The Pocket Wife (22 page)

D
ana can see Peter through the glass. She sees him as she eats her dinner, some kind of poached fish she can't identify, bland and watery, a soggy sprout of broccoli, a slice of buttered toast. She sips her water, setting the plate back on the tray to be picked up later. They've let her eat in her room because of Peter's being there to visit. He stands, shifting from one foot to the other in the small space on the other side of the glass.

She sighs. She runs a brush through the tangles in her hair and walks into the bathroom, where she splashes water from the tap across her face. It's the first time she's seen her husband since her transfer here, since the night she was picked up, since he came to see her in the cubicle at Bellevue sometime before dawn. She bends over to put on the new slippers he left at the nurses' station along with several other items in her overnight bag. Small fake jewels glitter up from the yarn toes. She sighs again and walks out to the lobby to perch on the flowered couch across from the TV.

When Peter sits down beside her, Dana feels a slight shifting of things, a subtle upheaval of her insides. She wants to leave, to run away. She's learned here in this place to listen to her body, to her
heart. These last days in D Ward, she's been learning to stop, to examine and absorb what makes her feel this way or that before it overwhelms her, before she reacts. She works on these things now, in group, in sessions with Dr. Ghea, these coping mechanisms.

She is one of three women in group therapy; the other four members are men. Sometimes Dr. Ghea is the facilitator, but usually it's Dr. Tim. One of the other women—Tina, she calls herself, although Dana wonders if she's made up the name, if she has another, truer, less flamboyant name she uses in the outside world—is a suicide like Dana. As they say Dana is, even though she's tried to tell them countless times how wrong they are, how different she is from them, that she had only meant to fly. “This is what I would have done if I'd wanted to die,” she said one afternoon in group. She'd flung her wrist in the air, shown them her scar, let them gaze at the white, puckered line between her veins.

“Why?” one of the men said. Riley, she thinks it was. “Obviously it didn't work too well the first time.”

She didn't answer. She didn't have an answer. She lowered her arm and thought about what he said and wondered if “flying” might not be another word for “death.”

The walls of the group therapy room are filled with paintings that remind her in some way of Spot—wild, unfettered paintings. Swirling. Colorful. Many of them were done by patients on D Ward, some while they were locked up here, when they stood drugged and weaving at their easels, painting from memory or from photographs brought in by family members or friends or lovers. Painting what they saw around them, the cacophony of sights and sounds, the slippery blur of things, the colors far too elaborate, too daunting, too dazzling to be real, or painting what they saw through the window—the barren bleak of winter, the dead, denuded trees, the brown wisps of grass. She's begun to paint in art-therapy class. Her paintings aren't the thick, pulsating, van Gogh works she'd planned to do; they're watery and small, but she likes them.

She sees herself in Tina. She hears her thoughts in Tina's words, and in Melinda's as well—heavy, sad Melinda with her stockings pulled up past her knees, her long sleeves covering her arms but not erasing the random, unexpected glimpse of cigarette burns and pencil stabs, of toenail-scissor cuts in the soft white skin of her thigh.

And every once in a great while, Dana sees herself in one of the four men—so different from one another, so vastly different from her, and yet in some ways they are all the same, dancing on the precipice, the face in Munch's
Scream,
sharing the bright and naked thing that burns like a meteor inside them, that makes them want to sing, or die or, Dana finally understands, to fly.

“Hello, Peter.” She doesn't look away; she's no longer afraid that he can see inside her brain, and even if he could, she no longer cares. She takes a deep breath; she looks him in the eye.

“Hey,” he says. “How're they treating you?”

“Fine.”

“Good. That's—”

“How is Jamie? Have you talked with . . . ?”

Peter nods. “He's coming back next weekend. Do you remember him being here?”

“Of course,” she says, recalling Jamie's face, the frightened look in his eyes, the earnest way he peered at her as she lay on the tiny bed in her cell-like room. She shudders. She wishes she could have stopped him from coming, from seeing her that way, that she could have spared him that at least.

Peter nods again. he sets his briefcase on the floor beside the couch.

“Why am I here?”

“You tried to jump off the George Washington Bridge,” Peter says. “We've been over this.”

“No. I mean, why am I here instead of Bellevue?”

Peter shrugs. “It's a better hospital.”

