Kissing the Beehive (11 page)

"Yes! Tell me five things you believe in. And no bullshit. Don't be cute, don't be clever. Say five
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things right out of your heart, and don't think about it."

Offended, I tried to pull away. He held tight, which made me even more uneasy. "All right. I believe in my daughter. I believe in my work, when it's going well. I believe in . . . I don't know, Frannie, I'd have to think about it some more."

"Wouldn't do any good. Listening to you talk, all that cynicism leads you to one big fucking wall of nothing. You know the saying, 'The fox knows many things, but the hedgehog knows one big thing'? The difference between you and me is I have at least one big thing that matters and gives me direction.

I'm sure Edward Durant didn't kill Pauline. One day I'm going to prove who did.

"Even with all your success, you've got a fox's eyes, Sam -- nervous and edgy, they don't stay on any one thing too long.

"_I_ think you're back here because you're trying to get away from your life. Trying to return to some old part that's dead and safe. But maybe there'll be something in it to save you. That's really what attracts you, because where you are now is some Sunday in the middle of your life and the rest of your week looks pretty grim."

He let go of my hand and left the room. I heard him go down the stairs and then the sound of the television again. What was most interesting was the calmness of my heart. Normally bells and whistles would have been going off in there. I have a quick temper and an even quicker emergency defense system that throws up the walls in my soul whenever it is attacked. This time, however, my insides were as calm as the truth because that's exactly what he had spoken and I knew it.

We didn't see each other again that night. Around two in the morning, after rolling over and over the phrase 'one big thing,' I gave up hope of sleeping. I went downstairs to do whatever I could find to do in someone else's house after I'd just had my skin peeled off.

In the kitchen, the McCabe cupboards were an explosion of circus-colored junk-food boxes and a vast array of bottled hot sauces. The fridge had a hodgepodge of nasty-looking survivors from various takeout joints. When it came to food, Frannie called himselt a "gourmutt" and seemed pleased about it.

There was nothing else to do but turn on the Van Damme video for a few minutes and spend time with the Muscles from Brussels. I went to the machine to put in the video. Lying on top of it was a porno film titled _Dry Hard_. It starred Mona Loudly and from her picture on the box, Mona looked like better company for the midnight hour than Jean-Claude, so I put it in, figuratively speaking. A little porno now and then is good for the soul, and mine could have used a spicy diversion.

Before the film started, the company advertised some of its "Come -- ing Attractions!" A few minutes of sleaze to rev up our appetites for another trip to the dark corner of the video store. I laughed at the clip of the first one, settling into the mood. Then the second preview came on, _Swallow the Leader_.

Veronica Lake opened a door to a hunky-looking repairman. _My_ Veronica Lake.

One and a half minutes of my lover doing guess what with a Jeff Stryker look-alike.

I bet _you've_ never had that experience: The woman who is charmingly modest about undressing, always closes the door when she goes to the toilet, and likes to wear simple white nightgowns to bed is suddenly in front of you on a television screen, doing things only prisoners and misogynists dream of women doing.

_My_ Veronica Lake.

What is the decorum for asking your lover why they didn't tell you they acted in porno movies?

Where is Miss Manners when we really need her?

The next morning I called a friend who is a movie buff and also happens to be plugged into every Internet station in the galaxy. I asked him to find out how many movies Marzi Pan had
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made. Two. _Swallow the Leader_ and _The Joy

Fuck Club_.

While I was sitting in a semi-coma, trying to think of what to do next, Veronica called. I tried to be normal but my voice must have sounded like it was coming from the other end of the Alaskan Pipeline. She picked up on it immediately.

"What's the matter?"

"I found out about Marzi Pan, Veronica."

Whatever I was expecting, what she said next wasn't it.

"Oh that." Her voice was dismissive, uninterested.

"What do you mean, 'Oh that'? For Christ's sake, Veronica, why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I was afraid you would react like this. What do you want me to say, Sam, I'm sorry?

Sorry for once being a person I no longer am? Sorry you had to find out before you cared, or knew, enough about me to understand?

