Now You See Her (11 page)

The woman to the left smooths her chestnut hair. “I heard something about him.”

“He runs the marathon every year.”

“His wife died of cancer.”

“Wasn’t his son killed by a crazy drug addict? It was on TV.” I lean close to hear more, but a murmur rises and shoulders
tighten. Four chunky men and a woman in black with headsets wade into the room and fan out. One near me says, “A-OK for Bulldog
and Boxer.”

Two men in suits arrive like a magnetic force, and guests part to make way like the Red Sea. The florid face and jolly, squinty
eyes of the shorter man are unmistakable—he’s Michael Carney, candidate for governor. Just steps behind him marches Jordan
Wald, his jutting jaw like a prow. Both men wear shadow plaid suits, though Carney is rumpled, Wald starched. Smiling, they
shake hands left and right, their teeth bridal white.

“Ladies and gentlemen, your attention, please.”

Applause crackles. A microphone squeals. Alison has helped a buxom woman in platforms onto a stout low bench by the front
window and hands her the mike.

“My friends… testing, testing… friends of Michael Carney and Jordan Wald… testing, can everybody hear me?” Her voice is playful
and gusting. “Can you hear?” The guests nod and murmur. She purrs, “Darlings, you’ve written your lovely checks for our marvelous
candidates. You deserve at least to hear.”

Good-humored laughter ripples. In a shantung cream coatdress with a heavy sapphire necklace-earring set, Tania Arnot is wide-eyed
and apple-cheeked, with frosted hair coiffed and sprayed to withstand gale-force winds. She cradles the mike as if the bench
is a cabaret stage.

“Jeffrey and I welcome all of you tonight to our home. The beautiful spring evening promises new times… and a new governor
and lieutenant governor. Are you ready to give a great big welcome to our guests of honor? Are you?”

Her breast heaves with the Carney-Wald button, while a badge on her shoulder proclaims “More for Massachusetts!” A few feet
away, the broad-shouldered man in the midnight chalk-stripe suit grins. Just as I guessed, Jeffrey Arnot. “Are you ready to
welcome the next governor of our great Commonwealth?” Yesses rise like helium.

Carney springs onto the bench, air-kisses Tania, and launches his ten-minute spiel. “Not just jobs, good jobs…a Massachusetts
economy in drive… every child in the best of schools.” He tells a story about his wheelchair-bound late mother, his voice
rich as fudge as he segues to life lessons learned from his father, a metalworker of sterling character. Next he sings praises
of his wife and sons, who are busy campaigning elsewhere in the state in homes as warm and welcoming as Jeffrey and Tania’s.

Waiting his turn, Wald nods reverently. I search his face. No widower’s flash of grief shows nor mournful gaze in memory of
his own lost son. So what? Give the man the benefit of the doubt. Not every politician is required to bare his soul to a roomful
of strangers.

In minutes, Jordan Wald leaps up to join Carney, grabs the mike, and quips about the two bench-pressing for Massachusetts.
“We’re both athletes—a wrestler to pin the problems and a marathon runner to go the distance for the people.”

Time-delay laughter. “Seriously, my friends, we’re in a tough race. The future is at stake.” His voice slightly reedy, Wald
predicts a hard-fought campaign with victory in November. His four terms in the Massachusetts Senate, he says, are foundation
stones for the future. He ticks off environmental legislation he has sponsored. The Carney-Wald administration will be pro-business
and green. “Protection of our coasts, our wetlands.”

Wald makes eye contact so each guest feels addressed personally. He jabs the air with a few Kennedy gestures and turns his
head from the shoulders, as business executives do. Marty practiced this. It’s an authority thing. Underlings twist their
necks, but bosses strike the Mount Rushmore pose.

“My life is an open book. What you see is what you get. My good fortune… giving back in public life. My thanks to each and
every one of you.”

He’s done. Tania invites all to stay and enjoy the party, and the candidates work the room. The black-clad headset handlers
keep watch like a junior Secret Service. I turn, and a hand with a grip like wood and leather clasps mine.

“Jordan Wald.”

“Oh. I’m Regina Cutter.”

“Appreciate your support, Regina.” He leans close, the cleft in his chin quite charming, though his handshake doesn’t feel
quite right. I smell wine breath, men’s cologne—and underneath his starched shirtfront, something vaguely sour. “For you,
Regina, for Massachusetts.”

