Dead by Any Other Name (16 page)

forty

Sputnik walked into the
room and gave me a look that said “Are you okay, mama?”

I reached down and scratched his chest, “Yeah, I'm okay.”

There was a knock on the back door downstairs. I went down and let George in. He was resplendent in a porkpie hat set at a jaunty angle, a spangly purple shirt, shiny black slacks, and a mammoth gold horseshoe necklace that Kanye West would consider ostentatious.

“Lookin' good,” I said.

“So no Josie?”

“Nah, she can't bust loose.”

“Maybe somebody should bust her loose.”

He followed me back upstairs and sat at the kitchen table while I went into my bedroom and finished dressing.

“Antonio promised to come when he's finished with his work at the track,” George called.

Knowing that just about anything I said would set off a round of reproach, I opted for an Antonio-neutral, “This should be fun tonight.”

“What's
that
supposed to mean?” George demanded, appearing in the bedroom doorway.

“It's supposed to mean that I'm looking forward to the party.”

“You mean you're looking forward to my abject humiliation if Antonio doesn't show.”

I zipped my lip and headed downstairs. George followed, “Oh, so now I get the silent treatment?”

I led us out the back door and headed across the street to Chow as George said, “Boy, for a therapist you sure are passive aggressive.”

The party was just getting started. Abba had pushed the tables to the sides and filled the place with tea lights, there was an amazing spread along the length of the counter, a small bar was set up, and people of all ages, sizes, and mojos were pouring in, dressed up fine and ready to party the Hudson Valley night away. Pearl was standing behind the counter, her usual dazedness having morphed into what looked to me like full-fledged shock.

Mad John ran over and wrapped himself around me.

“Jan-Jan!”

George quickly set up his laptop and speakers for D.J. duty and the music started to roll. The dance floor filled up quickly. Mad John was an interesting dancer: he basically leapt ecstatically up and down in place, occasionally bouncing around a bit, sort of like a human pogo stick.

I got a glass of wine and found Abba in the kitchen pulling more food together, nursing her own glass of vino.

“This is going to be one hell of a shindig.” I raised my glass. “To you.”

We toasted. “It's important to celebrate the good times,” she said. “And this town has been very good to me … So what's up?”

“What do you mean?”

“You seem distracted.”

“I've got a lot on my mind. You know, Natasha Wolfson and all.”

“It's the ‘
and all
' that I want to hear about.”

I sat on a stool and clocked the party through the pass-through.

“I can't stop thinking about Josie.”

“I know you can't. And I need extra help around here
desperately
. Put your heart and my restaurant together and it equals time to bring that girl home.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“I'll be here to help you any way I can, and you know that George, in spite of himself, is about as rock solid as a person can be. That man would take a bullet for you. You'd have a lot of support.”

I felt something well up inside me, something big and scary and maybe beautiful. The party was growing wilder by the second, people were calling out congratulations to Abba, popping their heads into the kitchen, raving about the food, dropping off presents.

All the action was comforting somehow, but I felt detached, like there was an invisible shield between me and the hubbub, even the music sounded far away, and then I heard her voice echoing across the years—
Come on, baby girl ‘o' mine, it's a special day, a magic day, we're going to go out and play …
and she took my hand and swung our arms like we were sisters and off we went, out into the streets of the East Village, to Tompkins Square Park where the trees were the fresh green of spring and she waved to everyone and danced around with her arms out and kissed me and hugged me and loved me … she
did
love me, didn't she?

“There she is—my daughter, the star!”

I was pulled back into the kitchen by the arrival of a thin, elegant black woman wearing a silk mandarin jacket and matching pants, her gray hair tight on her head, her face—fine and beautiful with Abba's amber-green eyes—broken into a wide grin of pure pride.

“It's my mama!” Abba cried, looking like a little kid.

They kissed and hugged. Then Abba turned to me, “Janet, this is my mom, Liz. Mom, Janet.”

Liz Turner took my hands in hers, “What a pleasure.”

“Indeed.”

