Baltimore Blues (12 page)

It was all there. Rock, faithful to at least one of Tyner’s instructions, had not spoken to Jonathan, so Ava’s account was allowed to float out over Baltimore, unchallenged and untested. In spite of herself Tess was impressed by Ava’s ability to weave lie within lie. Caught in a compromising position, she had made up the story of sexual harassment to defang Tess. When it had backfired she claimed the story was a figment of Rock’s overheated imagination. Abramowitz was dead, so no one could corroborate Rock’s hearsay account that Ava had initiated the affair.

By the end of the overblown piece, which Tess read still standing in the Nice N Easy, her hot dog growing cold, the average reader would be convinced of two things: Rock’s guilt and Ava’s innocence. Every detail of their lives had been offered up to serve that purpose. Rock emerged as the brooding, obsessive Heathcliff of the Patapsco. Jonathan even called him a “loner,” newspaper code for deranged. Ava was a golden girl, the straight-A student from Pikesville High School whose only false step was her involvement with this lunatic. Oddly Abramowitz hardly figured into his own murder story. A single man with no living relatives, he had no one to speak for him and no life to re-create outside the law. Old associates at the public defender’s office recalled him only as a prickly workaholic. His current partners had declined to be interviewed for the story, saying the tragedy was too fresh.

But Tess didn’t care about Abramowitz. And she wasn’t particularly concerned about the article’s effect on the case. Ava could lie to a newspaper reporter. She could even lie to Rock, convince him she was quoted out of context, or that she granted the interview only to help his case. In court she’d have to tell the truth, or at least settle on one, noncontradictory version of the truth.

No, Tess saw the article as a gauntlet, flung down by Jonathan to prove he could always get what he wanted, even without her cooperation. He had ferreted out details of Rock’s life not even Tess knew—she had always assumed his parents were dead—and gotten the interview with Ava before it occurred to Tess to talk to her. Jonathan was a far more vicious opponent than Rock, who ultimately rowed against himself and his own records.

Jonathan couldn’t win unless someone else lost.

Tess read the story again. Abramowitz was barely a person, just a MacGuffin, setting the story into play. What did anyone really know about him? Tess thought again about the little man with the baseball bat who had chased Abramowitz around and around the desk. She remembered the bitter woman, the one who had joined a support group just to forget
her experience against him in court. Certainly they could help flesh out what was known about Abramowitz.

Of course, if Jonathan had read the
Beacon-Light
’s files, he knew about these people, too. But he hadn’t tracked them down. He had gone for the easy story, the one visible from the surface. Let him have the lady and the rower. She was going in search of the lawyer.

T
ess rehearsed her cover story on her way to meet the women of VOMA. She had concocted an elaborate tale of date rape, in which she was defiled by a star football player who had taken her out for coffee after studying for a test on the 19th-century novel. As Tess climbed the broad stone steps of the old school administration building, she was wondering if she could summon up tears on cue.

The gray stone building, an elegant Victorian, had been defiled during a 1960s stab at modernization. Egg yolk yellow, Sunkist orange, shiny contact paper in a floral pattern—inside it was mod with a vengeance. Time had not dulled the yellow linoleum, and the heavy wooden doors were still imprisoned in layers of shiny orange paint, chipped in places and coated with a thin film of grime.

The city school district owned the old school, but it was not foolish enough to use it, preferring to spend millions to renovate a nearby high school for its own headquarters. The old administration building now functioned as a kind of community center, although there was no community to speak of in the blighted area. And if nature did not abhor a vacuum, then support groups must. More than a dozen had rushed in to fill the cavernous space, and each classroom that night was filled with people at various stages along the twelve steps.

Tess walked past hand-lettered signs for AA, NA, Adult
Survivors of Incest, Al-Anon, Shoppers Anonymous, and, cryptically, Bings of Baltimore, which she thought might be for people who couldn’t stop watching
White Christmas
. Then she saw the women inside, hands wrapped tightly around cups of black coffee, hushed voices speaking rhapsodically about the merits of various doughnut shops.

“Oh, no, honey,” one emaciated woman said, leaning forward to touch the bony knee of another. “Those krispy kremes at the Super Fresh aren’t made there. You have to eat them hot, right out of the oil, to have the real krispy kreme experience. The nearest store is down in Virginia, in Fairfax County.”

Oh,
Bingers
of Baltimore.
Maybe someone ate the other letters
.

VOMA was in the last classroom on the left. After glimpses at the sullen or tearful faces in the other classrooms, Tess had expected VOMA to be even more downbeat, if possible. Instead a party was in full swing. A portable stereo played bluesy music, and a couple of women were dancing, moving with a loose and sexy grace. Others gathered around a card table with bowls of M&M’s, a plate of brownies, a tin of frosted cupcakes, and a cut glass bowl of bright red punch. Only one woman, a tall redhead, stood apart disapprovingly, her arms crossed and her mouth severe. Tess had a strong sense of
déjà vu
. Third grade, the class Valentine’s Day party. But instead of candy hearts with
Hep Cat
and
U Drive Me Crazy
, there was a bourbon bottle on the table.

