This Enemy Town

CHAPTER 8

At Tuesday’s rehearsal Dorothy pooh-poohed my concerns about Kevin, but thanked me for them anyway.

We sat together in the center of the theater with Professor Medwin Black in the row just in front. On stage, the woman playing Joanna finished singing a sweet version of “Green Finch and Linnet Bird” that nearly broke my heart.

“My God,” Dorothy whispered. “That girl should be on Broadway.”

A few seats over, the unpleasant Greta James was muttering under her breath. If she was trying to impress the good professor, it wasn’t working. He uncrossed his legs, stood up, leaned across several rows, tapped her lightly on the shoulder and growled, “Enough!”

“Sorry.” Greta hunkered down; the hat she wore for her role in the chorus caught on the back of the chair and tipped over her eyes.

“The minute the cast is announced,” Professor Black complained to me, sotto voce, “the women all turn on each other. All the girls hate the female lead.” He waved a finger at the back of Greta’s head. “Sometimes I think we should be doing Cats.”

I laughed out loud.

It was nearly time for Greta’s entrance, so she gathered her costume about her and scurried away.

“That little missy,” Professor Black went on after Greta was out of earshot, “sent me a six-page letter outlining the flaws in our casting process and detailing how much better she’d be in the role of Joanna. She’s a good actress, but she couldn’t carry the role vocally. It’s always a balancing act.”

Dorothy shifted uncomfortably in her seat, then seemed to gather confidence. “How come Kevin didn’t get a lead?”

“Ah. Good question.” Professor Black leaned back in his chair, his hands folded prayerfully across his chest. “With Kevin, it was a tough call. He could easily have handled the role of Beadle-that’s why we’ve got him understudying it-but Adam Monroe did a terrific job, too, and he’s a firstie, so that had to carry some weight.” The professor smiled at Dorothy in the semidark of the auditorium. “Kevin will get his shot at the big-time next year.”

“Oh, yes? What show are you doing?” I asked.

Professor Black half belly-laughed, half snorted. “That’s what everyone wants to know, and we haven’t even gotten through this year’s musical yet!”

“Ballpark it for me,” said Dorothy.

“Well, if I were guessing, I’d say Gilbert and Sullivan. HMS Pinafore, to be exact. It’s one of the music director’s favorites and he’s been after me for years to do it.”

I turned to ask what Dorothy thought about the music director’s choice of HMS Pinafore and caught her staring at the stage, her face alight with pride, as Kevin as asylum keeper, Jonas Fogg, began his big scene with Anthony, the romantic lead. Anthony was aiming a pistol at her son, but he wavered, lost his nerve, dropped the gun. Joanna caught it and shot Kevin point-blank dead, but a few minutes later Kevin had sufficiently revived to join us.

Dorothy pulled down the seat of the chair next to her, but Kevin decided to sit at the end of the row just in front of us.

“That was terrific, Kev,” Dorothy said.

Her son whipped off his wig and arranged it carefully over one knee. “Thanks. You didn’t think I played it too weird?”

“It was just right,” I cut in. “Loved the way you handled the scissors. Reminds me of the mad scientist in Back to the Future. What’s his name?”

“Christopher Lloyd?”

“Yes, that’s the guy.”

“Thanks, ma’am.”

Suddenly Kevin stiffened. In the semidark he turned to scowl at his mother. “What’s Dad doing here?”

Dorothy’s head spun around so fast that I thought she’d get whiplash. Weaving his way through the auditorium toward us was a tall man dressed in civilian clothes. Ted Hart was an older version of his son-grayish hair still slightly red, wearing chinos and a leather bomber jacket which he unzipped as he eased between the seats.

“Am I too late?” he inquired, taking a seat right next to me.

“Just finished, Dad.”

“Damn! I’m sorry.” He favored me with a grin. “And this must be Hannah. Am I right?”

I extended my hand. “Right.”

“Dorothy says she doesn’t know what she’d do without you.”

“She’d be just fine, Admiral. The midshipmen do most of the work anyway. I mean, what I don’t know about wing nuts and mitered corners could fill an encyclopedia. Paintbrushes I can handle.”

“It’s Ted, Hannah. Call me Ted.” Even in the darkened theater his smile dazzled.

Kevin rolled his eyes and looked away.

“Ted, then.” I stole a glance at his wife. “The work keeps us out of trouble and off the streets, in any case.”

“It’s fun seeing it all come together like this,” Dorothy said, changing the subject.

“Is it still snowing?” I asked the admiral, thinking about the wet fat flakes that had been coming down earlier and about my cold walk home.

“Yes. Like Merry bloody Christmas.”

The admiral’s jacket, I noticed, was completely dry. But he was an admiral. Maybe it didn’t dare snow on him.