Which sorry do you want?"

"I'm spinning, Veronica. I feel like I'm inside a clothes dryer."

Her voice became very small and hesitant. "Do you want to hear about it now? The whole story?

That's what Zane meant in L.A. when she told you to ask me about Donald Gold. It was his fault, but I went along because I wanted him to love me. I would have done anything and that's what he wanted. He even thought up that name for me.

"But it's _over_, Sam. That was years ago. You're not ashamed of anything in your past?

Something you can't do anything about, so you just have to be sorry and move on? I'm proud of myself now. Proud of who I am and what I

do. I'm proud that you want . . . ," her voice faltered and she took a quick breath, ". . . that you want to be with me." She had begun to cry and it was clear why.

Shit that I am, I could think of nothing to comfort or console her.

Instead, I whispered I would call her back and hung up.

The cemetery in Crane's View is wedged between the Lutheran Church and the town park. It's nondenominational and some of the gravestones date back to the eighteenth century. Ironically, both Gordon Cadmus and Pauline are buried there, not far from each other. It's a small place where you can have a good look around in less than an hour. When I was a kid we'd go there at night to mess around, sneaking up on each other, or making noises that were supposed to be scary but fooled no one.

I got out of my car and climbed over the low stone wall that enclosed the grounds. It was a beautiful morning, warm and still, the air full of birdsong and the smell of flowers.

I found Pauline's grave first. The stone was a small black rectangle, engraved only with her name and dates. The plot was well tended: Clearly

someone spent time there bringing fresh flowers, weeding, keeping a candle burning inside a small protected lamp. I stood above it, thinking not very original thoughts -- what a tragedy, what would she be doing now if she had lived, who killed her. I remembered the time I saw her at school bent over a drinking fountain. She was wearing a white blouse and long red skirt. Her hair was in a ponytail that she held to one side while she drank. Passing by, I had purposely veered so as to pass within inches of her. For one instant I was the closest person in the world to Pauline Ostrova. Her hair was shiny, her fingers so thin and long on the silver knob.

Kneeling down, I ran my hand across the lettering on her gravestone and said, "Remember me?"

I stood up slowly.

I started away, thinking to look for Gordon Cadmus next. A car slowed and stopped out on the street. Thinking it might be Frannie, I turned and saw it was only a brown UPS van making a delivery. Then because of my position, I

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saw the back of Pauline's gravestone for the first time. Written on it in thick white letters was

"Hi, Sam!"

After Pauline's death, a number of strange occurrences took place in Crane's View. Some of them we were aware of, others Frannie told me about years later.

The day after we'd found her body, someone went around town writing "Hi, Pauline!" in large white letters on walls, the hoods of cars, sidewalks, you name it. We saw it on the side of the Catholic-Church, on the huge glass window at the Chevrolet showroom, on the cashier's booth at the movie theater.

Our gang was used to rowdy acts, but this was sick. Never for a moment did we think any of us could have done it. Gregory Niles, the class brain, said it was "pure Dada." We didn't like the sound of that, whatever Dada was, and threatened to kill _him_ if he didn't shut up. Pauline's death was bad enough.

Murder doesn't belong in a small town and we were dazed by what had happened.

But someone -- someone we probably knew -- thought it _was funny_. Writing a greeting to a murdered girl was funny. For the first time since returning to my hometown I felt real foreboding.

When I got back to Connecticut, my darling child was sitting in the backyard, feeding popcorn to Louie, my unpleasant dog. Of course when he saw me he growled, but he always did that. I could feed him steak, pet him with a fur glove, or take him for hour-long walks. No matter, he still growled. Cass thought he blamed me for the breakup of my last marriage. So I tried to tell him Irene didn't like him either but to no avail. We put up with each other because I fed him, while he was at least some kind of company when my empty house got too large. Other than that, we gave each other a wide berth.

Cass had been baby-sitting him while I was in Crane's View. Normally, she lived with her mother in Manhattan during the week and came up to my house on the weekends.

I sat down next to them. "Hi, sweet potato."

"Hi, Dad."

