Obsession

CHAPTER 9

At Beverwil and Pico, less than a mile from Tanya’s house, my service beeped in.

“It’s Flora, Doctor. Detective Sturgis called. He’ll be out for a while but you can try him in a couple of hours.”

“Did he say what it was about?”

“No, Doctor. It was just him being him.”

“Meaning?”

“You know,” she said. “The way he always is, Mr. Jokey. He told me with my voice I should be on the radio selling beachfront condos in Colorado.”

“You do have a nice voice, Flora.”

“I used to,” she said. “If only I could quit smoking. He sounds kind of cute. Is he?”

“Depends on your perspective.”

Canfield Avenue was narrow and dark and quiet, but no sign of anything remotely ominous.

No reason for there to be. I’d slipped into thinking this was real.

Point me at a puzzle and aim.

Years ago, I’d been the perfect therapist for Patty and Tanya. They hadn’t known the real reason why, never would.

Alexander is very bright but he seems to feel a need for absolute perfection that can lead to some emotion in the classroom. I rarely label a child overly conscientious but that may apply, here.

Alexander needs to understand that not everyone in 3rd grade learns as quickly as he does and that making mistakes is acceptable.

Alexander is doing well in junior high but he needs to work on exhibiting more self-control when projects don’t go as planned.

Alex is an excellent student, particularly in science, but he doesn’t seem to endorse the concept of group work. Hopefully high school will teach him to accept himself as a member of a team…

Year after year of well-meaning teachers, leaving conferences with my parents, convinced their insights were beneficial.

He’s so hard on himself, Mr. and Mrs. Delaware.

Dad responding with the jovial, knowing grin. Mom at his side, docile, silent, ladylike in a clean dress and the one pair of shoes with heels.

How could any of those teachers have known that when Dad wasn’t feeling jovial, imperfection could result in rages as predictable as snakebites.

That falling short meant a beefy workingman’s belt scourging a child’s narrow back, next day’s welts and bruises concealed by shirts and sweaters and silence.

No way for the teachers to grasp that when too much discussion filled the house, Mom had been known to lock herself in her bedroom for days. Leaving Dad, banished, fuming, reeking of beer-and-shots, lurching through the four remaining rooms of the house in search of someone to blame.

My sister, Em, the sib I hadn’t spoken to in years, had been quick to sniff the air and get away, an ace escape artist. I’d thought her selfish because the rules made her safe: You didn’t hit girls, at least not with a strap.

Boys were another matter…

Enough nostalgia, mawkish fellow, self-pity’s a lousy aperitif.

Besides, I’d put it all behind me, courtesy of the training therapy required by my doctoral program.

A stroke of good luck: random assignment to a kind, wise woman. The mandatory six months stretching to a year, then two. Then three.

The changes I saw in myself reaffirmed my career choice: If you knew what you were doing, this psychotherapy stuff worked.

By my final year of grad school, the cognitive starbursts and compulsive corrections were gone. Farewell, also, to rituals, invisible or otherwise.

Death of the near-religious belief that symmetry was all.

Which wasn’t to say vestiges didn’t crop up from time to time.

The occasional bout of insomnia, the sudden stabs of inexplicable tension.

Preoccupation that led nowhere.

Therapy taught me to accept all that as proof of my humanness, and when I chatted with my parents over the phone I was able to hang up without fingernail crescents bloodying my palms.

The best tonic was taking care of other people. I started off hoping that no parent who stepped into my office saw me as anyone other than the amiable, calm, understanding fellow with whom they entrusted their children’s psyches.

Several years of success made me believe I’d pulled it off.

Sometimes I allowed myself a bit of leeway. Like following through on Patty Bigelow’s museum wax suggestion. Because that was a housekeeping issue, nothing wrong with a bit of geometry, right?

My patients’ faith kept me up at night, devising treatment plans.

Patty Bigelow’s faith had endured and I wasn’t sure I’d earned it.

Now she was dead and her child was depending on me and I was making a house call.

A bit involved.

The duplex was Spanish Revival, not dissimilar from the building on Fourth Street. Peach-toned stucco, mullioned windows inset with stained-glass bluebirds, flat lawn instead of a car park; a young paper birch weeping dead center.

Alarm company sign staked to the left. Lights on in the second story. The stairs were whitened by high-voltage floodlights.

Tanya opened the door before I finished climbing. Loose hair shawled her shoulders. She looked exhausted.

“Thank God I’m not late,” she said.

“Tough study session?”

“Tough, but it was all good. Please. Come in.”

The living room was oak-floored, barrel-ceilinged, pale pink. Cream-colored tiles painted with lilies fronted the fireplace. A lilac chintz sofa faced the curtained picture window and two matching chairs. In between was a bleached wood coffee table with gilded rococo legs.

