Dead by Any Other Name (2 page)

three

I headed west on
212. One of the coolest things about the
Hudson Valley is how it's flanked on the west by Catskill State Park: 700,000 acres of green mountains crisscrossed by rushing streams, set up by some smart folks back in 1895. Talk about foresight. The park pumps money into the area; in fact it pretty much
is
the local economy—tourists, skiers, second-homies; I'm told the Catskills are a hiker's paradise (there are no hikes in my paradise). Anyway, I loved driving up into the mountains, all that open country cleared my head, made my chest open wide, my breathing come easier (as long as I didn't have to get out and walk around in it).

I passed through Woodstock, jammed with its usual nut jobs, ancient beatniks, tie-dye survivors, and Saturday morning flea-market crowds. Phoenicia was about twelve miles up past Woodstock, and with each mile you got deeper into the country. I passed a Zen monastery, some fancy country restaurants, and a mix of old farms, modest houses, and richie-rich second homes.

Phoenicia is a loose scruffy little town that sits in a bowl surrounded by mountains. There are streams at every other street corner, nothing is tarted up, the houses tend toward ramshackle, the place feels almost like a Western town in its lack of affect and cutesy gift shops.

Natasha's house was at the very end of a dead-end street. It was a small cabin fronted by a screen porch, barely visible through a thicket of pine trees, vines, and shrubs. No gardener she. I walked down the overgrown path and knocked on the porch door.

“Janet!” Nastasha cried, charging out of the cabin. I pegged her at a skosh short of thirty, with long, lustrous, jealous-rage-induc
ing black hair, the whitest skin, a quirky, sensual, not-quite-beautiful face that still had a tiny hint of baby fat (I guess by now it was adult fat), all lit up by enormous soulful dark eyes. She was wearing a flouncy skirt, a thick black leather belt, black ballet flats, and a red silk blouse that made her look sophisticated and did
nothing to hide her dynamite figure. This gal was stunning, but in a tossed-off, I-don't-really-give-a-shit way that I found appealing.
She was also so high-strung and quivery that she seemed to be vibrating. I immediately suspected chemicals were involved.

“Thank you for coming up so quickly,” she said, leading me into the house. “I've made us a little berry cake, I tromped around and harvested them myself, and some divine green tea from Cape Verde.” She grew still for just a moment and a dreamy look came into her eyes, “I would
love
to visit Cape Verde.” In addition to anxiety, she radiated warmth, vulnerability, and a desperate need to be loved. I was charmed. And wary. I sensed Natasha was in trouble, wanted company, someone to talk to. “Unless you're in a mad hurry, that is?”

“I've got a few minutes.” I didn't want to blow the deal by being too abrupt, but Natasha was just the kind of complex, screwed-up but
muy sympatico
person who could suck up a lot of my psychic energy—and that was my old life as a psychotherapist, the one in which I was being
paid
to care. I couldn't afford to be this chick's shoulder, for more reasons than one.

The cabin was decorated in off-hand boho chic—a mix of comfy old pieces and mid-century—with a lot of books and CDs; there was a patina of dust and the place was none too neat, several large packing boxes stood in one corner. We sat around the coffee table. She poured me a cup of tea and cut me a piece of cake. Edith Piaf was playing on her iPod.

“So how did you find my number?” I asked.

“I just googled local antique shops and I loved the name Janet's Planet. Sophisticated research, huh? Hey, I love your earrings.”

I was wearing my favorite pair—Mexican silver and black onyx. “Thanks.”

“I love jewelry, but I need to sell because I'm moving to LA. My little country experiment hasn't worked out quite the way I'd hoped.” She ran her fingers through that amazing hair and laughed, but I was sure I saw fear in her eyes. “You know, get out of the big bad city for a while, away from big bad men, big bad drugs, the whole
scene
. Settle down, sober up, get back to writing songs.”

“So you're a songwriter?” I asked, unable to control my goddamn trouble-making curiosity.

“Slash-singer. Was. Am. Will be.” She picked up a CD from the table and handed it to me. There was a shot of Natasha on the front, looking ravishing and soulful in the middle of a nighttime urban swirl. “I had three CDs before I was twenty-five. I'd like to have a fourth before I'm thirty. I was kind of a semi-name. But a taste of honey triggered a whole lot of crap for me.” She laughed in a way that wasn't funny.

What is it about my face that makes people pour out their life stories the minute they see me? Whatever it is, I wonder if there's a plastic surgeon who could erase it. But hey, look, this wasn't costing me anything. I could get up and leave whenever I felt like it. It wasn't like I was hanging on every word, every admission, every emotion. I was here because I needed inventory. End of story.

