The Twenty-Year Death (47 page)

She took another half-step away from me. Then, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

I sighed through my nose. “Thank you, Connie.”

She waited another half beat and the fiancée appeared beside me, her brow wrinkled, her lips puckered ever so slightly. Connie ducked and said, “Thank you,” and hurried to the elevator where she pushed the call button and watched the row of lighted numbers above the door.

I turned to the fiancée, who looked a little lost, and renewed my smile. “I’m sorry, but I don’t remember your name,” I said.

She looked at me, confused, as though she didn’t expect that I could speak. “Yes, of course,” she said, “Mary O’Brien.” She held out her hand, and I took it, turning it so I could hold it in both of mine.

“Joseph is a lucky man.”

She looked at her hand in mine, but seemed unsure how to reclaim it. “Yes, well...”

“I thought Quinn always wanted a daughter.”

“She was very kind to me, even while she was sick.”

It was hard to reconcile the phrase “very kind” with Quinn, but I nodded as though I knew just what she meant. “Perhaps we could mend things now. I would very much like to have a daughter as well.”

“I thought Joe needed some time to himself,” she said. She had exquisite cheekbones and small bright eyes and her unease and the wrinkle across her brow were precious.

“Of course.”

“He’s upset. He’s not himself.”

I still held her hand and it grew warm in mine. “Of course.”

“I’ve read your books,” she hurried.

I felt my own face falling, the charm slipping. “Thank you.”

“Joe didn’t want me to, but I needed to. You do see why? Don’t you?”

I felt strained, tired.

“You will be my father-in-law, even if... Well you understand.”

Joseph appeared then, still stormy, and upon seeing me clutching his future wife’s hand, he sucked in his lips to try to control himself as he took her by the elbow. “Come now, Mary.”

She drew her hand back as though she’d touched something hot and he steered her towards the elevator. It was a move I had used many times myself on his mother—but never on Clotilde—and I knew Mary was in for a talking to on the way home.

“I was just saying you’re a lucky man, Joseph,” I said, keeping pace, but maintaining a distance of several feet. “I wish you’d give me a chance to make things right with us.”

He kept his eyes on the numbers above the elevator, his back to me, not even allowing the possibility that I might come into his line of sight, and whose fault was that? My own son! He
kept a firm grip on Mary’s elbow. I knew my face had grown plaintive, and it made me sick at myself.

The elevator came, the bell dinged like the end of a round, and I watched them get on. Just before the doors closed, they turned, and Joseph gave me a withering look of pure hatred, a look that hurt more than any words could have, used to, as my years of drunkenness had made me, declarations of disgust, pathetic amusement, consternation, pity, and sadness. I didn’t think I’d ever be able to pick up my feet to walk a single step. And my empty stomach was much too hollow.

I got my copy of the will and went back to the hotel. Vee was sitting in front of the vanity in her slip, making up her face. She turned in her chair when I came in. She had only done one eye so far, so the right eye looked wide and innocent while the left was hard and mean. “Well?” she said.

I threw the will onto the vanity in front of her, and sat on the bed in almost the same position I had been in that morning. “I thought you weren’t going to be here when I got back.”

She had snatched up the will and was skimming through it, flipping pages. “Tell me. I don’t understand this stuff. What’s the number?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? What do you mean nothing?”

“Just that. I didn’t get anything. It all goes to my son.”

She threw the will at me. It bounced off of my arm, fell onto the bed, and then slid over the edge, fluttering to the floor. “Then why the hell did we come out here?” She turned back to the mirror on the vanity, and went to work on her other eye.

“I’m mentioned. If Joe had died before Quinn, it would have gone to me.”

“Well, a lot of good that does us.”

I wanted to say her anger didn’t do us a lot of good either. But why bother? She was like that. It didn’t matter that I was feeling just about as if getting up to go to the bathroom was too much effort, she was laying into me.

“You better get ready to spend a long time here,” she said, applying her makeup with hurried, jerky strokes. “Because you can’t think I’m going to get Carlton to pay for your ticket back to S.A. You were a deadbeat loser out in Hollywood and you’re a deadbeat loser on the east coast too. When will I ever learn?”

