Mercy (17 page)

“Did you, any of you, often do that at Cristof’s?”

“Actually, no. Times are changing, you know. We tend not to go around hitting on guys at bars. I mean, we don’t; people still do, I guess.” She looked at Palma’s hands. “You’re not married?”

“Divorced.”

“So what do you do?”

Palma ignored the unexpected question, though it seemed to have been asked more out of genuine curiosity than flippancy.

“Did you know Dorothy’s ex-husband?”

Mancera nodded, a subtle look of distaste changing the pleasant shape of her mouth. “I met him once. The guy’s an absolute waste. None of us could really feature them together. Totally out of Dorothy’s league. Dorothy was…classy. Very sharp. Guys like that didn’t even get close to her. But I understand he went way back, before Dorothy learned a few things.”

“How did they get along?”

“They didn’t.”

“How did you happen to meet him?”

Mancera rolled her eyes, remembering. “It was a strange incident.” She kind of laughed and frowned at the same time. “Some of us were over at Dorothy’s one night, this was over a year ago, and he simply showed up at her door. It was clear she was stunned to see him—later she said she hadn’t seen him in almost a year. He just pushed his way in. Nothing she could do about it. I didn’t know who he was so I didn’t know what the hell was going down. It scared me. He stormed right into the living room and Dorothy jumped up and kind of ushered him back out into the entry. We could hear them arguing. The strange thing was the way Dorothy was acting. She was always so strong, you know. Among us she was kind of the pacesetter. The New Woman. But we could hear them, and she was wheedling, trying to soothe him, calm him. They got quiet—I don’t know, this sounds sleazy now, but we were all sitting there petrified, listening to this—they got quiet and we heard this, these, intimate sounds. They were kissing, making out. It was crazy. Then suddenly whap! He hit her. It sounded like an open-hand slap. A couple of us jumped to our feet, but nobody left the room. The door slammed, and he was gone. Dorothy ran down the hall to the bathroom before anyone could get to her.”

Mancera pushed aside some papers on her desk and found a pack of cigarettes. She lighted one, turned around to the credenza and found a heavy crystal ashtray, and put it in front of her.

“It was crazy,” she said.

“That was it?”

“Well, you know, we tried to get things back to normal, went into the kitchen, made drinks, lighted cigarettes, started trying to clear our heads after that downer. When Dorothy finally came back into the room she apologized. Some of the girls wanted to talk about it, but Dorothy cut them off. It ruined the evening.” She pushed at the smock sleeves. “All I could think of was those sounds in the entryway. Those were not the sort of sounds that should have gone with that little scenario. You hear something incongruent like that, it sticks in your mind.”

Mancera was clearly still bothered by the events of that evening. She didn’t know what to do with her eyes so she turned and looked out the glass wall. The hand holding the cigarette was resting on the plate-glass desk, the wrist cocked back, the cigarette trembling.

“Do you know any of the men Dorothy dated?”

Mancera shook her head without even giving it any thought and turned back to Palma.

“I don’t know how it is with you and your friends, but with Dorothy and us, the little bunch of us that often go to Cristof’s together after work, men just aren’t part of the agenda. As participants, anyway. We might talk about them, share war stories, but we aren’t interested in being with them in that context. It’s just girl talk. You know, kick back and relax, say what you want to, forget the minuet of the sexes.”

She put out her cigarette, only half smoked.

“So to answer your question: no. Aside from that one shabby little episode at her place that night, I know nothing about her men and their relationships. I hope it was better for her with the others.”

Palma liked Mancera. She didn’t seem to have anything to hide, didn’t appear to be walking on eggshells like Saulnier and Kittrie. But then, she wasn’t as close to Samenov. Aside from that, Linda Mancera seemed a more straightforward personality and was simply more confident as a woman.

