Authors: David Guterson
Tags: #Fiction, #Literary, #Psychological, #Philosophy, #Free Will & Determinism
Ed King (18 page)
The day came, though, when they were jointly disappointed. Steve refused to take money for his “disaster,” and tried, fruitlessly, to correct it with his shears. This way, things went from bad to worse until Steve, with tears in his eyes, asked Diane to join him outside for the cigarette he needed “to just come down from this … this … I don’t even want to say.” On the sidewalk, pacing in front of the salon and smoking furiously, he was silent for a long time. Then, with one of his zippered black boots on the salon’s windowsill, and with his anguished scrutiny of her bad hairdo distorting his face, he urged Diane to see “a specialist friend of mine
about a light facial peel, just to touch up and rejuvenate a little, and I’m paying for it, because I feel so devastated.” Diane felt immediately drawn to the idea, and wondered why she she’d never thought of it.
Steve’s friend was a dermatologist named David Berg, whose results were so overwhelmingly good, and whose manner was so encouraging and soothing, that Diane became a fan of light facial peels. Always explaining everything as he went—“This is just a very gentle cleanser; now I’m applying our magic solution; now we’ll carefully and thoroughly rinse; I’m just finishing up with a little soothing lotion”—and doing it in a silky voice, Dr. Berg made a facial peel seem like a spa treatment. Each time, Diane was amazed and impressed by his ability to coax new vibrancy from her skin with a minimum of pain. Her peels were a private matter between her and Dr. Berg that Diane paid for with Walter Cousins’s money, taken from her secret safety-deposit box in Sullivan’s Gulch. When the time came for more elaborate work, though—targeting the fine wrinkles in her brow, around her mouth, and next to her eyes—Diane was forced to discuss it with Jim, because there wouldn’t be a way, said Dr. Berg, to pretend it hadn’t happened. A crust would form on the treated areas, and for a couple of weeks they would appear bright pink, before she could expect the end result of a smoother, tighter, more youthful appearance. “But you don’t need to do that,” Jim countered when she explained, “because I’m Billy Joel—I love you just the way you are.”
Diane wanted to say, “It isn’t about you, Jim,” but by now she knew better. “I just feel fortunate to live in modern times,” she told him, “and to have the wherewithal for an intensive peel, and while it might be better, morally speaking, to give our money to charities, we can do that, too, can’t we?”
“We can,” answered Jim, “but that’s not the issue. I don’t know how else to say this, but the issue is vanity.”
He was sitting with his Docksiders crossed on the coffee table—not, Diane thought, the best posture for an attack on vanity. “What about your weight-lifting supplements?” she asked, even though he hadn’t used them for years. “What is it you take? For more defined muscles? Or that thing you ordered—what’s it called?—the Ab Blaster? Come on—don’t be self-righteous.”
Jim flexed his right biceps facetiously. “And now my abs are perfect,” he said.
So she went for the more intensive peel, which hurt a little, and ended
with a coating of petroleum jelly, substantial adhesive tape, and pain meds. At home that night her eyes swelled shut, and in the morning she woke up sick to her stomach and suffering from a second-degree facial burn. She couldn’t say much, because talking hurt her face. Half blind, mute, and in considerable pain, she had to wait patiently for her appearance to improve. After two weeks, some stay-at-home weight gain, and a thousand-plus pages of Sidney Sheldon and Harold Robbins, her face, indeed, looked great.
At Mazatlán, the next month, she was scrupulous about staying out of the sun, for which Jim rebuked her, but this was an argument he couldn’t win, because the American Cancer Society was on Diane’s side, and because Nelson had recently had basal-cell carcinomas removed from his left cheek and temple. Diane passed hours in a breezy cabaña, playing games of Scrabble with Nelson and Isobel, drinking Evian water and piña coladas, and earning points for being charitable to the geriatrics. It was easy, mindless duty, and in every regard it would have been all right were she not made to feel so insecure by the many younger women passing by. They looked so good that Diane felt terrible and vowed to lose five pounds straightaway.