When the mids broke for dinner, the Harts, Admiral and Mrs., left for home together, and I hustled onstage to finish up on Mrs. Lovett’s harmonium. I spread a newspaper out to protect the floor and quickly sprayed the decorative scrollwork a bright gold. When I prepared to attach it to the front of her harmonium, though, I realized I’d left the box containing my hot glue gun wrapped up in my sweatshirt down in the Jabberwocky room.

By then the cast had reassembled on stage and the Pair-o-Docs was giving them notes, so I stepped between Mrs. Lovett’s oven and the end of the body chute and trotted down the stairs to find it.

On the landing, I paused. Someone was in the Jabberwocky room, sitting on the sofa reading Trident, the Academy’s good news newspaper. On the front page of that week’s issue were two color pictures taken at last week’s rehearsal. In one, Sweeney and Mrs. Lovett stood, arms locked, their razors and rolling pin held high, respectively. Emma was featured in another picture in all her ragged regalia, grinning toothsomely, with one of her incisors painted a disconcerting black.

“Oh, excuse me,” I apologized brightly. “Forgot my glue gun.”

The person reading the newspaper looked up. It was Jennifer Goodall.

I stared at her, my mouth ajar. She eyed me coolly, with disinterest, without the slightest spark of recognition in her eyes.

Although she had no reason to recognize me-our paths had never officially crossed-it made me furious that the woman responsible for very nearly wrecking my marriage didn’t even know who I was. It seemed like only yesterday that deceptively innocent face had smiled out at me from the pages of too many newspapers, from behind too many microphones on too many broadcasts of the six o’clock news. Now, five years later, the face was leaner, the wrinkles around the eyes more pronounced, but Jennifer was still a very attractive young woman.

She was wearing the Naval Academy version of civilian clothes-chinos and a navy blue polo shirt-and no name tag.

I couldn’t wait to get away from her. I retreated, facing down the flight of stairs that would take me to the dressing room. My hand rested lightly on the pipe that served as the handrail, and it felt icy and cold as my heart.

If not now, Hannah, when?

I wheeled around. “You’re Jennifer Goodall, aren’t you?”

“Who wants to know?” Her voice was flat, almost bored. I wondered where the “Yes ma’am” had gotten to, but figured she only trotted out the courtesy when she was in uniform.

“I’m Hannah Ives.”

At the mention of my name, Jennifer said nothing. She didn’t nod. She didn’t even blink. She simply laid her newspaper aside.

“Perhaps you remember my husband, then.” I clamped my teeth together, trying to keep a lid on my fury.

“Oh yes.” A slow smile crept across her face and she relaxed into the cushions. “I remember Paul.”

I wanted to smack that supercilious smile clean off her face, but I dug my fingernails-such as they were-into my palms. I didn’t trust what might come out of my mouth next, so I stood there, staring at her like a dummy.

“I see him around,” she continued with a maddening I-know-something-you-don’t-know expression. “He hasn’t changed a bit.”

That smile again. She looked me up and down, taking in my paint-splattered jeans and T-shirt with a look of such distaste that I imagined her thinking: What does a hunk like Paul see in a hag like you?

Until Jennifer Goodall turned up to complicate my life, there had been times that I could go for days without thinking about her and the damage she had caused. I realized I’d been carrying this woman around like an albatross, and I needed to rid myself of her once and for all.

“Tell me, Jennifer,” I said at last. “Was it true?”

“A midshipman doesn’t lie, cheat, or steal,” she quoted.

“Neither does my husband, Lieutenant Goodall, so one of you has to be lying through their teeth.”

Her smile didn’t waver, but at least I made her blink.

“I’m just too tired to play games with you, Lieutenant. After all these years, the least you can do is tell me the truth.” I drew a deep, steadying breath. “Did you have an affair with my husband?”

Jennifer Goodall fished a necklace up from her cleavage, hooked it with an index finger and ran her finger around the inside of the chain, back and forth, back and forth, idly toying with it and, it seemed, with me. “You really want to know?”

“Of course I want to know!” I shouted. “I wanted to know then, and I certainly want to know now! The truth, Miss Goodall! Did you sleep with Paul?” I spat it out, punching every word.

Jennifer studied me with cool, unblinking eyes, a technique she probably learned in terrorist boot camp.

“Oh, he was one of a kind, your Paul.” She crossed one leg casually over the other and draped an arm languidly over the back of the sofa. “A real tiger in bed.”

That wasn’t the answer I expected, and I must have gasped. It took every ounce of control I could muster not to launch myself across the room, wrap both hands around her pudgy neck and squeeze and squeeze until her eyes rolled back and those fat, pink lips turned blue and she stopped breathing altogether.

“Paul likes it kinky. Did you know?” She tilted her head. “No, I can see that you don’t. That time at Army-Navy? He just about wore me out, and that takes some doing.” She smiled, as if remembering.

I swallowed hard, biting back the bile that was rising in my throat. Paul had attended that Army-Navy game alone when I’d been too sick to go along. Jennifer had testified that it happened in a Meadowlands hotel. That they’d met in the bar for a drink. That one thing had led to another.

