Mortal Friends (13 page)

“You aren’t somebody just because you married Grant, you know. You’re a wonderful person, Vi. And besides, I know Grant still loves you.”

“I have a flash for you. Grant never really loved me.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“No, hear me out. I’d only admit this to you, Rev. Grant never wanted a wife in the traditional sense. He wanted a partner in the Bolton firm. I understood that on our very first date, when all he talked about was the bank and his family and his mother. He wanted someone who was ambitious but subservient. I made myself into that person. I had Rainy pegged right off the bat. She wanted a daughter-in-law she could boss around, but one who’d reflect credit on the family as well. I was always careful to kowtow to Rainy, because I knew that Grant would never marry anyone she didn’t approve of. Rainy wants to be the star of this family, let’s face it.”

Personally, I thought Lorraine “Rainy” Bolton was cyanide in a bun. I couldn’t stand her. She’d been a pill to me when Grant and I were dating, going out of her way to tell me that I’d have been better off “getting a real education” rather than going to design school, which she considered on a par with peeling a peach correctly and pouring tea. Thanks, Rainy. The Boltons didn’t really respect anyone who hadn’t been to graduate school or law school. That’s why they adored Violet, of course, because Violet was such an academic achiever. Rainy deemed Violet fit to carry the Bolton colors right from
the git-go—but under her command.

“I wonder what old Rainy will think of Cynthia,” I said.

“I’m worried about that,” Violet said.

“She’ll loathe her!”

“I’m not so sure. For one thing, the Boltons consider themselves great philanthropists, and they like people who give away money.”

“Yes, but not so ostentatiously. You never hear about the Boltons, because they do it all so privately. That’s one thing I really do respect about them. They don’t court publicity for their good works. They just donate and shut up about it.”

“Don’t kid yourself. Rainy
loves
publicity. She just doesn’t want to
appear
to love it because she thinks it’s unseemly for the family to draw attention to itself. But secretly, she wants people to find out about all the good they’ve done. Cynthia’s her golden opportunity. She’ll throw all this reflected light on the family, and Rainy will bask in it while pretending to shun it the whole time. The Boltons will be compared to Cynthia as two sides of the philanthropic coin—the ones who want credit, and the ones who don’t. And besides, Rainy’s impressed with Cynthia. She’s told me so herself.”

“Let’s see how impressed she is when she finds out what’s happened.”

“I hope she tells Grant he has to ditch Cynthia. She’s the only one he’ll listen to, believe me. She can be bossy.”

Calling Rainy Bolton bossy was like calling Hurricane Katrina a squall. The woman was a steamroller. She always got her way.

Violet hung her head. “I know Grant’s in love with Cynthia.”

“No. He’s in
lust
with her. It’ll burn itself out. You watch.”

Violet shook her head and said, “I wish I knew a hit man.”

“Right!” I laughed.

Violet glared at me. “I’m serious, Reven. If I could get rid of her, I would.”

“No, you wouldn’t. Not really.”

“You don’t know me. I’d do it in a heartbeat if I knew I wouldn’t get caught. Wouldn’t you—if you knew you wouldn’t get caught?”

I thought for a second. “No. I’m too paranoid. I still feel guilty about that comic book I stole when I was in the fourth grade.”

“Guilt’s not my problem. My problem is, I know too much about forensics,” Violet went on. “They get you on the tiniest thing now.
Have you heard of ‘touch DNA’? If I touch you like that,” she said, brushing my arm, “I leave invisible skin cells. They found them on JonBenet Ramsey’s pajamas and they matched the other unidentified fluid at the crime scene…. Oh, I wish Cynthia was a jogger so the Beltway Basher could have a shot at her.” She sighed.

I didn’t take Violet seriously when she talked like that. But I did take this situation seriously, and Grant’s departure presented real problems for me as well. I was still working for Cynthia. I had that damn house to finish.

“Well, I’m going to quit working for her. I have no intention of making a love nest for those two,” I said.

“You’re the best, Rev. Thanks for being so loyal.”

“I just have to figure out how I quit and get her to pay me the money she owes me.”

I was thinking about this when I suddenly had a brainstorm! As I often say, there are four ways to get to know someone quickly: sleep with them, travel with them, gamble with them, and—last but not least—decorate for them. Houses can tell you more than résumés, if you know where to look.

I flicked my eyes onto Violet’s and said three words: “
Mary Lou Lindsay
.”

