Killing Monica (17 page)

Jonny using Old Jay’s bathroom? Pandy couldn’t even think about it. She reminded herself that she must never tell Henry, either.

Henry would be mortified.

When he came out of the bathroom, drying his hands on Old Jay’s black monogrammed hand towel and then dropping it to the floor, she’d had enough. She reached her hand out to take his. “Come on. I want to show you
my
room.”

Tugging him across the hall, she pushed open the door. And there it was: Her room! With its tall French windows and heavy lined drapes. And her bed! With the tattered pink silk canopy. It had been ages since she’d been there—not since before she’d married Jonny. She ran across the room and threw herself onto the bed, hitting the old feather mattress with a thump and rolling into the dip in the middle. The same dip that had held generations of little girls. You lay down, and the feathers embraced you. And you slept without tossing or turning, and woke up refreshed.

She suddenly remembered Jonny and sat straight up. She’d forgotten about him for a second, and, as with a baby, that probably wasn’t a good idea.

Sure enough, he was standing in front of her desk, tapping
abse
ntmi
ndedly
on one of the keys of the large metal Smith Corona typewriter.

Pandy cleared her throat, hoping to get his attention. Not only was that the desk where Monica was born, but scattered around the typewriter were more of her youthful “creative works.” There were drawings and bits of short stories, little-girl diaries with latches and tiny keys, and the black leather journals with unlined pages that she’d asked for every year at Christmas. But mostly, there were dozens and dozens of school notebooks—the type with that blank space on the front where you were supposed to write in the subject.

Jonny picked one up and read the label. “Monica?” he asked.

Pandy leaped off the bed and snatched it out of his hand. “That’s private.”

“If it’s private, why do you leave it lying around where everyone can see it?”

Jonny picked up another Monica book and pointedly put it back down. “Why do you keep these, anyway?”

Pandy shrugged, carefully straightening the notebooks. She laughed, trying to make a joke of it. “Henry always tells me I can put them in my museum—”

Pandy broke off, embarrassed again. She was being juvenile, and Jonny didn’t like it. “That little-girl stuff is not sexy,” he’d once said dismissively when she’d accidentally squealed about something she was excited about. This time, she needn’t have worried. Jonny had just finished off his gin and, carefully putting down the glass, he began swaying his hips slightly from side to side. Then he put his arms around her. He turned her around and ground his pelvis into her bottom. He lowered his head and began kissing her neck.

Pandy tried to stifle her instinct to swat him away, as one would an annoying insect.

“Jonny.” Smiling, she disentangled herself, knowing, nonetheless, that she was going to have to have sex with him. If only because she had promised herself she would, knowing it was the only way she and Jonny could ever truly get back together. Indeed, she’d even considered bringing a piece or two of the sexy lingerie she used to wear for him. But when she’d found the garments in the back of her drawer, they’d looked like something a cheap hooker would wear.

Jonny had his pants around his ankles and was hopping up and down, trying to get out of them. With a sigh, Pandy went to her bureau, opened the top drawer, and grabbed a vintage silk negligee.

Jonny got out of his pants. He saw the piece of old silk in her hand and pulled it away, waving it over his head. “I’ve got a better idea. Let’s do it in Old Jay’s bed,” he leered.

Pandy shrieked. “What?” She snatched back the negligee. “Old Jay’s bed has an old horsehair mattress. It’s infested. With
bugs
.”

She hurried to the bathroom door and then turned to Jonny. “I’ll be right back,” she said, watching him until he shuffled over to her bed. When she finally closed the door, she was quite sure he was on top of it.

When she opened the door, he wasn’t.

She stepped into the room to look for him, but Jonny had vanished. And Pandy had a very good idea where.

“Why can’t we do it in the old man’s room? I want to do it in
his
bed,” Jonny whined, standing in front of the massive wooden structure.

“No,” Pandy said firmly, her voice once again taking on the cast of the reluctant schoolmarm. “I’m not going to ‘do it’ in Old Jay’s bed. It isn’t
proper
.”

“You think I’m not good enough!” Jonny shouted.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She reached out for him, but he slapped her hand away.

Then he put his hands over his head. Swaying back and forth with his head tucked under his arms like a petulant child, he said, “Listen, babe. I fucked up.”