Patty had talked about being butch but she’d chosen delicate décor.

Above the couch, a dozen photographs were set low on the wall, framed identically in faux-driftwood.

The Story of Tanya from toddler to teen. Predictable shifts in hair-style, clothing, and makeup as Cute Tyke grew to Pretty Girl, but style-wise no signs of adolescent rebellion.

Patty made no appearance until the final photo: Tanya in a crimson cap and gown, her mother in a navy jacket and white turtleneck, holding up a diploma and beaming.

Tanya said, “Here’s one I just found,” and pointed to the sole photo on the coffee table. Black-framed portrait of a broad-faced young woman in a white uniform.

Patty’s upward gaze was solemn, so contrived it was almost comical. I pictured some hack photographer clicking away and uttering rote instructions. Think of your new career, dear…chin higher-higher-even higher-there you go. Next!

“She looks so hopeful,” said Tanya. “Please make yourself comfortable, I’ll get the coffee.”

She returned bearing a black plastic tray silk-screened to look like lacquer. Five Oreos were stacked on a plate like a miniature silo. Between a pair of mugs bearing the U.’s insignia a ramekin held packets of nondairy creamer, sugar, and sweetener, wedged tightly, like tiny brochures.

“Cream and sugar?”

“Black’s fine,” I said.

I sat in one of the chairs and she chose the sofa. “I don’t know anyone who drinks it black. My friends think coffee’s dessert.”

“Semi-blended soy mocha-java frappes with extra chocolate?”

She managed a tired smile, opened three sugars, dropped them into her cup. “Cookie?”

“No, thanks.”

“Mostly, I drink tea, but coffee’s good for long study nights.” She scooted toward the front edge of the sofa. “Sure you don’t want an Oreo?”

“Positive.”

“I guess I’ll have one. You hear a lot about prying them apart but lots of people like the sandwich effect and I’m one of them.” Talking fast. Nibbling fast.

“So,” she said.

“I drove by each of the addresses on your list. It’s quite a mix.”

“The mansion as opposed to all those apartments?” she said. “Actually, we only lived in one room of the mansion. I remember thinking it was strange, such a gigantic house but we had less space than in the apartment. I used to worry about rolling off in the middle of the night on top of Mommy.”

“Did that ever happen?”

“No,” she said. “Sometimes she’d hold me. It felt safe.” She put the cookie down. “Sometimes she’d snore.”

Her eyes got wet. “They let us use the pool when Mommy had spare time and the gardens were beautiful, lots of big trees. I’d find places to hide, pretend I was in a forest somewhere.”

“Who owned the house?”

“The Bedard family,” she said. “The only one living there was the grandfather-Colonel Bedard. The family came by once in a while, but they lived far away. They wanted Mommy there to take care of him at night, after the day nurse went home.”

“An old man,” I said.

“Ancient. All bent over, extremely thin. He had filmy eyes-probably blue originally but now they were milky gray. No hair on his head. There was a huge library in the house and that’s where he sat all day. I remember him smelling of paper. Not gross, just a little stale, the way old people get.”

“Was he nice to you?”

“He really didn’t say or do much, just sat in that library with a blanket over his lap and a book in his hand. His face was kind of stiff-he must’ve had a stroke-so when he tried to smile nothing much happened. At first I was scared of him but then Mommy told me he was nice.”

“Did she move there to make more money?”

“That’s what I assume. Like I said, Dr. Delaware, financial security was important to her. Even in her spare time.”

“Reading financial books.”

“Want to see?”

A bedroom at the end of the hall had been converted to a no-nonsense office. U-build Swedish bookshelves and desk, black swivel chair, white file cabinets, desktop computer and printer.

“I’ve been through her files, it’s all money stuff.” She pointed to shelves stacked with back issues of Forbes, Barron’s, Money. A collection of investment guides ranged from reasoned strategy to improbable hucksterism. The lowest shelf held a pile of thin, glossy magazines. The top issue featured a close-up head-shot of an actress who’d lost her husband to another actress.

Tormented eyes. Perfect hair and makeup.

“The fan rags,” said Tanya. “The hospital boxed them up with her personal effects. Getting them back was a complete hassle. Some form I hadn’t filled out. I could see the box, right there behind the counter, but the woman in charge was being a real beeyotch, said I had to go somewhere else to get the forms and they were closed. When I started crying, she got on the phone, made a personal call, gossiping away as if I didn’t exist. I beeped Dr. Silverman and he just went behind the desk and got it. At the bottom of the box were Mommy’s armband and her reading glasses and the clothes she had on when she was admitted and this.”

