The Deep End (37 page)

“I need to speak to Sergeant Stanley or his superior,” Joanne announces.

“That would be Lieutenant Fox.”

“Fine, can I speak to him please?”

“Just one minute.”

A new voice comes on the line, deeper than the first though no more authoritative. “Lieutenant Fox here. Can I help you?”

“This is Joanne Hunter, Lieutenant Fox. I live next door to Brian Stanley.”

“Yes?” He is waiting for her to continue.

“I’ve been getting these threatening phone calls and Brian, Sergeant Stanley, said that he was going to speak to you about having a patrol car keep an eye on my house. I haven’t seen any police cars and I just got another call and I know it’s probably nothing to worry about, but I just wondered when was the last time the police went by here …”

“Slow down a minute, please. You say that Sergeant Stanley told you he asked me to have a patrol car keep an eye on your house?”

“Well, he said he was going to, but that was a while ago … maybe he forgot … or maybe he hasn’t had time.” Her voice drifts to a stop. “He never mentioned anything to you?” she asks, already knowing the answer.

“What was your name again?” the lieutenant is asking as Joanne replaces the receiver.

“It’s Joanne,” she says.

“T
his is delicious, Joanne. Thank you.”

Brian Stanley, looking five pounds slimmer and ten years older than the last time Joanne was here, smiles at her from across his kitchen table. He is finishing the last of a large piece of fresh raspberry pie that Joanne has prepared this afternoon and brought over.

“Just what you need,” Eve smiles, her voice decidedly cool. “Cholesterol.”

“I used whole wheat flour in the crust,” Joanne says. “And only half the sugar the recipe calls for.”

“Aren’t you the considerate one?” Eve asks sarcastically.

“Cut it out, Eve,” Brian says flatly.

“Oh, the big, tough cop act. I love it. Don’t you, Joanne?” Eve asks pointedly.

Joanne stares into her plate. The small piece of pie she has cut for herself remains untouched. She has no appetite for it. Why did she come here tonight? Why did she put herself in this position?

“It was very nice of you to think of us,” Brian says, as if aware of what she is thinking. “I love raspberries.”

“You like anything that reminds you of the sight of blood,” Eve interjects.

“I love them too,” Joanne says, determined to carry on a normal conversation. “They’ve always been my favorite fruit. Just that they’re so expensive …”

“Do you want us to pay you for the pie?” Eve asks.

“Eve, for God’s sake …”

“Go ahead, Brian,” Eve continues. “Ask my mother for some money.”

“Jesus, Eve!” Brian exclaims, banging his fork against the side of his plate.

“Maybe I should leave …” Joanne starts.

“Please stay,” Brian urges.

“Yes, please stay,” Eve mimics. “We need you. Don’t we, Brian?” Joanne stares at her friend, scarcely recognizing the woman she has known and loved for most of her life. Like Brian, Eve has lost weight, and the angular features, once so attractive, are now pointed and severe. The red hair, long grown out of its stylish cut, seems curiously inappropriate and the green eyes have lost their former natural vitality. Eve looks as harsh and as mean as she sounds. She is no longer who she was. The trusted friend has become a feared stranger.

“Did you have any more tests this week?” Joanne asks, forcing the words out of her mouth.

“Did I have any more tests this week?” Eve repeats cruelly. “What do you care? You’re too busy these days with your own doctor to worry about me.”

“I do worry about you.”

“Not enough to call or come over.”

“I
have
called. I
have
come over. I’m here now.”

“When did you call?”

“I called several times this week. Your mother said you didn’t want to speak to me. I came by on Monday; you wouldn’t see me.”

“Why should I?” Eve exclaims. “All I ever hear from you is that I’m crazy.”

“I never said you were crazy.”

“You say it every time you open your mouth.” Eve’s eyes dart from Joanne to Brian. “He has you completely brainwashed, doesn’t he? How many times have you been meeting secretly behind my back?”

“Eve, shut up!” Brian Stanley says forcefully.

“Oh, that’s good, big man. Talk dirty to me. I love it when you talk dirty.”

“Eve, you don’t mean what you’re saying,” Joanne begins.

“Why don’t I? There’s nothing wrong with my eyes—at least not so far anyway. I can see the way you two look at each other. I can see how you’re blossoming, how you’ve fixed yourself up …”

“Eve, you’re the one who’s been telling me for years to put streaks in my hair.”

“But you waited till now. Why?”

