Belinda (57 page)

She looked at me. And I knew I ought to say something, just to be polite to her, because she was so nice, and she was tired from working so hard. But I didn't say anything. I couldn't. I went into the kitchen and sat down in my usual chair.

So Count Solosky had put his signature to the check. And he was only the collector Rhinegold had courted for three decades, the man he considered the premier art collector in the world today. And this right on top of the first sale of my work to any museum in America. It was "pretty terrific," all right. At least it was to the guy I'd been six months ago on the Memorial weekend day that I met her at the ABA convention, the guy who said, "If I don't go over the cliff, I'll never be anything." How she had smiled at that.

Impossible to put it in focus for anyone else. Impossible to sharpen the focus myself. It was all at a great remove, like a landscape done by an impressionist: color, line, symmetry, all indistinct, having more to do with light than what was solid.

"This isn't going to help, you know," Dan said.

[4]

THE police were due at nine thirty a.m. Tuesday morning. David Alexander arrived about two hours before that. He was a slender blond-haired man, perhaps fifty, rather delicate of build with ice-blue eyes behind gold-rimmed aviator glasses. He listened with his fingers together making a church steeple, and I vaguely remembered reading something about that particular mannerism, that it denoted feelings of superiority, but that didn't mean much to me.

I didn't want to talk to him. I thought about Belinda, what she said about telling her whole story to Ollie Boon. But Alexander was my lawyer, and Dan insisted I tell him everything. OK. Set your emotions on the table like an envelope of canceled checks.

The morning news was hellish. G.G. and Alex, who had come over for break fist, refused to watch it. They were having their coffee in the living room alone.

Daryl in a somber charcoal gray suit had read a prepared statement last night to network reporters:

"My sister, Bonnie, is in a state of collapse. The year of searching and worrying has finally taken its toll. As for the paintings on exhibit in San Francisco, we are talking about a deeply disturbed man and a serious police problem as well as a missing girl, a girl who is underage and may be herself disturbed. These paintings may well have been done without her consent, possibly without her knowledge, and certainly they were done without the consent of her only legal guardian, my sister, Bonnie Blanchard, who knew nothing about them at all."

Then "feminist and anti-pornography spokesperson" Cheryl Wheeler, a young New York attorney, had been interviewed regarding the obscenity of my work. She stated her views without ever raising her voice.

"The exhibit is a rape, plain and simple. If Belinda Blanchard did live with Walker at all, which has not been established by the way, she is one of the increasing victims of child abuse in this country. The only thing we do know for certain at this moment is that her name and likeness have been ruthlessly exploited by Walker, perhaps without her knowledge."

"But if Belinda did approve the exhibit, if she consented, as Walker says-"

"For a girl of sixteen there can be no question of consent to this kind of exploitation any more than there can be consent to sexual intercourse. Belinda Blanchard will be a minor till the age of eighteen."

But the network program had closed with a capper: kids in the town of Reading, Alabama, led by a local deejay in a public burning of my books.

I'd watched that one in stunned amazement. Hadn't seen anything like it since the sixties, when they burned the Beatle records because John Lennon had said the Beatles were more famous than Jesus. And then, of course, the Nazis had burned books all during the Second World War. I don't know why it didn't upset me. I don't know why it seemed to be happening to someone else. All those books burning in the little plaza before the public library of Reading. Kids coming up and proudly dumping their books into the flames.

David Alexander showed not the slightest reaction. Dan didn't say, I told you so, for which I was more than grateful. He merely sat there making notes.

Then the doorbell was ringing, and G.G. came in from the living room to say the police had just come in.

These were two tall plainclothes gentlemen in dark suits and overcoats, and they made a very polite and nice fuss over Alex, saying they had seen all his movies and they'd seen him in "Champagne Flight," too. Everyone laughed at that, even Alexander and Dan smiled good-naturedly, though I could see Dan was miserable.