She opened a desk drawer, held up a broken plastic band. “Should we go back and finish our coffee?”

Two sips later, I said, “So when you lived on Hudson, she was working two jobs.”

“Yes, but looking after the colonel wasn’t much trouble, he went to sleep at six and we were up early anyway so Mommy could drive me to school and make it to Cedars.”

“How’d she find out about the position?”

“No idea-maybe a bulletin board at the hospital? She never got into those kinds of details with me, just announced one day that we were moving to a big beautiful house in a high-class neighborhood.”

“How’d you feel about that?”

“I was used to moving around. From my days with Lydia. And it’s not like I had a ton of friends on Cherokee.”

“Hollywood could be a tough neighborhood back then.”

“It didn’t affect us.”

“Except when drunks pounded on the door.”

“That didn’t happen often. Mommy took care of it.”

“How?”

“She’d shout through the door for them to go away and if that didn’t work, she’d threaten to call the cops. I don’t remember her actually calling the cops, so it must’ve worked.”

“Were you scared?”

“You’re saying that could be it? Some drunk got dangerous and she had to do something to him?”

“Anything’s possible but it’s way too early to theorize. Why’d you move from the mansion?”

“Colonel Bedard died. One morning Mommy went up to his room to give him his meds and there he was.”

“Was leaving such a beautiful place upsetting?”

“Not really, our room was pretty small.” She reached for her coffee. “Mommy liked the colonel but not his family. The few times they’d show up, she’d say, ‘Here they are.’ They rarely visited him, it was sad. The night after he died, I couldn’t sleep and found Mommy in the breakfast room sitting with the maid. Her name was…Cecilia-how did I remember that?-anyway, Mommy and Cecilia were just sitting there, looking down. Mommy led me back to bed, started talking about how money was important for security, but it should never get in the way of appreciation. I thought she meant that for me so I told her I appreciated her. She laughed and kissed me hard and said, ‘Not you, baby. You’re a lot smarter than some so-called grown-ups.’”

“The colonel’s family didn’t appreciate him.”

“That’s what I took it to mean.”

“Did anything out of the ordinary happen while you were living in the mansion?”

“Just the colonel’s death,” she said. “I guess you couldn’t call that out of the ordinary, seeing how old he was.”

She chewed around the rim of her Oreo.

“Okay,” I said, “let’s move on to Fourth Street.”

“That was a duplex, not as large as this one, but with a lot more space than we’d ever had. I was in my own room again with a great walk-in closet. The neighbors upstairs were Asian, quiet.”

“You stayed there less than a year.”

“Mommy said it was too expensive.”

“The first time you came to see me was right after you moved to Hudson Avenue. The second time was right after you moved from Fourth Street to Culver City.”

“You’re thinking I got stressed about moving?”

“Did you?”

“I honestly don’t think so, Dr. Delaware. Did I say anything back then about what was bothering me?”

“No,” I said.

“I guess I’m a pretty closed-up person.”

“You got better very quickly.”

“Is that acceptable from a psychologist’s standpoint? Changing behavior without going deep?”

“You’re the best judge of what’s okay for you.”

She smiled. “You always say that.”

She poured me another cup. Wiped droplets from the rim.

I said, “So Fourth Street was too expensive.”

“The rent was way too high. Mommy wanted to put together a down payment so she could buy.” She glanced at her mother’s photo, looked down at the floor.

“Culver Boulevard was another sketchy neighborhood,” I said.

“It wasn’t that bad. I stayed in the same school, had the same friends.”

“Saint Thomas. Even though you’re not Catholic.”

“You remember that?”

“Your mother felt it was important to tell me.”

“That we weren’t Catholic?”

“That she hadn’t lied about being Catholic to get you in.”

“That was Mommy,” she said, smiling. “She was up front with the priest, said if he could convince me to be Catholic it wouldn’t bother her, but not to get his hopes up.”

“What was her take on religion?”

“Live a good life and be tolerant-Dr. Delaware, I don’t want to be rude but I do need to study some more. Is there anything else I can tell you?”

“I think we’ve covered enough ground.”

“Thanks so much for coming over, it made me feel as if…it’s almost as if you were able to visit her. Now, I insist you take these Oreos-wait, I’ll go get a bag.”

She stood in the doorway as I descended the stairs. Waved before closing the door. Canfield Avenue had turned darker, barely limned by thinly spaced, anemic lamps.

As I walked to the Seville, something up at the second story caught my eye.

Back-and-forth movement, behind the drapes of Tanya’s picture window.

A figure pacing. Vanishing for an instant, then reappearing only to reverse direction.

The circuit repeated.

I waited until the twentieth passage before driving away.