When would either of us? “You didn’t think that when you met me. You threw yourself at me. You loved my books. You were a fan. It was such an honor.”

“And didn’t you eat it all up. I’d read some of your books. A big-time writer. I didn’t know you were broke.” She started putting away her brushes, gathering tubes, pencils, closing various compacts, and stowing them in her makeup kit. “All you care about is that somebody’s read your damn books. Well nobody has.”

She said that just to hurt me. And it worked every time. We were like a broken record, having the same fight over and over, and still each word squeezed me tighter and tighter. “Where are you going?”

“Carlton put the wife on a plane to Palm Beach this morning. It’s just the two of us for the next few days.” She snorted. “And you.” She got up and crossed the room to the armoire on her side of the bed, and pulled out a black sheath dress. She held the hanger above her head to examine the sheer fabric.

“Are you going to be back tonight?”

She bunched up the dress to get at the hanger. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” She had the dress over her head.

My chest squeezed even tighter, and my anger turned into anxiety. I hated her one moment, and I couldn’t live without her the next. “Vee, please. You’ve got to come home tonight. I don’t know if I can take being alone.”

“Then don’t take it.” The dress fell down the length of her
body. “Go out. Go find some floozy, or go jump off a bridge, I don’t care.” She straightened the dress, and then turned her back to me waiting for me to zip her up.

I got up, came around the bed and gripped the zipper. “I’m serious, Vee. This thing with Joseph...” My eyes stung, and I tried to swallow the lump in my throat. “I don’t have anyone anymore, and my own son...he’s my own kid, and he won’t even talk to me. You don’t know what that’s like.”

“I don’t even know where my kid is,” she said, waving her hand over her shoulder, hurrying me.

I zipped her up. “That’s different. You gave your kid away. Joseph... He wouldn’t even look at me.”

“You know what?” She picked up one foot and slipped on a heel, and then the other. “If he’s hurting you so badly, I’ll tell you what to do. Kill him. That way he’s out of your hair,
and
the money is yours.”

The idea was so startling that I didn’t know what she meant at first. “Money?”

“From the will,” she said, fully dressed now. “How do I look?”

“What are you talking about? How could you even say that?”

She rolled her eyes, and shook her head. She pulled a small black sequined purse out of the armoire, and went to the red handbag on the bed. She started pulling things out of the one and putting them into the other, her wallet, a small vial of perfume. “At least you’re drinking again. Thank god for small favors.” She pulled out her gun, a pearl-handled two-shooter that Carlton had given her.

“Why do you need that thing?”

“Carlton doesn’t like it if I don’t carry it. Where are my keys?”

“Vee, Joseph—”

“It was a joke. Relax.” She threw the red handbag down.
“God damn it, where are my keys?” She stood up and stared at the vanity, shook her head, and clipped her purse closed. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t need them anyway.”

With every further preparation, my throat got drier, and the muscle in my cheek spasmed. The thought of killing Joseph made me nauseous. Vee leaving made me weak. I started thinking about what drink I would order downstairs when she left.

She expertly stormed into the living room towards the outer door.

I called after her, “I love you.”

She called back without turning around. “I told you about saying that.” The door opened. “It’s not true anyway.” The door closed behind her, and I was alone, and I couldn’t figure out where to go, or how to even take a step.

What I wanted was to go down to the bar. I knew it was a bad idea, but that’s what I wanted—a Gin Rickey. It sure sounded good. But I was on the wagon again, I told myself. That morning had only been an exception. I couldn’t have another drink, it was the last thing I should do.

But, I thought, maybe I could go see Joseph again. Give it another try. He might just see me. That girl of his Mary seemed open to smoothing things over, a nice girl and she liked my books. When a guy’s dame got involved, anything could happen. He might... But I knew he wouldn’t. I wasn’t kidding myself. Joe would just see it as a grab for Quinn’s money, and he’d probably be right.

The money! What was I going to do for money? We were counting on that inheritance. Vee would leave me here, she really would. There was a time when I just had to cable that I had a story written—not the story itself, just that it was written—and a magazine would cable $1000 just like that, and that was
during the Depression, too. But nobody would give me money now. They couldn’t even pretend it was an advance at this point. I hadn’t written a single sentence in years. But if I did write...

