The Dream of The Broken Horses

15

Mr. Potato Head: Something about him rings a bell. But how could that be since I have no idea what he looks like?

Waiting for Pam in Waldo's, I draw several empty head-shaped ovals. Then, sick of that, I turn on my stool and start sketching faces of people in the room, portrait studies of my colleagues – exuberant, cynical, jabbering, tongues loosened by liquor, faces animated by bonhomie.

"You make it look like fun," says Tony, standing behind me, peering at my heads.

In fact, having negotiated a fee with Sophie's editor, I'm delighted to have something to keep me busy at the bar.

Pam shows up. "Sorry I'm late. I had a meeting with a source." She leans toward me, whispers into my ear: "Don't tell Harriet, but defense presentation's going to be quick. This whole shooting match should be over in a week."

"Good! Finally we'll be getting out of here."

"Up to the jury, but if I were you, David, I'd stick closer than usual to the court."

She scans my sheet of media faces. "What a bunch of clowns. I think you’re a cartoonist at heart."

"Cartoonist, courtroom sketch artist, forensic artist, all-around hack. Sometimes I think I'd be happy illustrating children's books."

"Yeah, kiddie noir. How ‘bout getting some dinner? I hear there's a good Thai place out near Indiana Circle."

On the way, I tell her Mace's ultra-complicated theory about Tom being the Flamingo target. Pam's skeptical, but she likes the way Shoshana's tale fits so perfectly with Susan's.

I tell her Thistle Ridge is only five miles or so out of our way. "Mind if we head over there? I'd like to find the site of that burned-out house."

I find Thistle Ridge Road after a few wrong turns. It's twilight by the time we get there. It's a classic suburban street with mailboxes at the entries to driveways leading up to nice-looking contemporary houses set back on one-acre lots. There aren't any streetlamps, just ambient light from the rapidly darkening sky and light cast out through the windows of the homes.

1160 Thistle is at the crest, last lot on the street. A hedge screens the house and yard. There's a carriage lantern atop a post and a sign on the mailbox, THE HERRONS.

I pull a little past, then back my car into the driveway so we can scan the residence. It's a single-story ranch that looks like a rebuild, not surprising since, according to The Times-Dispatch, the original house nearly burned to the ground.

"Lonely up here," Pam says. "End of the street so nobody's likely to drive past, and the house is well set back. Good place to make dirty films. Probably shot them in the rec room."

"Sinister, isn't it?"

"If you're asking do I like being up here, I don't. What did you expect to find?"

"Just wanted to sense the mood."

"So you can draw it?"

"Yeah, something like that."

At the Thai restaurant, I tell her that ever since Shoshana Bach's revelations, I've felt empty, disinterested in Flamingo.

"I know what bothers you," she says. "If Mace's retaliation theory is correct, if Flamingo was about the Steadmans and Tom Jessup was the target, then it doesn't cut so close to home."

She's right, of course. The notion that Dad committed suicide out of guilt because he'd murdered his favorite patient cuts a good deal closer than if he jumped out his office window merely because he was depressed.

But Pam challenges me again. "Is it really about which explanation is more meaningful to you, David, or because all your life it's been in your head that Barbara brought your family to ruin? I think you've had a love-hate thing for her for years, turned her into your personal femme fatale. From the way you describe her at that Parent's Day, it's clear you've been besotted by her since you were twelve. So you come back here and find out all this stuff, and now that it looks like she might not have been the killer's target, you feel empty because that undermines your ‘family romance.’

"Know something? You sound just like a shrink."

"Is that a compliment?"

I smile. "Maybe you're right, maybe a part of me always did hope that Dad played a role in Flamingo. Otherwise I'd feel all the emotion I'd invested in it was a waste."

"Okay, but don't forget – real people were killed. Even if Flamingo isn't the key to your life, it's just as important as your Zigzag murders."

Hearing that makes me feel better. Anyhow, Mace's retaliation theory is just that – a theory. So if I want, I can hold onto my romantic belief that Barbara Fulraine was the key actor in my early life.

Back at the Townsend, after several nightcaps at Waldo's, we adjourn to Pam's room, then go at each other in our customary fashion – panting, grasping, working ourselves up, seeking heart-pounding, shattering release. But then something different starts to happen, our love-making turns sweet. We get romantic, start kissing and whispering endearments. It's more of a slow dance than a quick wheel around the track.

"Well, that was a change," Pam announces when we lie back. "I liked it."

"Are you surprised?"

"Gushy isn't my style. But then, being with a Calista boy, I guess all bets are off."

"For a Jersey girl, it must be quite the exotic experience."

"Uh huh… exotic," she agrees.

I wrap a towel around my waist, sit in her easy chair, then start sketching her as she watches me from the bed, chin propped by an elbow.

"Am I allowed to move?"

"Of course."

"You haven't drawn me before."

There've been so many unpleasant people to draw, I never got around to the good stuff."

She studies me while I continue sketching. To my surprise, I discover I'm executing a serious portrait. I work on her eyebrows, then her eyes. I don't want to idealize her, simply get her down handsomely on the page. I like the way she looks at me, the direct way she engages. She's relaxed, the intensity's still there, but without the overlay of ambition.

"Just can't keep your hands still, can you?"

"My drawing hand – no."

"Why's that?"

"I draw people to understand them."

"You told me that before."

"I also draw a lot because I'm always hoping my hand'll be take over by the planchette effect."

"Which is-?"

"A planchette's a drawing instrument on casters that slides around like a computer mouse. It can also be a pointing device, the heart-shaped gizmo that zips around a Ouija board spelling out messages from The Dear Departed out in The Great Beyond."

"So what's the ‘effect’?"

"That's when an outside force seems to take hold of my hand. Drawing becomes effortless. Of course, it's not an outside force, it's my subconscious guiding the pencil. Psychologists call it ‘ideomotor action.’ So, you see, I always keep my drawing hand busy hoping the planchette effect will take hold."

She gazes at me with perhaps a bit of admiration. "That's cool, like an athlete being ‘in the zone.’"

"Sure, that's it – being in the ‘zone,’ the ‘groove,’ the ‘flow.’ There's nothing sweeter. It's nearly as good as great sex."

When I finish the drawing, I hand it to her.

"Oh, I like this!" she says. "It looks lovingly drawn."

"It was."

"I like the way you make me look tender… not the way I am on TV."

"That's how I see you tonight."

She laughs. "I'm glad, because I wouldn't want you to see me like Mr. Potato Head – just an empty oval."

Early in the morning, when I return to my room to shave, I notice the message light blinking on my phone. I call down to the desk.

"There's a package for you, sir, left here around midnight," the deskman tells me. "I'll have the bellboy bring it up."

The package turns out to be a large envelope enclosing what appears to be manuscript accompanied by the following note:

Dear David:

I've been doing a lot of thinking since your visit, especially about your comment that maybe it's time to finally put the family nightmare to rest.

Yesterday I pulled out Mom's diary and tried again to read it through. Just as before, I didn't get too far.

Perhaps you will have better luck. Enclosed please find a photocopy, which is yours to read, study, do with as you like. I believe you'll find it painful to read, but, hopefully, not nearly as painful as it was for me.

Sincerely,

Robin Fulraine

My heart starts to pound as I glance through the sheets, several hundred pages of photocopy paper upon which are centered smaller handwritten pages. The writing on these is clear, inscribed in a fine hand, feminine, elegant, authoritative. I'm no handwriting expert, but the evenly penned forward-slanting script, the even rounding of the letters, and the nearly total lack of cross-outs suggest a writer in full command, inscribing carefully, perhaps even slowly, as she puts her thoughts to paper.

My visceral reaction – speeded heartbeat, trembling hands – reminds me of how he felt when I first looked at Barbara's bare breasts n Max Rakoubian's Fesse photograph. It's as if I've suddenly been transported very close to this woman who has attained a mythical status in my mind.

I take the pages to my bed, lie down, and start to read. Barbara's journal, it's soon clear, is not merely a recording of events, but an extremely personal diary meant for no one's eyes but her own. No entry dates are given, though she always jots down the day of the week. Some entries are terse, while others are long and, sometimes, quite eloquent:

Monday

Bad dream. Went riding two hours then drove out to see J. Lousy time had by all!

Tuesday

Played tennis with Jane. Mopped up court with her! Lunch with W. Left him feeling empty and scornful.

Wednesday

First appointment with Dr. R.. He seems a gentle soul. Felt strange to lie on his couch. Felt at a disadvantage. Different than when we met at the school.

Laid everything out for him, all my insecurities. No idea what he thought. Probably hated me for being so troubled in my privilege.

Afterward rode for an hour, then spent an hour currying and cleaning tack.

Stupid party at L amp;D's. Dumb conversation. False laughter. We're all so bored with one another.

Hope tonight I don't dream the dream!

Thursday

W called early, dished L amp;D's party for half an hour. Couldn't stand talking to him, couldn't wait to get him off the line. Why do I put up with him? Basically we can't stand each other, so what inner emptiness drives us to bother?

Afternoon: screwed my brains out with J, then felt lousy. He picked up on it, said: ‘You know, cutie, we're two of a kind.’ Hate it when he calls me that!

Friday

Second session with Dr. R.. This time more relaxed. He asked for my ‘erotic history.’ Gave it to him no holds barred! Told him about J. No reaction. Then when I said I was afraid of J, I could feel him tense up.

Kids' cute new tennis coach turned up wearing short. Nice boy, nice legs, seemed lonely, also a bit in awe of how we live. Afterwards I brought down glasses and pitcher of lemonade. Kids worshipful toward him. What must he think of us? Important not to make him feel like a servant.

