Confess, Fletch

Twenty-seven

Driving through the light, Sunday mid-morning traffic in the Ghia, very considerate of the two policemen following him, Fletch easily found 58 Fenton Street in Brookline.

He had had four hours’ sleep in one of his own guest rooms.

He had not renewed contact with the guest asleep his own bed.

Lucy Connors opened the door of Apartment 42 to him.

Purposely, he supposed, she was dressed in a full peasant skirt and a light blouse with low neck and puffy sleeves. She wore no makeup, nor jewelry.

“Martin Head?”

“Yeah,” Fletch said. “Très Magazine.”

Lucy’s eyes went from one of his empty bands to the other, possibly checking for a camera or a tape recorder.

“Good of you to see me,” he said. “Especially on a Sunday morning.”

“I wouldn’t dare have you come any other time. It might improve my reputation.”

The apartment was the usual one or two bedroom arrangement. A small dining table was in a corner of the living room. Along the wall next to it was a hi-fi rig, with album-filled shelves.

There was a cheap, old divan along the opposite wall, an undersized braided rug in front of it, a saggy upholstered chair to one side.

A drapeless window ran along the fourth wall, letting in a harsh light.

The only wall decoration in the room was a Renoir print over the divan.

“Marsha?” Lucy said.

That was the introduction.

Marsha Hauptmann was stretched out like a board, her slim haunches in the far corner of the divan, the heels of her moccasin topsiders on the floor in front of her, hands in the pockets of her blue jeans. She wore a heavy, blue naval shirt, opened at the throat, sleeves rolled above the elbows.

Her hair was a perfect black, shining pageboy, her skin as translucent as a well-scrubbed child’s.

She did not move her head, nor her body, as Fletch entered,

Her dark eyes moved into his, seeing nothing else, expressing more curiosity and challenge than hostility.

Fletch said, “Marsha.”

“Would you like some coffee, Martin?”

Clearly, Lucy was nervous. Her new way of life was about to be questioned by a detached professional.

“Not unless you’re having some.”

“We aren’t,” said Lucy.

She sat on the divan, a full seat away from Marsha.

Fletch sat in the chair.

“I’m glad you’re doing this, Lucy,” he said. “People need to understand what you’ve been through.”

“No one has understood,” she said. “Not my family, friends. Not Bart. I rather thought Bart might understand, or I wouldn’t have been so frank with him. He took it as some kind of a personal insult.”

She gave Marsha’s forearm a tug, pulling her hand out of her pocket. She held Marsha’s hand. “Really, Martin, it’s a matter of complete indifference to me as to who understands and who doesn’t.”

“Of course.” He coughed quickly. “You’ve resolved your problems. Others haven’t.”

Marsha’s eyes warmed towards him.

“I’m afraid most people think this is the problem,” Lucy said. “I mean, Marsha and I living together. Like it’s acne or the flu or something that will go away.” She gave Marsha’s hand a self-conscious squeeze. “I guess I went through that phase, too. But why are you, more interested in me than in Marsha?”

“I’m interested in Marsha, too,” said Fletch. “But you’re a little older. You were married. I would guess you gave up quite a lot, in the way of material things, to live with Marsha. I would think you have had to make the bigger adjustments.”

“I guess so. Marsha’s lucky. She’s always been a little dyke.” She smiled fondly at Marsha. “Straight through school. All those shower rooms after field hockey, eh, Marsha?” To Fletch, she said, “Marsha went to boarding school, a much better education than I had. Self-discovery. She started sleeping with girls when she was about twelve.”

Marsha remained silent, a lanky love object at the end of the divan.

“I had to go through the whole thing,” Lucy said. “Boy, was I thick.”

“Tell me about,it ” Fletch took notebook and pen from his pocket. “Tell me about the whole thing.”

“As ‘Mrs. C?’”

“Absolutely.”

“And I get to see the manuscript before you hid it in?”

“Absolutely.”

“Okay.” She exhaled. “Shit.” Still holding onto her hand, she glanced at Marsha. “You know. A nice girl. Brought up. Goals set for me. A role set for me. We lived in Westwood, a lawn in front, a lawn in back, a two-car garage. Dad owned an automobile agency. My mother was neurotic, a pill freak. Still, is. I hated Jack, my older brother. He was plain, simply cruel. Big hockey player. I mean, when Mother was freaked out, he’d stick pins in the hamster. He’d stick pins in anything. I barely survived him. Bastard.”

Marsha’s eyes rolled to study Lucy’s face worriedly.

