Compromising Positions (7 page)

“Was Dunck really angry?” I asked.

“Not
that
angry. Cool it, Judith. He just went around the club saying what a prick Brucie was and that he was proud to be a member of Shelter Cove and that he’d never belong to a flashy club like Green Trees, where people like Brucie hung out.”

“And that’s it?”

“That’s all, folks.”

“All right,” I said, stretching out my legs and picking up the newspaper again. “Let me finish. Norma refused to answer the reporters’ questions. Oh, here.”

“She is said to be in seclusion.

“The funeral is scheduled for tomorrow at the Baum Brothers’ Funeral Home in Great Neck. Interment will follow at the Shalom Cemetery in Flushing, Queens.

“Police have requested that anyone with information about the crime call a special number: (516) 689-2104. All replies will be treated confidentially.”

“Oh,” breathed Nancy, “the possibilities simply boggle the mind. Let’s call and tell them all about Mary Alice.”

“Are you crazy? You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Of course, I’m kidding. Lord, Judith, don’t take this so seriously. Nothing’s going to happen to Mary Alice. She’s a born survivor; nothing really touches her.”

“Bruce Fleckstein did,” I commented.

“Come on, we’ve been through that. All he did was confirm her own high opinion of herself.”

I ran my hand through my hair, thick and short and slightly kinky from the humidity. “Let me give you a for instance, Nancy.”

“Go ahead.”

“For instance, when you’re having an affair with someone, do you suspend your normal intellectual processes and allow yourself to believe a line of blatant bullshit?”

“No. But I never trust a guy, even if all he says is hello. Listen, it’s really an unfair question. I can’t compare myself to Mary Alice. She has no normal intellectual processes.” She stood and looked down at me. “I’m going. I have to make a few phone calls and see if anyone wants an article on this drivel.”

“Okay. I’ll call you tomorrow. Are you all right to drive home?” If I had consumed that quantity of wine, I wouldn’t be able to find the ignition.

“Judith, stop busting my chops.”

A few minutes after Nancy pulled her Jaguar out of the driveway, a large beige station wagon pulled in. It was Prescott Hughes, call-me-Scotty, the mother of Joey’s friend from nursery school.

“Hi, there. Is North ready?” she asked. The child was Northrop Collier Hughes, and in forty years, with the combined clout of his three names, he would be director of the CIA or president of Yale. This didn’t disturb me very greatly; North was a bright, self-assured four-year-old and would no doubt carry on admirably.

“Hi, Scotty.” I walked to the foot of the stairs and called softly, “North, your mother is here.” Normally, I would have bellowed out the child’s name, in tones worthy of my Lower East Side great-grandparents, but somehow Scotty’s calm, slightly nasal, upper-class voice had a tranquilizing effect. North came careening down the stairs. I watched with respect as he put on his own coat and buttoned it with no help from his mother. She didn’t even praise him; he was merely fulfilling a minor expectation.

“Nasty business, this murder,” said Scotty, her eyes on the opened copy of
Newsday.
Her lips, momentarily covering her large rectangular teeth, were drawn tightly together. I felt faintly uncomfortable, as if I had a share in bringing this unpleasant notoriety to Shorehaven.

“It’s terrible,” I agreed. “Shocking.”

Scotty tightened the belt of her camel-hair coat. “Are you going to the funeral tomorrow?” she asked.

“Well,” I said, trying to appear thoughtful while I whizzed through a list of possible replies, “I really hadn’t thought about it.”

“I feel I ought to go. I worked with his sister-in-law, Brenda Dunck, on the anti-sewer campaign.”

Now I knew exactly whom to blame whenever my septic tank backed up into my laundry room sink. “Oh, yes, Brenda,” I reflected, still pondering the possibilities.

“I hope this doesn’t sound naive,” she said, “but what do you do at a Jewish funeral?”

“Well, you don’t laugh.”

She allowed herself a small smile. “Thank you, Judith.”

“You’re welcome,” I grinned back at her. “Look, why don’t I go with you?”

“Would you, Judith? I’d really appreciate that.” She paused. “But I don’t want to put you out.”

“No problem,” I assured her, trying to sound warm and gracious. “Anyway, I think I should pay my respects to the family.”

“Well, thanks.” Her long, bony face softened a little. “Can I pick you up? About a quarter to ten? The funeral is at ten.”

“Make it nine-thirty. Ten is when the service starts, and you generally say all your ‘I’m so sorrys’ before that.”

