Where Are You Now?

57

A fter I left the Kramers’, I drove straight into the garage at Sutton Place, passed the flashing cameras, went upstairs, and threw some things in a bag. Wearing the biggest dark glasses I could find, to cover my face, I went back down in the elevator to the garage, this time taking my mother’s car to fool them. Then, hoping to God I wouldn’t cause an accident, I barreled out onto the street and made a quick turn onto Fifty-seventh Street. I drove up First Avenue as far as Ninety-sixth Street, trying to make sure that I wasn’t being followed. I didn’t want anyone to have any idea of where I might be going.

Of course, I couldn’t be sure, but certainly there was no media van in sight when I turned right on Ninety-sixth and got on the FDR Drive north. The Drive, of course, was named to honor President Franklin Delano Roosevelt. That made me think of Elliott. The chilling thought came to me that if Mack was guilty of all these crimes and was caught, there would be months of publicity and a trial or trials. Elliott had lots of gold-plated clients. I know he’s in love with Mom, but would he want to be associated with that kind of publicity? If he were married to Mom, would he want to see her picture in the tabloids during a trial?

Right now, he was her protector, but would that last? If Dad were alive now and Mack ended up in that scenario, I know Dad would be there for him, rock solid and moving heaven and earth to build an insanity defense for him. I thought of Elliott’s too often repeated anecdote about FDR-that he chose a Republican to be his hostess when Eleanor was away because there was no Democrat in Hyde Park who was his social equal. I wonder what FDR, or Elliott, would think about having the mother of a convicted serial killer around? The way things were going, I could almost hear Elliott giving a “let’s just be friends” speech to Mom.

As I reached the ever miserable Cross Bronx traffic, I tried to stop thinking and concentrate on my driving. With traffic slowing to a crawl, I called ahead and managed to get a reservation on the last ferry to the Vineyard from Falmouth. Then I made a reservation at the Vineyard Hotel in Chappaquiddick. And then I turned off my cell phone. I didn’t want to speak to or hear from anyone.

It was nearly nine thirty when I arrived on the island and checked into the hotel. Exhausted but still restless, I went down to the bar and had a hamburger and two glasses of red wine. Then, against all sound medical advice, I took one of the sleeping pills I had found in Mom’s night table and went to bed.

I slept for twelve hours straight.