It's not hard for me to date these entries since I know from Dad's agenda that Barbara commenced therapy on Wednesday, April 23.

Her entries continue in this vein until Friday, May 9. Then something occurs that alters the scope of her journal, and justifies her hiding it inside one of her equestrian trophies:

Friday

Difficult session. Dr. R silent. Turned to him: ‘I need you to react!’ R asked why I needed that, what emptiness I hope he can fill.

‘Emptiness in my wound,’ I tell him. The word just popped out of me! I was really surprised. Still no reaction, so I raised the level of the game. ‘I need you inside me, in my-,’ and I touched myself down there. That got his attention!

Drove straight from medical building to Elms. Found J in office, grabbed his crotch, told him, ‘I want you to screw me till bells ring in my ears!’ J told me he was busy, I'd have to wait. ‘No way! I'm not waiting,’ I said, squeezing him hard. ‘Okay, okay, mercy, mercy!? But in bed I wasn't merciful at all!

Late afternoon, resting in my bedroom, I heard kids playing tennis with T. ‘Love-fifteen!’ ‘Love-thirty!’ ‘Love-forty!’ ‘Game!’ Hey, I thought, I could sure use some of that love!

I made up a pitcher of lemonade and took it down to them. Three guys, two of my own flesh, shirtless wonders all. T looked scrumptious. I changed into togs then we played a set. We hit the ball hard and sweated like beasts! Great turn-on. Hope kids didn't pick up on it. They're so innocent. ‘Watch out! He's beatin’ you, Mom!’

In the end, I took him 7-5. Afterwards we sat around, then I invited him into the house to shower. He was shy at first, then agreed. I showed him the guest room bath, handed him some towels, we looked at one another, and I couldn't resist. Two minutes later, we were all over each other. And all the time through the open window, I could hear the kids splashing around in the pool, their cries echoing ours!

When we were done, just lying there, he got very tender with me, so tender I started to cry. ‘Whatsamatter?’ he asked. ‘oh, nothing. Just that you're so sweet and I can use some sweetness these days.’ He kissed my breasts like they were precious jewels. ‘I've dreamed of doing this since I first laid eyes on you,’ he said.

God! Till today I never thought of him as lover material, even though I did find him cute. We showered together and I went down on my knees on the tiles and took him in my mouth beneath the spray. ‘No one's ever done that with me before,’ he said. ‘Plenty more where that came from!’ I told him.

No wonder Robin couldn't get through hi smother's diary and didn’t want to show it to Mark! It's hard enough for me to read of Dad's growing obsession with Barbara in his truncated case study and to hear from Izzy Mendoza that he wanted to divorce Mom and run off with her. How much worse for Robin to read this. How could he bear to?

On May 16, my biting, indeed mean-spirited caricature of Mark Fulraine was published in our student newspaper, The Hayes Eagle.

On Monday, May 19, Mark, encountering me between classes in a corridor at school, called me ‘Jewboy’ to my face.

On Friday, May 23, before a hundred or so witnesses, we met to settle our differences in a grudge fight in the lower school gym.

Reading Barbara's account of that day brings back a jumble of warring feelings – anger, indignation, fury, pain, outrage over what Robin told me, and also a measure of regret. The latter makes me want to forgive everyone involved, including myself. This feeling, which I struggle to understand, is based on a conviction that all of us – me, Dad, Mark, Barbara, and Tom Jessup – were caught up in a web of conflicting passions that today, through the prism of twenty-six years, seem but tenderly trivial:

Friday

R arrogant today. Did he know our boys were to fight? If so, he didn't let on. But I had a secret and inwardly I reveled in it. T's been training Mark to box, and there probably won't be a fight anyway if I hadn't pushed Mark to call out R's son!

Unable to wait till Mark got home, I went out to The Elms. Afterwards J put on a robe, lit up a cigar, and said he wanted to see me prance.

‘Prance? Screw you, buster! This lady prances for no man!’

‘I could make you, cutie,’ he said. ‘Just you try it,’ I warned. Then we both started laughing. We're so ridiculous! In the end, I agreed to prance for him if he'd promise to jerk off in front of me while I did. ‘Deal!’ he said. So screaming with laughter, we both did our salacious thing.

Driving home in the rain, I suddenly thought about Belle and started to cry. Why did God take her away from me? Was it because I was bad like old Doris said?

Later: At six the boys arrived home with T. Mark had a black eye and cuts on his cheeks. He went straight up to his room. Robin told me he got a bloody nose. ‘But you should've seen the other guy, Mom. Mark knocked him out!’

T upset. ‘I'm ashamed I was involved,’ he told me. ‘Was it a fair fight?’ I asked. ‘Fair as I could make it.’ ‘Then you've got nothing to be ashamed about.’ He stayed for dinner, then, after A came by to pick up the boys for the weekend, we went upstairs and screwed to oblivion.

Afterwards he told me: ‘You know there's nothing I wouldn't do for you.’ I told him I appreciated that and that what I needed tonight was a warm body with maybe a little lust thrown in.

Prance for him! Reading this, I feel sorry for Barbara for the way she allows herself to be degraded by Cody. It's not hard for me to feel her agony over Belle or understand the desperation that drove her to seek out a new lover. I only wish Dad could have responded to her with more sympathy… though perhaps the coolness she describes is only in her mind.

Monday

R all too casual this morning. ‘You know our sons fought?’ I asked. R acknowledged he knew, wanted to know why this excited me so much. ‘Because we're at war here. Now our gladiators have fought, fighting's sexy, and I've won the first round.’ ‘Why's it so important for you to feel you've won?’ ‘Well, it's a war, isn't it?’

He wouldn't answer. Then we talked about blood and bleeding and horses and my dream. ‘For you sex is inextricable from blood,’ he said. ‘Well, that's nice,’ I said. ‘Now please tell me how knowing that does me any good.’

Afterwards, I decide not to go see J. Went to club instead, played furious tennis for two hours, beating Jane and Tracy back to back. Later both looked at me funny in the locker room. Could tell they hated my guts. Life's a war, I'm a warrior, and winners are always envied and despised.

Met W for a drink at the Townsend. He's such a mean little shit! ‘Watch out love. Andy's going to play hardball going after your boys.’ ‘I can play hardball too, you know.’ ‘Oh, I know,’ he said, fluttering his eyes like he knew some dirty little secret about me, something unmentionable. Felt like slapping him right there in the bar.

On June 6, Mark's and my graduation day from Hayes Lower School, the three adults meet up again, a kind of replay of their Parents Day conference on April 18. Except now everyone's relations have changed, and other parties are also present – my mother; Barbara's mother, Doris Lyman; and Mark's father, Andrew Fulraine, along with his new wife Margaret.

Friday

Mark's 6^th grade graduation. T all dandied up in his schoolmaster's best, too shy to make eye contact. R, with his attractive, Semitic-looking wife, giving me a casual little smile while he put an arm protectively around his son's shoulders – good-looking kid but I hate him for bashing mine in the nose. Then there was Mister Wonderful himself, with his ski-nosed pupsy-baby. Doris, as usual, was glacial and overdressed, feigning interest in her grandson's achievement. And W in bow tie, rentboy in tow, spewing witticisms – his nephew's in the same class.

Speeches, prizes, diplomas, then an awful celebration party on the school lawn. It was too hot. The kids looked silly stuffed into their crested blazers sweating in the sun. All they wanted to do was shed their clothes and jump in the nearest pool. And all I wanted to do was shed mine and jump into the sack with T. I'd have thought seeing him in his milieu, underpaid junior faculty member at phony-tony school, might have diminished my ardor. No such luck! Every time I snuck a glance at him, I thought of tying him down to the motel bed like last week and riding him to hell and eternity!

R, I noticed, snuck looks at everyone – Doris, T, even my boys. Did he think he was going to see something in these characters that I hadn't already told him about? Gain rich insights he could weave into his analysis?

It's probably a good thing he's so curious. Otherwise how could he stand to listen to me ranting on about my creepy dream? Still there's something all-knowing and self-confident about him that makes me want to tie him down to a bed. I bet that would break through his reserve!

Afterwards had to go out to dinner with A and pupsy-baby for the benefit of the boys. Robin cute as ever. Mark very manly now. A his usual stuffed shirt self. Pupsy-baby pleasant enough. Still, I'd love to get the bitch out on the tennis court. I'd tear her apart!

Half hour ago, I called T. He said at school he could barely dare to look at me I was so stunningly beautiful. Now there's a guy who knows how to talk to a woman! I told him starting a week from Monday the boys will be away at summer camp, which means we can meet three afternoons a week at the F. Silence, then he said: ‘How about four afternoons? Five?’ Oh, dear boy!

And so it goes – therapy sessions three mornings a week; two to three noontime or evening visits a week with Jack Cody at The Elms, Monday, Wednesday, and Friday afternoon lovemaking sessions at the Flamingo Court with Tom Jessup; and the rest of the time spent taking lonely rides on her horse, playing win-or-die tennis matches against her girlfriends, partaking of unpleasant phone conversations and occasional lunches with Waldo Channing, and the usual round of summer cocktail and dinner parties that inevitably leave her feeling empty.