Jay-Z and Alicia Keys singing
Empire State of Mind
came on and Liz broke a few moves. “It's always so good to be back home.”

“Mom spends most of her time out in Berkeley these days, though she still has her house up in Catskill. How was your flight?”

“It flew.”

“Striped bass for everyone,” Zack bellowed as he and Moose blew into the kitchen.

“We got the goods, baby!” Moose dumped a barrel of glistening fish into the huge stainless sink. Moose was six-feet-six of pure male id—he and Zack together were a testosterone orgy.

“I hope you know you're cleaning those suckers,” Abba said. Their faces fell. “You heard me, get to work.”

Zack came over and gave me a kiss, “Hey, babe.”

“Hi, Zack,” Liz said.

Zack turned to her, took her hand and kissed it, “Now that the queen is here, this is
officially
a party. This is my buddy Moose.”

Moose nodded from the sink, where he was already elbow-deep in fish innards.

“I need a smoke,” Liz said, “Keep me company, Janet?”

I nodded, she took my hand and led me out to Abba's small back patio. We sat at a round bistro table, she took a joint out of her bag, lit up, took a toke, blew it out, and then sang:

“
Puff, the magic Negro
.”

We laughed and she offered me the joint, I shook my head.

“I never smoke at home,” she said. “My current husband disapproves.”

“What does he do?”

“He's a retired professor of African-American studies at UC Berkeley. Lovely man, a bit snooty at times, but well-heeled, great sex, and we're both from the loose-leash school of marriage. It works.”

She looked up—the night was black and moonless, tossed with stars. “Look at that Hudson Valley sky. And smell that old man river.” The slight breeze carried the river up to town, damp and earthy, loss and promise.

“I'm crazy about your daughter,” I said.

“Isn't she something? She's always been an independent little cuss.”

“Yeah?”

“I raised her that way. Can't stand that clingy nonsense. You have any kids?”

I hesitated. “No. Never really had the urge. The idea of being a mother scares me.”

“There's nothing to it.”

A bitter little laugh escaped me.

“I took my cues from the animals,” Liz said. “They let their young know they're loved, teach them how to hunt and hide and fight and play, and then it's hasta la vista, baby, mama's got her own bag.”

My mom taught me to get my own Cheerios, does that count? Half the time the milk was sour, but they tasted fine dry. And she taught me to expect nothing and trust no one, especially your own fucking mother.

But listening to Liz, I knew with urgent finality what I had always suspected—that it could all be different, that motherhood wasn't rocket science, that I didn't need a degree, that I could trust myself, that women had been raising children for thousands of years and it just took a mix of commitment and discipline, kindness and common sense.

“Liz to Janet, come in please?”

“I'm sorry, I've got a lot on my mind.”

“Well, hand it over.”

This time there was no stopping the wave, and this time I didn't want to stop it. I stood up.

“I'll be back in a little while,” I said.

I ran across the street and got in my car, took out my phone and texted Josie.

“I'm coming for you. Pack light.”

“Been packed for weeks.”

I pulled out of my driveway and headed toward the thruway.
And then, for some crazy reason, I turned on the windshield wipers
.

forty-one

I knocked on the
Maldens' front door. Doug Malden opened it; his wife, Roberta, stood behind him.

Now that the moment was here, I suddenly felt vulnerable, presumptuous, rude, guilty. “Hi, I'm Janet Petrocelli, a friend of Josie's.”

“And what can we do for you?” Doug Malden asked.

Josie appeared on the staircase behind them. Seeing her, my courage returned.

“You can let Josie go with your blessings,” I said.

The Maldens looked at me like I had two heads.

“I want to take Josie back to Sawyerville with me. We're going to talk to her caseworker on Monday and petition family court to make the move legal. I know this is very sudden and not really fair to you, but it's just … it's just that I feel very strongly that it's best for Josie. And for me.”

Doug Malden took this in, stuck his hands in his pants pockets, and stood up straight.

“And exactly what kind of
family
would you be bringing her into?”

“Me. My family. There's me. There's my pets.”

“Your
pets
?”

“Yes. Lois, Bub, Sputnik.”