“Can you characterize the way Dorothy talked about men when you were together?” Palma asked. “You said you shared ‘war stories.’ What were hers like?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Mancera frowned. “Nothing really sticks in my mind about it except that maybe she seemed a little more independent than the rest of us.” She shrugged and smiled ironically. “You see, that’s the problem. I do think of her as the symbol of the woman of the new age: independent, a successful businesswoman who hasn’t fallen into the old cliched power traps like a lot of women. Too often I’ve seen women who’ve achieved a degree of success in ‘the men’s world’ stop being women and simply start acting like men in dresses, miming the old male models, being just as hard-ass, being one of the boys. But not Dorothy. She was true to herself, to being a decent human being. But then there was that episode at her house when she seemed like the sweet, suffering, battered wife. God. I guess I hadn’t admitted even to myself how much that had affected me. Listen to me. I can’t stop talking about it.”

She stopped and looked at Palma. “Sorry, I didn’t really answer your question, did I? How did she talk about men? I honestly don’t remember any particular attitude in a sexual context. I guess she had pretty much the same views as the rest of us. You know, I guess we’re all generally less tolerant than maybe we used to be. We don’t take the bullshit from them that we used to, demand more, not as willing to compromise.”

“Do you know if she dated a lot?”

“I always had the impression she got around quite a bit.”

Palma watched Mancera closely and asked, “Were you aware of her interest in rough sex?”

There was a blank expression followed by slowly raised eyebrows. “Rough sex?”

“We found photographs among her personal things, and some sexual paraphernalia. She was in some of the photographs.”

Mancera swallowed. “Jeez-us. I never heard anything about that from her.”

“Aside from her ex-husband, do you know any other men in her life?”

Mancera shook her head.

“Have you ever heard of Wayne Canfield or Gil Reynolds?”

“No, sorry.” Mancera paused and looked at Palma, finally realizing what all the questions were adding up to. “You don’t have any leads on this? You’re still trying to come up with something?”

“We haven’t had a lot of luck so far.”

Mancera hesitated for a second, but went ahead. “What…exactly, were the circumstances?”

“She was strangled.”

“In her home?”

“Yes.”

“They broke in?”

“It doesn’t appear so. She might have known the person.”

“Jesus. Oh, I can see…” She looked at Palma, nodding. “I’m sorry. I really wish I could be more helpful. Poor Dorothy. You just don’t ever imagine these things, not in a million years.”

“Well, I appreciate your taking the time.” Palma stood and laid one of her cards on the plate-glass desk. “My home number is on the back of the card. If you should think of anything you believe might be helpful to us, please call me. Anytime. I don’t care if it’s three in the morning.”

Linda Mancera walked Palma back through the aqua corridor to the reception area, saying that she would do anything she could to help, that she wanted to be available if there was any way Palma thought she could use her. She seemed genuinely affected by Dorothy Samenov’s death and sincere in her desire to be of service. She was the first glimmer of something positive that Palma had encountered.

14

M
ary Lowe was ten minutes late, but she made no reference to it as she came into his office. She was Broussard’s last appointment in the afternoon. They exchanged a few brief pleasantries as Dr. Broussard pulled his armchair over nearer the chaise than he normally kept it, and Mary sat on the edge of the chaise and unbuckled her sandals. Today her hair was down, and she wore a polished-cotton chintz sundress with a full skirt and bare shoulders that once again gave him a view of the tops of her breasts. He watched them as she swung her feet onto the chaise and lay back.

“What would you like to talk about?” he asked, crossing his legs and settling into his armchair.

“My father.”

Broussard was surprised. After so many weeks of inanities Mary seemed to be finally wanting to get to the crux of her own psychological story. Perhaps the last session had indeed been a turning point. It had been a long time coming.

The idea that Mary should undergo psychotherapy had not been hers, but her husband’s, and Broussard had seen from the beginning that she was going to require a rather complicated therapy. Paul and Mary Lowe had been happily married for four years. They had two children, a boy, three, and a girl, one and a half. Paul was an executive in a successful computer-manufacturing firm with a salary that put them in the higher income brackets. Mary had help with the children and the house; she didn’t have to worry about balancing a tight budget. She was attractive, well dressed, well educated, and active in one or two civic organizations with the proper social standing. Her life, by all appearances, was very good indeed.

This was common with his clients. On the surface of things, none of them appeared to belong there.