“No,” she says. “Bellevue is top-notch. This one's just closer.”

“Yes.” He shrugs again. “Yeah. It's closer. A lot closer to the house.”

“More convenient for you.”

“I suppose it is, Dana.” He sighs.

“We talked,” she says, “that first night. I begged you not to make me leave there.”

“You were crazy.”

“I
am
crazy.”

“No,” he says. “You
were
crazy. Because I had you transferred here, you are now
not
crazy.”

“God,” she says. “You are such a lawyer.” Part of her is almost happy to be sitting on a flowery couch, arguing with her husband. It seems like such a normal, sane thing to do.

“So what was our illustrious detective doing here?”

“Moss?”

“Is there another one I don't know about?”

“Probably,” she says, sparring, but her heart's not really in it.

“Why was he here?”

“He brought me my St. Christopher medal,” she says. “It was in the car.”

“Why?”

“I asked him to,” she says, and Peter nods. He looks up at the TV screen.

“So how's Spot?”

“Obnoxious and feral and probably much less happy than he would be in the wilds from which you plucked him.”

“The wilds of the exit ramp?”

“Well,” he says. “No. He's fine. He needs a girlfriend.”

“Projection,” she says, and Peter studies the muffled reality show on TV. “I guess the better question would be why are
you
here?”

He turns to her. He looks at her, finally, in the bright lights of the visiting area. “Because, Dana, you are my wife. I'm your husband. This is what wives and husbands do.”

Dana shrinks into the cushions of the sofa and stares up at the TV. “It's not enough,” she says.

Peter shrugs. “This is the best I can do.”

“I know. But it's not enough.”

“Things change,” he says. “People change.”

“I know.”

“I fixed the toilet,” Peter says, “so when we flush it, we won't have to jiggle the—”

“Great. Thanks.” There's something just there at the edge of Dana's mind, a small red stone, glinting in the mud-puddly memories of the day Celia died.

“So how're you feeling?”

“Fine,” she says.

There's so little to say. With Jamie gone there is really almost nothing to say. Here, in the hospital, in the vivid, honest lights, here where they can't hide, they fumble toward each other. The TV gleams out from the corner; an audience laughs at a pouting woman in a sundress, and they stare at it because there's really nothing left to say.

She concentrates on the small red thing, letting the voices fill the space between them. She nods when Peter says good-bye, forces a smile when he kisses her on the cheek, and when he leaves, she walks him to the door, waits with him for the nurse to open it. All the while, though, she focuses on the shiny red, the sound of a toilet flushing, the way she'd bolted from Celia's living room and stumbled down the hall to pee the afternoon her neighbor died. She remembers leaning against the counter, struggling to stay upright, so drunk that it was like moving through a dream, so drunk she'd forgotten. It's only now, with Peter's talk of broken toilets, that she remembers the shiny red dot that caught her eye
in the neat gray landscape of Celia's master bath. She remembers recognizing, even through the fog surrounding her that afternoon, her husband's tie clip, with its ruby stone, the one she gave him for his birthday three years before.

She slumps down on the sofa in the dayroom, wishing Peter hadn't come, wishing he hadn't chosen now of all times to be a good husband and fix the fucking toilet. If he hadn't, she might never have remembered what she saw in Celia's bathroom—Celia's lover's tie clip. Did Peter's carelessness push her over the edge that day? Did his flagrant disregard for her gift propel her back to Celia's living room in a murderous rage? Is she being stitched together here on D Ward only to remember on some bland morning or sleepless night that she staggered down the hallway to the living room and bashed her adulterous neighbor in the head?

I
t promises to be an interesting day. Breakfast with Lenora and dinner with Ann. Jack dressed carefully that morning. He took his time shaving, scrounging around for the aftershave Ann gave him last Christmas and splashing it liberally across his face. “You are one handsome devil,” he declared, grinning at his reflection and thinking of Ann's self-help CD, the one she popped in sometimes when they went on trips together. “Empower yourself every morning,” it said. “Look in the mirror and empower yourself with words.”

He was surprised when the first assistant prosecutor suggested breakfast. He'd planned to stop by her office at some point that morning, but when he called her from the hospital parking lot to set up a time, she'd taken him totally off guard.

“Could you get away for a quick bite?” she'd wondered. “That way I can kill two birds with one stone. No offense, Detective.”