On Tuesday, July 3, an entry catches my interest:

Tuesday

J distant this afternoon. After we made love, he stared up at the ceiling. ‘Whatsamatter?’ I asked. ‘I know you've been screwing your sons' tennis coach.’ ‘How do you know that?’ He didn't answer. ‘Obviously you get something from him you don't get from me.’ ‘It's called tenderness,’ I told him. ‘Oh, yeah, tenderness – that's never been my strong suit.’ ‘Do you mind, Jack?’ ‘Not terribly,’ he said. ‘That's what surprises me. I thought I'd mind a lot, and I don't.’

Didn't know whether to feel insulted or relieved. ‘Wow, that's a hell of a thing to say.’ ‘It cuts both ways,’ he said. ‘Fact you still come here to see me tells me I give you something he doesn't.’ ‘I think that's true.’ ‘So what is it, cutie?’ ‘You make me feel dirty, Jack.’ He smiled. ‘You like that, don't you?’ ‘Oh, I do, Jack. I do!’

He put on his heavy maroon brocade silk robe, poured us drinks, then sat down in his cracked leather easy chair. ‘Tell me about tenderness,’ he said. ‘Tell me what it's like.’ So I told him, described T and how he treats me, the sweet things he says to me, the ways he touches me, the total adoration he bestows. When I finished, J swirled his drink and stared into the amber liquid. ‘You know, I think there're uses for such a tender young man.’ When he told me what he had in mind, I nearly choked.

What is she talking about? From what she writes, it's impossible to tell, but I have a pretty good hunch. If, as Tom told Shoshana Bach, Barbara gave him the task of penetrating the local kiddie-porn scene, then, it seems, it was Jack Cody who first implanted the idea. And this dovetails nicely with Jurgen Hoff's notion that Jack knew Barbara had another lover, and that, as Jurgen put it to me, ‘there was something going on there I didn't get.’

With this in mind I read on:

Friday

R stubborn. Really hated him today. Told him so in no uncertain terms. ‘Even though I'm trained to take hostility,’ he responded, ‘I'm still a human being, so it hurts.’

After fucking, T told me again: ‘I'd do anything for you, you know?’ So I asked him: ‘Really? Anything?’ ‘Anything,’ he replied as if we were living in olden times when knights pled for ways to prove fidelity to their ladies. ‘There is something you can do,’ I told him, ‘but I'm not ready to ask you yet.’ ‘Tell me so I can do it.’ ‘There could be risk.’ ‘I want to endure risk. I'd gladly suffer pain for you. I want to show you how much I adore you.’ ‘Please, T, you go too far sometimes. A wicked lady like me isn't used to hearing such talk.’ ‘I want you to get used to hearing it,’ he said ever so tenderly.

Monday

R and I are definitely not getting along. ‘I'm wondering if I ought to bow out,’ I told him. ‘I don't think this treatment is helping me anymore.’ ‘You're too impatient,’ he said. ‘It's hard, painful work. I never promised you it would be easy.’ ‘No, and you also never promised me a cure, did you?’

I turned around, stared at him. Then I felt sorry, he looked so crushed. ‘Look,’ I told him, ‘I think you're a brilliant man, but maybe we're not well suited. No crime in that.’ Then he annoyed me by asking why I used the word ‘crime.’ Ugh!

Later with T: he begged me to set him a task, something difficult, he said. ‘Well, how about slaying a dragon for me?’ ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I'd do that in a minute!’

Poor boy, poor boy!

Friday

Another row with R. I told him when I leave his office I feel like I'm burning up inside, like there's a fire raging in my gut. He said that's a good sign, it tells us something important is going on. ‘We've been at one of those painful impasses that always occur in an analysis. The difference between the men and the boys is that the men work the impasses through.’ ‘But I'm not a man,’ I screamed at him. ‘Always these gender issues. You knew I was just using an everyday expression.’ Sure, I knew, but there's something wacky going on. ‘I already have two lovers,’ I told him, ‘God, I don't think I could manage a third!’ ‘Do you fantasize about my being your third lover?’ he asked. ‘Do you fantasize yourself as my third lover?’ I snapped back. ‘This is something we can use,’ he said, ‘your fantasy that I'm your lover. Have you any notion of how seductively you act toward me?’ I told him: ‘Don't flatter yourself, Doctor. I act this way with everyone. It's my nature!’

At the motel, I tied T to the bed, then worked him over with my mouth. ‘Today is my day to have fun,’ I told him. ‘My pleasure will be to pleasure you.’ He squirmed and rolled, panted and came. ‘And now I’m going to take my pleasure,’ I told him, mounting him and galloping home.

Afterwards he said I made him feel like a beast. ‘That's my intention,’ I told him. ‘Start thinking of yourself as my creature.’ He seemed to like that, so I told him I'd consulted his plea to set him a task, and that I had a quest in mind. Then I told him what it was. He listened carefully, then stared into my eyes to see if I really meant it. I stared straight back so he'd understand I did. Things got very quiet.

‘Well?’ I said to him as he was about to leave. ‘Think it over.’ ‘I'll meet you here Monday at the usual time,’ he said, ‘we'll discuss it then.’ ‘No,’ I said, ‘if you show up on Monday that'll tell me you've agreed. Otherwise don't bother.’

The poor boy nodded solemnly and slipped out the door. I waited a few minutes, then phoned J and told him what I'd done.

Monday

Good session with R, our best in last three weeks. Less tension, more progress, I felt good when I left, thanked him for his help. ‘I know I'm a real bitch sometimes. Please forgive me for that.’

He smiled, nodded sweetly. ‘See you Wednesday,’ he said.

Felt nervous driving out to the F. Stopped at the house, smoked a joint to calm myself down. When I got there and spotted T's car in the lot, I felt like I do when I beat some hotshot player out on the court: Sweet Victory Mine!

T subdued. ‘I'm prepared to do what you ask,’ he said. I brought out a second joint, shared it with him. ‘A man as brave as you,’ I told him, ‘deserves the best sex anyone's ever had. Guess who's going to give it to you?’ ‘You've already given it to me many, many times.’ ‘And today once again. So lie back and let me show you. There're a thousand ways, T, ten-thousand things I dream about every night, dream of doing just with you.’

God! I believe I came six or eight times and he three or four. Poor boy!

Tuesday

Someone has sent me the newspaper from the day Belle was taken. No note, no return address, just the whole paper stuffed into an envelope. And of course today is the fifth anniversary of that awful day. Today she is eight years and two months old!

My first thought: it's A who did this. I called him, shrieked at him. He denied it. ‘Barb, how could you I do such a thing? For all our differences, I could never do something so mean.’ ‘You want to take away my boys!’ ‘Not take them, you'd still see them.’ ‘Boys that age should live with their mother.’ ‘I don't think you provide a healthy environment, Barb. We shouldn't be discussing this. Let the judge decide.’

I called W, told him about the newspaper. ‘Horrible,’ he said. ‘Beastly! Contemptible!’ ‘Who hates me so much they'd do such a thing?’ ‘They don't hate you, love,’ W said. ‘They envy you. They want to see you crawl through broken glass.’ ‘God, I have crawled! Don't they know? Don't they realize what it means to lose a child?’ ‘Well, love, whoever sent that wants to make you crawl some more. The only way you can win with a person like that is to act like nothing's happened and carry on with your life.’

Monday

Terrible session with R. Told him I'm fed up with his Freudian claptrap. ‘It's like we're going around in circles here and the real key to it all is hidden in the center.’

He said: ‘I think if you'd be fair and look at what we've accomplished, you'd see that the circles we're going around in are getting tighter and whatever is in the center is starting to come into view.’

It was so hot I went straight home from session. I wanted to swim and cool off. Found another envelope in the same handwriting. Again no note, nothing inside but ten one-hundred-dollar-bills. A thousand dollars! What's that supposed to mean? Blood money? Ransom money? One thing is clear: whoever's doing this has serious money to throw away. That's scary!

While in the pool, I decided to go and see J. Called T, cancelled our tryst, then drove out to The Elms. When I told J what happened and showed him both envelopes, he turned grave. ‘This is serious business,’ he said. ‘My advice is don't bring it to the cops, not yet. Stay calm until we see how this plays out.’

We discussed T and how that's going and how far we ought to go with it. I told him I care for T and don't want him to do anything riskier than necessary. I said, ‘Risk is risk, there's no way to minimize it in a situation like this.’ I told him maybe we're making a mistake. He said he's positive we aren't and he'll do everything in his power to protect everyone involved.

When I left, I realized this was one of the few times I've visited him that we didn't end up in the sack. Back at the house, I phoned him and asked how he knew about me and T. ‘It's not like it's an atomic secret,’ he said. ‘You have a very visible car. I'm sure plenty of people have spotted you driving along, and maybe a few decided to follow and see where you were going – out of innocent curiosity, of course.’ ‘You're a real bastard, Jack,’ I told him. ‘I didn't say I followed you,’ he said. ‘Then who did?’ ‘I don't know,’ he said, ‘but whoever it was went straight to the person most likely to spread a story like that.’ ‘Who're we talking about?’ I asked. ‘Smart cutie-pie like you should be able to figure that out pretty quick.’

Fascinating! I check my watch. It's nearly 8:00 a.m.. An hour has slipped by without my noticing. I scan through Barbara's notebook. Plenty more entries ahead. Time, I decide, to take a breakfast break. But before I do, I take a few minutes to try to fix dates to the more crucial of Barbara's entries by matching them up with the entries in Dad's agenda.

The difficult sessions she speaks of with R are, of course, her analytic sessions with Dad – Dr. Thomas Rubin, who, unlike the other characters in her journal, doesn't rate use of the first letter of his first name most likely because it's a name he and Tom Jessup share.

