Compromising Positions (29 page)

“Why did he get a divorce?”

“His wife was screwing around.” He pushed the elevator button and the door opened immediately. “After you,” he said. We rode in silence to the fourth floor. I thought: his friend’s wife still has custody of the kids.

Still not speaking, we walked down the blue-carpeted hall to apartment 4E. Under the bell, his friend’s name was printed in neat white capital letters on a black plastic tab: Greenberg. At least, I pondered, peering at Sharpe’s small nose, he’s probably not a latent anti-Semite. He unlocked the door and held it open for me.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” he said, “when I called the office after I left you this morning, they had gotten the lab report on the awl.”

“Tell me.” I sat in a small green chair that exactly matched the green couch in Greenberg’s living room, a muddy, brown-tinged green common to motels and budget-decorated offices, the kind of green used for a furnished apartment that will not show dirt, that will survive from tenant to tenant.

“It’s almost definitely the murder weapon,” said Sharpe, still standing. “There wasn’t enough blood for a test, but the length of the bloodstain exactly matched the depth of the wound.”

“That’s interesting.” We smiled at each other. Then I cleared my throat; we became very sober. We remembered why we were in Greenberg’s apartment. Sharpe took my hand and helped me from the chair. For a moment we stood in uncomfortable silence.

“Judith,” he finally whispered, as he began to kiss me, “who did it?”

“I’m not sure. Is that why you brought me here? To sweet-talk me and get me to tell you everything?”

“No. Because,” he said slowly, “you’re lovely.”

“You’re lovely too,” I whispered later, lying beside him in Greenberg’s bed and running my hand over his stomach. The hair on his head was completely gray, but the hair on his chest merely brown and gray, and traveling still lower, brown and dark and curly, as though his mind had matured and mellowed years ahead of his genitals. “I can’t begin to tell you,” I began.

“I know,” he answered softly, and kissed the tips of my fingers.

“But I want to tell you. I thought it was going to be terrible.”

“You did? Why?”

“I’m not really sure. I thought I’d panic and become completely stiff or something.”

“Or something?”

“I thought that under that charming facade, you were a quivering, insecure wreck of a human being and that you wouldn’t be able to get it up.” He laughed loudly, the sound echoing off Greenberg’s dresser, with its bottle of Brut and plexiglassed snapshots of his two daughters. “I was going to tell you how it didn’t matter.”

“That’s very kind of you.”

“And I thought you wouldn’t be circumcised and I might not like it. Or I’d like it too much.”

“Well, they snipped it off before I was old enough to file a complaint. I’m not very exotic, am I?”

“Everything about you is exactly the way it should be.”

“You know something?” he asked, pulling me tight against him. “You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in years. Do you know that?” I rested my head on his shoulder, hoping that that would suffice as an acknowledgment. “Judith, talk to me.”

“You were wonderful,” I responded.

“So were you. Jesus, you’ve got some great moves. But talk to me. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“What I’m thinking?”

“Yes.”

“I’m thinking,” I said, “that I’m too overwhelmed to think. I mean, it was so different from what I’d expected.”

“Tell me what you thought it would be like,” he urged, cupping my behind in his hands and rubbing it gently.

“I assumed it would be fast and neat and that it would clear my sinuses.”

“At the beginning, you seemed to be in a rush.”

“I know. And then, when I slowed down, I was surprised that we were so aware of each other as it was happening. In a way, I guess I hoped the sex would be divorced from everything I was feeling, so it would be easier to cope with. Sex, pure and simple.” I pulled away slightly so I could look at his face. “Nelson, in a way I was doing exactly what I kept accusing you of wanting to do—just grabbing a quick lay. But it didn’t happen that way and I’m glad it didn’t. But I don’t want to talk about it any more, okay?”

“Okay. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow’s Saturday,” I said.

“Shit.”

We dressed slowly, watching each other, helping each other with zippers and buttons, squirreling away our visions of each other for the long, cold weekend.

“Are you working tomorrow?” I asked as we drove home.

“Probably in the morning. I promised my kids I’d take them ice-skating in the afternoon.”

“You ice-skate?”

“Sure. Do you?”

“I used to,” I said.

