Garden of Lies (33 page)

little thatch above his forehead he called his “donkey lock”), always that generous roll of fat

creeping over his belt. Of that summer evening, more than twenty years ago, each detail now

came back to him, passing through some sort of mental wicket, sharp and clear as the thunk of a

mallet against a wooden ball. The smell of freshly cut grass mingled with smoke from the

hamburgers Dad was barbecuing, the tray of dripping ice-tea glasses Mom had set out on the

porch railing, and how his wrist stung where Robbie had given him an Indian sunburn. Max,

lining up his shot, remembered looking down at his grass-stained pantlegs and thinking how

Mom would give him holy hell. Then Eddie had begun razzing him about all the time he’d been

spending locked in the bathroom lately, and Max had looked up and seen his father, wearing a

pair of saggy old Bermuda shorts and baseball cap, standing there by the barbecue pit with a

long-handled spatula clutched in one hand, staring off into space with tears running down his

cheeks.

Max had never seen his father cry. The shock of it had hit him [192] almost like an earthquake.

The first thought that flitted across his mind was that Dad somehow had lost his job. But Norm

Griffin had taught math at Pittsfield High since Adam and Eve; there was about as much chance

of him being fired as there was of Harry Truman turning Republican. Not wanting to even
try

imagining anything worse, Max had told himself desperately,
Must be the smoke, that’s it, the

smoke’s in his eyes. ...

But now, all these years later, Max finally had an insight into his father.
Maybe it had just

occurred to him that the train had stopped, it wasn’t moving anymore, this was the last stop.

Max found a glass in the drainer. A cracked tile over the sink caught his eye.
Have to replace

that,
he thought, then remembered why he hadn’t. He liked its imperfection, the fact that Bernice

couldn’t new-and-improve it, no matter how much she scrubbed and polished.

Like me,
he thought.
Can’t change me any more than that cracked tile. Though God knows she

tries.

Like Monkey, too. A tomboy, outspoken, full of beans. He’d begun calling his daughter that

when she began to walk, scampering so fast on those two little feet, her banana-sticky fingers

causing more mischief than Curious George. Now it was bicycles, skateboards, and God knew

what else. Bernice, wringing her hands, had told him just yesterday about the latest misadventure

—she had caught Monkey shimmying down the rain gutter.

Upstairs, Max peeked in on Monkey. In the light that fanned across her face from the open

doorway, she looked no more than four or five, a baby still, precious and soft. Then his gaze

moved down to the tangle of long limbs poking out from under the covers, a scabbed knee, bitten

fingernails daubed with chipped red polish. Nine going on ten, and in just a few short years she’d

be a teenager. He noticed the Donovan poster on the wall above her maple child’s bed. When had

she gotten that? And where were the stuffed animals that had always lined her bed?

It hit him then:
She’s growing up.

His heart swelled, and Max felt a pang at the thought that she would one day leave him, go off

to college; that day was soon, just around the corner.

He tiptoed over, smoothed away a wisp of hair that was stuck to her cheek. She had Bernice’s

thick swirly red hair, not carrot colored, the red of Titian and Rubens.

[193] Was it his imagination, or had Monkey seemed more subdued lately? Fussy, too.

Wouldn’t eat half what was on her plate. And tonight when he tucked her in, she had clung to

him, begging him not to leave her alone in the dark.

Bernice had dismissed it with the usual “she’s just going through a stage.” But Max had

doubts. Sometimes he worried about Monkey. More than he knew was normal.

Admit it, why don’t you? You’re afraid she’ll grow up to be like her mother.

And what was so terrible about that? In a way, Bernice was terrific. If there was a Miss

America pageant for the perfect house-keeper/cook/hostess, Bernice would snatch the crown. Her

figure, too, still as slim as when he’d married her, though she had to work a lot harder at it now.