Correlating her references to difficult sessions with Dad's notations of similar difficulties and/or headaches, I'm able to date Barbara's entries to Friday, July 11; Monday, July 14; Friday, July 18; and the last session, the one in which she tells Dad she's fed up with his ‘Freudian claptrap’ corresponds to Dad's notation on Monday, July 28: ‘Very difficult session with F. Worried.’

From this I'm able to deduce that Barbara has received the envelope containing the newspaper on Tuesday, July 22, and the envelope containing the thousand dollars on Monday, July 28, the same day she made the claptrap remark and but a month from August 27, the day she and Tom Jessup were slain.

After seeing Pam off to the courthouse, I return to my room, too wound up with Flamingo to go to work. Impossible for me now to put the diary down, so I settle back onto my unmade bed and resume reading where I left off:

Monday

This morning R astonished me. ‘Consider me seduced,’ he said. ‘What?’ ‘Now that you have me in your clutches, tell me what you're going to do with me.’

Was the man mad? Did he want to get off on my fantasies? Fine, I decided, I'll give it to him all right, I'll give it to him in spades!

‘I want to suck your dick, Dr. R. I want to tie you to the bed and ride your face. I want to sit on your dick (I'm sure it's big, Dr. R!) and ride your huge, horsehung dick like I ride a horse. How's that, Dr. R? Do it for you yet?’

He sat there still, impassive, the cool all-knowing shrink, while I gushed all this out like a crazed harpy.

‘How ‘bout this, Dr. R? I want you to crawl over here, stick your head under my skirt, pull down my panties and bury your face in my muff. Then lick -me, lick-me, lick-me till I scream-scream-scream. Suck-me, suck-me, suck-me till I come-come-come all over you, till my juices coat your cheeks.’

The most amazing thing was that even when I yelled all this at him (and I didn't care whether there was anyone listening in his waiting room or not), I felt myself getting hot. Then I realized I was diddling myself, which kind of told me I really did want to do all those delightful things with him.

‘You've turned me into Blackjack,’ he said when I finally quieted down.

‘What kind of bullshit is that? I'm a sexual woman. I have erotic fantasies. That doesn't mean I've got an Oedipus complex. You asked me to fantasize, I did, and now, God, you pull that old Freudian crap!’

He looked stricken, but all I could think was how stupid this whole thing was.

"I've already got two lovers,’ I told him. ‘I get all I need from them. I don't need you in the mix. Or is it that you want to mix in? If you do, please tell me so I can figure out how I can accommodate you.’

That made him furious. ‘You're a very difficult patient. I want to help you, but you constantly reject my help.’

‘Do you think asking me to make up sex fantasies about us is really going to help me?’

Silence. We both sulked. Finally I turned to him. ‘I think you got hard listening to me.’

‘That's an interesting fantasy. What makes you think so?’

‘It's not a fantasy, Doctor. I've had lots of experience with men. When they get hard I can tell. Hey! Are you blushing?’

Figuring he'd had enough, I changed the subject, told him about the clipping, then about the thousand dollars. That upset him, proof to me that he wasn't the one who sent them.

I told him so. ‘My fantasy was that it was you.’

‘Why? What made you think that?’

‘It's so devious I thought it was maybe part of the treatment.’

‘You think my treatment is devious?’

‘Sometimes it seems a two-edged sword.’

He ignored that. ‘Who do you really think sent those letters?’

‘At first I thought it was my ex, then maybe J. I even thought T could have done it since we've been having trouble lately. But of course it couldn't have been T, he barely has a dime. Then I figured it out. At least I think so.’

‘Who is it?’

‘I'm not ready to talk about that yet. What I want you to do is make a date with me, a date for the two of us to screw so we can get it out of our systems.’

‘Fantasy time is over.’

‘Fantasy time has just begun.’

‘Sorry, the hour's up.’

He rose from his chair. As he did, I checked his trousers to see if I could detect a protuberance.

I find this entry mind-boggling. Did she really take control of the session like that? Is this why Dad's paper suddenly stops? Because he lost control?

She really is an impossible patient! How could Dad stand her? On the other hand, in her diary at least, he comes off as something of a dork, relying on the old analyst's scam of answering every question with a question of his own, and employing the classic standby, ‘Now what makes you think that?’

The next day, Tuesday, August 5, she receives a sealed condom in the mail. She's appalled, frightened. Based on her reaction, whoever is doing this is achieving his goal:

Tuesday

First the article about the kidnapping, then the money, now a rubber. What's he trying to say? When I opened the envelope and that thing fell out, I nearly threw up. My heart was thumping. My forehead was wet. I called J. He said come over right away. I said no, I need to collect myself, I'm going out to the yard for a swim.

I must have swum a hundred laps, and even that wasn't enough. When I came back into the house, the phone was ringing. J again. He said W's been spreading around a story about my meeting a lover at a crummy motel. ‘For some reason he's got it in for you, cutie.’ ‘Don't call me that, Jack. Not today!’ ‘Sorry. But listen to me – the little bastard's got it in for you. Think about it. Think about why.’

I know why. Because I didn't tell him about T, didn't share my confidences, cut him off from my secret life. If you keep a secret from W and he finds out, he never forgives you.

‘I wonder if he's the one sending that stuff to you,’ J said.

W! Little W? Sure, the little turd's fully capable of a stunt like that. It's mean enough, cruel enough, sexually twisted enough, too. But if it is W, then it's not a warning from the kidnappers, it's just a mean, dirty act of a mean, warped, dirty-minded little man who hopes I'll confide in him again about the pain he's causing me, like I stupidly did two weeks ago.

I called up W, told him about the rubber. ‘Gawd!’ he moaned, ‘I didn't know people still used those things.’ ‘If whoever-it-is wants me to crawl through broken glass, they're succeeding,’ I told him. ‘I'm tortured, I'm in real pain.’

He wanted to come over and soothe me. I told him I was crying so hard I couldn't face him. Silence, then he snapped: ‘I think it's Jack.’ ‘But why, W? Why would J do a thing like that?’ ‘Because he's jealous. Because he thinks you're screwing someone else. He can't stand that. It makes him crazy. So now he's sending you all this crazy stuff.’ ‘But I'm not screwing anyone else.’ ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘I heard you were.’ ‘You know I would have told you.’ ‘Yes, love, I know. Listen, we'll talk later. Deadline pressure. Gotta run, get my column in.’

I phoned J back. ‘W says it's you.’ ‘That's his game,’ J said. ‘Stir the pot, then sit back and watch us tear each other apart.’

I told him I want revenge on the little freak. ‘I can have him beaten up,’ J said. ‘Break his legs.’ ‘No, no violence. I want everyone to turn against him. That'll hurt him most.’ ‘Well, that's your department,’ J said. ‘I only know how to strong-arm people, not how to get them disinvited from parties.’ ‘Well, I do!’ I told him. ‘And I'm going to do it. I know his weaknesses, where to get him where he hurts.’ ‘Well, good for you,’ he said, ‘but be careful, because if you're wrong and it's not him, he'll go to war against you, publish stuff that'll help A with his case.’ ‘Well, J, if it comes down to that, you'll have my permission to break his legs, his stupid neck, too, while you're at it!’

The great revelation for me here is her suspicion that it was Waldo Channing who sent her the article, money, and condom. It makes sense. For one thing, he'd have easy access to old newspaper clippings. For another, he had sufficient malice of heart and financial ability to blow a thousand bucks on a vicious gesture. But if it was Waldo, what was he trying to convey? Or was Barbara right, was it just his way of pulling her back into his orbit, coaxing her to confide her latest sexual escapade, which they could then dish together with complicit smiles?

On Thursday, August 7, she has lunch with Waldo at The Elms. She reports this encounter and subsequent lovemaking session with Jack Cody in what I feel is an increasingly alarming cynicism:

Thursday

Lunch today at The Elms: W his usual bubbly, mean self. On Elaine: ‘She really ought to get some wrinkle cream. She's looking like an awful prune.’ On A's pupsy-baby: ‘She's one of those Bettyboob types. You know – lotsa boob but not much to bet on!’

After I came over, he whispered: ‘He's looking kind of peaked these days. Must be he's not getting enough sex.’

Ha! ha! ha!

‘I put the rubber someone sent me on him and J didn't like it one bit,’ I told him. W giggled, but I detected a certain quivering in his eyeball, the left one, the ‘tell’ Andy used to say always gave away W's intentions to their poker group

‘Look,’ I told him, ‘whoever's got it in for me had better watch out because I'm going to find the little creep. I've got detectives working on it right now, and when I find out who he is, I'm going to expose him to the world.’

The old left eyeball started vibrating again. He tightened up so much I was sure I'd found my man. ‘What can detectives do? How can they tell?’ ‘All sorts of ways,’ I told him. ‘Fingerprints on the paper, saliva on the stamps. Plus some other angles I can't tell you about. Don't worry, I'll find him out.’

More quivering. Great sport!

‘I'm surprised you keep saying ‘him.’ I just assumed it was a woman,’ W said.

‘You said you thought it was Jack.’

‘I was wrong. Now I sense a feminine hand at work.’

‘You mean it's all so catty, is that it, W?’

‘Well put, love. Very well put.’

I laughed in a very special way to suggest several layers of private amusement. That unnerved him more. He excused himself before coffee, said he had to get back to town and file his column.

Soon as he left, J and I went upstairs. ‘It's definitely W,’ I told J. ‘And now he's running scared.’

‘He's pathetic.’

‘Vicious-pathetic.’

‘So what're you going to do about it?"