Could it possibly be true? Had Paul been lying all along, to protect our marriage and his career?

I didn’t want to hear it. Like Emily as a child, I wanted to press my palms hard against my ears and chant at the top of my lungs: I’m not listening to you!

Jennifer was studying me with morbid fascination, taking cruel pleasure at seeing my marriage and the trust I put in my husband erode, buried in an instant, like a home in the path of a California mudslide. One hot tear ran down my cheek, and I hated myself for it. This wasn’t the time to show any weakness.

I could imagine why Jennifer would hate my husband enough to want to hurt him-she had been failing his course, and Paul refused to give in to her blackmail in exchange for a passing grade. But what did this young naval officer have against me?

“He said he was lonely,” she elaborated. “He invited me up to his suite.”

Suite! The word alone was a knife in my heart. Last time we’d stayed in a hotel it was the $69 special.

“Such an appetite!” she continued, twisting the knife for all she was worth. “He came for me on all fours, and he threw back his head and roared! Does he roar for you, Mrs. Ives?”

“What did you say?” I sputtered.

She opened her mouth to speak again, but I flapped my hand, waving her lies away. The last thing I needed was corroborative detail, particularly details on a jungle theme. Because now I knew, like a refreshing wave of water washing over me:

Jennifer Goodall was lying!

When he was seventeen, Paul had injured his back in a tractor accident on the family farm. As a result, several disks in his spine had been fused. He could no more crawl on his hands and knees, throw his head back and roar than he could fly from BWI to Heathrow without benefit of an airplane. Our lovemaking had always been special, but no acrobatics were involved. It’s a good thing I didn’t carry a gun, because I would have shot Jennifer then and there, square between her lying eyes.

And yet, I had to be sure. Not 99 and 44/100th percent sure, but 100 percent sure.

Fight fire with fire, to coin a phrase. If Jennifer could make up a pack of lies, so could I.

“You make me sick!” I screamed, so loudly that it made my throat ache. “You both make me sick!” I fell against the wall, sobbing. “We got matching tattoos, special, just for us. That’s why Paul got it on his… his…” I choked, as if unable to continue.

“Paul is such a generous man,” she said. “Would you like to see my tattoo?” She tugged at the corner of her shirt, which was tucked carefully into the waistband of her khakis, but I knew she was bluffing.

Why is there never a tape recorder around when you need it? I wanted our encounter on tape so I could play it back for Paul, so he could hear Jennifer Goodall damn herself in her own words. I couldn’t imagine what Paul had done to her that would engender such hate, a hate that burned just as hotly now as it had half a decade earlier. I could only assume she was mentally ill.

I confronted her, my eyes like slits. “Paul doesn’t have any tattoos, you lying bitch! I don’t know why you’re doing this, but I swear to God, I’ll get even with you, even if it takes the rest of my life. I’m contacting my lawyer, you’re going to retract everything, and if you ever make up baseless lies about my husband again, I’ll… I’ll…”

“Everything all right, Mrs. Ives?”

I spun around, both flustered and annoyed by the interruption. It was Midshipman Small, sweet, serious Gadget, standing on the stairway behind me.

The silence was heavy with unspoken words.

The auditorium above me was silent, too. No talking, no singing. No happy scrape of bow on string, no friendly trumpet blare. Rehearsal must be over.

“I heard shouting,” Gadget said, moving closer. “Is there anything I can do?”

My hand dug into the handrail as I struggled for control. “No, thank you, Gadget. I was just leaving. Lieutenant Goodall and I were having a friendly disagreement, is all.”

Jennifer stared at me placidly, still wearing that maddening smile.

“You sure?”

“I’m sure. Thanks.”

Midshipman Small made way. I laid a light hand on his arm, then fled up the stairs, past Alice swimming up the wall, past the Dormouse, bursting out onto a stage filled with midshipmen.

Was everybody there? The whole blessed cast? Had everyone heard my argument with Lieutenant Goodall as it drifted upward from the Jabberwocky room?

I didn’t give a damn.

Because Paul had been faithful!

I felt light-headed, my feet barely touching the ground as I found my coat where I had dumped it on a chair, waved good-night to the startled cast, and stepped out into the snowy night. I felt like shouting from the cupola on top of the chapel dome, loud enough for everyone in Anne Arundel County to hear. No, to the whole United States of America: Paul had been faithful.

And I ran the last block home, into his surprised but waiting arms.

The sun was pushing against the shutters, striping the duvet with light, when I came to the next morning. Paul lay beside me, already awake, his head propped up on the palm of his hand, smiling at me, his fingers playing idly with my hair.

“You roared,” I said.

“Hmmmm,” he replied, brushing his lips softly against mine.

“That was spectacular,” I whispered, referring to the sex, not the roar.

Paul drew back, touched my cheek. “Only for you, sweetheart.” He kissed my shoulder, my neck, my mouth.

Only later did I think to wonder: Who had Jennifer been waiting for?