A damned attractive woman. Just last weekend he’d overheard a gas station attendant whisper to

a buddy, “I wouldn’t kick her out of bed.” Max smiled to himself. There was as much likelihood

of Bernice cheating on him as there was of the Statue of Liberty lifting her skirts.

Best of all, Bernice loved Monkey as much as he did. So why did he break out in a sweat

imagining that Monkey would one day turn to him with her mother’s cool brown eyes and say,

“For heaven’s sake, can’t you
ever
remember to put the toilet lid down when you’re finished?”

Max tiptoed out, closing her door softly behind him. His headache was all but gone now. Good.

Maybe now he’d even get some sleep.

But as he crawled back into bed, Bernice awoke, a warm ball unfolding at the brush of his cold

feet. She sat up, blinking, worried-looking, her red hair scrambled about her shoulders. For an

instant, she looked so much like Monkey he felt something in his chest stir. He remembered when

they were first married, how Bernice used to sleep naked in his arms, curled up like a kitten. How

he would smooth his hand down the curve of her spine, and hold one small hard buttock in the

cup of his palm; how she would pretend to be still asleep but her legs would move apart ever so

slightly, just enough so he could explore further.

“What’s wrong?” she cried out in alarm. Poor Bernice, even in her sleep, always fearful.

“It’s okay,” he soothed, patting her leg. “Go back to sleep.”

[194] Her nightgown had fallen open at the neck, revealing one small firm breast. Max felt

himself begin to grow hard, and thought,
No, God, not now.
He hated wanting her, knowing she

would give in without any real desire.

But while he was telling himself to cool off and go back to sleep, he found himself pushing his

hand further up her leg, hooking one finger under the elastic of her panties.

“Now?” she muttered thickly. Then sighed and said, “Okay,” and rolled her nightgown up over

her flat tummy, the way Monkey rolled up her jeans before wading into the ocean.

Max stroked her for a while, hoping for a response. Jesus, oh Jesus, why couldn’t she want him

too, just a little? And if she felt so totally indifferent why couldn’t she at least tell him to leave

her alone? This ... taking her like this ... while she lay quiet, hardly breathing ... Christ, more like

masturbating than making love.

“Bernice? Honey, is there anything you want me to—”

“No, you just go ahead,” she murmured politely. “It’s okay.”

No,
he thought as he entered her,
it’s not okay. Not okay at all. Oh Christ, won’t you at least

move some, go through the motions, pretend, just for a minute, so I won’t have to feel tike a dirty

old man getting his jollies jacking off.

Now he felt himself coming, a fierce burning rush, wrenched from him almost against his will.

Christ, oh Christ ...

He wrapped his arms about Bernice, hard, squeezing her so tightly she yelped. And for an

instant, it felt good hurting her, making her feel
something.

Then he was awash in shame. How sick, wanting to
hurt
her.

Then it was over.

Bernice shimmied out from underneath him. “Be right back,” she murmured.

No. Let me hold you,
he wanted to call after her,
at least let me do that. I know how you love

the back of your neck massaged, won’t you let me
—

Too late. He could hear her, the thumping of the old pipes as the tap cranked on, the medicine

chest clicking open.

Max lay on his back, staring up at a light moving across the ceiling, a car passing by outside.

There was a tight, hot sensation in his chest.

[195] He heard the tap go off. Then, “Oh, Max, for heaven’s
sake,”
Bernice cried out in a

vexed tone.

The toilet seat. He’d forgotten to put it down. Again. Max suddenly felt so angry he pictured

himself smashing it down on her head.

He took a deep breath. Why get angry at Bernice? It was all him, his fault. He couldn’t blame

her for his being too gutless to ask for a divorce. “Divorce,” the magic word that he didn’t dare

utter.

And then he thought, as he always did when he imagined leaving Bernice, of Monkey.

Tears came, hard and reluctant, squeezed from him like blood from the great stone that lay on

his chest.