“
Sputnik?
”

“He's a great guy, terrier mix, scruffy, bright enough, he's crazy
about Josie.”

“Is he now?”

I nodded.

“Well, my goodness. What could be better for a young girl than to be taken out of a nice clean Christian household and thrown in with a single woman and a dog named Sputnik?”

“I have friends, too, there's Abba and George and Mad John and—”

“
Mad John
?”

“He's a very upstanding little guy.”

“This is outrageous.”

“I know it is, and I'm sorry I didn't give you any warning but … but …” I looked over at Josie, she was beaming at me like a mom at her tongue-tied kid, “… but Josie is
loved
in Sawyerville, and I'm taking her back, back home.”

Josie came down into the hallway. “Mr. and Mrs. Malden, you've been good to me and I'm appreciative, but I belong in Sawyerville with Janet.”

“Don't you tell me where you belong. I'm the adult here. You're
just a girl,” he glanced down at her bum leg, “a girl with problems.”

Josie looked at him for a long moment, turned, ran up the staircase, and was back in a flash with a suitcase, a backpack, and a laptop. Her way forward was blocked by the Maldens. Then Roberta Malden placed a hand on her husband's forearm and took a step back, “We can't force her.”

Doug blew out air and muttered, “This is the damnedest thing.”
But he followed his wife's lead and stepped back.

Josie walked past them and out of the house.

As she and I headed down the front walk to my car, two words kept going through my head:
Oh shit
.

forty-two

I wish I could
say the drive back to Sawyerville was filled with high spirits, giddy chatter, estrogen-fueled bonding. It wasn't. It was filled with doubt and second-thoughts on my part, and a considerate reserve on Josie's. We touched on the mechanics of her starting back up at Sawyerville High, on working with her caseworker to make the new arrangement legal, and just generally dancing around the gorilla in the Camry.

When we got home, Josie carried her stuff upstairs and reclaimed her old room, Sputnik went frigging shortcakes, Bub flew upstairs and got in the action, Cruella De Cat slunk around with her tail swishing, pretending she didn't care. I had a lot of junque in the room and Josie and I lugged some of it down to my workshop. When she was more or less settled in, she sat on the bed and said, “Thank you.”

Now that Josie was here my ambivalence was receding, morphing into something that felt right and doable, and that simple “Thank you” pretty much sealed the deal. This kid was special and I was one lucky chick to have her in my life. In fact, it kind of felt like I had more to gain from the deal than she did. She'd already forced me to open up and be straight with myself, to look my scariest demons right in the face—to admit that little Anna tore a hole in my heart, that my abandonment by my mom was still a chasm of longing and anger—to practice what I'd preached to my clients for all those years, that denial is a dead-end and closure is a myth, that trauma leaves a scar and that scars can be beautiful, badges of kindness and humanity.

“There's a bunch of people across the street who will be very happy to see you,” I said.

“Let's go.”

forty-three

The party was pouring
out into the street in front of Chow, folks smoking and laughing. Inside the dance floor was jammed, food was being devoured, flirtations blooming, heated discussions going down, this was one helluva bash. I scanned the room—no sign of Chevrona.

Mad John saw us and let out a cry of joy that could be heard in Cincinnati, then ran across the room and leapt on Josie, wrapping himself around her. Pretty soon George, Zack, and Abba were giving her their own version of the same. All the attention was a little much for her and she retreated to the kitchen with Abba to help her stay on top of things—Abba being a natural-born host, more concerned with her guests' pleasure than her own.

Zack pulled me out onto the dance floor and we boogied for a while. My heart wasn't into it. It had been a big night for me and I could feel emotional exhaustion coming on.

“You okay, babe?” Zack asked.

I nodded. He danced close to me, our bodies touched.

“You did a mitzvah,” he said. “And one mitzvah deserves another—let's head over to your place.”

“Not tonight, Zack.”

“Why not?”

“I've just got too much on my mind, I'm wrung out.”

He looked hurt, in an exaggerated sort of way. Then he shrugged. “All right. I get it.”