Violet flinched and went white as a sheet at the mention of that name. No surprise there. It was like mentioning Dr. Mengele to a concentration camp survivor. If there was one person above all who’d made Violet’s life a living hell in school, that person was Mary Lou Lindsay.

Let’s face it, hate for hate’s sake is a fact of school life. It happened quite a lot at Wheelock, where we were all sequestered for long periods of time without a break. One girl would take a hate on another for no apparent reason. Mary Lou Lindsay was our class hater-in-chief. She was a porky, egregious bully with dung-colored hair and eyes like smoke. She ruled a faction of girls who found her bossy ways and scary gift for mimicry charismatic. She took a hate on Violet the minute Violet arrived in our sophomore year. To the other girls, Violet was just a weirdo they teased whenever she crossed their path. To Mary Lou Lindsay, Violet was a victim to be hunted down in corridors, classrooms, and stairwells, and tortured with taunts and pranks and worse.

True, Violet was quirky and unattractive in those days, which made
her an easy target. But Mary Lou’s hatred was shimmering—almost sexual in its intensity. She made Violet’s life utterly miserable, playing every sort of rotten trick on her, including setting fire to her bed. Complaints to the authorities only made matters worse. Mary Lou was crafty. She could never be blamed for the acts she perpetrated. Like some Mafia don, she often ordered other people to do her dirty work for her.

Finally, it got so bad I took matters into my own hands. I disliked Mary Lou, but I purposely befriended her in order to gain her confidence. She was suspicious at first because I was so close to Violet. Mary Lou and I were biology lab partners, and when we were dissecting a pig, I made some crack about Violet looking like the pig, knowing that meanness was the way to Mary Lou’s heart. I pretended to be sick of Violet and purposely shunned her to hang out with Mary Lou.

Mary Lou was thrilled to be my friend, because everyone wanted to be my friend in those days. She was anxious to impress me. She liked to brag that she could drink any man under the table and that she knew enough about mixing drinks to be a bartender. I then discovered that she had a bottle of gin hidden in her locker—information I promptly shared with the proper authorities. Mary Lou was expelled.

People were surprised at how upset she was at being kicked out. Her tough-girl facade crumbled. She ranted and raved that her life was over. She pleaded with the headmaster to give her another chance, saying that her parents had sacrificed so much to send her to a private school and how it meant so much to them that she go to a decent college. Strangely enough, she didn’t blame me. She blamed Violet. I figured that was because Violet had been the object of her irrational hatred all along. Old hatreds die hard. I remember her screaming at the top of her lungs down the corridor: “
You’re gonna pay for this, Violet McCloud! One day you’re gonna pay!
”

Mary Lou left Wheelock, never to be heard from again.

I figured we had another Mary Lou Lindsay on our hands in the person of Cynthia Rinehart, who had set fire to Violet’s bed in the metaphorical sense by sleeping with Grant. I told Violet that instead of quitting the job, the thing for me to do was to keep on working for Cynthia to try and uncover something bad about her, something that would put Grant off.

“He likes her now because of the sex and because he thinks she’s
such a hot shit around town. But what if he found out something horrible about her? He’d leave her in a flash.”

We both knew that Grant was a priggish coward at heart, and that ultimately the most important things in life to him were his reputation and the reputation of his family. One of the main reasons he married Violet was because she’d been so squeaky-clean in all areas.

Violet seemed frozen as I shared my brainstorm with her. I asked her if she was okay.

“I was just thinking about Mary Lou Lindsay,” she said, her gaze drifting downward. Clearly, neither one of us had forgotten the pains and glories of our early school years. Those memories were etched in our psyches as deeply as a first love affair.

I finally convinced her to see the wisdom of my plan. We called it “Operation Mary Lou Lindsay.”

When I thought we’d covered everything, and Violet was feeling better, I started telling her about Bob. She listened to my concerns about him, and my feeling that he was distancing himself from me.

“I still haven’t heard from him, you know, and it’s been almost a week. Of course, he did give me the bracelet,” I said, trying to buoy my spirits. “I shouldn’t forget that, should I?”

Violet just looked at me. “You know what your problem is, Reven? You’re forty, and you still feel like you’re eighteen. When I was eighteen, I felt like I was forty. I never expected life to be anything but hard, whereas you were always shocked when things didn’t go exactly your way. You’re still looking for some Prince Charming to come and save you from your own existence.”