He dropped me off with about five minutes to spare before Kate’s school bus pulled up to the corner. As she and I drove to pick up Joey, she interrogated me. Why was Daddy mad? Was I mad at Daddy? I coughed and some of Nelson’s semen dripped onto my underpants. Would Daddy and I get a divorce? She was frightened, her voice quavering despite her attempt to sound casual. I reassured her; people can get very angry with each other even though they’re in love.

“Don’t you ever get angry at me, Kate? I mean, really angry?”

“I guess so. But this is different. Daddy wouldn’t even talk to you. The other night when we went to the restaurant, he hardly even looked at you. I know, Mommy. I saw it.”

“I know you did, Kate. But try to understand that when two grown-ups live together for years and years, they sometimes get on each other’s nerves. And if I want to do something, something I’m really interested in, and if Daddy doesn’t want me to do it, who wins? Who’s the boss?”

“You’re both the boss,” she responded. I had trained her well.

“That’s right. So there can be problems if we disagree.”

“I know that. But it was weird. Daddy didn’t yell at you.”

“I know. But everything will be all right. Don’t worry, honey.”

Kate stared out the car window. “Do you still love each other?”

“Of course, we love each other. If we didn’t, we wouldn’t care about each other and then we couldn’t get mad. Could we?”

“I don’t know,” she said softly.

The beginning of the evening must have been a relief for her. Bob came home and talked.

“Hello, Judith.” He gave me a light kiss that didn’t quite touch my cheek. “How was your day today?” Not bad, I told him, managing to speak and hold the salad bowl at the same time. “Guess who died yesterday?” he asked cheerfully. “Sam Brown.” His accountant had taken his last deduction. “The funeral was at eleven, but I had a meeting. I’ll send a donation.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I mean, that he died.” I served dinner.

“A penny for your thoughts,” he said later, sipping coffee.

I contemplated a kissy-kissy response, going over, sitting on his lap and kittenishly rubbing his nose with mine. “There’s a new wrinkle in the Fleckstein case. I’m trying to figure it out.”

He slammed both fists down on the table. “Kids,” he said, his voice tight with control, “why don’t you run outside and play.”

“It’s dark, Daddy,” Kate informed him.

“And cold,” added Joey.

“Oh. Then go downstairs and watch some TV. Now. Hurry up.” They trod out of the dining room sullenly, casting suspicious glances at us as they turned the corner into the hallway.

“Now what’s this?” Bob demanded. “I thought all that was over.”

“All what was over?” I asked. “The Fleckstein case? How could it be over?”

“I thought it was clear that you had severed your connection with it.”

“Are you serious? Where did you get that idea?”

“Well, you hadn’t said anything for a couple of days, so I assumed...”

“Let me tell you something,” I said carefully. “For the last couple of days, if you can stretch your mind back that far, you have not been home. Excuse me, you have been home for short spurts of time, but all you’ve been is a physical presence. You don’t talk. You won’t listen to what I have to say. And then you drift away to your office where the only contact I have with you is through your half-assed secretary who gives me messages and tells me you’re in meetings while you’re probably hovering over her with your ear smack against the receiver listening to how I take the news of your vital, successful business career. So don’t tell me...” My voice faded. My anger at Bob became a pale mist and blew away. I had it! The Fleckstein case. It made sense.

“If you think I have nothing better to do than listen in on your conversations with my secretary, who, by the way, happens to be a very nice person, you’re crazy.”

I stood and looked into the kitchen. “Excuse me. I have to make a phone call.” I walked inside and found my bag on top of the dishwasher. Ferreting through it, I discovered the small piece of paper on which Nelson had written his telephone number.

“Homicide, Detective Dugan,” said a horrible, nasal voice.

“Lieutenant Sharpe, please.”

“He’s not here. What is this in reference to?” Bob remained at the dining room table, sticking his index finger into his cup and making little polka dots of coffee around his saucer.

“It’s about the Fleckstein case. Could you have him call me?” I gave him my name and number.

“Is it something I could help you with, miss?” Maybe this guy was just kidding around, trying out new voices for a course in undercover disguises; this was number eight—the irritatingly adenoidal.