Pandy froze.

And suddenly, it all somehow made sense: He was going to ask her for a divorce. That’s why he’d agreed to go to the shrink; why he’d agreed to come to Wallis House. To tell her in a place where no one was around, so if she freaked out, she wouldn’t embarrass him. Because that was what men like Jonny and PP did.

PP.
And then she had a far worse thought.

“You lost all the money,” Pandy said.

“The money?” Jonny waved this away. “That was gone long ago. But the restaurant…”

“You lost the
restaurant
? You lost
all
our money?” Pandy’s heart was so constricted that her voice came out in a high, glass-breaking shriek.

For a second, they locked eyes. Pandy sensed a change in the atmosphere, as if Jonny was suddenly sizing her up as an opponent.

The hatred she felt for him at that moment was so intense, she felt as if she had turned to stone.

“Come on, babe.” He strutted toward her. “This is why I so don’t want to talk to you about business. I don’t want you all over my fucking back. Let me take care of the money stuff,” he pleaded, rocking from side to side. “You’ve got this beautiful house. We could do something amazing with the place…Remember
Architectural Digest
? It could be just like that.”

“Jonny—”

“I’m going to convince you. Just the way I always do,” he said playfully, lifting one finger in the air for emphasis as he took another step forward.

Pandy found she was unable to move. Jonny took another step and fell on top of her, pinning her to the bed.

He lifted his head, looked around, and then looked down into her face. This time his eyes were unfocused. In that same silly, faux-warning voice, he repeated, “I’m gonna convince you…”

And then he blacked out. Too much ancient gin.

Pandy put her hands under Jonny’s chest and shoved him off. He rolled to the edge of the bed.

Pandy got up and doubled over, trying to push down what the convulsions from her stomach were trying to push up.

Jonny belched. He opened his eyes and stared at her, still on his stomach. He smiled. “I’m so happy we worked everything out,” he slurred. His mouth involuntarily pursed, and he raised his palm to cover it. “Oh, and by the way?” He swallowed like a guilty child and sat up. “I don’t know if your friends have mentioned it, but people think Lala and I are having an affair. We’re
not
. I did have sex with her, but only twice. I’m sorry, babe,” he said with a wave as he slowly fell backward. “It won’t happen again. She respects you too much for that. And don’t worry, she’s
discreet
.”

Sometime later, Pandy stood in the Hall of Ghouls, scratching her head as she peered at a photograph of a dark-haired man with a large handlebar mustache: Captain Rarebit Welsh. He had supposedly tried to extort money from his wife, but the Wallis men had soon set him straight.

Pandy shook her head with a laugh. Unfortunately, there were no Wallis men left to help her. But there, on the walls, were plenty of women. Generations of them.

It was said that Wallis women stood up straight and would talk back to any person. Meaning a
man
, of course. She thought briefly of Jonny, asleep and snoring off Old Jay’s gin in Old Jay’s bed. She had trusted him with both her love and her money, and he’d casually frittered both away.

So much for so-called male
authority
.

On a strange sort of autopilot, as if Jonny had never come to the house at all, Pandy poked her head into the kitchen. The large clock on the wall indicated that it was two p.m.; traditionally an ideal time for a swim in the marble pool. The sun would be high overhead, and the pool would be at its warmest point of the day.

She grabbed a long striped towel from the mudroom and slung it around her neck. The fabric, softened by years of washing, was like a pashmina. Stepping outside, Pandy draped the towel over her head.

She set off along a path of cedar wood chips that rose gently into the pines. Under the trees were thick beds of pine needles where you could lie down and make a bed, the way the deer sometimes did.

Heading down into the private hollow where the pool was located, she removed her negligee, tossing it onto a piece of statuary. Then she stood naked at the side of the pool, staring into the mirrored surface. The stream running through the pool would be about fifty-eight degrees. The water in the pool, heated by the reflections of the sun’s rays against the black marble, would be about sixty-eight degrees. Not a completely unreasonable temperature, but for the uninitiated, shocking.

She dove in.

The smack of the cold water was like an electric jolt. Every circuit in her body lit up like a Christmas tree. She swam underwater until she could feel her body screaming for oxygen. Pressing the last bit of air out of her lungs, she popped up out of the water, heart thumping with adrenaline, giddy with relief, her mind clear and her heart restored.