“That’s harsh,” I said, hurt.

“No. What’s harsh is to marry the prince and have him turn into a total toad. Why do you think Princess Diana captured the imagination of the entire world—because she cared about land mines? She
married
a land mine. So did I.”

I disagreed with her about Prince Charles, but I didn’t feel this was the moment to mention it. I guess there are times when you have to be there for a friend and not immediately expect reciprocation, irritating as that may be. So I forgave her. I was relieved that everything was out in the open between me and Violet at last. Secrets corrode relationships.

It just goes to show you how personal history repeats itself, and
how the covert actions of one’s youth can become the models of maturity. In a way, Violet and I were right back where we started from: two schoolgirl conspirators angling to bring down a bully.

Violet left Washington the next day. She said she was going up to the Millbrook School to break the news to Tee in person. But I figured she just wanted to get the hell out of Dodge. It was going to be interesting to see what the adolescent boy made of all this sexual mischief and betrayal. I wondered what he would think of Cynthia.

Poor Violet was always so vested in maintaining that she had an idyllic life. But now her so-called perfect marriage was over. Just goes to show you never really know how flimsy something is until you watch it fall apart.

I
t took about a nanosecond for people to find out that Grant had left Violet for Cynthia. In Washington, communication between federal agencies may be like pulling teeth, but the gossip mill sure knows how to share information. Besides, it was the kind of story that offers welcome relief from political news and reminds us where so much of politics actually comes from—namely, the trials and wreckage of the human heart.

When Violet got back from seeing Tee, she was more depressed than ever.

“Tee says he hates the both of us,” she told me. “He doesn’t even want to come home on vacation. He wants to go to his friend Daniel’s house in Maine.”

“He’ll get over it,” I assured her. “He’s a teenager.”

“Yeah, just like his father,” she said sourly.

Violet had a fairly complicated relationship with her son. While she had doted on him and catered to him when he was little, once he grew up and developed a personality of his own—in other words, started talking back to her—things changed. She grew distant from him, as if she were afraid of him. Even though I knew she loved him fiercely, they didn’t seem able to connect. She referred to him jokingly as her “little serpent’s tooth.” But kids have a way of seeing through jokes like that—not to mention adults. It was odd, but I always got the feeling that Violet was on stage with Tee, never quite herself for some reason.

As far as Washington society went, Violet put on a brave face and
tried to act as if the whole thing would blow over. However, this proved difficult. Though people generally agreed that Grant was behaving abominably, many were afraid to take Violet’s side for fear of alienating Washington’s newest power couple. Invitations dried up, and she was left to wallow in the shame of a very public humiliation.

Aside from Tee, the hardest thing for Violet to deal with was the reaction of Grant’s parents. Violet told me that Rainy Bolton had called her to say how sorry she was. Violet was touched by her mother-in-law’s concern, and they apparently had a good talk. However, a few days later, she heard from Maureen, who heard it from Winston, the senior Boltons’ butler, that Grant had brought Cynthia over to his parents’ house for dinner.

“Can you believe they actually
fed
that bitch?” Violet moaned to me. “So much for family loyalty!”

It didn’t come as any great surprise to me that the Boltons sided with their son. As Violet had surmised, Rainy was secretly thrilled Grant was going out with Washington’s new philanthropic star. Rainy was a stealth starfucker, if ever there was one. While she pretended to shun the spotlight, she never missed an opportunity to step into it when she could, or at least catch its ambient light.

Meanwhile, I had my own romantic problems. I hadn’t heard from Bob in over two weeks.
Two whole weeks
. Not one word. He’d beat a hasty retreat after a constant siege. The abruptness of his silence was jarring, to say the least. Every time the phone rang, I went on alert, hoping it was him, or even the officious Felicity, calling to arrange a date. But it never was. Still, I had faith. I wore the bracelet he gave me every day, refusing to believe I wouldn’t hear from him eventually.

Rosina was sanguine about the whole situation. She’d never cared for Bob to begin with. Now that he wasn’t calling, she voiced her dislike of him more frequently and forcefully than ever, preparing me for the worst.