The women seemed embarrassed when they finally noticed her in the doorway. Someone snapped off the stereo and the others fled to their metal folding chairs as if Tess were an inspector from the national office of VOMA. They folded their hands in their laps and looked down, taking the posture Tess had expected to find. Only the redhead, an Amazon who had a good three inches over Tess, remained standing. Unused to looking up into a woman’s face, Tess disliked her instantly. She reminded her of every class secretary she had ever voted against. Confident, with a hint of head nurse about her, always ready to give one an enema.

“Are you looking for the bingers?” Big Red asked. “They’re in 211. We’re 221. A lot of their people come here by mistake.”

Her sense of mission protected Tess from obsessing over the insult, real or imagined.

“No, I’m looking for Victims of Male Aggression.” The women stared back blankly. “This is it, right? VOMA?”

“Oh.” The redhead considered Tess carefully. The other women kept their eyes downcast and hands folded, as if embarrassed by the card table of childish sweets. Or perhaps the bourbon was outlawed, given that half the people on the floor could lose all twelve steps if they knew a fifth was in room 221.

“I’m Pru,” the redhead said brightly, sticking out her hand. “And if we seem caught off guard, it’s because you’ve caught us in a rather…out-of-the-ordinary meeting. One of our members, little Cece, is getting married, and we wanted to throw a wedding shower for her.”

“Does that mean your next regular meeting won’t be until next week? Should I come back then?”

“Well, it depends. Do you have a referral?”

“A referral? No, I saw the group’s listing in the
City Paper
’s calendar and thought it might help me. You see, I’ve just come to accept that I was the victim of an acquaintance rape in college—”

“Date rape!” Pru interrupted. She seemed relieved. “Your therapist needs to put you in touch with another group. You do have a therapist? Because VOMA is only for women who have been through the criminal system, the double-raped as we call them. Did you press charges? Can you still take him to court, or has the statute of limitations passed?”

“Well, no, but—”

“Then we’re just not for you,” Pru said, shaking her head adamantly. “You need the DAR.”

“The Daughters of the American Revolution?”

“No, DAR, Anonymous. Date-acquaintance rape. I think they meet at one of the local elementary schools.”

“Union Memorial has a space for them,” offered a petite woman with brunette hair cropped so close that Tess wondered if she had recently undergone chemotherapy. “They meet the first Wednesday of the month. The hospital switchboard should have the phone number.”

“Thanks, Cece.” Pru turned back to Tess, who had the distinct impression the woman wanted to put her hands up to her chest and give her a gentle shove.
I guess I’ve outstayed my welcome
. Then again, Tess had the sense she had never been welcome here at all. Pru had wanted her to leave from the moment she saw her.

She looked around the room one more time, taking in every detail. Fifteen women, all white. Typical of segregated Baltimore. Statistically black women were the more likely victims, but white women formed the groups. Tess swept her eyes over all the faces; without names she would never keep them straight. She’d remember Pru, of course; she may even have a few nightmares about her. And the little one, Cece, whose impending marriage they were celebrating. She had a strange look on her face, sort of terrified and determined at the same time, but Tess assumed most brides-to-be looked the same. And a rape victim going through chemo would probably have more fears than average.

She waved good-bye, wishing she could fake a few tears. Of course, trying to fake one’s way into a support group was arguably much worse than running an exclusive one, but Tess was still inexplicably angry at VOMA for rejecting her. Groups for rape victims should welcome everyone.

“I guess I’ll go check out the Bingers,” she said as she left. “But they’ll probably kick me out because my devotion is to Goldenberg Peanut Chews instead of doughnuts.”

Tess ran down the hall, enjoying the loud, smacking noise her shoes made on the old linoleum. Once outside she got in her car and pulled up to the corner, then turned off the engine and waited for the meeting to break up. She still wanted to find the woman quoted in the clipping. Pru, of course, would not help, although she wouldn’t be surprised
to find out the woman
was
Pru. Mousy, distracted Cece—that was another story.

All the support groups left at 9
P.M
., but it was easy to spot the women from VOMA. They carried flashlights and cans of mace, held stiffly in front of them like bayonets, then linked arms, walking the member who was parked farthest away to her car, working back toward the old school. Cece drove off in an old Mustang. Tess quickly jotted down the tag numbers, which would get her the address from the MVA in case she lost her tonight. Then she pulled out behind her.

Cece headed downtown, stopping at a coffee bar. Although Baltimore was generally known as a place where trends came to die, the city had anticipated the national mania for coffee. Tess watched from the street as Cece ordered a cappuccino from the counter and took her steaming cup to a shadowy corner, wedging herself in as if she didn’t like to have her back to anyone. She pulled some papers from her purse and studied them. Tess waited two minutes, then sailed in and ordered a decaf latte, ignoring Cece.
If she sees me first
, Tess reasoned,
it will seem more like a coincidence
. She sat at the counter with her profile turned toward the young woman, staring intently into space, but Cece never lifted her eyes from her work. It wasn’t part of Tess’s plan to dunk her biscotti, miss the glass, and spill the whole operation, but it worked. Cece’s eyes met hers. She then looked away, skittish and uncomfortable, gathering up the papers spread out in front of her.

