Dial H for Hitchcock (7 page)

I
t had been only a short rain, but Pacific Coast Highway was still bumper-to-bumper. The forty-five-minute drive home took close to two hours.

After finally pulling into the driveway, I lurched out of the car, ran across the lawn, whipped open the front door, stripped off my damp things, and made a mad dash for the bedroom. I had half an hour tops to clean myself up and get to my five o’clock appointment.

Thirteen minutes later, I was buttoning the top button of my suit and feeling pretty good when I caught a glimpse of myself in the hall mirror.

Never apply red lipstick in a hurry.

I suppose this was how Pat Hitchcock must’ve felt when she walked into the bathroom first thing in the morning and realized that while she was sleeping her father had smeared her face with Cherries in the Snow. What a hoot. During the filming of
Strangers on a Train,
Hitch sent her up on the Ferris wheel in the amusement park, then turned off the machine. He planned to leave her hanging overnight, but the joke got cut short when she freaked out and he took pity on her.

I ran down the hall as fast as a person can in high heels and a pencil skirt, and scrounged around in the bathroom cupboard for some makeup remover. Naturally I couldn’t find any, so I used a few drops of Frizz-Ease. It’s all the same stuff. At least that’s my theory.

It took exactly seven minutes to toss on Buster’s leash, walk him up and down the block once, and let myself back into the house. Transferring the contents of my blue shoulder bag with fringe into my red-and-plum woven clutch with the Bakelite handle took an additional thirty seconds. After that, I plugged the hot pink cell phone into the charger by my bed and hightailed it out to the eighteen-by-eighteen space in my backyard formerly known as the garage.

It was now known as the office.

My office.

I loved the sound of those words.

I’d never expected to have an office of my own, much less to be a published author. No one else had expected it either, least of all my ex. He was the one who published books—endlessly footnoted, profoundly dull tomes on James Fenimore Cooper that nobody read voluntarily (like Cooper’s own novels, it might be said)—but books nonetheless. I was the waitress. That was just the way it was.

I sat down at my Lucite desk.

For once, you could see straight down to the floor.

There were no piles of paper stacked vertiginously on top,
no index cards, no newspaper clippings, no legal pads, no random jottings. In frustration, I’d shoved those utterly useless things into a shoebox.

No, there was only one thing on the desk. That was a ten-inch collectible Madame Alexander
Rear Window
doll clad in a miniature version of the filmy peignoir Lisa (Grace Kelly) pulls out of her Mark Cross overnight bag, much to the consternation of Jeff (Jimmy Stewart), symbolically emasculated in his wheelchair, who compensated by keeping a huge telephoto lens on his lap, even while he was sleeping.

The doll was supposed to inspire me to think outside the shoebox.

So far it wasn’t working.

But that was a problem for another day.

I turned on the computer. I had thirteen e-mails, most with enticing subject lines like “Save up to 75% in the BIG SALE!” and “casino welcome conditions.” I scrolled down to Vincent’s message, mentally crossed my fingers, and opened the attachment.

Seven pictures popped up on the screen.

A dry hillside.

Scattered leaves.

An abandoned truck parked on the trail.

The Hollywood sign.

The Hollywood sign again.

More dead leaves.

Dirt.

Shit.

I pressed delete.

I’d been hoping there’d be at least a shadowy glimpse of a
person I could show to one of my CIA friends next door who’d blow it up with their know-how and expensive equipment and boom, I’d have the identity of the killer.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t going to be that easy.

I went back into the house. It was 4:40 p.m. now. I had just enough time to check my machine.

There were two messages.

Hi, there, Ms. Caruso. Sy here. Glad you called the other day. I couldn’t tell from your message if you had or hadn’t gotten the dossier. We mailed it out last week in a big, fat manila envelope. It should’ve gotten to you days ago. Give me a call back if it hasn’t shown up. We appreciate your business, as you know.

What dossier?

What manila envelope?

Who was Sy?

The number was private, so I couldn’t call him back.

