not an old woman.”
“What if I don’t want him?”
“You chose him. Not me.”
“I know. You just paid for the wedding.”
“Si.”
“But it doesn’t have to stay like this.”
“I know, Anna. It’s what I’m telling you.”
“No, I’m not talking about luring him away from some whore. I’m talking about a separation—”
“No!”
“Or divorce.”
“No!”
“Dad, I might not have any say in it.”
“You can have your say.”
“But maybe it’s for the best anyway. I could start again and—”
“Non si fa cosí. No divorce. It’s not our way.”
“Dad, I haven’t been religious for years. You said you’d help me.”
“I will help you. I told you. Make him feel a man. You have a son, Anna. Joe is the father. You have to grow up whether you like it or not. Don’t be seeing Simon anymore.”
“What are you talking about? I wasn’t seeing Simon.”
“But Joe thinks so, yes?”
“Yeah, but he’s wrong.”
“Anna, tesoro. Make him happy and he finish with the puttana. He comes to me with numbers on paper, and I help him with the house.”
“That’s not going to happen. He won’t talk to you about any of this.”
“Then he won’t get the money. He was always too much a big man in the stock market. He is a buffone . . . with a puttana. Bastardo. He has to come to me, and then I give him the money.”
My father could not begin to understand that Joe would never go to him for money, that he’d rather lose the house twice over than humble himself before him. “Ask that Italian peasant, and you’re not on the title, are you kidding?”
19. Prosecuting Simon was easier if you didn’t know him. If you had ever known him, you would be far more interested in trying to understand why he had done what he did. And Dr. Klima certainly knew him. Moreover it was his job to understand him, not to judge him. But it wasn’t his job to like Simon, and that he so obviously did made me warm to the psychiatrist in unlikely circumstances. I even envied Simon his Dr. Klima. I could have used some well-trained and soft-spoken professional, a cross between someone standing in loco parentis and an advocate. But this was not our way.
I was mock examined and cross-examined in various people’s offices. I was even shown the inside of an empty courtroom. It was apparently as much as they were allowed to do but it doesn’t adequately prepare you for the real thing: a courtroom filled to capacity with lawyers in action, a real judge, inexplicable court staff, a thirsty public, and a thirstier media. The real thing also contained Simon.
There was some kind of guard or prison officer on either side of him. It was absurd. He didn’t look very different at all, which heightened the absurdity of him being guarded. He wore a suit and was, maybe, a little thinner than I remembered him. I raised the Bible in my right hand and swore by almighty God something to do with truth but my voice faltered in front of all those people. They would not understand how out of character it was for Simon to have done what he did. Nor were the proceedings designed to elicit that sort of information. The fact was that he had taken Sam without my permission, and God only knew why. Obviously things must have gone terribly badly for him since we had been together. There was no other explanation that would deliver my gentle, funny, quixotic, Byronesque university boyfriend to the dock between two guards.
The prosecutor, Mr. Henshaw, asked straightforward questions and I responded with straightforward answers. We had been a couple at university around ten years ago. We had gone out for around two years. I had barely, if at all, seen him since those days. Yes, that made it impossible for us to have had any kind of relationship, let alone a romantic relationship, since then. No, he did not have my permission to take my son from school that day or any day. No, I was at a loss to explain why he had done it. That was the only occasion we looked at each other at the same time. It hurt, and I looked away. Mr. Henshaw’s questions were over. What a relief it was to be able to tell the truth.
There were no questions about his gentleness back then or about his sense of humor. I could have told them how we met after his class paper on Billie Holiday. There were no questions about his mother or about the poets he read or about Doctorow, Dos Passos, and Abe Meeropol. I wasn’t given the opportunity to tell the magistrate how Simon had had a silver bracelet designed for me or how, back then anyway, he possessed a rigorous clarity of thought and an intolerance of cant which I had often tried to adopt in the subsequent years without consciously remembering that these, too, were his gifts to me along with the bracelet. They were gifts which, if properly cared for, could have gone some of the way toward assuaging the loneliness I bore at home and at the office, but which, instead, were buried underneath piles of every intervening day’s leavings and self-deceits. By the time I had sworn on the Bible to tell the truth or that much of it called for by Mr. Henshaw’s questions, only the bracelet was called upon regularly.
But neither, it seemed, had Simon called upon these other gifts much recently either. What he had done made no sense and, worse than that, he was probably going to be telling the world that I had been unfaithful to my husband with him and that my husband had regularly been unfaithful to me with a prostitute they shared. Some of this was true, some of it was not, but I could not think what it was I had done to deserve the humiliation of any of it.
Simon’s lawyer, a Ms. Serkin, whom Mr. Henshaw privately referred to as Gina, questioned me next. She was a perfectly groomed woman some ten or so years older than me, maybe a little more. She was polite enough, businesslike in her manner, but not what anyone would call friendly. She seemed bright and competent. She would have had to interview Simon about all this over and over. I wondered if she believed him, especially since her questions didn’t really get to the heart of the matter. She was asking me questions about my relationship with Simon ten years ago. All her questions drew me to say complimentary things about Simon and positive things about the relationship, but I had never denied any of that. None of it had anything to do with his taking of Sam that day and although I had no qualms about answering her questions, Mr. Henshaw objected to them. Argument as to their relevance allowed me to tune out and reflect on the dissection of our relationship by lawyers in a courtroom full of strangers.
If Dr. Klima was in court he made no attempt to talk to me. I didn’t see him but I was too apprehensive about the proceedings to remember to look out for him. This was something I only thought about later when, looking at myself in the pages of the newspaper, I wondered how long it would take for people to forget about this. There would be people I had known at school, people who had known Simon and me as a couple from our student days, who would never forget. If we met up at seventy, they would remember that there was something murky, criminal, and vaguely scandalous in my past. Was it this, the scandal that had made me suddenly so repugnant to him, to Michael?
I thoug
ht of him only at odd moments, moments when my mind strayed from work and I caught myself staring blankly into a distance blocked out by the wall in front of me. Caught also, that’s what I felt anyway, by the new girl, a graduate from some school of communications that hadn’t existed when I was at university. While I no longer really expected Michael to call, neither did I expect to receive another spate of calls from Simon’s Dr. Klima. Perhaps they were precipitated by my evidence at the committal hearing. But surely they must have expected me to say what I said. I was only telling the truth, after all. Whatever his motivation, I did eventually—out of sympathy for him, I suppose, as a former fellow “unrequited” caller—get around to phoning him back. The straws they were grasping at were becoming more and more untenable. He told me, in all seriousness, that Simon had followed Sam and our housekeeper from Sam’s school to our home one day and had seen Sam, fully clothed, fall into our swimming pool and not surface till Simon dragged him out. If Simon hadn’t intervened, Dr. Klima explained, it’s likely that Sam would have drowned. I reminded him that he had told me this before, that it was still too horrible to contemplate, and that it was also too ridiculous to believe. Why hadn’t Sam told me about it? I said good-bye just as the young communications graduate walked past me and smiled. Communications. My father wanted to know when Joe was going to talk to him. We were going to lose the house.
20. One darker-than-black night, a fierce, deranged wind fell upon the city and upon me as I stood on an unfamiliar street. I had been there once before, but then it had been with Joe and it was he who’d been tense. This time it was me, strafed and ridiculed by the wind, who was the supplicant. For all that I was embarrassed, nervous to the point of an arid tongue, I was unable to imagine any consequences arising from what I was about to do that were sufficiently dire to prohibit it. It would be a crash course in communication.