On Thanksgiving, she resisted the stuffing and potatoes and, avoiding the kitchen, focused on her nieces. Diane was popular with the teen-age Long girls, not only because of her vestigial English accent but because, out of earshot of other adults, she joined their adolescent criticism of the world. Before dinner, she’d leaned in the doorway of a bedroom where a density of Long darlings had congregated, and laughed when one of them pointed out that Uncle Trip had gross chest hair. Diane told her nieces that chest hair could be sexy, which they would understand when they were more experienced. This numbed all talk while they deciphered Aunt Diane and—she knew—grappled with discomfort. No matter. She let a beat pass before revealing to her confused audience that men who were feminine in gesture and aspect could be attractive as well. Diane looked theatrically up and down the hall to make certain no adults were in hearing distance, then urged her nieces not to count on condoms. They should take the pill, or get an IUD or a diaphragm—the pill, of course, was best. Again there was discomfited teen-age silence, which she ended by saying, “I suppose I should join the oldies for cocktails and hors d’oeuvres in front of the television, and for chitchat about—whatever.”
Through the December holidays, Diane ate with greater-than-normal
abandon, and the inevitable weight gain—some in her butt, some in her midriff—left her in need of a mood pick-me-up in the form of yet another facial peel. Jim, who was at this point well practiced as a husband, asked, “What weight gain are you talking about?” Nevertheless, when she weighed herself, four new pounds corroborated her position that a visit to David Berg was necessary.
Dr. Berg listened to Diane’s concerns, then referred her to a friend in body reshaping, a Dr. Green in Lake Oswego, who, Berg said, was “absolutely magnificent.” At her first appointment with Dr. Green, he wanted to know what she didn’t like about her body, and asked about her psychological, marital, health, and eating problems. At a second appointment, Diane had to take off her clothes and submit to being photographed by a nurse with a Polaroid instant camera, and to a tape measure and calipers. She and Dr. Green discussed her butt and midriff, and then he insisted that she take a week to think about the risks—including the risk, however slight, of death—and about the scars he would do his best to conceal, the possibility of less-than-perfect results, and the certainty that time would undo all his efforts. A month later, Diane had a combination tummy tuck and butt lift, supplemented by liposuction contouring. Other than some irritating itching around her stitches, and a little redness at the site of a surgical drain—remedied with an antibiotic—her recovery period, though boring, wasn’t painful. And the results, after three months, were good.
In fact, that spring she looked “incredible”—Jim’s word—in a French-cut bikini on the beach at Puerto Vallarta, where Jim’s clan was a bit desultory, because, just two days before their departure, in a surprise to all, Sue had reported that her trucking-magnate husband had been philandering with a much younger woman. The Longs were livid and ready for a war. Jim told Diane that he hoped his sister would “take that jerk for all he’s worth and drive him into the ground.” Before the summer was over, she had.
In September, Walter Cousins stopped sending money. At this stage his faltering was financially meaningless, but, still, Diane wasn’t going to let him get away with it. If Walter thought time had let him off the hook, he definitely had another thing coming. Feeling vindictive, victorious, and gleeful, Diane wrote a letter to Walter’s wife. “Dear Mrs. Cousins,” she began. “This is rather hard. This is far from pretty.” She paused for a
moment at this early stage of composition, imagining Mrs. Cousins at the reading end of this, then added:
I have to tell you that, in the summer of 1962, when I was employed as an au pair in your home, your husband repeatedly took advantage of me. He took advantage of my youth and insecurity. He took advantage of a young woman who was a visitor to America. For years I’ve lived with the disturbing memory of the summer of 1962. I’ve also lived with a considerable burden, because I’m the mother of your husband’s child. I have a boy, age sixteen and a half, who until this month your husband supported with monthly payments of $250. Unfortunately, those payments stopped coming recently. This is most regrettable, because I’m dependent on those payments to meet my son’s needs. Perhaps you could remind Mr. Cousins of his obligations to his son born out of wedlock
.
I write to you about this only with the greatest pain. That you now know of your husband’s past behavior gives me no pleasure. Forgive me. I have no wish to add to whatever sadness permeates your life. I remember that in the summer of 1962 you were receiving treatment for mental illness and hope and pray that since then you have been free from more of same. I also remember your children, Tina and Barry, and hope that their lives are happy and in order. They were a pleasure to spend time with, and I enjoyed their company. Unfortunately, I can’t say the same for your husband. He has brought much pain into my life and, as a traumatized rape victim, I have experienced considerable hardship and misery
.