Then the older of the two men, Lieutenant Connery, asked Alex to sign an autograph for his wife. The other policeman was eyeing all the toys in the room as if he was inventorying them. He studied the dolls in particular, and then he picked up one of the dolls that was broken and he ran his. finger over the broken porcelain cheek.

I invited them into the kitchen. Dan filled the coffee mugs for everybody. Connery said he'd rather talk to me alone without the two lawyers, but then Alexander smiled and shook his head and everybody laughed politely again.

Connery was a heavyset man with a square face and white hair and gray eyes, nondescript except for a rather naturally appealing smile and pleasant voice. He had what we call in San Francisco a south of Market accent, which is similar to the Irish-German city street accents in Boston or New York. The other man sort of tided into the background as we started to talk.

"Now you are speaking to me of your own free will, Jeremy," said Connery, pushing the tape recorder towards me. I said yes. "And you know that you are not being charged with anything." I said yes. "But that you might be charged at a later date. And that if we do decide to charge you, we will read you your rights."

"You don't have to, I know my rights."

Alexander had his fingers together in a steeple again. Dan's face was absolutely white.

"You can tell us to leave any time you wish," Connery assured me. I smiled. He reminded me of all the cops and firemen in my family back in New Orleans, all big men like this with the same kind of Spencer Tracy white hair.

"Yes, I understand all of that, relax, Lieutenant," I said. "This whole thing must look pretty weird from your point of view."

"Jeremy, why don't you just answer the questions?" Dan said in a kind of cranky voice. He was having a terrible time with this. Alexander looked like a wax dummy.

"Well, Jeremy, I'll tell you," Connery said, taking a pack of Raleighs out of his coat pocket. "You don't mind if I smoke, do you? Oh, thank you, you never know these days whether people will let you smoke. You're supposed to go out on the back deck to smoke. I go to my favorite restaurant, I try to have my usual cigarette after dinner, they say no. Well, what concerns us more than anything right now, Jeremy, is finding Belinda Blanchard. So my first question, Jeremy, is do you know where she is?"

"Absolutely not. No idea. She said in her letter to me in New Orleans that she was two thousand miles away from there and that could mean Europe or the West Coast or even New York. She was seventeen years old just about four weeks ago, by the way, on the seventh. And she had a great deal of money with her when she left and lots of nice clothes. If I knew where she was, I'd go to her, I'd ask her to marry me because I love her and I think that's what we should do right now."

"Do you think she would marry you, .Jeremy?"

The words came with a strange evenness and slowness.

"I don't know. I hope so," I said.

"Why don't you tell us the whole thing?"

I thought for a moment about what G.G. had said, about them seeming to have some fixed idea about Belinda. And then I thought about all Dan's advice.

I started with meeting her, the big mess on Page Street, her coming home with me. Yes, the statement of the cop was correct, I did say she was my daughter. I wanted to help her. I brought her back here. But I didn't know who she was, and one of the conditions was that I didn't ask. I went on about the paintings. Three months we lived together. Everything peaceful ...

"And then Bonnie came here," Connery said simply. "She arrived at SF International in a private plane at eleven forty-five A.M. on September 10 and her daughter met her there, right?"

I said I didn't know that for certain. I explained how I'd found out who Belinda was from the tape of Final Score and all that. I described Bonnie's coming here, and how we'd gone to the Hyatt and she'd asked me to lo0k after Belinda.

"Tried to blackmail you, to be exact, didn't she?"

"What makes you say that?"

"The statement of the limousine driver, who overheard her planning this with her daughter. The car was parked. He says that the glass was not all the way up between him and the backseat and he heard everything they said."

"Then you know it was all a sham. Besides, before I left the Hyatt, I had the pictures back." But I felt relief all over. He knew the worst part. I didn't have to tell him. And now for the first time I could explain with some degree of clear conscience why Belinda and I had fought.

I told him about the fight, about Belinda leaving, and about the letter that came five days later and why I decided to go public with the paintings right away.