“None taken. Where and when?”

She hadn't missed a beat. “Downtown? E.Claire's? Ten-thirty?” she'd suggested, and he'd said fine. He'd see her there. Got online and Googled the place for directions.

The warrant and the notes from Dana's purse were on his desk when he came in that morning. He's made copies of the notes, but the ones he's looking at are the originals, all tiny curlicues and peacock blue ink like they used in grammar school, snapping the cartridges in place, the fountain pens with the fine points, the girls with their peacock blue notes—the
“Meet me after class,”
the love notes crumpled in pants pockets. The color brings him back to Catholic school, to memories of Sister Gina pacing at the blackboard, her habit flying out behind her like tail feathers on a crow. He glances at his watch.

He'd never even heard of E.Claire's, which turns out to be a bustling little spot, the kind of place Ann loves and that makes him feel as if he has three heads. It's overflowing with women and fussy-looking men, clustered near the door and trickling out to the sidewalk. Sweat covers his forehead. Everyone is bouncy and fresh, everyone is sleeveless and fluffy, like a collection of Persian cats. He is suddenly heavy and dark in his work clothes. He tucks his badge inside a pocket and runs his hand through his hair. The air is thick with odors, with colliding scents of pricey perfumes and aftershaves.

He looks around. Everyone is thin, like Dana, like dancers. He stares at the door, and the crowd parts slightly, letting him through, like ballerinas at rehearsal, all pointed toes and muscled calves. Probably they
are
dancers, Jack decides.

“One?” A woman in pink tights and a busily patterned tunic stands beside him. She moves in close to him, listening for his response in the chatter of voices. Eiffel Tower earrings dangle from her ears.

“I'm meeting someone!” he yells, and she turns away, graceful in her high heels. Her hair is long and straight; she pirouettes across the lobby, distributes menus to a gaggle of arriving teenage girls.

“Jack?” Lenora appears beside the hostess, coming toward him in the crowd. Her breasts press against a white lace blouse. Her face is flawless and young. “We're over here in back.” The woman in the tunic smiles at Jack, and he picks his way through the crowd and shakes Lenora's outstretched hand.

“Good of you to come,” she says.

“Glad to do it,” Jack lies. They walk single file between the rows of myriad tables overflowing with bubbly laughter, with tan, thin arms and smoothies, with glitter-studded fingernails and powdered-sugar crepes.

Theirs is a small table toward the rear of the large restaurant. Lenora sits down first, her back to the kitchen. She faces the front door, the tunic-clad hostess, the arriving diners. Jack sits across from her and glances at the menu—small, he thinks, considering all this fluff and fanfare. He glances down, lets his eyes shift quickly over the names, the silliness, the Scandalous Scrambles and Devilish Duos.

A waitress appears with her pad, and Lenora orders the Turnover Trio, which appears to be two over-easy eggs and a croissant.

“Ready?”

Jack clears his throat. “I'll have the same,” he says. “And a coffee. Black.”

“I'll have a coffee, too,” Lenora says, “with cream. No sugar, though.”

“So a Jumpin' Jack Black and a Sweet Cream Dream, no shug?”

Lenora nods. The waitress scurries back to the kitchen.

“Quite a place.”

“It's a little much,” Lenora says, “but the service is super fast.”

Jack sets his glasses on the table beside his discarded menu, sticks a linen napkin on his lap. “So what is it you wanted to know?”

“Your case,” she says. “I need an update.”

He avoids her eyes. He studies the list of coffees on the back of the menu.

“What turned up on the prints?”

“Interesting,” Jack says, “especially the ones we got from the bedroom.”

“How so?”

“Hers were there, of course, the Steinhauser woman's.” He reaches for his croissant, delivered, along with their eggs and coffee, amid a clatter of silverware and festive, brightly colored plates. “Her husband's prints were all over the place, and then there were a shitload of other prints, presumably her lover's. Sorry,” he says. “Pardon my French. Pun intended,” he adds, gesturing around E.Claire's

Lenora smiles. She bends in close over the table, and her boobs are vastly visible. “I'd like to see the labs on those prints,” she says. “Could you bring them by my office in the morning?”

“Yeah. Sure.” Jack looks across the table at Lenora's nearly untouched plate. “Aren't you hungry?”