“I was considered good-looking,” Lucy said hesitantly. “You know what that means in an American public high school. First one in a training bra, first one to wear falsies, first one to bleach my hair—at thirteen. First one to beat the baby fat off my ass. Goal-oriented. Cheerleader. Little skirts and pompoms. First one to get laid. Very goal-oriented. I didn’t enjoy it. Getting laid, I mean. But it was a goal. The first guy to lay me, the fullback, must have weighed two hundred and twenty pounds. A fat, gray belly. It was not fun. Damned near broke me in two.

“I went to junior college. Went with a guy from Babson who played the violin and was full of the secret international commodity cartel he was going to run. A real drip.

“At a party I met Bart. I was getting near graduation. Bart was a goal. He looked normal, acted normal. Dartmouth College, Harvard Law. Going a little bald. Older than I was by twelve years. In a law firm. Very rich. I played innocent and let him thrill me. I was very dishonest, but people are, sometimes, in attaining their goals.”

Fletch asked, “Did you have any sexual feeling for him at all?”

“How did I know? I didn’t know what sexual feeling was. Look, I had been told boys turn girls on and girls boys on and that was it. There was nothing else. Whatever happened between me and boy I figured I was turned on.”

“But you weren’t.”

“No way.

“Never?”

Firmly, she said, “Never. I hear some are, but not me—ever. It was pure role-playing. I played the game with myself, ‘someday my crisis will come.’ I wasn’t even excited. Only I didn’t even know it.”

“Come on, Lucy,” Fletch said. “You knew such a thing as lesbianism existed.”

“No, I didn’t. It never entered my head. I mean, I knew such a thing existed. Creatures like Marsha, Way over there, somewhere. Far out. They were different. Really weird. I mean, I didn’t relate to them at all. I was very successful at suppressing my own, real sexual nature. Totally successful.”

“Okay,” Fletch said.

“Soon after we were married, Bart started asking about frigidity. Conversationally, you know? What did I know about it? He began having these long talks with the woman in the next apartment, and then coming to bed stinko. When he was on trips out of town, I picked up a guy or two. For Bart’s sake. Nothing ever happened. I mean, I never got turned on by anybody. So when he suggested a psychiatrist, I went along it. He was beginning to make me think something was wrong.

“The psychiatrist was a great guy. He got me toward the truth very quickly. I turned him off, ran away from him. Ran away from the truth. It was too shocking. You know, I was one of those creatures ‘over there.’ I like girls. I tried to bullshit the psychiatrist. He was a slob, but by then I was too close to the truth. I couldn’t bullshit myself. I was listening to myself. This went on a long, long time. A terribly long time.

“I was bitchy, irascible, tough, mean, violent. Bart and I had slugging matches. I hit him. I threw things at him. I mean, I hit him with things, objects, anything at hand.”

“You did?”

“Yes.”

“I see.

“He had so many goddamned welts on his face, so often, he had to tell the people at the office he was doing boxing as a sport. He might as well have been living with a bad-tempered, second-string welterweight. I was really violent.”

“Are you still?”

“No.”

Marsha looked at her from beneath half-drawn lids.

“Well, I mean,” Lucy said. “Sometimes we play. You know?”

“Yeah,” said Fletch.

“I felt I was in some kind of a box, and had to fight my way out. Can you understand that, Martin?”

“Sure.”

“It’s a wonder I didn’t belt a few shrinks along the way. I took everything out on poor old Bart.”

“So how did you meet Marsha?” Fletch asked.

“One day I went into a boutique, and saw something I liked—Marsha. She waited on me. I bought a shirt. Next day I went back and bought a pair of pants. The third day I went in and started to buy a bikini. I called her into the dressing room to ask her how she thought it fitted me. I was feeling something. The tingle. I guess I was opened up enough then to the idea of girls. I had been forced to become conscious of my real desires. In the dressing room, Marsha put the palm of her hand against my hip, looked me in the eyes, and said, ‘Who are you bullshitting?’” Lucy picked up Marsha’s hand, and looked at it, wonderingly. “Her first touching me was the most satisfactory feeling I’d ever had.”

They looked at each other, apparently recalling moment.

Fletch looked at his notebook.

Finally, Lucy said, “Are you straight, Martin?”

“You mean, do I like girls?”

“Yes.”

“Yes.”

“I guess that’s how you can understand.”

Fletch chuckled. “I guess so.”

“I mean, you don’t seem offended.”

“I’m not. Why should I be?”

“Would you be if I were your sister?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Some are”

“Everybody should be what he or she is.”

Lucy said, “Bart even suggested religion for me. Jesus.”