If... Ha!

But if I did... Then they’d have to send me money, Auger or Pearson, somebody. Maybe I
should
write. That’s what I could do. Then I’d get some money, and then once one story was written, I could write another, maybe even take on a novel again. There was no reason I couldn’t! A publisher would love to have a new Shem Rosenkrantz book, a triumphant return.

I looked around for the pad a good hotel like the Somerset always provided. It was on the telephone stand in the living room. I picked it up, and underneath there was a room key attached to a plastic diamond that read “Suite 12-2.” It had to be the key Vee was looking for. Without thinking, I slid it in my pocket and began to look around for a pencil. There wasn’t one on the stand. I opened the drawers of the desk, then both bedside tables. There wasn’t anything to write with. I even checked the bathroom.

I stood in the center of the living room, tapping my foot, and scanning the suite to see if there was someplace I had missed. I could go down to the desk to get a pencil, but that seemed like too much effort. And as I thought further about it, I got more anxious, and the idea of writing began to seem insurmountable. I didn’t know what to write anyway. I didn’t really want to write either.

I stepped to the phone, picked up and asked for a long distance connection to California. It took almost a full minute, but then I was through to the Enoch White facility on a shoddy connection. “Yes, this is Shem Rosenkrantz. I’d like to speak to
my wife.” It was mid-morning in California, and it was likely Clotilde was outside on the grounds if the weather was nice. But it wasn’t more than two minutes until her voice came through to me, and the connection improved.

“Shem?” she said.

I grew weary, her voice an excuse to let go. She’d make it all better. “Clotilde...”

“Have you been drinking?” she said. Just like that. One word and she knew.

“We didn’t get anything from Quinn,” I said. “We got nothing.”

There was a pause. When she spoke again, her French accent was thicker than at first. “Director Philips has been very good to us,” she said. “I’m sure he’ll understand.”

“I’m not sure he will,” I said. The director had made himself quite clear on my visit the previous week. We had to the end of the month, and then they would either release Clotilde or transfer her to a state hospital.

“But I’m Chloë Rose,” she said, the name one she hadn’t used in ten years. “I’m...it’s good for their advertising, no?”

“I’m not sure it matters anymore.”

Her voice grew tight and I started to pull myself together. I couldn’t hope that she could take care of me; I had to take care of her. “I can’t leave here,” she said, and then switching to French,
“Je n’ai pas—”

“English, Clotilde. My French is no good anymore.”

“Shem, it’s not safe for me to leave. It’s just not safe.”

I couldn’t tell if that was a threat, that she would kill herself if forced to leave, or if it was part of her paranoia, her paralyzing fear that she was going to be attacked at any moment.

“It’s not safe, Shem.”

“I know, sweetheart.”

“You can talk to Director Philips.”

I sighed. “I will.”

“Shem, I can’t leave.”

“Calvert’s nice,” I said, trying to put cheer in my voice. “You remember that time we stopped here, it must have been ’36, ’37, before the war? We picked up Joe?”

“Shem. Don’t let them make me leave.”

I forced a smile. “Don’t worry, honey. It’s going to be all right.”

“You’ll talk to Director Philips?”

“Put him on,” I said, and immediately there was a clunk as she put the receiver down. She would go find a nurse who would transfer the call back to the front desk who would then transfer me to the director’s office. She could never figure out how to transfer me back to the desk herself. While I waited, listening to the faint shush of the open line, I thought again about my options. Maybe I could ask Joe for a loan. He could afford it now. Or maybe Vee could get some actual cash out of this hood Carlton. My chest tightened as I ticked off each option, knowing that they weren’t ever going to be.

Director Philips came on the line, all business. “Mr. Rosenkrantz.”

“Director Philips, I just wanted to assure you, I’m in Calvert, things are working out, it’s just going to take a little time, I’ll be able to pay you some of our arrears.”

“That’s great news. Thank you for telling me.”

“I just want to make sure there are no preparations for Mrs. Rosenkrantz to be moved. It upsets her very much.”