“So I bought this little place three years ago, but then I got up here and my money ran out. Well, guess what, Janet? Even in the middle of big fat nature, a girl can get herself into big fat trouble. But I'm getting clean and dry and I'm staying on the beam if it kills me. How's the cake?”

I was wondering if the clean-and-dry included prescription drugs—then I realized my wondering was getting a little too acute for comfort, was edging into oh-Christ-I-care-about-this-person. “Delicious. About the jewelry …” Hurt flashed across her face. “Hey, I'd love to hear a little,” I said, indicating the CD.

“Would you? Would you really?” She got up and fiddled with her iPod. “This is one of my songs—
Love by Any Other Name
.”

The melody was bluesy, soulful, the lyrics both rueful and romantic, and her voice was a dream—distinctive and warm, sexy, with a kick-ass lower register.

“This is great,” I said.

She was moving around the room now, swaying to the music, singing along.

I'm no talent scout, but the kid had
it
. Lots of it.

“Oh God, I can't wait to get onstage again,” she said. “I'm staying with my friend Vondra in Silverlake for the first few months. I still have some contacts in the business. I'm off my high horse forever, I'll do voiceovers, commercials, back-up, you name it. And I do adore LA, that slightly seedy glamour, the nooks and canyons, the exuberant architecture.”

She twirled and hit a note. The song ended and she stood there dazed for a moment. Then she looked down and a storm swept over her face, trouble and fear.

“Are you all right?”

“Me? Oh yeah, sure, fine. And I'll be even better when I've put three thousand miles between me and the East Coast—for more reasons than one,” she said, a bitter edge creeping into her voice. I had an urge to ask for more, but bit my tongue. I was
not
a shrink anymore. That was my past. Over. Done. Natasha was in trouble, but it was
her
trouble, not mine.

“I should probably get back to my store,” I said.

She disappeared into the bedroom and returned with a wooden box. She put it on the coffee table and opened it, revealing a treasure chest filled with jewelry that I could immediately tell was the good stuff.

“Here it is, Janet, take your pick.”

I pored through some pretty serious bakelite pieces—hanging
cherries, the iconic mahjong bracelet, geometric pins, rings,
earring. This stuff sold easy-peasy. Then there was a Noah's Ark of animal pieces—charming, kitschy, and they sold, too (chicks
still
go through that retro phase). Finally there were the dramatic silver pieces, all swoopy and mid-century, some with large inlaid stones—this stuff flew out of the store and was tough to find.

“This is great stuff,” I said.

“I love it all. It's gonna be hard to let it go. But I need to. Fast.”

“So you're not interested in consignment?”

“I need cash.”

I wanted to give her a fair price but wasn't sure I could afford to. I'd brought along two grand in crispies, but this stuff was worth at least double that wholesale.

“Well, how does five grand sound for the lot?”

“It sounds fair.”

“I can give you two now and the rest on Monday. I'll pick up the stuff then.”

“No, take it now. I trust you. And here, have one of my CDs.”

As Natasha walked me out to my car, she scanned the street.

“I hope things work out in LA,” I said.

“There's a man I'm leaving behind. We love each other, but he's trouble. And so am I. Which adds up to a bad moon rising. Someday he'll understand.”

She looked at me and for a second I thought she was going to burst into tears. Then she hugged me. Too tight.

I got in my van and as I drove away I looked in the rearview—Natasha was waving goodbye.

four

When I got back
to Sawyerville, I decided to drop into Chow for a quick bite before I took over from George. The joint was crowded with its usual menagerie of retirees, loafers, lowlifes, and
hipsters, swelled by Saturday shoppers. I sat at the counter and waited for Pearl to show up. Abba
really
needed to hire another waitress. I mean, shuffling shell-shocked old Pearl with her gray hair, gray eyes, gray teeth, and gray skin gave the place a certain surreal quality—she reminded me of a character in one of those incomprehensible theater pieces they do in the East Village; you know, all striking tableaus and eerie nonsequiturs that add up to something profound and headachy—but as a waitress she was a bust.

Abba saw me through the pass-through and waved me into the kitchen. I joined her. She was putting together about four orders at once, but one of her many talents was the ability to talk and work at the same time. Abba was a few years older than me, a Hudson Valley native—from one of the early black families who settled here in the mid-nineteenth century—and a free spirit who had traveled all over the world. About five years ago she had found herself pulled back, deciding that the valley was where she wanted to be, home again. She was a self-taught chef with a real gift for making magic in the kitchen, drawing on the spices and skills she had picked up in her wanderings. She was also one helluva friend.