Striding out of the pool and up the marble steps, she stared straight into the western sun and knew what she needed to do.

And then she blinked, suddenly aware of a cartoonish blot in the periphery of her vision. The blot grew arms and legs, and appeared to be engaged in the sort of frenetic dance practiced by the Romans at a bacchanal.

In the next second, the reveler burst toward her in full living color: Jonny, naked and screaming, scratching at his groin so fiercely that Pandy was afraid he would rip his cock off.

Chiggers.

While Jonny lay sleeping on Old Jay’s mattress, the heat of his body had warmed the dormant chigger larvae. They had awakened from their long nap and had begun doing exactly what Mother Nature intended: They began feeding.

Chiggers had exceptionally small mouths, and were only able to bite through the body’s more delicate skin. Specifically, the crotch, the armpits, the ankles, the groin, and behind the knees.

“Help me!” Jonny screamed.

Pandy took one look at him and thought,
I told him not to sleep in Old Jay’s bed
. Then she did what she had been taught to do in just this sort of emergency:

She pushed him in.

The cold water would immediately kill the chiggers, and act as a sort of ice pack on the bitten areas.

Jonny landed safely in the four-foot shallow end, and flailing like a monkey, he began screaming again, scratching at his u
nde
rarms as he plowed through the water to the steps. He pushed Pandy aside, collapsed onto the grass, and curled up in the fetal position.

He felt Pandy’s shadow looming over him and stared at her accusingly, his eyes full of black hatred.

“You pushed me in!” he screamed.

“I had to.” Pandy shrugged.

“I nearly drowned.”

“Oh, stop,” Pandy said. “The top of your hair is barely wet.”

Hauling himself to his feet, Jonny took a few threatening steps toward her. “Don’t you know
I can’t swim
?”

“Yes, Jonny. I do.” Pandy nodded sharply. “You told me, remember?” And before he could begin shouting again, she said quickly, “I want a divorce.”

Fifteen minutes later, Jonny was dressed and at the car. Hauling open the trunk, he threw his overnight bag inside. “I’ll never forgive you. You tried to drown me!” He slammed the trunk, spun on his heel, and pointed his finger. “You’re going to pay for this, baby. Boy, are you going to pay.”

“Fine!” Pandy spat as he stomped around the side of the car. “I’d do
anything
to get rid of
you
.”

“And you want to know something else?” He yanked open the door, got in, closed it, and stuck his head out the window. “I only went out in that fucking snowstorm because my mother thought you would be good for my
career
.”

“I knew it!” Pandy screamed. “You
are
a fucking mama’s boy. Henry warned me—”

“Henry?
Henry?
” he spat, tilting his head back and laughing maniacally. “As if
Henry
knows anything about being a
man
.”

“He knows a lot more than you do, Diaper Boy.”

“You frigid cunt. Hasta la vista, baby. Nice knowing you.” Jonny started the car and stepped on the gas, flipping her the bird out the open window.

“Fuck you!” Pandy screamed. “Fuuuuck youuuu!” She ran down the drive after him, continuing to yell until his car disappeared around the corner.

Jesus H. Christ
, she thought, marching back up the driveway barefoot. What a way to end a marriage. With a “fuck you.”

How incredibly…unoriginal.

She went into the house, slammed the door behind her, and marched into the library.

She didn’t care. There was only one thing that mattered now.

She knew exactly what her next book was going to be about, and it wasn’t Monica.

And so, as she danced to the music of her own imagination, dreaming of great triumphs, the divorce cyclone out in the real world began to whirl. First it picked up people—lawyers, private investigators, process servers—a whole Dickensian underworld of characters, each with his or her hand out.

Then it picked up the press:
ANOTHER CELEBRITY MARRIAGE ON THE ROCKS
!

And then it picked up paper: endless requests for bank statements, contracts, emails, and texts. And on and on, and back and forth about what was or was not relevant, and who’d said what to whom. She had managed to live through it only by escaping from it as often as possible. Specifically, into the eighteenth century and the mind of Lady Wallis Wallis when she arrived in New York City, circa 1775.