‘Wait a while, see how far he goes. I read there's a saying: “revenge is a dish best eaten cold.”’

We made love and J was tender with me, more tender than I can ever remember him being. When I closed my eyes, I imagined he was T. He could have been. It was T's touch, T sensuous and grazing on my skin, T's tongue wagging its way into me. For a moment, I thought I was going mad, mixing my lovers up.

On the way home, I pounded the steering wheel. If J can make love as tenderly as T, then what do I need T for? But maybe T can make love as harshly as J. Could I train him to? Could I cross-train these guys, make them interchangeable?

Must ask R about this.

What kind of a slut am I? I wonder. Am I nuts or just perverse?

Fascinating! And I find I'm beginning to respect her for dealing with Waldo in such a magnificent sangfroid. Seems to me she beats him at his own game.

But the following day, August 8, she receives another envelope. If Waldo sent it, he probably did so prior to their Thursday lunch.

Friday

A rubber tied in the middle full of – yuk! I immediately threw it in the trash. Then I called W, told him what had just arrived. ‘If it really is semen,’ I told him, ‘I'm sure it isn't his.’ ‘Now why do you say that, love?’ ‘‘Cause I'm sure he's impotent, an impotent little toad. He couldn't produce a bag of scum if he wanted to. It's probably diluted mayonnaise.’

Long silence. ‘I've been thinking about this since we spoke yesterday, and the more I've thought about it the clearer it is to me it has to be a woman.’

‘Now why do you say that?’ I asked, taking a page from R.

‘It's more than just being catty, love. There's something definitely female-cruel about those letters. Diabolically cruel, I might add. Strikes me this person is some kind of witch.’

"Well, dear, I think it's a man, and he's probably a fruit, too. You know what they're like W. I mean, a man as worldly as you.’

‘Are you trying to tell me something, love?’

‘I'm just saying I know it's a man, a pathetic sick excuse for one. Sending me a scumbag filled with yuk! Did he think I'd feel threatened? Me! Barb Fulraine! No, dear, it only makes me laugh!’

‘Well, love, go tell your shrink all about it.’ Pause. ‘I wonder if it's him. Maybe he's got a crush on you. Wouldn't surprise me, you know, since everyone else around seems to.’

On Monday, August 11, more neurotic fissures open up in her already fragile analytic relationship with Dad:

Monday

At session, told R about the second condom, why I think it's W who sent it, what we've said to each other back and forth, and what I think he's trying to do.

‘He wants me to confide in him, tell him all my secrets. He can't stand it that I come here. He considers you his rival. That's why he said it wouldn't surprise him if you were the sender.’

‘Do you think the man's dangerous?’

‘No. What he's doing is cowardly.’

‘Now you're trying to infuriate him?’

‘That's right. I want to provoke him, make him go too far. Then, if I'm successful, I'll have him cold. I might even be able to file criminal charges against him.’

‘I think sometimes in our sessions you've tried to provoke me, make me go too far.’

‘Why would I want to do that?’

‘I think it's the way you play people. You mentioned that there's been some trouble between T and you. Want to talk about it?’

‘No! I want to talk about my dream. Rather, I want you to talk about it. Solve it for me, Dr. R! Release me from it! Do that and I'll be forever in your debt.’

He tried. I was truly touched, even though I didn't buy much of what he said. It all goes back, he believes, to Mom and Blackjack. Pretty good hunch, I guess. When we parted, I saw something caring and sorrowful in his eyes. Touched again, I thanked him for all he's done for me. ‘Sometimes I get so mad at you,’ I told him, ‘but you know it's not personal. It's my rage at my father transposed to you. Anyway, I just want you to know how grateful I am for all the efforts you've made with me and for putting up with all my shit.’

‘Thank you for saying that,’ he said.

In the car driving home, it suddenly occurred to me that my horsemanship is such an important part of my identity that it's inevitable that anything important to me would be dramatized in my dreams in terms of riding and horses. I also thought that maybe this analysis idea wasn't so smart after all, that I'm going to have to reconsider going on with it after the first of the year and that maybe I'd do just as well going back to card readers and psychics.

Tuesday

This time the little squirt went too far! And gave himself away! He sent a baggie containing tender, long, blond girlish head hairs mixed with short, rough, curly black ones, the latter presumably pubic. By this he's telling me my worst fear has been realized – Belle's being used as a sex slave in a brothel. But what the little stinker doesn't know is that there're only three people on this earth with whom I've shared my fear: J, R, and himself! So that settles it. W deserves to be strung up by his balls, but that would be too good for him. He'd love all the attention he'd get, the martyrdom.

Still I'm relieved. Now that I'm certain it's him, I don't feel menaced anymore. Rather a sense of clarification, that this is how things stand. A feeling of vindication, too, coupled with a feeling that now the power's swung to me, it's all in my hands now.

Later, at the club, I thrashed Greta 6-1 6-0. And she thinks she's my rival for the Woman's Cup! Feeling her hatred out on the court only encouraged me to battle harder!

Doris called from Florida. I told her about the letters. She wasn't too interested until I told her who sent them. The she got interested. ‘What're you going to do about this?’ ‘Call him on it, call the man to account.’ ‘Better be careful, Barb,’ she said. ‘W's powerful. He could do you damage.’ ‘You don't get it, Mom. It's my turn now, it's me who can do the damage.’ ‘Listen to me, Barb – don't get high and mighty just because you have the Fulraine name. Since you and Andy split up, it doesn't count for much. You're back to being Barbie Lyman to W's crowd. Don't chew off more than you can swallow.’

She made me so mad I hung up on her.

Great stuff! It's nine o'clock and I still can't put the diary down. In two weeks and a day, Barbara and Tom Jessup will be killed, and there're things in her diary that point toward a suspect I hadn't considered.

What could Waldo have been thinking? If he really was the sender, and it certainly sounds like it was, he had to know Barbara was onto him. Waldo may have been malicious, but he wasn't stupid. There was no other way to interpret the things Barbara was saying to him.

So, how threatened did he feel? And if he felt badly threatened, to what lengths was he willing to go?

Certainly if it came out that he'd sent Barbara horrible anonymous letters, his position in Calista's upper crust would be severely undermined. At the very least, he'd lose his column, the mainstay of his existence, the excuse for his lifestyle and the only rationale for his superficiality.

But would he really kill to protect himself – get hold of a shotgun, pull a fedora down to his eyes, then march into Barbara's love nest and blast her and Tom four times?

That seems improbable considering how devious he was and the cowardice of an attack by anonymous letter. Still, who can know what a man like that might have done if he believed his reputation, the very currency of his life, was in jeopardy?

It's all very strange and the end game stranger still. For Barbara had more than one game going those final days: her game with Waldo, her game with Dad, and her high-risk game with Tom:

Wednesday

3:00 p.m. at the F. T was waiting when I arrived. He looked upset.

‘What's the matter, darling?’

‘I can't go on with this. I just can't!’

He told me that last night that awful couple looked at him with scorn. Also how when he paid them, he felt their contempt even more.

‘This isn't me, B,’ he said. ‘I've done my best, but I just can't go on with it.’

‘Well, it's a little late to tell me that, T, don't you think? A little late in the game to back out.’

‘I never wanted to do this. I only agreed because you asked me.’

‘If you didn't want to play, you shouldn't have agreed. If you back out now everything's lost, not to mention the money I've invested.’

‘I'll pay you back.’

I laughed. ‘You! You can't even afford a decent pair of shoes!’

He was so hurt I was afraid he was going to cry. ‘I'm sorry,’ I told him. ‘I'm being mean. You did enough, delving into that pit of sleaze. I love you all the more because it was so hard for you. Let me show you just how much I love you.’

How could he resist, poor boy?

Afterwards I watched him sleep, then went downstairs where there's a cigarette machine, bought a pack, returned to the room, sat down in the crummy easy chair, and watched him some more while I smoked.

I don't know what got into me. I haven't smoked tobacco in five years, not since Belle was taken. But it felt good to draw the smoke in, feel it in my lungs. I think because I felt so filthy in my soul I wanted to physically dirty myself inside.

Then T woke up, he sniffed the air. ‘You've been smoking.’

‘Yes, my sweet.’

‘I never saw you smoke anything but pot.’

‘It's a rare occurrence.’

‘Please smoke another so I can watch.’

I lit up again, sat back, inhaled deeply, blew out gusts, a few smoke rings, too.

‘I wish this were pot,’ I told him.

‘I'll bring some next time.’

‘I'm shocked, shocked that you, a teacher, a sterling example to children, partake of drugs!’

He laughed. ‘There's a girl in my house who smokes all the time.’

‘Then bring some.’

‘We’ll share, get high together.’

‘Yes, that'll be fun.’

He paused at the door. ‘Because I promised you, B, I'll try to see it through.’

‘A man of his word. I appreciate that. Just a couple more weeks and I'll release you from your vows.’

Soon as he left, I called W from the room. It was 5 p.m.. I knew just where to reach him, at the Townsend bar.

‘I know it's you,’ I told him.

‘What are you talking about, love.’

‘I bet your left eyelid's twitching as we speak.’

‘Are you crazy, Barb, or what?’

‘I've got proof. My detectives tracked the letters back to you.’

‘That's absurd!’

‘I knew you were a snake, W. But I didn't know how poisonous. I truly didn't.’

Silence. Then: ‘When you say things like that to me, you're as good as declaring war.’

‘Let there be war then. So be it.’

‘You forget one thing, love. You may be a hell of a fighter on the tennis court, but the field of battle we're talking about is mine. I was born to it, you only sucked your way up, and I can push you back into the gutter any time I please!’