"Hi, Lou." He didn't even deign to look at me.

She turned to me and smiled. "How was your trip?"

"Okay."

"How's Greta Garbo?"

"Okay."

The three of us sat there like Easter Island heads, staring into the off. Louie saw something in the corner of the yard and skulked off in that direction.

"How come when I was a kid we used to have great dogs, but when I grew up I chose him? The only male on earth with permanent PMS."

"Gee, Dad, you're in a good mood. Want to have a catch?"

"I would love to." I got up and went into the house for the baseball gloves and ball. They were on a table in the hall next to the mail. I looked it over and saw an express letter from Veronica. I appreciated the fact she hadn't called, but wasn't in the mood to listen to her right then, so I put it

down and went back outside.

As a youngster, Cass was the best Little League baseball player around.

She threw like a pro and could hit the ball into next week. Things changed as she grew older, but she was still the best person on earth to play catch with.

For her birthday a few years before, I had bought her a ridiculously expensive baseball glove.

Opening the package, she took the mitt out and buried her face in it. Then she rubbed it up and down her cheek and said in an ecstatic voice, "It smells like the gods!"

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We tossed the ball back and forth, the first throws slow lobs to warm up our arms. That sound, that immortal American sound of a hard white ball slapping into the pocket of a leather glove: father and his kid together.

After a few minutes, I nodded at her and she began throwing much harder. I loved everything about this. The knots in my head from the last few days began to undo themselves. This girl could throw both a curve and a knuckleball, two things I had never been able to do in my life. Sometimes I could catch them, sometimes they were so tricky and well thrown that I was completely baffled and they sailed by, back to the fence. I was in the midst of retrieving one of those when Cass broke her news.

"Dad, I've met someone."

About to throw her the ball, I dropped my arm instead. A smile grew on my face. "Yeah? And?"

She wouldn't look at me, but she grew a smile too. "And, I don't know. I like him."

"What's his name?"

"Ivan. Ivan Chemetov. His family's Russian. But he was born here."

This was dangerous ground. I knew anything I said now would determine how open she would be with me about what was really going on. Forget it. "Have you slept together yet?"

Eyes widening, she giggled. "Dad! How could you ask that? Yes we have."

"Were you careful?"

She nodded.

"Is he a good guy?"

She opened her mouth to speak, stopped, closed her eyes and said, "I hope so."

"Then mazel tov. I'll kill him the minute I see him, but if you like him, I'll wipe my tears and shake the man's hand." I flipped her the ball. She caught it with the most subtle little twist of her hand. My beautiful girl.

"Does he play ball?"

"You can ask. He's coming over in half an hour."

We continued our catch until Ivan the Terrible rang the bell. The dog moped toward the door to see if anyone was bringing him food. Cass sprinted, while Dad held the baseball a little too tightly and tried not to scowl. I had been ruing this moment for years. Like the character in the Borges story who tries to imagine all the different ways he can die, I had wondered a hundred different scenarios of what it would be like to meet the fiend who deflowered Cassandra Bayer. Shake his hand? Spit on it, more likely. Perverse as it sounds, even when she was a little pixie I had thought about the day when . .

. and now here it was.

Ivan. Ivan the Terrible. Ivan Denisovich. Ivan Bloomberg, one of the biggest assholes I knew.

What was his last name, Chemetov? Cassandra Chemetov?

Say that one fast three times.

"Dad, this is Ivan."

Half a head shorter than Cassandra, he had the kind of chiseled Slavic features and brushed-back long hair, short on the sides, you often see in

Fascist art of the twenties and thirties. A handsome boy, but hard enough looking to open a can of peas with his stare. Add to this the fact he was wearing a T-shirt that covered arms roughly the size of Popeye's and Bluto's combined.

"Mr. Bayer, it's a pleasure." His shake was surprisingly gentle and long. "I've read all your books and would love to talk with you about them."

I asked the pitty-pat questions fathers are supposed to ask on first meeting the suitor: What do you do? Freshman at Wesleyan University, wanted to major in economics. Where did you two
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