Silent Treatment

Chapter17

Maura Hughes's apartment was on the UpperWest Side, half a block from Morningside Park. Harry walked there from theoffice, hoping that Maura had been able to honor her promise to stay sober.Practicing in a fairly indigent area, he had encountered the disease ofalcoholism in its most virulent, lethal form, as well as in its many otherguises. It would be no exaggeration to say that he had seen even more tragedycaused by the bottle than he had seen in eighteen months in Nam. And it washardly reassuring to have his future bound to a woman who had almost lost herlife to drinking. Even sober, her credibility was thin. If she started drinkingagain, it was nonexistent.

With Maura's claims of a mystery doctorand no physical evidence connecting Harry to the Aramine injection, Dickinsonhad been denied an arrest warrant. But Mel Wetstone supported the detective'sassertion that based on the impressive circumstantial evidence, a grand jurywould produce an indictment. The attorney seemed aroused by the prospect ofdefending Harry in what might well become a trial of Von Bulow proportions.Sex, adultery, insurance money, a beautiful reporter's secret life,prostitution, arcane poisons, physicians. Ringmaster of a media circus at anhourly rate of $350. Harry tried to recall if he had ever consideredattending law school.

He passed a florist, debated picking up anassortment, then quickly rejected the notion. Flowers were too reminiscent ofthe hospital and too open to misinterpretation. Not that Maura Hughes hadseemed the least bit interested in him as anything other than a source ofSouthern Comfort. But he had, over the years, endured unpleasant experienceswith patients of both sexes who had misread the meaning of his commitment. Inone case it was a concerned after-hours telephone call to a woman whoseinfatuation with him he had completely missed. Another was an extendedlate-night conversation at a young man's hospital bedside.

Harry finally settled on a box ofchocolate-covered mints. If Maura was typical of someone newly sober, herdesire for alcohol had been sublimated at least in part by a craving forsweets. The homes improved measurably as he approached Maura's block. Theapartment buildings had doormen, and a number of the brownstones were wellmaintained. It was nearing seven-thirty, but the evening was warm, cloudless,and quite light. Harry paused by a playground where a group of kids — black andwhite — were playing pickup basketball on a scarred blacktop court. They weremostly in their early teens and had no concept of teamwork, but their skillsmade them a joy to watch. He breathed in the energy of the city and felt someof the tension begin to ease from what had been an absolutely horrible day. Theonly bright spots were Doug Atwater's successful efforts to keep him, at leastfor the time being, on the active staff at the hospital, and the almostcontinuous calls and gestures of support from his patients.

Although he had no idea what to expectfrom Maura Hughes, he realized that he was looking forward to her company. He hadplayed bass with the guys at C.C.'s once since Evie's death, but most of hisevenings had been spent alone.

Her house was a neat four-story brownstonewith six broad cement stairs rising from the sidewalk to an ornate mahoganydoor. There was a floor at street level, with no outside entryway and windowsprotected by heavy wrought-iron grates. Harry suspected this basement apartmentwas Maura's. He was surprised to find that of the three bells, the topmost onewas hers. He identified himself through an intercom, and she buzzed him in.

'Head of the stairs,' she said.

Her voice sounded sharp and animated — ahopeful sign. Harry mounted the stairs feeling some relief. As much as heneeded company, having to babysit an actively drinking alcoholic was not the wayhe wanted to spend his free time. Maura was standing in the doorway to herapartment. His image of her from the hospital was of someone quite short.Actually, she was tall, five-nine or — ten, with a regal bearing and a willowybody that looked perfect in sneakers, worn jeans, and an oversized cottonshirt. She wore a white turban and no jewelry other than a pair of largehanging earrings — colorful chips of enamel delicately wired to one another sothat they changed like a kaleidoscope with every movement of her head. Shelooked somewhat drawn and ill at ease. Her hand, thin and smooth, was cool.Except for the headdress, there was no way Harry could connect the lithe,unaffectedly elegant woman with the restless, wild-eyed patient he had known.

He handed her the mints. She thanked himwith a thin smile that had more sadness than mirth.

'Come in. Come in, please,' she said.

'Those earrings are really beautiful.'