Late in the afternoon of the following day, Max stood at the window that spanned almost the

entire east wall of his office. He looked out at the purpling sky, and the postcard view of the

Brooklyn Bridge spanning the East River, its weblike girders turned to chrome by the footlights

of the setting sun. Majestic, that was the only word for it. Who said the bridge wasn’t for sale? He

was paying for it, every day too, for this corner office with its breathtaking view and for the

prestige that came with it. He was paying for it with his time, his thoughts, his expertise. And was

he also paying for it with his integrity?

Jesus, he hadn’t had thoughts like those since he was fresh out of law school. Lawyers weren’t

supposed to think this way. What was it about this case?

Max turned away from the window, and sank into the chair in front of his cluttered Georgian

pedestal desk. He stared at the huge cardboard blowup, propped between two antique corner

chairs, of an automobile steering column that looked like something out of Cape Kennedy.

If the plaintiff, Jorgensen, were to win, Pace Motors would be out twelve million, plus another

hundred million to recall all those Cyclones and replace their steering columns. Max liked the

Pace guys, had driven their cars for years, and thanked his lucky stars at least weekly for his

firm’s having America’s most innovative automobile manufacturer as his client. So his first

instinct had been to [196] rush to Pace’s defense, confident that Jorgensen had been high on

something and that his claim against Pace was another attempted rip-off.

But since Monday, his meeting with Caravella, the chief engineer, who had protested much too

much, with a storm of technical explanations, blueprints, and test results that said less than the

sweat pouring from his face; and this Tuesday, Rooney, the P.R. vice-president, flying in and

working the word “settlement” into every sentence—well, Max couldn’t help but catch a whiff of

something that might be rotten in Denmark.

It wasn’t his place, he’d reminded himself over and over, to pass judgment on any real or

imagined wrongdoing of his clients—but still, he couldn’t shake this slightly sick feeling, like a

bad aftertaste from something he’d eaten.

“I have those depositions you wanted, Mr. Griffin.” A voice, low and sweet, drew him from the

downward spiral of his thoughts. “And your coffee.”

He looked up, and there was Rose, a tidy stack of papers tucked against her hip, searching for a

clear space on his desk for the steaming mug in her other hand.

He relieved her of the coffee, placing it on a yellow legal pad scribbled with his hen pecks and

already stained with today’s previous coffee rings. “Thanks.” He picked up the transcripts she

had laid before him, and began leafing through them. “How about that independent engineer’s

report?”

“In the Xerox room. All two hundred and eleven pages of it. Including diagrams. I’m having

copies made, but it’ll take a while to collate.”

Max sighed, and muttered to himself. “ ‘Methinks the lady doth protest too much.’ ”

“What lady?”

“They’re called whores. The expert witnesses. The doctors, shrinks, engineers who’ll provide

you with enough trumped-up data on paper to wipe the asses of the entire jury for a month.”

He took a slug of the black coffee, and grimaced.

“Sorry for the industrial strength,” Rose apologized with a little laugh. “It was the last of the

pot.” Then the smile dropped away, and she said softly, “You don’t believe it was, how do you

say ...
res ipsa loquitur
?”

[197] Where had she gotten that? Obviously she’d been doing more than just typing his papers.

Smart girl. Pretty too. But with everyone making such a fuss these days of women’s lib, he was

careful always to keep his gaze neutral.

But, hell, it was a treat, seeing a woman look so fresh so late in the afternoon. Face soap-and-

water shiny, her cloud of dark hair smelling faintly of shampoo, white blouse ironed to paper

crispness and tucked neatly into a plain navy sailcloth skirt. An unfashionable knee length, but it

suited her better than the miniskirts the other secretaries all seemed to be wearing.

No, he couldn’t imagine her in one of those, bending over at the water cooler, the lacy elastic

of her panties winking out from under her hem. Anyway, she probably wore sensible white cotton

underwear, the kind you bought at Sears that came in packets of two. Good Catholic underwear to

go with the tiny gold crucifix at her throat.

Max felt his face begin to grow warm. Jesus, enough. He forced his mind back to Jorgensen.