‘I'm afraid you're the real guttersnipe, W, as your cozy Happy Few will soon find out! And I'd watch that left eyeball if I were you. When it starts to twitch, everyone in town knows you're lying.’

‘Meow! Bye, darling!’

‘Yeah, darling – meow to you, too.’

Correlating this delicious entry to other dateable ones, I understand it refers to events that took place on Wednesday, August 13 – the same day Dad cancelled his afternoon appointment and staked out the Flamingo to determine whether Barbara's affair with Tom Jessup was fact or fantasy.

The thought of him spying on her there raises the hairs on my neck. From what vantage point, I wonder, did he observe the arrivals of their cars, their separate entries to the balcony and room 201, Barbara's post-lovemaking descent to purchase cigarettes, and finally their separate exits?

From his car parked in the Flamingo lot? Too dangerous, I think. From Moe's Burgers across the street? The windows at Moe's were too large, creating danger if Barbara should suddenly turn and stare. Another possibility is the Shanghai Sapphire, the greasy-spoon Chinese restaurant on the other side of the lot. But the windows there were small and draped, which would have made it hard for him to see. Also, since Barbara reports she phoned Waldo as late as five, it's hard to imagine him sitting there a full three hours.

Then it occurs to me: What if Dad also checked into the Flamingo that afternoon; got himself a room on the second level overlooking the courtyard and pool; pulled a chair up to his window; drew the blinds just the right amount; and thus created a viewing post from which to observe the comings and goings of the respective parties?

This notion's so intriguing I put down the diary and call Kate Evans. When Johnny puts me through, I ask if she still has the registry ledgers from that year.

"Sorry," Kate says, "when we switched to computers I threw the old handwritten ones out."

"Kate, about that drawing-"

"Yes?" I feel her growing tense.

"The man you described looked so nice, so kindly, did you think about what I asked you the other day – whether you might have gotten two different people confused?"

A long pause. "Yes, I did think about it. Like I told you, I think that must have been what happened."

"But who, Kate? Who might you have gotten mixed up?"

"I remember there was another man who care around that time."

"The day of the shootings?"

"Maybe not that day exactly."

"Well, think more about it, will you, Kate? Try to remember, okay?"

"Yes," she promises. "I'll try."

Putting down the phone, I hope against hope that she decides she saw Dad when he came snooping around the motel, and, so frightened by the shooter, transposed Dad's kindly features upon his.

I pick up the diary again. On Monday, August 18, the proverbial shit hits the fan:

Monday

W's column: This morning he as much as says a certain member of his Happy Few is shagging her shrink on the old analytic couch!

Furious, I phone him up.

‘Oh, hi there, love,’ he says, all prissy and smug. ‘I wonder what's on your cute little mind this lovely sunny Monday morning.’

‘How could you write something so vile?’

‘Is it, love?’

‘You bet it is! Listen, W-’

‘No, you listen, bitch! That's just a taste – do you hear me? – the merest whiff of what I can do. So mind your manners and I'll mind mine, and get over this nonsensical notion that I sent you those nasty items in the post. That's not my style. My style of waging war is the same as yours – total! Hear what I'm saying, love?’

‘Yeah, I hear you. Sounds like you're making threats.’

‘Not threats, darling. Statements of fact. This isn't a big town, at least not our set. We don't have to adore one another, but it's better to live in peace than war. Now the good news – right after Labor Day I'm off to Europe, my usual haunts… Venice, Paris, Cap d'Antibes. As I recall, there's a certain Parisian saddlery shop you like. My intention is to stop at Hermes and pick you up a nice piece of tack, say a saddle and bridle set. Call it a peace offering, my way of saying that for all the harsh words between us, it's my profound hope that we can remain friends. So, love, what do you say?’

I ignored his peace offering, changed the subject.

‘What am I going to tell my shrink? I'm seeing him in an hour.’

‘Tell him “all's fair.” He'll understand.’

‘Tell me something, W?’

‘Anything, love.’

‘How many people have you gone after like this? How many have you tried to destroy?’

‘What a question!’

‘Since you don't care to answer, I'll have to rely on what I know. Since Max and I became friends, he's told me a few things. And then there's the matter of your rentboy, facts your Happy Few may not be fully acquainted with.’ I'm sure that chilled him! ‘Oh, and there's one other thing – don't bother getting me any tack.’

‘You'd like that too much!’

‘Well, next move's yours, love. Of course, I'm hoping there won't be one.’

‘You'll just have to wait and see, won't you?’

‘I guess I will. Toodleloo, love.’

God, what a fiend!

Later

‘Where does he get an item like that? How dare he publish such a thing!’

‘W thinks he's God around here. He publishes whatever he likes.’

‘I've got a call in to my lawyer.’

‘He'll tell you to ignore it.’

‘Tell that to my wife!’

‘What he wrote was for my eyes, his way of saying “Don't mess with me,” I haven't decided yet whether to heed his warning or take him on.’

‘Please listen to me,’ R said, sincere and sweet and grave. ‘You have serious problems – a kidnapped daughter, a pending custody battle, a terrifying recurring dream. I rarely give advice to patients, that's not an analyst's role, but this feud with Channing's a sideshow compared with what's really important in your life. My suggestion is to concentrate on the important stuff and let this sideshow pass.’

God, he can be such a good fatherly analyst when he wants to be! It made me feel great that he cared so much.

‘You're right,’ I told him. ‘W's not important. This morning's column is tomorrow's fishwrap. Trash!’

‘Exactly!’

‘So let's get back to work on the dream.’

He was so pleased. He came up with another brilliant spiel about Mom and Blackjack and breakage and how I must have seen something traumatic when I was little and froze the moment like a mental photograph and when it was frozen it became something that could shatter, and that's what the broken horses are all about.

He was brilliant and I was dazzled. When he was done, I told him I adored when he spoke like that, and I wished I could adore him in body because that's my way of adoring a man.

‘It always comes back to that, doesn't it?’ he said.

‘I guess with me it always does.’

‘I told you – assume you've seduced me, assume we've made love, then move on from there.’

‘How can I believe something like that when I know we haven't?’

‘We can't.’

‘Because it would break the rules? Are you so bound by rules you'd deny yourself what you so clearly want and need?’

‘Listen, Barbara-’

‘Do you know, Tom, that's the first time you've called me by my first name since I started coming here?’

I turned to look at him, caught him mopping his forehead with his handkerchief.

‘Now that we're on a first-name basis-’

He laughed.

‘See how much you enjoy my company? Thing is, Tom, I just don't see the difference between ‘assuming’ we've made love and actually doing it. Because if for therapeutic purposes we're to ‘assume’ we have, then seems to me we might just as well do it – for therapeutic reasons too, of course.’

‘That's impossible.’

‘I know you want to.’

‘If I did, I'd consult a colleague. That's how we handle those matters.’

‘Oh, goody! Bring in a third party! Spread the word around! Play right into W's hands!’

‘Know something? I think you liked his column this morning. I think now you want to make it all come true.’

Guess what, Dr. R? You're probably right!

Later

As promised, T brought pot to the F. We smoked it together then made love. I felt I was moving on another level in a mysterious hazy world where everything was right, every move slow and perfect and complete. It was as good sex as I've had in years. When we were done, I started to sob. T couldn't believe it, kept asking ‘What's the matter? What did I do? Did I do something wrong?’

‘No, darling, it's just the beauty of what we did that makes me cry, this incredible floating feeling I'm left with. Guess I'm crazy, huh? How do you like being involved with such a crazy lady?’

‘I like it just fine,’ he said.

When we were dressed, ready to leave, I told him I couldn’t meet him day after tomorrow, but that Friday would be fine.

‘How can I bear to wait so long?’ he asked.

Driving home, I wondered whether it was just the pot that did it to me, made me feel so lifted and clear. Is this what I've come to, I wondered – a slut who requires drugs to feel moved?

At the thought, I started to cry again. I was so red-eyed when I got home, I put on dark glasses so Marie wouldn’t know I'd wept.

‘Dinner at seven, Mrs. F?’ she asked me at the door.

‘No, thank you, Marie. Tonight I'm dining at The Elms.’

‘Very good, ma’am. Thank you, ma'am.’

‘Yes, thank you, too, Marie.’

After reading this entry, I feel for her again. So many emotional vectors in her life appear, in hindsight, to be heading toward a tragic intersection. But I think even if I weren't aware of the August 27 denouement, I'd feel, reading this material, that some kind of major crisis was in the offing.

She's concluded rightly that her old confidante, Waldo Channing, has not only been a false friend but is pathologically malicious besides. Now she must choose between her natural instinct to try to vanquish him in a social war or deny herself the pleasures of a fight for fear of furthering her former husband's goal of taking away her sons. The reference to Max intrigues me. Could Max have told her about Waldo's and Maritz's blackmail schemes? And is that reference to the ‘rentboy’ the then-scandalous fact that Waldo had originally found Deval on the porn shop-prostitute-hustler DaVinci strip?

Meantime, she's embarked upon her final siege of her shrink, attempting to lure Dad into bed. And then there are the conflicting feelings engendered by her two lovers, Jack Cody and Tom Jessup – a mellowing out, perhaps even a tenderizing of her relations with Cody, while she and Tom appear to have entered a baroque phase in which Tom has rebelled against continuing to play a role in the risky child-porn penetration project to which she and Cody have assigned him.