'Thanks. I made them.'

Harry followed her into an expansiveliving room — a bright and airy square, perhaps thirty feet on a side. Thenarrow oak flooring was urethaned to a high gloss and scattered with Orientalarea rugs. The ceilings were high, with recessed, indirect lighting that had tohave been designed by a specialist in the craft. This was hardly the dingy,depressing two-room walk-up he had envisioned.

'Surprised?' Maura said, reading hisexpression.

Harry gestured to the walls, which werefilled with wonderful paintings. The canvases were generally large and mostlyoils or some kind of acrylic. But there were also watercolors and a fewcollages. Some, primarily portraits, were sad and starkly realistic. But therest were abstract — dynamic worlds of color and shape, of meticulousorganization and absolute chaos. Harry had never been a student of art, but hehad always been affected by it. What he was sensing now was a remarkablevibrancy and an intense, overwhelming anger.

'These are incredible,' he said, walkingslowly about the room.

'I don't paint like that anymore. Not thatI don't want to.'

'These are all yours?'

'Even drunks can do things,' she saidcoolly.

'Hey, I'm sorry if it sounded like that'swhat I meant. It's not. These paintings are really striking.'

'Thanks. You want something? A Coke? Somewine?'

'Coke would be great.'

Harry stopped himself at the last momentfrom commenting on the danger of keeping alcohol in the house. He followed herto the kitchen, which was small, but designed for someone who cared aboutcooking. To the left of it, he could see another huge room — a studio withseveral easels, stacks of canvases, and a large skylight. In the far corner,beneath a racked floor-to-ceiling bookcase and surrounded by ferns and variouspalms, was Maura's bed.

'Look, I–I'm sorry if I seem tense ornervous,' she said, her back to him as she filled two glasses. 'It's just thatI am. I probably should have called and canceled.'

She handed him his glass, led him backinto the living room, and motioned him to a sofa opposite her chair. On theglass-top end table to her left was the Times, open to the article aboutEvie. Harry gestured toward the paper.

'I guess if I was having a murder suspectover for a Coke, I'd be a little nervous, too,' he said.

'I hope you know that isn't it. You and Iboth know you didn't give that drug to your wife.'

'What then?'

'Dr. Corbett, just why are you here?'

'Look, please. My name's Harry. Once Ileave the office, I stop being Dr. Corbett.'

'And have you?'

'Have I what?'

'Left the office. Dr. Corbett. . Harry.. my brother told me what you said to him about your being some sort ofexpert on alcoholism, and about how you have people who will help me and takeme to AA meetings and all. If you're here to save my soul, I think I can saveboth of us a long, uncomfortable evening. My soul is in the mood to be pickled,not saved.'

'Hey, I don't know exactly what I said toyour brother, but I'm not an expert on anything, except maybe taking care ofsick people.'

'Then that's not why you're here? You'renot here to ensure that I don't drink?'

'I didn't say that either. Tell mesomething. If you believed I was coming over to save your soul, as you put it,why did you say yes?'

'Because yesterday, deep down inside, Ireally didn't want to drink. Today, I do.'

Harry could feel walls going up. Either hehad somehow gotten off on the wrong foot or she was determined to put himthere. If he tried to lie to her now about his motives, she would know. If hetold her the truth or tried to lecture her in any way, he would probably beback at the playground watching basketball before his Coke was warm.

'Maura, I'm here because I'm in trouble,'he said finally. 'There's a cop out to crucify me, my hospital's looking for away to drop me from the staff, and you're the only one who knows anything thatmight help me. I don't have any idea who you saw walk past you to Evie'sbedside, or why he killed her. But the other night he could have killed me aswell, and he didn't. I think he didn't because he's certain that sooner orlater the police are going to arrest me. He let me go because he doesn'tbelieve I have any cards to play. But I do — two of them, actually. I've heardhis voice and you've seen his face.'

'And you think that if I'm drinking I'llbe of no use to you.'

'I think that the last time you drank youalmost died. I don't want you to die.'

She studied his face.

'I really want to drink,' she said.

'I know you do,' he replied with genuineempathy. 'I really want to run away from all this. Someplace unbearably warmwhere they use shells for currency and haven't heard of malpractice suits orHMOs or grand juries. But I'm not going to.'