“In fact, I think I'm going to head home.”

He put a hand on the back of my neck, it felt warm and comforting and sexy. “I'm proud of you, Janet.”

Just when I thought Zack was too glib, too shallow, too
yo-dude
for me, he did something like this. I kissed him, “Thanks, Zack.”

“Let me walk you home.”

“That's okay, you stay and have a good time.”

Once I got out in the night air, I felt better, the wide open sky, the air growing humid, promising some September heat, that thick enfolding Hudson Valley heat that seemed to kick the world into low gear. Maybe it could slow down my churning wheels.

I got home and realized that I was too wound up to sleep, so I put Sputs on his leash and we headed down toward the town beach on the Esopus Creek.

In spite of Josie and everything else going on in my life, my mind kept going back to Natasha's death. I'd been gathering a lot of information about a lot of people and it was all swirling around in my head. Which was a good thing. In my practice with my clients I liked to listen and listen and then listen some more. As their stories poured out, their personalities and neuroses slowly took shape and little by little the important stuff began to stand out in relief. Then I could see where they were off track, and how I could maybe guide them to a better place. It was a process that couldn't be rushed and any attempt to come to a quick conclusion or solution usually backfired.

Sometimes I thought of it as throwing all the pieces of a puzzle in the air—they drift back down, come together and form themselves into a coherent picture. There was a certain amount of intellect involved, of course, but there was also intuition, gut, maybe even a touch of psychic energy (not that I believe in that crap)—and a sense not only of what is there, but just as importantly, what isn't.

We reached the beach—a small sandy stretch with a swing set and a bathhouse, a little slice of 1950s Americana sitting happily in the twenty-first century—and Sputnik pulled me down to the water's edge. I let all the players dance through my head: Pavel, Octavia and Lavinia Bump, Collier Denton, Graham, Sally and Howard Wolfson, Julia Wolfson, Kelly, Alice and Clark Van Wyck. And poor Natasha, of course. Fighting for her life. I saw her again, on that bright Phoenicia morning: frightened but full of hope, determined to pull herself together, to get away from pills, Pavel, and … ? What? Who? I had a gnawing feeling that there was some connection I was missing, some piece I hadn't grasped yet.

I took Sputnik off his leash and he charged into the water. I went and sat on a swing and pushed myself gently back and forth. My mind kept going back to that hothouse nexus down in Stone Ridge—Collier Denton had blackmailed Pavel into supplying Natasha with pills, Denton was capable of nasty deeds, Pavel was amoral, Graham too, Octavia rich and capricious enough to buy a murder. The other players tugging at the corners of my mind were the Wolfsons. Howard Wolfson seemed like a man who wanted to squeeze one more chapter out of his life—with Sally written out. I got a whiff of desperation from Sally, who seemed oddly fragile and frightened behind her veneer of success. And then there was Julia. In rough shape, addicted,
prima facie
evidence of the Wolfson family's pathology.

I took out my cell and called her.

“Hi, Julia, it's Janet Petrocelli.”

“Oh hi, how are you?”

“I'm good, and you?”

“Much better than the last time you saw me. I was a hot mess.” She laughed in a forced actressy way. “I'm actually in recovery. Five days clean and dry.”

“That's great—
bon courage
.”

“Yeah, thanks. I want to do it for Natasha.”

“Listen, is there any chance we can get together?”

“Yes, sure, of course. What's this about?”

“I'd just like to talk to you a little more about your sister, and your family.”

There was a long pause and I heard her light a cigarette. “Wow, this is really weird that you called.”

“How so?”

“Well, you know, I'm working the program, amends and all that.” Then she laughed, forced again, mirthless.

“You think you owe me an amend?”

There was another long pause, more smoking. “Well, yes, kind of. I wasn't totally straight with you. About my family, my folks, that stuff. I know more than I let on.”

“Do you want me to come down to the city?”

“I'm actually coming upstate on Monday. Can you meet me at Walkway Over the Hudson at around six?”

“Yes. Which side?”

“Highland, on the west side of the river.”

“See you there.”