Please consider my request. I hope you can impress on Mr. Cousins the moral imperative he is under to continue to provide support for his son
.
With prayers and best wishes
,
Diane Burroughs
Lydia Cousins’s response arrived four days later, in a white business envelope, typed, with no letterhead. “Ms. Burroughs,” it began. “Walter is dead.”
He died in an automobile accident five and a half weeks ago. I’ve been assured that no alcohol was involved. It was a single-car accident on a road in eastern Washington. Walter was returning from a visit with our son, Barry, who is now a student at Washington State University. Since Walter’s death Barry has had difficulty with his studies and I am worried that this will be for him a lost semester
.
Tina, my daughter, is closer to home, studying at the University of Washington. She, too, is devastated by Walter’s passing. They did not always get along too well and poor Tina is now suffering, naturally, from guilt. I worry about her mental health, frankly. You may remember how she was as a child, so emotionally delicate and sensitive. These things remain big challenges for Tina, and have all been intensified by her father’s sudden death. All of that said, I think she’ll pull through. She is very dedicated to her studies
.
But I don’t write merely to update you on the children. My true purpose is to respond to your revelation regarding the summer of 1962. Let me preface my response to that by pointing out that Walter went outside our marriage in 1973. He was discovered and we confronted it via marriage counseling. With the years we came to grips with what had happened, and we went on together, not without some happiness. That said, it’s disheartening to now know that Walter lied when he insisted to me that the philandering he was discovered at was the only philandering he’d engaged in throughout our marriage. It hurts to know that our subsequent life together had as its foundation this deceitfulness on his part. I have to wonder now what else he never told me about, and this is compounding my grief at the moment and making it even more difficult for me to get on with life. But get on I must. And I will tell you that despite my sadness I am in many ways looking forward. What’s done is done
.
Ms. Burroughs, I must tell you that, though I am not entirely in accord with your version of what happened in the summer of 1962, I have no problem with your use of the term “rape victim.” It was rape because you were in Walter’s employ, and therefore placed in an unfair position when it came to his advances, just as a secretary is in an unfair position when propositioned by her boss, and just as a college girl is in an unfair position with regard to a professor she has a lust for. In all of these situations the term “rape” can be fairly applied because the participants in the sex act are not on equal ground and
do not come to bed with the same power or leverage. One partner has it over the other, and this was the case with Walter and you. Shame on him for that. There is no excuse for it
.
That said, I feel certain that Walter didn’t physically overpower you. I feel certain that you played some part in it. What we both are calling rape might also have elements of a sordid affair between a married man and a willing and sophisticated girl. Maybe a young and very confused girl, maybe a girl who is a victim of circumstance and of her childhood and culture and so on and so forth, but still there remains this element of will. I have a feeling, Diane, if I remember you correctly, that this didn’t go all in one direction
.
With regard to the money, I do believe that, after sixteen and a half years, Walter has fully done his duty. I wish you the best in raising your child, and I do hope he flourishes in the world, but as for money from Walter, that’s over
.
In closing, I’m saddened by the news you’ve sent me, but I suppose, in keeping with grief as a catharsis, this sad revelation comes at the right moment
.
Sincerely yours
,
Lydia Cousins
About the time she turned thirty-three, Diane began mulling a face-lift. Certain holiday photographs jump-started her in this direction, but it was the trip to Lake Placid for the 1980 Winter Olympics—where Long Alpine was spending considerable money—that confirmed in her the need for action. The dry air there wreaked havoc on her complexion, sucking so much moisture from her skin that no amount, or brand, of rehydrating cream helped. Diane found herself looking, for long spells, in her hotel-room mirror, and feeling depressed because her jawline was sagging and the cords in her neck were tightening. In a parka and hat she looked so middle-aged that she didn’t want to go out to watch ski events with the family. She had to, though, because the Longs were expecting her, there’d be irritating questions if she failed to show, and so, standing in the snow wearing huge Vuarnet sunglasses, she found herself feeling ugly and bereft while the Olympics took place at a weird distance.