“You’re the one getting married, right? Cece?” Tess said, walking up to her table.

“Cecilia. Cecilia Cesnik. Cece’s a nickname I’m trying to outgrow, only no one will let me.” She blushed and looked down at the table.

If Tess hadn’t met her through VOMA, she would have assumed Cecilia was one of those people who had never overcome the adolescent habit of finding everything about themselves embarrassing. There was a lot going on behind the delicate face—edginess, fear, irritation at having her solitary moment disturbed. In Cece’s case—
Cecilia
’s case—it
was probably her history as a rape victim that made her want to disappear.

“I’m sorry if Pru seemed kind of rude,” Cecilia said. “But VOMA really is very specific. It’s not for everyone.”

“I felt as if I had walked in on one of those girls’ clubs that were always forming in grade school.”

“It’s in your best interest. I mean, it would be even worse to get into a group and find out it couldn’t help you. You’re not the first person Pru has turned away. Sometimes even men have tried to join.” She lowered her voice when she said “men,” as if the word itself were an obscenity. “We couldn’t have that.”

“Why would men want to join?”

“They have daughters or wives who have been raped, and they’re looking for a way to make sense of it. But VOMA isn’t for them, either.”

“How long have you been a member?”

“Six years, from the beginning,” she said with a small sigh. “Pru recruited me. The group was her idea, and she spent time at the courthouse, going through files and looking for victims whose rapists walked. I was raped almost seven years ago.”

“And now you’re getting married. I bet there was a time when that seemed remote.”

“Yes. Very remote.” She laughed. “I can’t quite believe it myself.”

They sat in awkward silence. Tess wondered if her face betrayed her conflicting emotions. The idea of anyone hurting this tiny girl made her sick. She was glad, now, that she hadn’t told her rehearsed story. They would have known she was making it up. This was a kind of pain one couldn’t fake. Then again, VOMA, with its celebration of victimhood, gave her the creeps. She just wanted to find the woman quoted in the piece and find out if she still was harboring a grudge against Abramowitz.

She slid one of her business cards across the table. Luckily it gave nothing away. “Well, if VOMA ever changes its policies, give me a call.” She was hoping her overture would
prompt Cece to offer her number, but she just pocketed Tess’s card. Then she reached toward her head to play with the hair that was no longer there. Her hand dropped abruptly back into her lap.

“You know, you actually look pretty good with such short hair,” Tess said. “Not many women would.”

“Yeah, I had a pretty bad case.”

“Um, cancer?”

Cecilia laughed again, a full-bodied laugh this time. “No, although you’re not the first to think that. I had Highland-town hair—dyed, permed, with the little side bangs in the front and the rest hanging down to my shoulders.”

Highlandtown was an East Side working-class neighborhood, home to the city’s tallest beehives and thickest accents. Tess had never heard of Highlandtown hair, but she understood instantly what Cecilia meant.

“Why did you cut it off? The neighborhood must be shocked.”

“Not as shocked as they were when I quit my secretarial job and got a scholarship to the University of Baltimore’s law school. Or when I stopped pronouncing the second ‘r’ in ‘warter’ and ‘Warshington D.C.’ People told my pop I was getting uppity.” Cece—Cecilia—was suddenly sitting up straighter, and she had lost the shy, shambling style. “They were right. I am.”

“What prompted all the changes?”

“VOMA. It brought me together with a lot of women I might not have met otherwise. Rich women, from Roland Park and Guilford. Accomplished women. Pru really encouraged me. But she thinks I’m uppity, too.”

“Why?”

Cecilia shrugged. “It happens. Someone’s your mentor, then suddenly you don’t need a mentor anymore. Hey—what was yours like?”

“My mentor?”

“No, your rape.”

Tess stared into her glass, mumbling: “Oh, typical date
rape. I was helping a guy study, and we went up to his room.”

“Mine was a burglar. I asked him to…pull out. I was scared of, I don’t know, pregnancy, or AIDS. I think I had this idea it would be more tolerable if he didn’t come inside me. Of course he found the whole thing hilarious.”

“How did he get off?”

“His lawyer used the thing about pulling out. He said I was so calm, so thoughtful, it must have been consensual. That it was my form of birth control. But that’s not the reason he got acquitted. Someone, the lab or the cops or the prosecutors, lost the physical evidence, the swab. The case fell apart without that.”

“How does VOMA help?”

“Oh, self-defense classes. Lectures. We even looked into some kind of civil suit.”

“Against the lab, for losing your results?”

“Something like that. VOMA worked pretty well.”

“Worked, past tense? Are you quitting because you’re getting married, or because of law school?”

“Right. Exactly. Because I’m getting married.” Cecilia jumped to her feet, gathering up her purse and the sheaf of papers on the table. In her haste she knocked everything to the floor. When Tess tried to help her pick the fluttering papers up, she panicked.