Joanne hesitates. “I don’t know,” she answers honestly. “I don’t know much about anything anymore.”

“Welcome to the club,” Eve states, then bursts into tears. “Jesus, I hate this.” She struggles to regain her composure.

“Cry, Eve,” Joanne urges. “Let it out. It’s good for you.”

“How do you know what’s good for me?” Eve demands viciously. “Why do you want to watch me break down? Do you enjoy seeing me like this? Does it give you a sense of power?”

“Of course not. It hurts me to see you like this. I only want to help you.”

“How? By bringing over rich desserts that you know will upset my stomach? By trying to steal my husband because you couldn’t hold on to your own?”

“Eve!” Brian Stanley jumps to his feet. “Joanne, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t you dare apologize for me!” Eve yells. “You have no right.” She buries her head in her hands.

“Eve …” Joanne’s hand reaches out to her friend: she rests her fingers gently on Eve’s arm.

“Do you know what he did, Joanne?” Eve asks, her voice suddenly that of a child. “He sent my mother away. Yesterday. He made her go home.”

“The woman was falling apart,” Brian starts to explain.

“I’m
the one who’s falling apart.”

“You won’t let anybody help you.”

“He won’t let me have an operation that could save my life,” Eve wails, surprising Joanne, who looks to Brian for an explanation.

“She saw some quack this week …”

“He’s not a quack.”

“He’s the tenth gynecologist you’ve seen and he’s the only one to recommend a hysterectomy.”

“He’s the only one who knows what he’s talking about.”

“What exactly did he say?” Joanne asks, puzzled by this new development.

Eve grips tightly onto Joanne’s hand. “He says I have a badly tipped uterus and a fibroid …”

“A small fibroid, we’ve known about it for years,” Brian interrupts.

“And he says that that could be what’s causing the terrible pains in my groin.”

“What about the pains in your chest, in your back, in your stomach?” Brian questions.

“Not to mention the giant pain in my ass!” Eve states caustically, looking straight into her husband’s eyes.

Normally, Joanne would be reassured by such a remark. But it is too late for reassurance. “What does he say about the other pains?” Joanne asks.

“He doesn’t say anything about the other pains,” Eve tells her, impatience creeping into her voice. “He’s a gynecologist. He knows uteruses and ovaries. He doesn’t claim to know anything else.”

“He’s recommended a hysterectomy? Isn’t that a little drastic?”

“What should I do, Joanne?” Eve pleads. “You think I’d even consider such a thing if I weren’t in such dire pain? You know how much I hate hospitals.”

Joanne shakes her head. “I don’t know what to tell you,” she admits honestly.

“Tell her that this doctor is as nutty as she is,” Brian states flatly. “Tell her that if she goes to enough doctors, she’s bound to find a few who are willing to tell her what she wants to hear. A surgeon likes to operate, for Christ’s sake. That’s what he’s there for. You have a pain in your groin, fine. We’ll give you a hysterectomy. What, your stomach hurts? Well, we’ll just take it out. You’re experiencing a shortness of breath? Well, who needs two lungs anyway?”

“Shut up, Brian,” Eve orders. “You’re making a fool of yourself.”

“I’m
making a fool of myself?”

“It appears you don’t need any help.”

“Eve, take it easy,” Joanne cautions.

“Why did you come here?” Eve demands suddenly. “Isn’t Saturday your day to visit your grandfather?”

“I was there this afternoon.” Joanne lowers her head. “He was asleep. He didn’t wake up.”

“That’s what I’m so afraid of,” Eve whispers. Joanne regards her quizzically. “I’m afraid that if I close my eyes and go to sleep, I’ll never wake up again.”

“Of course you’ll wake up.”

“I’m afraid to go to sleep at night,” Eve repeats.

“You need to sleep, Eve.”

“I’m afraid I’m going to die.”

“You’re not going to die.”

“I don’t want to die, Joanne.”

“You’re not going to die.”

“Then what’s the matter with me? Why can’t anybody tell me what’s the matter with me?”

“Because there isn’t anything the matter with you, goddamn it!” Brian shouts from across the room.

“Brian …” Joanne begins.

“No, Joanne. Stop coddling her. She’s manipulating you. She manipulates you, her mother, me, everybody who cares about her.”

“You don’t care about me,” Eve screams.

“And it’s got to stop,” Brian continues, ignoring his wife’s outburst. “Because the more we give in to this craziness, the more we listen to it, the more credence we give to it. That’s why I sent her mother away, that’s why I’m telling you to stop coddling her. Eve needs help …”

“What for? You’re the one who’s crazy.”