The other message was from Detective McQueen. Apparently, she’d heard about the incident at the park with Alfalfa. She snickered unattractively. Then she said she wanted to make sure that the beat cop had told me about Sunday’s conversation. She dragged the word out so it sounded like “all-day interrogation without food or water in an overheated room with one-way mirrors.” But maybe that was me.

My last moments at home were spent scurrying around looking for my own cell phone, which appeared to be AWOL. I called it from the home phone, but didn’t hear it ringing. Maybe it was somewhere in my car. If not, I was going to have to go back and see my friend George with the Afro. Or maybe I would live without a cell phone. What good had a cell phone ever done me? Why should I be reachable
at all times and in all places? Thus far, it had only led to heartache.

I flew out the front door.

Jilly’s Porsche was blocking my driveway again.

Shit. I didn’t have time to go next door and hear another one of Connor’s endless stories. I got into the car and pulled on my seat belt. I could
just
make it out if I didn’t mind mashing my grass a little bit. Javier could replace it with some sod next week. Or rip the whole thing out. Lawns were ecologically unsound anyway.

As I backed out of the driveway, my neck craned at an unnatural angle, I caught a glimpse of a car in the rearview mirror. A familiar car. A ’68 Mustang, black with red interior.

It was Gambino’s car.

The car he’d dreamed of when he still lived in Buffalo, the car he’d promised himself if he ever had the money.

It was going too fast for me to make out the driver. But I swear I saw Gambino’s square jaw. His close-cropped hair. His wire-rimmed glasses. The little crinkles around his eyes that appeared whenever he was concentrating hard on something, or laughing at something funny somebody had said.

Maybe it was a trick of the light.

Had to be.

Because I wasn’t ready to admit it was wishful thinking.

T
hey tried, you had to give them that. The walls were painted a soothing shade of blue, a jasmine-scented candle was placed discreetly in the corner, and Barry Manilow was crooning an inoffensive tune. But the room still radiated waves of anxiety.

The window slid open with a creak.

“Welcome,” said a woman with thick, horn-rimmed glasses and an advanced case of rosacea. “You’re here for a five o’clock, aren’t you? You look a little edgy.”

“I’m fine—”

“Take a deep breath. All the doctors are running behind. We had a fire drill at three. Do you need tissues? Take some. Please. They’re complimentary.”

She gestured to a hamper filled with enough pocket packs for everyone in greater Los Angeles suffering from a serotonin deficiency.

“I think there may be some confusion,” I said. “I’m giving the
lecture on Hitchcock and the problem of identity. Your series on psychoanalysis and the arts? I’m not a patient.”

My accountant, Mr. Keshigian, was the patient here. Given his creative approach to the tax code, I was surprised he could make do with biweekly sessions. The man had nerves of steel. Medication also helped. Anyway, he’d gotten me this gig. He was always finding me odd jobs. He worried about how I was going to manage in my impending old age, which was sweet, but rather rude when you thought about it. In any case, five hundred dollars was five hundred dollars.

“Ah, Dr. Caruso.” The receptionist clapped her hands in glee. “We’ve been expecting you. Oh, they’re going to love your sexy little suit! Red symbolizes defloration, you know. Time to shake things up around here!”

“Actually, I’m not a—”

“They’re not quite ready for you in the lecture hall, Dr. Caruso. Did you get some tissues? Maybe you’re sensitive to the sudden change in weather? Okay, then! Just make yourself comfortable. It’ll be a minute.”

There was one couch, and it was covered with an Oriental carpet. I didn’t know if I should take a seat on it, or lie down and start talking. I sat down. But there was no escape. Staring down at me was a blown-up photograph of Sigmund Freud, puffing on his favorite phallic symbol. Averting my gaze, I noticed a small bronze statue of a four-breasted Sphinx that had been repurposed as an ashtray. Poor thing couldn’t breathe. She was being smothered by too many breasts. Fine. So I have mother issues. But what kind of mother won’t let her daughter wear purple to the prom and makes her wear red, the color of defloration? When I wound up pregnant at seventeen, who
made me get married to the wrong guy? My mother. My father was already dead. Not that the poor man wasn’t rolling in his grave—her words, not mine.

