Misfortune (15 page)

Beverly uncrossed her legs, reached down, and scratched her ankle. This was the process. This was what made Dr. Prescott worth his weight in gold, the flood of words, the purging of herself that she needed on a regular basis to prevent the buildup of pressure on her spirit. “I should have divorced Dudley, but I didn’t. I hung in there. He got sick, and I hung in there still. I cared for him, cooked for him, looked after him. If he needed to be driven to the doctor, I took him. I kept track of his medications. I rolled him over and pounded on his back to dislodge the mucus. I rubbed his legs so he wouldn’t get bed burns. I bathed him and changed his sheets. I did it. I did it. Clio Pratt hasn’t had to lift a finger to help poor Richard.”

Beverly slouched in her chair. “I wasn’t asking for thanks from anyone. I felt loyal to Dudley. For God’s sake, we were married more than twenty years. He was the father of my only child. Even though I didn’t love him, didn’t want to be his wife, I cared about him. I’m no saint, I know that. But I did everything I could to ease his pain. Finally, I had it. When he asked me if I still wanted a divorce, I couldn’t lie to him. What was I to say? ‘It’s okay now, because you’ll be dead soon enough. Why bother with the formalities?’ Would it have been better if I had said that? But then, then—” Beverly stopped speaking as her voice cracked.

“Then what?” Dr. Prescott spoke quietly.

Beverly couldn’t bring herself to tell Dr. Prescott the whole truth. Certain details of her relationship to Dudley and their negotiations were too horrible to confess. She could skip a few facts without altering the basic thrust of her story.

“Then he killed himself. Because of me, in spite of me, to spite me, I don’t know. But people don’t seem to realize that I suffered from his death more than anyone. I bled for him, despite what Clio Pratt may think. I wasn’t liberated. I was imprisoned, and I still am. His death still pains me, keeps me up at night, the images won’t leave my brain.” Beverly reached for another tissue and blew her nose. Just the thought of Dudley, his wasted white corpse tethered to his wheelchair at the bottom of their in-ground swimming pool, made her want to vomit. Her stomach contracted as her mouth filled with water. She swallowed hard and reached for another cigarette.

“I wish she would be run over by a bus on Madison Avenue, or kidnapped by an Iranian cabdriver and slaughtered under the Brooklyn Bridge.” Beverly laughed, delighted by the horror of her imagination. “I know it’s terrible of me to say, but it’s true.” She sat silent, acutely aware of the seconds ticking away with no words exchanged. She shredded her tissue and then twisted the pieces into tight white wads. An arsenal of paper pellets collected in her lap.

“I see,” Dr. Prescott said finally.

“You couldn’t see. You can’t possibly know what it is to hate.” Beverly’s words were slow, deliberate. Her anger made her feel strong, empowered. She didn’t care what Dr. Prescott thought of her. “You’re always in control. You control our schedule, our discussion, even the time of our meetings, so how could you possibly understand what it is to have unchecked rage, rage that’s bubbling out of your system, an inferno of rage ready to explode?” Beverly paused and looked across the room into her psychiatrist’s eyes. “Clio Pratt is trying to destroy me for reasons that even I don’t understand.”

Beverly stared at her doctor. He returned her gaze but didn’t speak. She knew that it was up to her to continue, to perpetuate the one-sided dialogue, but she felt tired. Her neck couldn’t support the weight of her head, and her arms and legs tingled. She dreaded the trip downtown from Dr. Prescott’s office on 168th Street, even if she took a taxi. Yes, she needed a cab. Today was not the day to wrestle with the subway just to save twenty bucks. All she wanted was to be home in the privacy of her own bedroom, wrapped in the red bathrobe with satin trim she had bought on sale at Loehmann’s, a glass of Chardonnay in her hand.

“What makes somebody actually kill another person? I think about that sometimes, how we all deal with anger and hatred and rage. What makes me any different from the kid on the street that shoots his friend over a pair of sneakers? I want Clio to disappear because I perceive that my life will be easier without her. The street kid thinks his life will be easier if he gets the Nikes. Clio, shoes, they’re all the same.” Beverly smiled again, amused by her philosophical discourse. She had never thought of life in these mundane terms before.

Dr. Prescott leaned forward. “Our time is up, but I think it’s important for us to continue with this conversation.” Then he reached for his calendar, flipped a page, and said, “So I’ll see you Tuesday? You can call me before then if you want to talk.”