I confess that I broke down and called him once. Well, maybe more than once. Maybe a few times. But his cell phone always went to voice mail, and I hung up quickly—except for one time. I left this message that was meant to sound breezy and spur-of-the-moment, but which I’d actually rehearsed for a good half hour before I made the call. I
don’t know why I bothered, or what I hoped to achieve. Ever since one of my old admirers tracked me down to the roulette table in the Katmandu Casino in Nepal on New Year’s Eve years ago, I’ve known that when a guy really wants to get in touch with you, he will.

I found a card at Just Paper and Tea, my favorite stationery store on P Street. It had a picture of the Lone Ranger on it. Inside, I wrote, “Who was that masked man?” and mailed it to Bob. I didn’t tell Rosina any of this. I couldn’t stand the fact that she might have been right when she observed that he was too ardent to begin with. Nor did I tell her that I’d driven by his house a number of times. I figured he’d gone away somewhere, because the Rolls wasn’t in the driveway. The Rolls was never there unless Bob was, because Maxwell garaged it near his own house in Rockville so he could look after it.

Rosina told me the only thing she would regret if we broke up for good was that she would never get to ride in that car.

I saw Gunner once during that period, ostensibly to tell him what had happened with me and Violet. I told him all about Violet’s and my little plan: Operation Mary Lou Lindsay. I said, “Let’s face it, life is high school with wrinkles.”

I asked him if he could check out Cynthia for us. He kind of laughed without responding. I couldn’t tell if he thought my request was ridiculous or out of line or what. It was very hard to tell what Gunner was thinking.

I asked him how his case was going, but he was evasive, as usual. He was more interested to know if I’d heard from Bob yet.

“He’s probably still away,” I said. “I’m not worried.” I held up the bracelet and jingled it in front of him.

The truth is, I was very worried, and quite embarrassed over Bob’s radio silence. However, I wasn’t going to admit that to Gunner. Nor was I going to tell him that I’d called Bob, driven by his house, and even staked out his office a couple of times. I didn’t want Gunner to think I was a stalker—which I kind of was.

One night, when I was feeling low and sorry for myself, I took a look at the book Gunner had given me,
The Book of Five Rings
. Gunner had written his name inside the front cover: G. A. Gunner. When I saw this, I realized I didn’t even know his first name. I read the trans
lator’s preface, which described the book as a military manual that applied Zen principles to the martial arts. More correctly entitled
The Book of Five Spheres
, it was written in 1643 by a disenfranchised samurai named Miyamoto Musashi, a legendary figure about whom very little was actually known except what he wrote about himself in the book. The translator pointed out that a samurai with no master like Musashi had to become his own protector, forced to live by his wits and his skill as a swordsman. In essence, the book was a testament to the power of the individual against a hostile world.

The pages were well thumbed. Gunner had highlighted several passages throughout the text in orange: “
Understand the harm and the benefit in everything
”; “
Learn to see everything accurately
”; “
Become aware of what is not obvious
”; “
Be careful in small matters
”; “
Do not do anything useless
.”

One little section he’d marked rang a bell with me: “
Let there be neither insufficiency nor excess in your mind. Even if superficially weakhearted, be inwardly stronghearted, and do not let others see into your mind
.”

I took this to heart, since my mind was always careening between “insufficiency” and “excess,” and because I rarely had an unspoken thought.

After I’d read the book, Gunner struck me more like a warrior on a quest than just another detective doing his job. He seemed to be following the principles of a higher order. He clearly felt some deep affinity with the book’s seventeenth-century author. He had underlined the part where Musashi states he killed a man in a duel at the tender age of thirteen and written the words, “
Redemption through action
.” I wondered if Gunner had ever killed anyone.

I hadn’t heard from Bob in exactly eighteen days when Marge Horner came into the shop. She never came into the shop, except if someone dragged her in after lunch. But if she wanted to enrich my coffers, who was I to argue? Marge’s day look was a tweed suit that looked like a horse blanket, a jangly charm bracelet, and pair of ingot-sized gold earrings. I was polite to her—well, civil. She walked around picking up small items—boxes, candles, books, that kind of thing. She surreptitiously glanced at the price tags. If something cost more than twenty-five bucks, she immediately put it down like it was burning
her hand.

“Looking for something special?” I finally asked her.

“A wedding present,” she said with a curt smile.

I inquired how much she wanted to spend. She said she’d like to keep it under fifty dollars. I told her that was a little tough, but she could get a really nice scented candle in a pretty china cup for fifty-five.

“No candles. I’d like to get something a little more personal.”