“Yes, of course. And Judith...” I looked at her. “You’re a brick. Thanks.”

She turned up the collar of her coat and left, followed by destiny’s darling, North. As she walked down the path to the driveway, I tried to consider exactly why I have always been so intimidated by that class of WASP, the ones who always seem to dress in thick, rich tweeds no matter what the season and never perspire. It’s not a matter of pedigree. Nancy’s family probably became Anglicans the same day as Henry VIII and she’s a descendant of Oglethorpe, but she is real. Her periods are painful and she thinks Woody Allen is funny and she has a passion for Italian salami. But there’s something so unfailingly correct about people like Scotty, as though they’ve been programmed to be eternally vigilant in order to avoid a social gaffe. Scotty’s shirts never rumple, her children say “thank you” without prompting. I’m sure she never had wax in her ears. And when I’m with her, I feel she expects something more of me. But I don’t know what.

At least tomorrow, I thought gratefully, I’ll be on my own turf. At a wet-eyed, damp-palmed Jewish funeral. And maybe a sneaky-looking murderer, paring his or her fingernails with a pointed instrument. Well, maybe not. But better than facing two weeks’ accumulation of laundry.

Baum Brothers occupies a large building, a white brick cube, with a blue canopy stretcher out in front and space for three hundred cars in the rear. It could easily pass for a catering hall, except, as you enter, you are greeted by one of several good-looking young men, doubtless young Baums or Baums-in-law, dressed in black suits, white shirts, and narrow, somber, striped ties. When they ask, “May I help you?” they sound sad but somehow reassuring, as if they recognize their responsibility to mute their grief and carry on.

“The Fleckstein funeral?”

“Second floor. The elevator will take you up.”

I followed Scotty, observing that the short, almost mincing steps seemed incongruous for such a tall, long-legged woman—as though as a girl she had been embarrassed by her height and had mimicked the walk of a petite classmate. She was perfectly dressed though: a simple gray dress with a white collar and cuffs. Everyone would know she was truly sorry but not one of the prime bereaved, not one of the family. My black sweater and plaid skirt seemed wrong, and I began to sweat under my arms.

“It’s chilly in here,” she remarked, as we paused by the brass elevator door. “Or maybe it’s just that I don’t like funerals.”

I nodded and swallowed hard. Although I was fully aware that no one would challenge me, that no one would point a finger and demand, “Why are you here? Who do you know in the family?” I felt terribly uncomfortable. And with Scotty around, I’d have to keep a stiff upper lip; I could not change my mind and bolt.

When we got upstairs, we stepped into the room where the family waited. About half the faces, about a hundred people, looked faintly familiar to me. They were faces I saw in Shorehaven, in the supermarket, the bakery, the playground, PTA meetings. But I felt my eyes drawn to a beige leather couch. There was Norma Fleckstein, surrounded by men and women with sad expressions. I couldn’t gauge hers because she was wearing large sunglasses, although she seemed not to be crying. As I inched closer, I heard her say, “Thank you,” and, “I don’t think it’s hit me yet.”

“That’s his wife,” I said softly to Scotty. “Do you want to say something to her?”

“No,” she responded abruptly, staring, it seemed to me, at Norma’s long, thin legs, which were covered in translucent black stockings. “I mean,” Scotty added, turning to me, “I’ve never met her. I don’t think it would be appropriate.”

“Okay,” I said, a little regretfully. I had thought to test my courage by going over to Norma and offering my condolences.

Scotty touched my arm and whispered, “There’s Brenda Dunck.” She lifted her head in the direction of another beige leather couch across the room, near a coat rack.

So that was Brenda, Dicky Dunck’s wife. I knew her. At least I had seen her half a dozen times. She belonged to the health club where I swam occasionally, when I felt my body going from merely soft to mushy. She was fairly short, about five foot three, and slim but very buxom, with a beautiful head of black hair, which she wore in a tight chignon at the base of her neck. Her face was not at all pretty; she had small, hazel eyes and a rather sallow complexion, but at least her small, sharply hooked nose and square chin gave it some character. Now, though, she looked wretched. Her eyes were bloodshot and there were red blotches on the sides of her face, darker than the rouge on her cheeks.

“Brenda, I’m very sorry,” said Scotty, offering her right hand.

“Scotty, how nice of you to come. Thank you so very much.” Brenda seemed to perk up a bit at our arrival. Maybe she liked Scotty. Maybe she felt comforted by her presence. Maybe she felt hysterics would be unacceptable and sobbing a wee bit overdone.