I got myself a packet of Kleenex and blew my nose. Then I buried myself in the latest issue of the
Journal of the American Psychoanalytic Society.
It had an oral fixation theme. There were articles on mouth-based aggression, nail-biting, and Freud and high cholesterol. Turns out that prior to 1924, most Americans had toast and coffee for breakfast. Then Edward Bernays, applying his Uncle Sigmund’s ideas about the unconscious to the new field of public relations, convinced people that bacon and eggs constituted the true all-American breakfast. I liked the cartoon on the back page: “An analyst says to a gingerbread man lying on his couch, ‘I am afraid you are sufferink from vat ve call zee Edible Complex.’”

“Dr. Caruso?”

I leapt to my feet. “Actually, I’m not—”

“I’d like to introduce our director, Dr. Rachel Heilmann.”

Now that the receptionist had emerged from behind the counter, I could see she didn’t have rosacea. She was just hot. Her upper lip was dotted with perspiration and her blouse was soaked under the arms. Probably menopause. She was also wearing an apron, which struck me as odd. Maybe it was a trigger for free association. Apron, kitchen, pancakes, syrup, viscous, tangle, sticky, mess, mother. It all comes back to Mommy. Ask Norman Bates.

Dr. Heilmann was not wearing an apron but rather a caftan and a strand of African beads.

“So nice to meet you, Dr. Caruso.” She extended her hand.

“Likewise, but you should know, I’m not—”

“Cranky and overheated?” interjected the receptionist. “And what if I am?”

“All right, Elsa,” said Dr. Heilmann, clearly exasperated. “I get the message. You may go ahead and turn on the air.”

“Thank you,” the receptionist said, heading back to her desk. “Age discrimination suit in the works,” she muttered as she passed me. “But I’ve been instructed not to comment.”

Dr. Heilmann linked her arm through mine and led me into a stuffy room filled with other women wearing caftans and African beads and a couple of men with beards and corduroy jackets. They looked like they’d all taken their clothing cues from the same Woody Allen movies.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Dr. Heilmann, taking her place on the stage, “a few announcements first. Our seminar this Saturday on couples therapy is canceled. Dr. Gruber has sprained his ankle and will be undergoing physical therapy. And where are my runners for the 5K? Remember, we are supporting our sister society in Detroit. Motown,” she chuckled. “Finally, I twisted Elsa’s arm—figuratively speaking, of course—and she has made us her famous zucchini muffins to have with our coffee after the talk. Yes, that’s a bribe, so don’t go anywhere. And now I’d like you to join me in welcoming our guest speaker, Dr. Cece Caruso.”

The shrinks applauded politely.

“Dr. Caruso, as I’m sure you know, is an expert on artistes such as Dashiell Hammett, Agatha Christie, and, of course, Alfred Hitchcock. She was educated—I’m sorry, Dr. Caruso, where did you receive your doctorate? I’m afraid I don’t have that in my notes. We psychoanalysts tend to be a bit anal about the back story.”

I gave up. “Harvard University.”

Dr. Heilmann beamed. “Harvard University. Very good. My alma mater. Of course, you all know that Harvard never gave Dr. Freud an honorary degree. They were assured by Erik Erikson that there was no chance he would accept. So in 1936 they offered the degree to his arch-nemesis, Carl Jung!”

She waited until the cries of outrage died down.

“And now, ladies and gentleman, I give you—figuratively speaking, of course—Dr. Cece Caruso!”

I took the podium. Figuratively speaking, of course. Not that Dr. Caruso wasn’t capable of hoisting something that weighed a mere eighty pounds. She worked out.

Hitch loved dirty jokes, so I started with one. “A psychiatrist was conducting a group therapy session with four young mothers and their small children. ‘You all have obsessions,’ he said. To the first mother he said, ‘You are obsessed with eating. You even named your daughter Candy.’ To the second mother he said, ‘Your obsession is money. You even named your child Penny.’ To the third mother he said, ‘Your obsession is alcohol, and your child’s name is Brandy.’ At this point, the fourth mother got up, took her little boy by the hand and whispered, ‘Come on, Dick, we’re going home.’”