I asked very innocently who the gift was for, thinking that if I knew them or knew something about them, I could help her better.

“Oh, it’s for Bob and Melody,” she said casually, as if I already knew it.

“Bob and Melody?” I heard myself repeating. I say “heard myself,” because right then I felt like I was in an echo chamber in some alternate universe.

“Yes, isn’t it amazing? After all this time? They just snuck off to Virginia and tied the knot. So romantic—eloping at their age. I just found out about it last night because they’re giving a big reception at the Hay Adams. I think I need to get them just a
little
something, don’t you? Nothing too lavish if there was no formal wedding. You agree?”

I nodded like an automaton. No wonder I hadn’t heard from Bob. That son of a bitch was
married
? To
Melody
? It didn’t seem possible.

I stared at Marge as she jabbered on about Bob and Melody’s on-again, off-again courtship and its “thrillingly happy ending.” Out of all the antique joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into
mine
? Fat fucking chance. She knew exactly what she was doing coming in here, hoping to be the first to bring me these tidings of discomfort and joylessness. I kept my cool, I’m happy to say—in part because I was able to recall Samurai Musashi’s sage advice:
Be inwardly stronghearted, and do not let others see into your mind.

I advised Marge that I thought the newlyweds would just love a book on Victorian houses, knowing full well how much Bob loathed anything cluttered and old-fashioned. Marge was hesitant. She’d obviously seen his modern, minimalist abode. When I insisted it was the right choice, she said a pointed, “Well, of course,
you
would know.”

God, I hated that woman.

Rosina watched us the whole time, no doubt waiting for me to crash into the guardrail. But I just cruised around the shop, slow and
steady, wrapping the book, ringing up the sale, telling Marge, “Have a nice day!”—a loathsome, overworked catchphrase I only use with people I really detest.

The second Marge was out the door, I ran upstairs to my office, fighting the urge to cry. I stood staring out the window with my arms crossed, looking back on my relationship with Bob like it was a movie I’d seen rather than something I’d lived through. I was more stunned than upset. The shock of it was just beginning to sink in.

Rosina knocked softly on the open door and entered.

“Can you
believe
he did this to me?” I asked, turning to face her.

“Definitely,” she replied.

“I knew you’d say that.”

“You want the truth now, or you wanna wait until you feel better?” she said.

“Might as well hit me with it now. I’m down, and I’m not getting up again.”

“Okay. Since I’ve been working here, you’ve had a few boyfriends, right?”

“Right.”

“And they were all different, right?”

“Right.”

“
Wrong
,” she said firmly.

I hated it when Rosina played these little games, but I was too upset to challenge her.

“Go on.” I sank down on the chair behind my desk.

Rosina sat on the couch, arranging her wide red ruffled skirt around her so it looked like she was sitting in the middle of a giant rose. That skirt reminded me of the bushels of garish red roses Bob had sent me in the early days.

“All your boyfriends?” she began. “They look different, but they are all the same. I knew when I met Mr. Poll that he was just another one of them. More smooth, more sophisticated, but he is just like the others.”

“In what way?” I asked wearily.

“Because I can see he likes himself more than he likes you.”

“How could you see that?”

“First, because everything is so crazy and in a rush. All the flowers and the notes and the phone calls. They are not about you. They are
about him and about how much he can impress you. A man who tells you he cannot live without you on the first date is already thinking about his freedom.”

“I loved him.”

“You didn’t even
know
him.”

“I did so!” I protested.

“No! What he has done now—going off and getting married without telling you—that is who he
really
is. Because that is an action. The rest is just a long date. You loved the
idea
of him, Reven. You loved the attention more than the man. I can see it when you are going out with him. There is no time for you to think about who he really is, or for him to think about who you really are. You saw each other a lot. But did you ever
know
each other? I don’t think so. You were both acting in a play. And now the play is over.”

“He told me he loved me. He gave me this bracelet, didn’t he?” I said, raising my wrist.

“You don’t even like that bracelet. I don’t know why you wear it.”

“Yeah, well, now I hate it.” I took it off and offered it to her. “Want it?”

“No, it’s ugly.”

I flung it across my desk, where it disappeared into the clutter.

“You wanna know when you
really
fell in love with Bob Poll?” Rosina asked.

“When?”

“When he stopped calling you.”

She had a point. Rejection has often made my heart grow fonder. But I still had to defend myself.