“Always.” She smiles. “Trying to watch my weight.” She nibbles her croissant. “What's your take on the neighbor?”

“Which one?”

“Dana Catrell. She was on the news . . . what? A week ago, maybe? I don't know if you saw—”

“I didn't.” Jack reaches for his napkin and knocks it under his chair, where it sticks to the brightly colored rug. “Her husband phoned me, though,” he says, nudging the napkin with his shoe. “He'd fallen asleep and— He wanted me to call around, to see what was what.”

“And what exactly
was
what?”

“They carted her off to Bellevue.”

“Terrible.” Lenora shakes her head. “Is she still the last one to see the Steinhauser woman alive?”

“So far.” He doesn't mention Dana returning to the scene of the crime. He's got no real proof, but almost certainly she wrote the notes he's subpoenaed from the hospital. He'll have forensics
check on that later, and if he's right, he'll bring Lenora up to speed.

“According to her husband, she has a history of mental illness. Very volatile at times. And she certainly had means and opportunity to kill her neighbor if she were so inclined.”

“Motive?”

Lenora shrugs. “Could be something trivial if this woman was disturbed enough to jump off the GW Bridge in the middle of a traffic jam.” She pokes at her eggs, takes a small bite. “Or it could have just . . . happened. If something Steinhauser said or did really set her off, she could have picked up the nearest thing and . . .” She shrugs again. “Then again, it's possible she had no involvement whatsoever. Her suicide attempt made me look at her, that's all. Guilt can make people do weird things. So . . . really tragic. All of it.”

“I agree.” Jack glances at the napkin he's now managed to bump completely out of reach beneath the table. “There are a few very strong suspects,” he says. “Two of the neighbors, the dead woman's husband, who wouldn't know the truth if it jumped up and bit him. Not enough hard evidence to make an arrest at this point.” Jack is holding his cards close. He always does, but on this case, with his own son in the mix—with all the media hype it's generated and Lenora watching him like a hawk, grandstanding, using the case to further her career—there's no telling what she might trot over to the press. Too much too soon would blow the case sky-high. “I know you want to wrap this up, but I need to be absolutely sure. Don't want to jump the gun here.”

“Of course.” She places her hand on his arm. “And I respect you for that. I really do. You're a straight-arrow dude, Jack. Wouldn't have you any other way.” She smiles, rummages in her bag.

“Let me get this.” He reaches for his wallet.

“Don't be silly. You can get it next time.” She touches his arm again, lets it linger for a few seconds. “I invited you.” She laughs. She has a nice laugh.
Robust,
he'll tell Rob when he arrives back
at work two hours late.
She's got a robust laugh,
when his partner comes in with remnants of a Krispy Kreme dotting his upper lip, teasing Jack about E.Claire's and savoring every word, every detail. Lenora signs the tab, and Jack slides it to the edge of the table as she grabs her compact to repair her lipstick, asks him if she's gorgeous yet.

“Definitely,” he tells her. “You are definitely that.”

And she is. She's every man's dream, but maybe that's the problem, Jack sometimes thinks, times like this, when she lets him know that if he came on to her she wouldn't run away. Maybe she's a little too perfect. A little too ambitious and self-serving. Still, there was that openness the other day, the things she said about her past, that vulnerability. Maybe Ann was right. He's attracted to lost souls.

They stand up, squeeze past each other in the tiny space. He'll wait a little longer before he shares what he knows. For everybody's sake. He wipes his hands on the napkin he's grabbed from the table, and it smells faintly of Lenora, of her perfume or soap or whatever it is about her that makes him think of flowers.

They part ways in the lobby. “Jack?” she says when they're several yards apart. He stops in the doorway. The light hits her, silhouettes her. “See you in my office in the morning.”

“Sure thing.” He turns and pushes his way out the door, afraid she'll see through him if he lingers there in the bright sunshine streaming in the windows. He hasn't even mentioned Kyle. There's no part of what his son told him he can possibly relay without exposing Kyle as a petty thief who broke into the victim's house and stole her money while she lay dying on the floor and who insists he didn't murder her.
Right,
he thinks.
Like that'll fly.

He takes a deep breath. Tomorrow he'll get a warrant to go back to the Steinhausers' one last time. He'll examine every piece of lint and dandruff, looking for something to exonerate his son.