"It was a moment of synchronization," I said. "My needs and her needs became the same. I'd always wanted to show the paintings. I wasn't kidding myself about that anymore by the time we went south. And now it was in her interest to show them, to get out the truth about her identity, because it was the only way she could stop running and hiding-and maybe forgive me for hitting her like that, for driving her off."

Connery was studying me. The Raleigh had gone out in the ashtray. "Would you let me see the document Belinda sent you?"

"No. It's Belinda's and it's not here. It's someplace where nobody can get it. I can't make it public because it's hers."

He reflected for a moment. Then he began to ask questions about all kinds of things-the bookstore where I'd first seen Belinda, the age of my mother's house in New Orleans, about Miss Annie and the neighbors, about restaurants where we'd dined in San Francisco and down south, about what Belinda wore when we were in New Orleans, about how many suitcases she owned.

But gradually I realized he was repeating certain questions over and over-in particular about the night Belinda had left and whether or not she'd taken all her belongings, all those suitcases, and whether or not I'd heard anything, and then back to Did she pose for the photographs willingly and why had I destroyed them all.

"Look, we've been over and over all this," I said. "What do you really want? Of course, I destroyed the photos, I've explained that. Wouldn't you have done it if you were me?"

Connery became immediately conciliatory.

"Look, Jeremy, we appreciate your cooperation in all this," he said. "But you see, the family is very concerned about this girl."

"So am I."

"Her uncle Daryl is here now. He believes that Belinda may have taken drugs on the street, that she may be deeply disturbed and not really capable of taking care of herself."

"What did her father say about that?"

"Tell me again, you went to sleep at about seven o'clock. She was in her room until then? And the housekeeper, Miss Annie, had taken her some supper?"

I nodded. "And when I woke up, she was gone. The tape of Final Score was on the night table like I told you. And I knew she meant for me to keep it and it meant something, but I was never sure what. Maybe she was saying, 'Show the pictures.' That is what she said in her letter five days later-"

"And the letter."

"-is in a vault!"

Connery glanced at the other detective. Then he looked at his watch.

"Jeremy, listen, I do appreciate your cooperation, and we'll try not to take too much more of your time, but if you'll excuse Berger-"

Berger got up and went to the front door, and I saw Alexander for Dan to go with him. Connery continued:

"And you're saying, Jeremy, that Miss Annie did not see Belinda in the house."

"Right." I heard the front door open.

Dan had come in and gestured to Alexander. They went out. "What's going on?" I asked.

They were standing in the hallway reading what looked like a, papers stapled together, and then Connery got up and joined Dan came back in to me. He said:

"They've got a perfectly legal and extremely detailed warrant for this house."

"So let them," I said. I stood up. "They didn't have to get a warrant." Dan was worried.

"With the way that thing's worded, they could rip up the damn boards," he said under his breath.

"Look, I'll go upstairs with you," I said to Connery. But he said that wasn't necessary and he'd see to it that the men were very careful. I said, "Go on then, the attic is unlocked."

The look on David Alexander's face was secretive as he looked at and I frankly resented it. If I was going to pay the guy, I wanted him convey his secrets to me.

But the house was now teeming with detectives. There were two men in the living room, where G.G. and Alex were standing by somewhat awkwardly amid the dollhouse and the carousel horse and the trains and things, and I could hear them above stomping up the uncarpeted attic steps.

Connery was just coming down when I went to the foot of the stairs. Another detective had a couple of plastic sacks, and one of these had sweater in it, a sweater of Belinda's that I had not even known was still here.

"Please don't take that," I said.

"But why, Jeremy?" Connery asked.

"Because it's Belinda's," I said. I pushed past the man and went to see what was really going on.

They were going over everything. I heard cameras snapping in the attic, saw the silver explosion of the flash on the walls. They had found a hairbrush of hers under the brass bed, and they were taking that, too. I couldn't watch this, people opening my closet, and turning down the bed covers.

I went back down. Connery was looking at the dollhouse. Alex was seared on the sofa, watching him calmly. G.G. stood behind Connery at the window.