Beverly gathered her dirty tissue pieces and stuffed them into her pocketbook. Then she stood up and smoothed her burgundy skirt. “Tuesday it is. Good-bye, Dr. Prescott.” As she left, she realized that she had never before addressed her psychiatrist by name. Maybe it had been a breakthrough kind of day.

Miles Adler kept the door to his office partially open so that he wouldn’t miss Clio Pratt’s arrival by even a millisecond. Although he sat at his desk with an assortment of correspondence, proposals, and several quarterly reports spread out in front of him to read, he couldn’t concentrate. The materials provided only the appearance of business as usual. Other than listening for the sound of the elevator, Miles had been idle since four-fifteen.

The air conditioner pumped cold air into his office. He had turned the thermostat down ten degrees to a cool fifty-five, but even the temperature couldn’t shut off the flow of perspiration. His underarms were soaked in sweat while his cheeks, fingertips, and toes were numb.

Despite Clio’s specific instructions that she wanted to begin at five, Miles had scheduled the Pratt Capital office meeting for half-past. He needed at least a few minutes alone with her without Belle; Stu Wassermann, the company’s accountant; Bob Michaels, its lawyer; and Gail Davis, whom Clio had brought in from Long Island to redo the office interior. Even considering Clio’s notorious tardiness, he calculated that thirty minutes was plenty of time. Miles didn’t intend to take long, nor did he want Clio to have the opportunity to engage him in protracted discussion.

Miles glanced at the roman numerals on his platinum desk clock, a gift from Penny for their first anniversary. Two minutes past five. He picked up his pen and tried to think of something to add to the agenda, delivered by courier that morning, a single page of points that Clio intended to cover: existing proposals, upcoming board meetings where Pratt Capital required representation, the need for director and officers liability insurance. This item was followed by a question mark, as if Clio didn’t know whether insurance was something that the company had, or needed, but had heard the term dropped at a cocktail party and decided to throw it around herself. Also listed was the budget, the interior redecoration, and, last, the assistant, that amorphous human being who was soon to invade Miles’s essentially solitary space. Clio’s agenda was comprehensive. Miles couldn’t think of anything else to include other than clarification of beneficiaries for key man insurance. He would like to know what 43 percent ownership in Pratt Capital entitled him to when Richard died.

Five-seventeen. What if the meeting had been called for five o’clock? Apparently Clio had no qualms about making others wait, even if, like Bob Michaels, they were paid by the hour. She hadn’t bothered to call from the backseat of her chauffeured limousine, her preferred method of transportation to the city. The woman can’t even drive herself in New York City traffic, and she’s telling me what to do, Miles thought. If only Richard could be here.

Miles jumped in his seat as he heard the elevator bell ring and the door open. He took a deep breath, tried to collect his thoughts, and started to get up but was interrupted by the sound of Belle’s pleasant voice. “If you could be so kind as to do the setup in here,” he heard her direct. It must have been the caterer, probably Mortimer’s At Home, arriving with some gourmet meal, a “light supper,” as Clio had directed. This was not the paper plates crowd.

His stomach turned, and a wave of nausea ran through his system.
Get a grip, Miles.
The last thing he wanted was to be in the bathroom when Clio arrived.

Miles sat back in his chair. He had spent the better part of the last week trying to determine precisely how to phrase his demand for 8 percent of Pratt Capital. Although he had real ammunition, it was potentially volatile. He opened his desk drawer and glanced, for perhaps the twentieth time that day, at the file folder.
KATHERINE HENSHAW.
It was still there.

Hidden secrets. Everyone’s got them.
He smiled to himself.
Some people just care more than others that they don’t get discovered.
Luckily for him, Clio apparently took great pains to keep hers carefully shrouded. But he had to tread lightly if he was to avoid an extortion charge.