Finally, there's her existential crisis – her awareness and fear of personal emptiness, her pain as she struggles to decipher her strange recurring dream, and a looming sense that she has lost her bearings in the privileged, rarefied, and terribly lonely world she's created for herself.

I'm also impressed by Dad's various stabs at interpreting her dream. Compared with the sum of all his efforts in this regard, I find Izzy Mendoza's interpretation glib and tepid.

On Tuesday, August 19, she makes a series of remarkable decisions:

Tuesday

Woke up with a sense of mission. No more feeling sorry for myself. Time to take vigorous measures.

Phoned W, told him in no uncertain terms there will be no detente.

‘You committed vicious and unpardonable acts. Now you'll pay the piper. And be very careful how you retaliate, W. Go too far and some of Jack's friends might… well, you know how they handle things. Also I know what you've been doing on the side, your venomous little schemes. Say one nasty word about me that'll hurt my case with Andy, and, I promise you, all that will come out.’

I hung up before he could reply. The old left eyeball must have been twitching up a storm.

Phoned Jack, thanked him for last night, told him T wants out of the Steadman deal, so if he's going to make a move on them it should be soon. He said he understood and will make arrangements. ‘When am I going to see you again?’ he asked. I told him I'll be busy the next few days, but maybe Sunday night.

Phoned R, left a message on his machine, said I won't be coming in tomorrow or for that matter ever again unless we can resolve the tensions between us. Told him I'll be in room 201 at the F at three tomorrow afternoon, that I'm inviting him to join me there, that he can come or not as he pleases, but whatever his decision to please not call to discuss the matter as I won't be taking calls.

Phoned Hansen, told him I'm prepared to do whatever it takes to combat A's custody claims. ‘Tell his attorney my most vital interests are at stake. Tell him I have knowledge of things that could be ruinous to A, certain sexual episodes and peccadilloes. Tell him that though it isn't my style to stoop so low, the stakes are so high for me that if he doesn't withdraw his claim he can expect a no-holds-barred battle to the death.’

Saying that felt good!

Having completed a good day's work in just half an hour, I treated myself to a two-hour canter through Maple Hills, showered, then drove over to the club, where I played a fierce singles match with Tess.

After I lost the first set, quite a crowd gathered, all the girls eager to see nasty Barb dethroned. Somehow I managed to pull it out, 3-6, 6-4, 6-4. Afterwards, Tess and I hugged to great applause. She whispered, ‘Will you be my doubles partner if I dump Elaine?’ ‘Great idea! Give me the weekend to get rid of Jane. Then it's you and me all the way to club finals!’ She kissed my sweaty cheek. ‘I'm thrilled. I've had a crush on you for years!’

God! Well, I guess that'll be interesting – if we ever get around to consummating it!

Certain sexual episodes and peccadilloes! Does this mean Waldo was telling the truth when he told the cops Barbara had been looking for proof Andrew was fooling around with men?

I hold my breath before reading on, for the next entry concerns Wednesday, August 20, one week to the day before the slaughter and the second Wednesday in a row that Dad cancelled his afternoon appointments:

Wednesday

R arrived precisely on time. I opened the door wearing a robe.

‘You came.’

‘Not for the reason you think.’

‘I didn't ask you here for that reason.’

‘I find that laughable.’

‘Then go ahead – laugh!’

‘We're not going to make love.’

‘I know that, I'm not a fool.’

‘Then why-?’

‘Why did I summon you? Because it was necessary that you come. Otherwise all our ‘assumptions’ are just so much garbage.’

‘You play a dangerous game, Mrs. F.’

‘Now you're back to calling me Mrs. F.’

‘Now you're back to calling me “Mrs. F”? Isn't professionality kind of silly here in this sleazy motel room where I regularly have sex with your namesake?’

Finally, he smiled. I invited him to sit on the bed.

‘Don't worry, I won't attack you. Please make yourself comfortable so we can talk.’

I told him I didn't think formal analysis was working for me, that I needed something more warm-blooded, something that will make me feel as though I'm connecting with a real human being. I told him how much I've been moved when he's shown concern for me, and how awful I feel when he coldly applies more formal methods. I told him that if he can't modify his treatment I'll have to quit therapy, and that I don't want to do that because I desperately need his help.

‘But real help," I told him. ‘Compassionate help. And no more games.’

I told him I feel he's played me as much as I've played him, that his counter-seductions are seductions in themselves, and that I feel he shares as much of the blame as I for what's gone wrong between us.

I told him: ‘When you told me I should assume we've made love, assume my seduction of you has been successful, and that I should share my sexual fantasies about you, you show me the weakness at the core of your cool stance. I can't abide that pose. I need a friend, a brilliant friend who can really help me – because I need help, tons of it. This is why I invited you to this sordid place, to tell you all this so we can decide where we go from here. I couldn't tell you any of this from the couch in your office. Maybe that's part of my neurosis, that I needed to tell it to you here in this awful room face to face.’

I started to cry. I sobbed. He moved to me, held me in his arms. Then I could feel him sobbing, too. We wept together.

‘I care for you,’ he told me.

‘I know you do. Please know I feel the same way.’

‘But it's impossible. You understand?’

‘Yes. But maybe that's the best part of it somehow.’

We hugged each other, wept upon each other, and I felt so close to him then, so fine and close. It was the most moving experience I've had in a long time. And the strangest part was I hadn't planned it this way. I told him that, too.’

‘Truth is I don't know what was in my mind when I asked you here. I didn't know myself till I opened the door and saw you standing there so fearful and grave.’

‘This is wrong yet it feels so right. That's what I don't understand.’

‘Don't' try to understand it, Doctor,’ I urged. ‘Just keep feeling it the way we're doing.’

And at that we hugged and sobbed some more.

When we finally let each other go, our eyes clear and smiles on our lips, he said he owed me an apology. I told him he didn't, but he insisted.

‘When you first came to me, I recognized you were an extraordinary woman, but then I got bogged down thinking of you as a fascinating case rather than as a deeply troubled person in need of help. I thought too much about how I was going to write up your case, well-disguised of course, and that led me astray. I forgot that I'm a healer first of all, that feelings and compassion are my most effective tools, not theory and technique. I put personal ambition ahead of my oath to heal. I want you to know I'm not going to write up your case, rather I'm going to put all my efforts into working with you to solve your dream and free you of its tyranny.’

I told him that hearing that from him was more that I could have wished for. I told him I was so glad he held me and allowed me to hold him. ‘I needed to touch you,’ I said. ‘Sex is for pleasure, but I think to hold each other like we just have is deeper and better. Thanks so much for coming today.’

‘And will you come to me Friday at the usual time?’

‘Oh, yes, Doctor – you can be sure!’

We laughed, stood, embraced again. Then he left, and I lay down and cried by myself. I felt so moved by what had happened, the strangeness of it. Perhaps, I thought, there is some hope for me yet. And now I know the next right thing for me to do is to set T free as gently as I can.

As I put the diary down, all sorts of feelings flood in. First, pride in Dad that he didn't give in to his lust, didn't make love to his patient, rather discovered a truth in his experience with her that seriously altered his approach to his work. Second, enormous admiration for Barbara, her vulnerability and also her restraint. When the chips were down, she stopped playing power games and gave into the decent impulses that had always flowed beneath the hard surface she showed the world. Yes, I feel proud of them both.

In this passage, I see each of them reaching for redemption and attaining it. And I think: It must have been the kind of expression on Dad's face, engendered by his strange meeting with Barbara that afternoon, that Kate Evans saw when he left the room and came down the stairs and their eyes met as she viewed him from the pool. The face of a kindly man, a man who would help you, a man with whom you could share your troubles.

And now I know why Dad was never able to complete his paper, “The Dream of The Broken Horses.” How could he? How could he ever have published a description of his August 20 encounter with Mrs. F at the motel? Impossible! He'd risk being run out of his profession. He couldn't even have described it to Izzy at their regular Tuesday lunch. Izzy would have been appalled.

And yet their encounter rings true to me – two lost souls finding solace with one another under unlikely circumstances in a terribly unlikely place. And truly it is the first entry in Barbara's diary that strikes me as having been written without irony or ire.

But the march goes on. Scanning ahead, I see there are a few more pages of writing, shorter entries, not as dense as the ones I've just read. And so I pick up the diary once again, determined now to read uninterrupted to its end:

Thursday

Quiet for once – too quiet perhaps. Decided it was time to call Doris, make up. As expected, she was icy when she heard my voice.

‘My only child and she hangs up on me! I tried so hard to bring you up to be a nice, polite girl. What did I do wrong?’

‘Spare me the mea culpas, Mom, please.’

‘I don't even know what that means. I'm just not as smart and well-educated as you.’

‘You're plenty smart and you know it. How're things going at the track?’

The perked her up. She told me she made four grand last month using her new post-position method. ‘Doesn't matter who the horse is or who the jockey. Just the post position. Not a very colorful approach, but so far it's working great.’

J called. He's got everything set for Monday night. ‘Just make sure you get your boy out of there this weekend at the latest.’

I didn't tell J I'm planning to phase T out of my life altogether. Perhaps I'll tell him Sunday night.

Phoned Jane, told her I've decided to team up with Tess for club doubles. Suggested maybe she should team with Elaine.

‘Yeah, the two rejects. Thanks a lot, Barb!’

Bitter, bitter!

Friday

Excellent session with R. Worked on the dream. He said it's important we not approach it in a tormented fashion, rather have fun with it, free-associate, try out ideas, think of it as solvable and not as an intractable puzzle.

In the end, I told him how happy I was that we'd finally cleared the air.