“No thanks. I prefer to speak with the Lieutenant.” We said our goodbyes, and I returned to the dining room. “Bob, please listen. I’ve just come up with a terrific idea about the case. Please. I’m sorry I was so bitchy before. Just listen.”

He stood, resting his palms on the table, and cleared his throat, as if he were about to introduce a distinguished roster of after-dinner speakers. “Judith, I’m not interested. I’m tired. I’ve worked very hard this week. I’m going to bed.”

I glanced at the clock. “But it’s not even eight o’clock.”

“I said I was tired.” His exit was fairly impressive, with chin held high and long-legged, graceful strides. He may have left his substance in graduate school, but his form was still superb.

“Good night,” I called after him. It would be far better, I then thought, to be alone with the dishes when Sharpe calls than up to my elbows in graying bath water trying to wash Joey’s ears. So I called the children, bathed them so rapidly that they barely had time to shriek about soap in their eyes, and tucked them into bed. Back downstairs at eight-fifteen, I scraped wilted lettuce, bits of roasted potatoes and challah, crusty ends of apple pie into the garbage. The Sabbath candles flickered in the dining room, giving the room an inappropriate romantic glow. Eight-seventeen. Maybe Sharpe had sent his children to the movies and was socking it to June. After this afternoon? Why not? He does have a strong sex drive. What did I expect? His undying adoration? A vow of perpetual fidelity?

The phone remained silent until nine-thirty, during which time I lay on the floor in the den listening to Sinatra sing “You Go to My Head” many, many times.

“Judith,” he said.

“Oh, hi,” I responded, my voice tortured into a lazy, casual register. “I’ve gotten a brainstorm.”

“About the case?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Talk to me first,” he urged softly. “Tell me what you’re thinking about.”

“I’m thinking,” I whispered, “about a periodontist with a puncture wound in the base of his skull. Please, Nelson, listen to me.”

“I will if you say something nice first.”

I cupped my hand around the mouthpiece to block the path of my whisper. “I think you’re the nicest, most beautiful man I’ve ever met and I wish I were with you right now, touching you.”

“Touching me where?”

“On the base of your skull. Can we talk now?”

“Okay. But did you really mean what you just said, about me being the most beautiful man you’ve ever met?”

“Yes. But don’t you want to hear my brilliant theory?”

“Shoot,” he said, in normal conversational tones.

“Well, I was talking to my husband about...”

“You mean you’re discussing the case with your husband now?”

“Would you please listen?”

“Sorry.”

“Now, as I was saying, I was talking to my husband about some of the drawbacks of his having a successful career, and all of a sudden the words got stuck in my throat.”

“What words?”

“Nelson, I’ll tell you if you give me just a half a second to breathe and begin my next sentence.”

“Well, breathe faster.”

“All right. Anyhow, I got caught on the word ‘successful.’ Now think for a moment. What does that have to do with the case?” Silence. “Well, does it ring any bells?”

“Quiet,” he snapped. I took the phone for a walk around the den while he concentrated, picking up a gum wrapper, sending Joey’s Mighty Mo bulldozer rumbling across the floor. “Judith,” he said briskly. I froze in front of the television set. “I think I know what you’re trying to say. Hot shit, you’re absolutely brilliant.” He gave a delighted laugh. “But tell me everything, in your own words, slowly.”

I sat on a cracked leather recliner, put my feet up, and took a deep breath. “Okay. What did all of Fleckstein’s women have in common? No special physical type. No common ethnic background. No one definite personality trait. Right? The common bond was that they were all married to successful men. Every single one of them had a dynamo for a husband; all except one. Are you following me?”

“Brenda Dunck,” Sharpe said. “Judith, I love your ass.”

“Would you please be serious.”

“I’m talking in a professional sense. I love your ass in other ways, but I’ll save that for another time. Come on. Keep talking.”

“All right. Dicky Dunck was considered a loser by his peers. I got it from Norma that he had run through a couple of businesses before he started this printing thing. Their father kept lending him money, and that’s why Norma got the bulk of the old man’s estate. Remember? I told you about that. Now, I got the word from someone else—which I forgot to mention to you—that Dicky’s business had been in trouble and he had to get a bank loan to meet his payroll.”