“Brenda, you remember Judith Singer.”

“Yes, of course. Thank you for coming.” Clearly, she had no idea who I was. But because I was attached to Scotty Hughes, I must be a person she should have remembered.

I blinked. I swallowed. “Brenda, I’m sorry. This must be a hideous shock to all of you.” I felt I sounded wonderfully sincere.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “It’s been a horror. An absolute horror. And of course for Norma and the children. A nightmare.” I don’t know why, but her voice seemed to have a pretentious ladylike quality. I wanted to poke my elbow in her ribs and say, “Aw, come on, Brenda. Talk regular.”

She turned to the man next to her, her husband, Dicky Dunck. “Dicky dear, you remember Scotty Hughes. And Judith Srrg.”

“Yes. Yes. How are you ladies?” His goatee was too long and untrimmed. He looked like a billy goat.

“I’m fine, thanks,” said Scotty.

“Fine,” I echoed.

“I hope the next time we meet it’s on a happier occasion,” said Dicky. “A great guy, taken in the prime of life.”

We all nodded and Brenda started to cry. “It’s a loss, a loss to all of us,” she sobbed. Scotty drew a handkerchief out of her pocketbook and offered it to her. “Oh, I don’t want to ruin your handkerchief.”

“That’s all right,” Scotty reassured her.

“Who could have done it?” Dicky demanded. “A homicidal maniac. Nobody’s safe these days. He was like a brother to me.”

We nodded, and Brenda sniffled delicately into Scotty’s handkerchief, rubbing the soft Irish linen between her fingers.

A black-suited Baum emerged from a door a few feet away and announced: “Would everybody except for the immediate family kindly step into the chapel?”

The chapel was a high-ceilinged room, paneled in maple. The casket, unadorned and in a slightly darker wood, stood front and center. A small lamp, the Eternal Light, was suspended above it. When everybody was seated, still another Baum walked noiselessly to the side of the casket and asked: “Would you please rise?”

We rose and the family walked through a door at the front of the chapel. First Norma, in a clingy black wool wrap dress, relieved only by a long strand of large, luminescent pearls. Very simple and quiet, befitting a widow not yet merry. An older woman clung to her arm, obviously Mrs. Fleckstein the elder; she had her son’s generous nose and wide mouth with thin lips. She looked like the one who had been embalmed: one of those women well past middle age who, through dieting and plastic surgery, managed to look about forty from a distance, but who, as you get closer, have the dry, brittle look of a mummy. They were followed by a girl of about ten. According to the obituary, there were three young Flecksteins, two boys and a girl. This was obviously the eldest, Nicole Kimberly. A momentary break in the procession and then came the Duncks, Brenda listing against Dicky and Dicky peering intently into the chapel, as if taking a head count. And, finally, a short man in a long black robe and the wrap-around aviator glasses that were popular a few years ago. He motioned us to be seated.

“Who do you think he is?” Scotty whispered.

“The rabbi.”

“But he’s not wearing a hat.”

“He’s Reformed,” I explained.

“What?”

“Norma, Nicole, Mrs. Fleckstein, Brenda, Dicky,” began the rabbi, “family and friends. What can we say about Bruce Fleckstein?”

Let me up on the pulpit and I’ll tell you, I thought. Scotty looked at me, then, strangely, blushed and looked away.

“We can, of course, say what a tragedy it is, a fine man taken from us in the prime of his years. And we can mourn the loss to our community of a dedicated professional. But the loss of Bruce, or Marvin, as his beloved mother adoringly called him, is the loss of the hub of the Fleckstein family wheel, the center of their world. As Yeats so aptly put it, ‘The center will not hold.’”

Obviously not, as Norma, with a great noise, took in a huge breath of air and started sobbing. “I’m glad she’s finally letting it out,” the woman in front of me said to her husband. The woman looked about forty-five and had exactly the same streaky colored hair as Norma. They must have met at the beauty parlor.

“And what can we say to Bruce’s wife, to his three fine children, to his mother, his family, his friends?” pondered the rabbi.

You can say that whichever one of them gave him a Polaroid for his birthday made a big mistake. As he went on, I peered around the chapel. Everyone seemed to be concentrating intently, possibly because at this funeral of a contemporary, they might hear a preview of how their own eulogies would sound. They all seemed serious, but not suspiciously so. Could any of these ordinary, predictable people have ended Fleckstein’s career as the Don Juan of dentists?