“I’ll
be
crazy if I let this go on for much longer.”

“Why don’t you just leave?” Eve taunts. “It’s what you want to do, isn’t it?”

“It’s not what I want.”

“It’s what all this is leading up to, isn’t it? Go ahead, leave. You’re never here anyway. Go. Go on over to Joanne’s house. She has a freezer full of home-baked pies and a nice big bed with lots of extra room in it …”

“Eve, calm down,” Joanne urges.

“He’s very good in bed, you know,” Eve tells her. “He has this neat little trick he does with his tongue …”

“For God’s sake, Eve …”

“And he’s got a long prick, Joanne. Not too thick. But nice and long.”

“Shut up!” Brian rages, advancing toward his wife, his fists clenched.

“And a nice tight little bum. Sometimes he likes you to stick your finger …”

The next instant is a blur: Brian’s fist unclenching, his open hand extending into the air, catching the side of Eve’s face, Eve’s head snapping back, her red hair spilling across her newly reddened cheek, her body tottering off the side of her chair into Joanne’s arms.

“Brian, stop it!” Joanne screams, struggling to steady Eve’s chair so that it doesn’t fall over, her eyes registering fear and disbelief at the violence she has witnessed.

Brian’s hands remain poised in midair. He sways back and forth unsteadily. For an instant, Joanne wonders if he is going to faint, but he only looks around him questioningly, as if someone has said something he doesn’t understand, before spinning around on his heel and wordlessly fleeing the room.

Joanne turns back to her friend.

Eve is staring at her with undisguised hatred. “Go home,” she says.

Joanne is in her kitchen when she hears the knock on the door. She has been sitting at the wooden table for almost an hour, not moving. She has been witnessing the same scene over and over in her mind: Brian’s fist clenching and unclenching; his large bulk moving inexorably toward his wife; his hand shooting into the space between them, catching Eve’s face with the palm of his hand; Eve’s head ricocheting back, her hair sweeping up past her cheek, mimicking the line of his blow; her chair tottering, almost falling; the blankness in Brian’s eyes; the hatred in Eve’s. Go home, Joanne hears Eve say again. Go home.

The persistent knock at the door continues, followed by a ringing of the bell. Joanne forces herself out of the chair and over to the intercom. She presses the appropriate button. “Who is it?” she asks, knowing that her voice is being carried down the street.

“It’s Brian, Joanne,” comes the response.

Joanne lifts her finger from the intercom and stares at the floor. What does he want? What is there left to say? She starts toward the door and suddenly stops. Why hasn’t he spoken to Lieutenant Fox the way he said he would?

His large bulk fills the door frame.

“I brought your pie plate back,” he says, handing it over. “I washed it.”

“Thank you.”

“Can I come in?”

“Should Eve be alone?”

“Eve’s locked herself in the bathroom.”

“Do you think she’ll hurt herself?”

Brian almost laughs. “Are you kidding? Not before she’s buried the rest of us.” He catches the look of dismay that passes across Joanne’s face. “Please, Joanne, can I come inside?”

Joanne backs in to let him enter. He closes the door behind him and follows her into the kitchen. “Do you want some coffee?” Joanne offers, hoping he’ll say no.

He shakes his head. “I’ll be up all night as it is.” He stares out the sliding glass door into the night. “I’ve never hit a woman before,” he says finally. Joanne says nothing. “I don’t know what happened,” he continues, trying to explain the events to himself, almost ignoring Joanne’s presence. “I just went blank there for a few minutes. I kept hearing this strange voice saying those awful things, and bingo, something snapped. The next thing I knew, my fingers were stinging, the palm of my hand hurt … I didn’t mean to hit her, Joanne. I don’t know what happened.”

“What can I say?” Joanne asks. “I don’t know what to tell you.”

“Maybe I should do what Eve says. Maybe I should leave.”

“You can’t do that.”

“I can’t beat her up every time she goes off the deep end.”

Joanne nods. “No, you can’t. But you can’t leave her. What would she do? How would she manage?”

“Her mother would come back.”

“Do you think that’s wise?”

“I don’t know. I
do
know that I can’t stand much more of this. I’m being honest. I’m pretty close to cracking myself these days. I mean, I just slugged my wife. I might
have killed her if you hadn’t been there.” He laughs, and the incongruous sound fills the space between them. “Who am I kidding?
She
might have killed me.”