He said he was happy too, that he'd learned a great deal from me and hoped he could repay me in kind. He said: ‘I'd forgotten that humanist values must be the basis for a successful analysis. Thank you for bringing that home again.’

Later with T – told him he's to break off all contact with the Steadmans right away, that someone else will take up the slack and carry the deal through. He looked so relieved, became so sweet, I didn't have the heart to tell him I can't see him anymore after the boys come home from camp.

We made a lazy, dreamy kind of love, and as always I was touched by his tenderness.

‘You'll make some girl very happy,’ I told him.

‘I want to make you happy, no some girl,’ he said.

He recited French poetry from memory, beautiful verses by Rimbaud. Afterwards he told me what they meant.

‘I've been thinking about what I want to do with my life. I like teaching, but what I really want to do is write.’

I told him that if that's what he wants he should pursue his dream. Which gave me an idea – as a parting gift I could send him off to France for a year. Then I worried he might have too much pride to accept a gift so grand.

Saturday

Hot tempers today at the club. Seems Tess and I have created a crisis. Word is we've ganged up on everybody else and all we care about is taking home club trophies. What the fools don't realize is that if I cared at all about trophies I'd still take part in equestrian competitions, that I already have sufficient trophies to last me a lifetime, and that tennis is only useful to me as a way to blow off steam!

Sunday

Woke up all panicky in a sweat. Bad dream, but it wasn't The Dream this time, was worse somehow, more scary, like I was lying helplessly somewhere in a sea of white while my body was torn apart before my very eyes.

Later – late dinner with J. He had to get up several times to greet people and solve management problems. I loved watching him work. He looked great in his white dinner jacket, by far the most poised, confident man in the club. Everyone makes nice with him, everyone wants his ear. And I like the way he dispenses favors. Watching him, I decided he's the only ‘real man’ I've ever been involved with.

‘We're awfully well-suited,’ I told him when he sat down again.

‘Yeah, the society bitch and the hood.’

‘Not too bad a combination.’

‘Not bad at all,’ he agreed.

He said tomorrow night some people he knows will take care of the Steadmans quick and neat. When I asked him where he finds people like that, he smiled.

‘Haven't you heard, I'm what they call “connected.”’

‘The Torrance Hill Mob?’

‘Only the papers call them that.’

‘What do they call themselves?’

‘Just some guys who have a thing going, what they call “our thing.”’

‘“Thing” – hmmm. Well, I guess it is a thing, isn't it?’

‘Better you don't know, cutie.’ I stared at him. ‘Whatsamatter?’

‘If you'd stop calling me “cutie” I'd enjoy your company a lot more.’

He laughed. ‘That'd be easy if your tits and ass weren't so cute!’

‘And your balls and hairy ass – they're just so cute too, you know.’

He guffawed. ‘What you need is a good fucking.’

‘And you're the cute guy who's going to give it to me, right?’

We skipped dessert, gulped our coffee, then hastened upstairs. The usual – lots of tumbling around, biting and scratching, a few well-placed fanny slaps. Then when he slipped into his dressing gown, poured us brandies, put his feet up, and lit a cigar, I asked him why it was so hard for him to be tender. ‘I know you can be,’ I told him. ‘You were incredibly tender with me three weeks ago.’

‘Wanted to show you I could do it, too.’

‘So it was just an act?’

‘That's a side of myself I don't like to expose to many people.’

‘You can expose it to me. I won't tell anyone.’

‘Maybe you'll show me your soft side too sometime.’

‘I'm hard as nails, J.’

We laughed.

As I was getting ready to leave, he mentioned casually that W hasn’t been around for several days. He said he found that odd since W usually comes in on weekends to pick up whatever scuttlebutt's circulating around the club.

‘I told W he'd better not try anything nasty with me or some of your friends might have a little talk with him.’

‘Well, that accounts for it. You scared the poor man off.’

‘I don't think he's dangerous, do you, J?’

‘Don't underestimate him, B. If he gets riled enough, no telling what he might do.’

Monday

Got up at dawn, rode for two hours, then changed and drove to session. R very sweet, subdued, mellow, all the hard edges between us gone. Told him I'm starting to miss our battles.

‘That's because you think sweetness is boring,’ he said. ‘You think you need turmoil to feel alive. Your mother taught you that by her strictness and rectitude.’

‘She had no rectitude. She was a fake. She had all kinds of affairs, kinky sex, too.’

‘Do you know for a fact she had kinky sex?’

I shook my head.

‘But you sensed she did?’

‘I felt it in my bones,’ I told him.

Later – with T. He kissed me over and over, told me how much I meant to him and that if anything ever came between us he didn't know what he'd do.

‘You'd go on with your life like everybody else,’ I told him.

‘But nothing will come between us, will it?’

I told him about W and how he's threatened to feed stuff to A about our seeing one another. I told him people know, that maybe it's my fault, I haven't been careful enough, my car's too flashy, whatever, but my point was the story's been making the rounds and that isn't good for either of us.

‘We can change where we meet. This place is getting stale anyway.’

‘Changing motels won't' help if A has people following me.’

T lay back on the bed. ‘If this ever comes out, I'll be fired for sure.’

‘Don't worry about that.’

‘Easy for you to say.’

‘Why do you speak to me like that, T?’

‘I have so very much to lose,’ he said.

‘And I don't? Losing my boys is trivial, is that what you think?’

He started to cry, said he was sorry, begged me to forgive him. I hugged him, told him that of course I forgive him, but that with the boys coming back next weekend we're going to have to cool it down this fall. I could feel him wince when I said that, his whole body contract. He knows, poor boy, and now I wonder where I'm going to find the strength to tell him straight.

When we parted, I told him I'd call him late tonight and let him know how everything went with the Steadmans.

He shrugged. ‘We'll meet here Wednesday, usual time?’ he asked meekly.

Saw tears again in his eyes when he left.

Tuesday

J called in the middle of the night. ‘It's done,’ he said. ‘Burned to the ground.’

‘What about the people?’

‘Forget them. They don't exist.’

‘What are you telling me?’

‘Don't think about it, Barb. Just look ahead.’

‘You didn't find out anything?’

‘I didn't say that.’

‘Why are you being so cryptic?’

‘It's over, Barb. You're going to have to face the fact that it's all done now for good.’

I couldn't get back to sleep. Phoned T, told him what J said. He said he didn't understand. Told him I didn't either, but that I'll find out and let him know.’

Later – early morning, dreamt I was riding through a misty valley. Very bucolic until I noticed another horseman in the distance through the mist. He looked familiar, so I rode up from behind to see who he was. God, it was Goertner! ‘Oh, hello, how are you?’ he asked. Told him I was fine. ‘And your mother – how is she?’ ‘You fucked her, didn't you, Goertner?’ I demanded, furious. ‘Oh, yes,’ he answered grinning. ‘And a mighty sweet fuck she was!’

I kicked my heels into my horse, galloped away, but no matter how far and fast I sped from him, I could hear his laughter ringing through the valley.

What a dream!

Wednesday

Called J, insisted on seeing him, told him I needed to know everything, I want the whole truth even if it's bad. He said come out to the club tomorrow night and he'll tell me.

‘So is it bad news?’

‘It's the truth,’ he said.

‘Whose truth are we talking about?’

‘It's time for both of us to face some facts,’ he said.

‘What kind of facts?’

‘Facts about your problems, facts about mine, and a few facts about the two of us as well.’

Jesus!

Later – told R about my dream, reminded him that Goertner was my old riding instructor, the one I slapped, the first man to go down on me.

R excited. ‘I'm sure it's a variation on the broken horses dream. What we've got to do now is put the dreams together. I think one is the key to the other, but I don't know which one is the key and which is the lock.’

Whatever that means!

Later – bad feeling as I swam laps, then dressed to go over to the F. Have made up my mind today's the day to tell T we have to end it. Feeling anxious as I'm not expecting a particularly lovely afternoon.

And so it ends.

Within an hour of her writing that final line, she and Tom Jessup will both be dead.

So many things amaze me. Most of all, I think, is the mellowness of these last passages, the feeling that she has started to settle things, put there chaotic life in order. She has straightened out her relationship with Dad, is planning to break off her affair with Tom, is prepared to go to war over custody with Andrew, and seems to have decided that she and Jack, the ‘society bitch and the hood,’ properly belong together after all.

As to going to war with Waldo, there's no clear indication what her final decision would have been, but with the crucial custody case coming up, it's hard to imagine that a fight with him would have done her any good. Also it's clear he lied to the police when he feigned shock that she'd been carrying on her affair with Tom Jessup for months.

One other thing stands out: that Cody definitely engineered the fire and other vicious events that took place Monday night on Thistle Ridge, and that Barbara and Tom, the latter perhaps unknowingly, were to some degree party to that as well. ‘Burned to the ground,’ ‘they don't exist,’ ‘it's all done now for good’ – I interpret all that to meant that whatever specific information Cody may have extracted from the Steadmans, he learned for sure that Belle Fulraine was dead and would have told Barbara the following evening had she not been killed.

Closing Barbara's diary, I feel it has put me in close touch with this extraordinary, complex woman, that I now know things about her that even Dad could not have known. Seeing her through her own eyes as portrayed on these pages, I'm able not only to discern her unattractive qualities – selfishness, manipulativeness, and narcissism – but also the decency, integrity, and brave spirit that so often subsumed them. And what I find most poignant, and which belies any suggestion that these pages were intended for anyone's eyes but her own, is her troubled, tortuous, and admirable struggle to know herself.

In the end, it seems to me, that's her vindication.