“How did you handle the marital situation?” Fletch asked.

“First, I went through a long period thinking I could have it both ways. Marsha and I were making it together. Sometimes here. Sometimes at my place. It was beautiful. Too good. It was the real thing. It wasn’t a passing phase on my part. It was me. We were getting careless. I mean, we were even doing it at my apartment while a servant was there. Oh, my god. I realized unconsciously, I wanted Bart to find out. He was too thick. I finally had to tell him.”

Fletch asked, “How did he take it?”

“I said, like a personal insult. He thought he had enough masculinity for both of us. He thought he could snap me out of it, if I just gave myself to him fully. He suggested more psychiatrists. He suggested religion. He even suggested we go to a marriage-of-convenience thing, both of us making love to girls on the side. That was about the last straw. By then Marsha had come to mean just too much to me. As a person, you know?”

Again they exchanged looks. Marsha’s band was squeezed.

“Bart set up the boutique for us. Financially. I mean, the one we now run. You can forget the name of it. We don’t need the publicity.”

“Does he still own it?”

“He’s still financing it. We’re not completely divorced yet.”

“You say he was hurt?”

“I guess so. I guess this revelation about me caused him to question his own masculinity. I man, he loved me, he married me, and I wasn’t there at all.”

“But at the same time, apparently he hadn’t found your sexual relations satisfactory.”

“He had put up with them. He hadn’t thrown me out. It might have been better if he had. Instead, he had tried to help.”

“Do you ever see each other?”

“We bump into each other. Boston’s a small city. Everybody’s always embarrassed. These days, you know, everybody knows everybody else’s sexual business.”

“Hey, Marsha?” Fletch said. “What do you think?”

Lucy looked at her expectantly.

Bright, dark eyes in Fletch’s, Marsha shook her head slightly and said nothing.

Fletch closed his notebook and put it in his pocket.

“Again, sorry about coming on a Sunday morning,” he said. “I tried several times to phone you Tuesday night. Weren’t you here?”

“Tuesday?” Lucy looked puzzled at Marsha. “Oh, Tuesday. I was in Chicago, buying for the boutique. I was supposed to fly back Tuesday afternoon, but the plane was late. I was here by nine o’clock. You were here, weren’t you, Marsha?”

She said, “Yeah.”

“I have to fly out to Chicago sometime soon,” Fletch said. “What did you fly, Pan American?”

“TWA,” Lucy said.

“That’s better, uh?”

“We were supposed to arrive at five, but it seven-thirty before we got to Boston. Fog.”

“Well, Lucy, I thank you very much. Will you keep the name of Connors?”

“I don’t think so. I guess I’ll use my maiden name. Hyslop. Get out of Bart’s hair. What’s left of it.”

Looking straight at Fletch, Marsha said, “You didn’t call here Tuesday night.”

“I tried.” Fletch stood up and put his pen in inside jacket pocket. “Phone must have been out order.”

Marsha’s eyes followed him as he went toward the door.

Lucy followed him.

Fletch said, “What’s this about a murder in your husband’s apartment?”

“That’s irrelevant,” said Lucy.

“I know. I’m just curious. I mean, murders are interesting.”

“Not for the story?”

“Of course not. What’s it got to do with you?”

“Some girl was murdered in our old apartment, After Bart left for Italy. He rented the apartment to some schnook who says he found the body.”

“You mean, your husband killed her?”

“Bart? You’re kidding. There’s not an ounce of violence in him. Believe me, I should know. If he were going to kill anybody, he would have killed me.”

“Have the police questioned you?”

“Why should they?”

From across the room, the harsh light from the window streaking between them, Marsha’s eyes were locked on Fletch’s face.

“You must still have a key to the apartment,” he said.

“I suppose I do,” she said. “Somewhere.”

“Interesting,” said Fletch.

“The police probably don’t know where to find me,” Lucy. said. “Everything here is under Marsha’s name. You wouldn’t have known where to find me, if Bart hadn’t given you the number.”

“That’s right.”

“I’m still surprised he did. Bart must be coming to the idea that this situation happens to other people, too.”

Fletch said, “Your husband’s a surprising fellow.”

“How did you happen to meet him?”

He’s doing some trust work for my editor. We all happened to be together in Montreal,“ Fletch said, ”Tuesday night.“

Marsha still had not moved. Her eyes, clear and unwavering, remained on Fletch’s face. A small amount of fear had entered those eyes.

“When will we see your story?” Lucy asked.

“Oh, a few weeks.” Fletch opened the door. “I’ll send it to you. If it works out.”