They liked it.

Hitchcock has long been a favorite of shrinks, and no wonder. His films depict all manner of psychic phantasmagoria: hypnosis, concussions, nightmares, hallucinations. Take Scottie’s attacks of vertigo in the film of the same name. Hitchcock had us experience them along with Scottie by having the camera track away from the subject and zoom toward it at the same time. Film scholars have long interpreted
this dual camera movement as emblematic of Scottie’s mental instability. But the truth is that here and elsewhere, Hitchcock was less interested in psychological extremes than he was in extreme visuals.

This goes back as far his earliest experiences in silent film, where visual style always outranked narrative logic. Indeed, many of his most memorable scenes abandon narrative logic entirely (think of Cary Grant being chased by the crop duster in
North by Northwest).
Or rely upon a single striking image to tell an entire story (as in
Strangers on a Train,
where the murder is seen through the lens of the victim’s glasses).

This is not to say that Hitchcock was a formalist with no interest in human psychology. Quite the contrary. What fascinated him in particular, however, was the question of identity: false identity, mistaken identity, split personality, and, above all, the figure of the doppelgänger, or double.

Innocent young Charlie and murderous Uncle Charlie in
Shadow of a Doubt.

Bruno and Guy, in
Strangers on a Train,
who swap murders.

Norman Bates and his mother in
Psycho.

Roger Thornhill and his imaginary alter-ego, George Kaplan, in
North by Northwest.

Suddenly, Dr. Heilmann’s hand shot up. “What does Hitchcock have to say about feminine identity?”

A good question.

What is discussed again and again in the Hitchcock literature is the “wrong man” theme: the innocent man mistaken for his guilty double. But what is in fact more interesting is the extent to which all of Hitchcock’s heroines are the “wrong”
women—that is, women who have sacrificed their identities to fulfill someone else’s desire.

In
Shadow of a Doubt,
young Charlie’s mother says, “You know how it is. You sort of forget you’re you. You’re your husband’s wife.”

In
Vertigo,
Judy pleads with Scotty, hell-bent on transforming her into someone else, “Couldn’t you like me, just the way I am?”

Hitchcock is the Master of Suspense, yes.

But he is also a poet of feminine loss.

The suspense isn’t merely about whether or not the bomb will go off, or someone will get away with murder. The suspense is about whether or not, once lost, a woman’s identity can ever again be found.

That’s when it hit me.

What about my identity?

I hadn’t been alone since I was seventeen. Who was I without a man? Without a PhD? Without a BlackBerry?

And then the room started spinning. I reached out and clutched the podium.

Dr. Heilmann was immediately at my side. “You don’t look very well, my dear.”

“I—I don’t think I had any food today,” I stammered.

“Eating disorder?” asked a chubby woman wearing eight strands of beads, but I might have been seeing double. “Can cause amenorrhea and later osteoporosis in perimenopausal women.”

“Are you talking about me?” I said too loudly. “I may be a grandmother, but I’m barely forty!”

Suddenly, the shrinks were surrounding me en masse.

“Have you been experiencing extreme degrees of stress?”

“Have there been any major changes in the close relationships in your life?”

“Have you taken on any new responsibilities, either in the personal or professional arena?”

“Do you feel trapped, and that you have nowhere to turn?”

After two of Elsa’s zucchini muffins, three cups of hot coffee, and a promise from Dr. Heilmann to consider how I might benefit from psychoanalysis, they finally let me leave.

As I drove down Wilshire Boulevard toward Hollywood—because, no, this very long day wasn’t even
close
to being over—I felt multiple sets of eyes upon me: Dr. Heilmann’s, Dr. Freud’s, my mother’s, my daughter’s, Alfalfa’s, the hatchet face’s, Detective Collins’s, Detective McQueen’s, the person with the voice that was cold as ice and hard as a stone—you pick.

I suppose I was being paranoid.

But like the saying goes, just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean you’re not being watched.