Maura opened the box of chocolate-coveredmints, slid one onto her tongue, and closed her eyes as it dissolved in hermouth.

'You knew about the sweets things, didn'tyou,' she said.

Harry sensed a letup in the wallconstruction.

'That doesn't make me an expert.'

She savored another mint.

'Ten or eleven thousand calories a day inbonbons and Life Saves and Kit Kats, and I haven't gained an ounce. Go figure.'

'You're lucky. I just look at that stuffand my belt lets itself out a notch — go figure.'

Maura said the words in unison with himand then almost laughed. Almost. Harry waited. She picked at the edge ofthe mint box, then closed it and set it on the table. He knew this was themoment. She was considering asking him to abandon his crusade to keep her soberand just leave. And if she did, he would have to go, and she would be drunkwithin an hour or two.

'Harry, I'm sorry for giving you such ahard time,' she said finally. 'I suppose you know that right now you're theonly thing standing between me and the bottle of Southern Comfort I have in thekitchen.'

'The only thing standing between you andthat bottle is you, Maura. If knowing that makes me an expert, then maybe I amone after all.'

In the silence that followed, Harry feltthe topmost bricks come off the wall. Just shut up! he pleaded withhimself. He had said what he could. Anything more might just turn her off. Nota word. Not one goddamn -

'What do you think of this turban?' she askedsuddenly. 'I'm very self-conscious about having so little hair. I tried a wig,but it looked ridiculous.'

'Like Dickinson.'

'Pardon?'

'Albert Dickinson. You cut him to shredsby telling him that his toupee looked like a piece of lettuce. Remember?'

Harry could tell from her expression thatshe did not.

'Oh, yes,' she said with no conviction.'You think the turban's ugly. I can tell. Do you think I should take it off?'

'I think you should do whatever you wantto.'

'You still want to go out for dinner?'

'Of course.'

'Even with a flaky, bald chick who keepspopping Peanut M amp;M's and Raisinets?'

'Try me.'

She swept the turban off and tossed itacross the room. Her reddish-blond hair had grown back a bit, although the scarfrom her operation still showed.

'You're staring,' she said.

Harry knew he was, though not for thereason she was thinking. With the headdress gone, it was as if he was seeingher face for the first time. The swelling and bruises that had so disfiguredher were gone. Her skin was smooth and beautifully pale, with a faint, naturalblush and a few freckles highlighting her high, sculpted cheeks. Her eyes, arich ocean green, seemed possessed of their own intrinsic light. And her mouthwas wide and sensual. Harry felt his own mouth go dry.

'I … um … I don't think you need theturban,' he managed.

'Okay, the turban's history. If you'restill up for dinner, I'm a nut for Indian food.'

'I'm up for it and I know a place.'

He glanced around the room and realizedthat two and possibly three of the stark portraits were of Maura herself. Theywere skillfully done. No one could dispute that. And there was certainly aconstancy in her vision of herself. But as far as he was concerned, none ofthem captured even a trace of the allure and gentle mystery of the womansitting across from him.

'You know,' she said, 'you really are anice guy. I'd like to help you if I can.'

She took a tan windbreaker from the backof a chair and slipped it on. 'Harry, did anyone ever tell you that you looklike — wait a minute, I'll think of who. . Oh, I know, Gene Hackman. I thinkyou look a little like Gene Hackman.'

Harry looked at her curiously, uncertainof how to respond. Her expression was too matter-of-fact. She didn'tremember!

'I … um. . yes. One person did tellme I looked like him.'

'Your wife?'

'No. No, it was someone else. Maura, Imeant to wait until after dinner to discuss the mystery doc, but could you tellme a bit of what he looked like — how you described him to your brother?'

She seemed about to respond. Then her eyesnarrowed. Harry could feel as much as see her confusion.

'You know,' she said. 'I remember someonecoming into the room. At least I think I do. But that's all.'

'You mean you can't picture his face?'

She looked at him sadly and then shook herhead.

'Harry, I didn't realize it until rightnow, but no. I can't picture a thing from that night. Not a goddamn thing.'