Then, nearly a year earlier, Mary began making excuses in order to avoid sexual intercourse with her husband. The frequency of their intercourse decreased. At first her husband believed they had let their lives become too crowded with obligations; they needed to set aside more time to nurture their relationship. He told Dr. Broussard he had read about this sort of thing in magazines. They simply weren’t spending enough “quality time” together. Paul Lowe was a good husband. He began to be more attentive to her; he arranged for occasional long weekends during which the two of them would take short trips alone. He did everything that the experts in the magazines said a man should do to revive a flagging marriage.

But nothing changed. Mary persisted in making excuses, avoiding intercourse whenever she possibly could. When her husband confronted her with her obvious disinterest, even aversion, she reluctantly relented to his overtures and tried to discount his concern. But she was still unresponsive and tense. He had sexual intercourse with her—alone—a bizarre feeling that he could not long tolerate. Eventually it became clear to him that she actually was repulsed by intercourse, though she had no objections to lying in bed and holding him, or to being held by him. She seemed to find this comforting, seemed even to desire it, but sexual interaction beyond this simple demonstration of affection caused her immediate anxiety.

Even with all this, Paul could not believe the sexual part of their marriage had come to an end. From time to time he would try to initiate intercourse, believing if he were gentle enough, delicate enough, understanding enough, loving enough, then she once again would become comfortable in their intimacy. The result was that Mary developed functional dyspareunia, and finally vaginismus. She developed a vaginal rash she could not relieve. She told her husband that her gynecologist was puzzled by her disorders and was trying a variety of medicines to cure them. But there was no change.

Finally, their damaged relationship and Mary’s condition became so unbearable that Paul called her doctor himself, only to learn that the gynecologist had been telling Mary for months that in all likelihood her disorder had psychological and emotional origins, and he had encouraged her to consult a psychiatrist. He had given her several names and recommendations, but she had not acted on his advice. This discovery led to Paul Lowe’s ultimatum that either she sought professional therapy or he could no longer live with her. Because she truly loved her husband, Mary was horrified at his threat. But she refused to see any of the doctors her gynecologist recommended. Instead, a friend gave her the name of Dr. Dominick Broussard. It was not the best of circumstances under which to begin a relationship with a psychiatrist, but it had to do.

He began with a goal-limited therapy to relieve her anxieties, which were the source of her physical symptoms. But even this took longer than he expected, and while he was enjoying being with her because of her remarkable beauty, he was also extremely impatient with the psychodynamics of her disorders. There was little she could say or demonstrate that he had not heard or seen in some other fashion in the context of some other woman’s miseries.

“My stepfather, actually,” she said. Her sundress had a fabric cord belt and she held the two loose ends of the cord in her hands, toying with them. The small pucker at the corner of her mouth tightened ever so slightly. “He was an executive with Exxon. When we finally stopped running, we ended up here in Houston. I remember a period of time in boarding-houses still, while she was trying to find a job, and then finally she did. My mother is a very beautiful woman, even now. She’s only fifty-four. She has a contradictory personality. Though she’s very efficient, very orderly, she has blind spots…about people. She seems very compliant, not pushy, but it’s largely a deceptive front. When you stand back and look at what actually happens to her, you see that she always comes out on top of things. She’s a very skillful manipulator. She looks out for herself.

“Anyway, she got a job with Exxon, a secretarial job, I think. She met my stepfather there. After a while, a year maybe, they were married. Our lives changed overnight—dramatically. We moved from a boardinghouse in Brookhaven to an enormous ivy-covered home in Sherwood off Memorial Drive. Mother quit working. I was enrolled in a private school. We bought clothes, so many clothes. Douglas, his name was Douglas Koen, didn’t deny us anything. He was a kind man, and he must have gotten a great deal of pleasure out of giving us a new life. He spoiled us and we loved it, and we loved him for doing it.

“That first year in our new home was like a dream. It seemed too good to be true, and sometimes I lay in my clean bed at nights and remembered the two years of dirty rooms, and I never ever wanted to live like that again. And I remembered my father too, and wished that somehow he could have been a part of our happiness also. I felt guilty about the fact that he was fading further and further into the back of my mind, that he had become secondary to my own happiness and comfort.”