“You need to hire some help,” I said.

“Hey, Pearl is my good-luck charm, she came with the place and she's staying. But I am looking for a little back-up. How are you?”

“Good, could I get a Cuban sandwich?”

“Coming right up.”

“I scored some amazing jewelry this morning.” I told her a little about Natasha and then showed her the CD.

“Oh yeah, Natasha Wolfson, George and I saw her perform down in New Paltz about three years ago, she was fabulous. I mean
really
good. There were articles in the paper about her moving up here, she was a rising star. I wondered what happened to her.”

“Whatever it is, I don't think it's good. She seemed really desperate, scared, and probably high, I got the feeling her life was off the rails. She's selling everything so she can move to LA.”

“You know her parents are those famous shrinks you always see on TV, what are their names, Howard-and-somebody Wolfson?”

“Howard and Sally Wolfson are her parents?” That was a
surprise. The Wolfsons were the authors of a bunch of pop-psychology books, offering up just the kind of shallow, facile,
tie-up-all-your-traumas-in-a-nice-silk-bow bullshit that made my blood boil. If I'd learned one thing in my years as a practicing shrink, it's that you
can't
leave your deep hurts behind, you have to work to understand them, make some kind of peace, and then move forward
with
them—but with you, not them, in the driv
er's seat. The Wolfsons' pabulum led to more unhappiness
because it made people feel inadequate, unable to live up to the freedom and happiness that they were claiming was possible.

Pissed me off. I can't tell you how many of my clients would say to me, “I just can't get over my husband leaving me” or “my Mom's death” or “the size of my thighs.” My answer was always, “Stop trying.” Then we'd get to work understanding their traumas and neuroses, getting a perspective on them (time was an invaluable ally) and then moving forward as alpha dog over the pain and ghosts and nasty little inner voices. People like Howard and Sally Wolfson made the job harder, and if you ask me they're a symptom of a spoiled, narcissistic society that worships at the altar of instant gratification, entitlement, and pat answers.

Finding out they were Natasha's parents increased my sympathy for her by a factor of ten. “Do you know anything else about her or them?” I asked Abba.

“The Wolfsons live down in the Hudson Highlands, in some amazing glass house cantilevered out over the river; it was featured in the
Times
a few years ago. You want to eat this sandwich here?”

“I should take it over to the store. George opened up for me.”

Abba wrapped the sandwich and handed it to me. “I'm sure you've heard about his horse trainer.”

“Giddyup.”

five

There was a commotion
out on the street. A lanky man of around forty was making his way down the sidewalk, surrounded by a small entourage, shaking hands, smiling. One of his posse was carrying a sign: Building a
New
New York—Reelect State Senator Clark Van Wyck.

I'd read about Van Wyck in the local papers but had never seen him in person. He was a good-looking guy, athletic, toothy, with a wholesome Vermonty vibe, but—even as he was reaching for hands, waving, shouting a greeting, grinning—he seemed distracted. He was going through the motions but this guy's head was somewhere else.

He reached me and gave me a disarmingly modest smile, “Clark Van Wyck, I'd appreciate your vote.”

I shook his hand.

Helen Bearse, a realtor in town, was one of his entourage. “Janet runs an antique shop just across the street.”

“Well, I'm working for
you
,” Van Wyck said, “Folks like you are the backbone of this valley—and this state.”

He kept moving. Helen grabbed my hand, “Janet, if Clark wins there's a
very
good chance he'll be elected majority leader. It would be
incredible
for the whole valley. He was born and raised here. And he doesn't want to stop there—his real goal is governor.”

I had kind of mixed feeling about the news. Powerful politicians always seem to end up in bed with the greedbags and fat cats, who tend to skew toward real estate developers. I liked the Hudson Valley the way it was and you could almost smell the development pressure. It was hardly an unspoiled paradise, thank God—I loved the crazy-quilt mix of country/suburb/city but I'd sure hate to see it become unbroken sprawl. It wasn't like I wanted to put a fence around the place. Just a gate maybe. If this Van Wyck guy made it to the governor's office, chances are he'd arrive with a lot of IOUs from condo cowboys salivating to leave their mark up and down the valley.

Van Wyck's cell rang and for just a split second a look of panic swept across his face. He checked the incoming number. “It's just my wife,” he said, half to himself. “I'll call her back later.”

Just
his wife—hmmmm.

Then he saw another voter and slapped on a smile.