Miles’s thoughts drifted to his sister, Rebecca. Why his mind turned to her whenever he felt extreme pressure, he couldn’t understand. To haunt him in his worst moments of insecurity and vulnerability seemed to be her legacy, memories of her death adding injury to his otherwise injured emotions. After her death, Miles’s mother relayed the reality that belied Rebecca’s charming face. Miles learned the details of her depression, the massive amounts of lithium she ingested every day in an unsuccessful effort to keep her mood stable. Miles heard of the various doctors, rabbis, and teachers, all of whom had tried to help her but had ended up merely providing comfort to her distraught parents, his parents. Why hadn’t anyone told him earlier? Because, said his mother, there was nothing he could do. He was building his career, starting his own family. She hadn’t wanted him to worry about his tormented sister. The truth was, Miles realized as he lay awake at night wondering why he hadn’t noticed Rebecca’s problems himself, even if he had known, he wouldn’t have intervened. He had been too busy, too preoccupied, to focus on anyone besides himself.

Please, Miles, I’ll do anything. I just need a place to stay.
He could hear Rebecca’s voice, muffled by tears, so filled with pain that the words seemed to emanate from a ragged opening in her chest instead of her vocal cords. Her landlord had thrown her, and her few meager belongings, out on the street. He hadn’t asked her why she chose to call him, why she didn’t turn to their parents for help.
It won’t be long, I promise. You don’t understand.

It’s you who don’t understand. I have a wife now. We have a home. You’ve had twenty-eight years to pull yourself together.
He remembered his harsh reply as if it were yesterday. He hadn’t asked her why she had been evicted. All he knew was that he was fed up with her. She had a master’s in English literature but had never held a permanent job. Her part-time work bagging vegetables at a neighborhood grocery store was, to say the least, an embarrassment.

You can put me to work. I’m sure Penny needs help.

We have a maid. We don’t need two.

I could work at Pratt Capital. I type. I’d be a good messenger.
Her begging was pitiful. Miles could not bear the thought of Richard Pratt seeing Rebecca Adler mop the marble floors around the reception desk.

Look, I’ve got to go. The answer is no.

His last words to her.

The next afternoon an NYPD patrol car responded to a call from a postal delivery man. The two officers found Rebecca Adler lying amid her belongings under a stoop on 94th Street, a few blocks from her former apartment. She had been stabbed several times in the chest. A locket she had received for her Bat Mitzvah was missing, as was a Cartier love bracelet, a gift from their father for her twenty-first birthday, Miles remembered, which she had fastened to her wrist with a tiny gold screwdriver. To get the bracelet off, the robber had cut off her hand.

After her death, Miles went home, sat shivah with his mother for several days, made arrangements for Rebecca’s burial, and never said a word about what had transpired between them shortly before the police found her dead. Nor did he say anything during the weeks and months following, when his mother and father searched for answers as to why their baby girl had been out on the street, why she hadn’t asked anyone for help. He tried to convince himself that nothing he could have done would have changed events, but he knew that wasn’t true. He could have given her a safe place to live temporarily. He could have made sure she got proper professional help. Instead he had turned his baby sister away, a deed so horrible he couldn’t bring himself to ever confess. That was his secret.

Bob Michaels and Gail Davis arrived, were greeted by Belle and ushered into the conference room. At five twenty-five Miles heard Stu Wassermann’s door open, the click of Stu’s heels as he crossed the marble foyer, and then his nasal voice chatting with his compatriots, asking Gail about the scope of her plans, chiding Bob on the exorbitant rates he now charged for his legal services.

“Forty bucks for a two-minute phone call,” Stu said. He laughed, able to see humor in it, Miles supposed, because it was not his dime.

“Tenth of an hour, six minutes or less,” he heard Bob reply. “That’s the smallest increment our billing department can accommodate. I can’t do any better, or you know I would. At least you’re getting our regular rates. I could charge a premium.” Laughter.

The minutes passed as Miles listened to idle banter of the Pratt Capital employees. At five thirty-three there was still no sign of Clio. The puddles under his arms had cooled, and he wondered for a moment whether sweat could actually freeze. Not at fifty-five degrees, he reminded himself. He knew he should go into the conference room, greet Bob, whom he hadn’t actually laid eyes on in several months, meet this decorator, act as though he were in charge. After all, these people should be following his orders and instructions, even his choice of fabrics and colors for a redecorated conference room.

There was no point in hiding in his office. He wasn’t going to have a chance to talk to Clio alone before the meeting, not with everyone waiting, but he sat at his desk, paralyzed, unable to work, unable to get up. What infuriated him most of all was that Clio would never see his power. She would never know that he had disregarded her and scheduled the meeting for five-thirty. She would assume they had been assembled since five, and the meeting would begin as soon as Her Highness graced them with her presence.