But his politician’s eyes have already moved on. The moment came and went. What did I learn—that perhaps thirteen years ago
this man leaned on the DA to nail Henry Faiser whether or not the evidence was solid? No, nothing of the kind. He strikes
me as a stereotype of a political candidate. The lasting impression is that Jordan Wald has an odd handshake and uses hair
spray.

“Bulldog and Boxer, exit now. Repeat, exit now.”

Like border collies, the headset handlers cut the candidates from the pack and escort them outside into a black Suburban with
dark-tinted windows. The SUV pulls out, corners, disappears.

The party winds down fast, the house emptying quickly. The trio packs up. I linger by a foyer fireplace, its mantel lined
with decorative floral Limoges plates. I note the rose pattern on the plates, fine antiques in this home dominated by armor
and weaponry. Here comes Alison with a short, wiry black man. She turns to him. “Mr. Jeffrey Arnot, I’d like to introduce
Reggie Cutter.”

As an ex–corporate wife, I’m seasoned at hiding astonishment in social situations. So much for the midnight-blue chalk-stripe
broad shoulders. Jeffrey Arnot can’t be more than five-six, lean and taut, his facial muscles tense, eyes steely yet opaque.
We shake hands, mine moist, his dry and hard. He wears a black double-breasted suit with a mauve shirt and violet paisley
tie, the color palette perfect. His French cuffs set off heavy gold monogrammed cuff links. His skin is a dark walnut.

“I understand you are an exorcist.”

“Exor—oh, nothing of the kind, Mr. Arnot, though I have experienced paranormal events. Paranormal.”

“My wife has the idea you can put a stop to the disruption of this house. You cast a spell, is that it?”

“No. What I do—”

“Cast out demons?”

“Perhaps Mrs. Arnot’s free to join us. I’ll go see.” This from a fretful Alison.

“I’m a plainspoken man, Miss Futter.”

“Cutter.”

“Plainspoken and business-minded. I indulge Mrs. Arnot in such things as this, but chitchat with a real estate agent is not
my concern. Fair price and value are my terms. I am not a gullible man. I believe in dollars and good sense.”

“Jeffrey, Jeffrey dear, and Ms. Cutter.” With Alison in tow, Tania Arnot sweeps this way, her platforms marching through the
shag as through a meadow. Her dress rustles. “So wonderful to meet you. We’ve heard marvelous things.” Her low voice gusts
as she touches my shoulder. “Meg speaks so highly of your special talent, your powers.”

“I was just explaining, in order to correct a misunderstanding. Mr. Arnot seems to think that I’m—” I don’t want to say “witch.”

“That I’m someone with preternatural power.”

Tania nods. Jeffrey rocks back on his heels. “But I must tell you that I’ve made a good-faith effort to learn whether your
house is—” I resist the word “haunted.” I won’t give Jeffrey Arnot the satisfaction of scoffing. “To learn whether your house
is susceptible to mysterious events. But I must report that I detect nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing at all.”

Jeffrey Arnot’s lips bend to a near sneer. Tania looks as though she might weep. Alison twists her fingers.

This much I know for certain about the moment: none of us touch the mantel. We’re at least two or three feet from it, standing
quietly. My eye catches the movement first. Of the four Limoges plates, two begin to tremble from side to side, as if shifted
by an unsteady hand, as if inched from their grooved slots in the mantel.

We watch, all four of us, as the porcelain plates stutter and shift in a kind of dance. None of us move a muscle, not Alison,
not Jeffrey or Tania. Not me. Time slows, the moment expanding as we stare, fixated. A cold current of air wafts as two plates,
each delicately patterned with roses, push out, out.

The cold air strikes my neck. Tania visibly shivers. She folds her arms tight. The plates rattle. Jeffrey is stock-still.
Alison’s eyes are huge. The plates tremble, advance to the mantel edge, linger for an instant until another blast of icy air
sends them plunging.

At the last split second, one of us might reach out, catch at least one. As spectators, however, we only watch, frozen in
the moment, statues ourselves as the two plates fall to the marble hearth and smash to bits.

I
saw it with my own eyes. You’re thinking looks can deceive, but the plates were perfectly secure. Then they jiggled and moved
as if pushed and pulled. Then they fell.”

I repeat the story like the compulsive Ancient Mariner. My daughter nods across the table. We’ve just finished dinner, her
favorite chicken with herbs. She’s come for the mink coat. “Molly, those two plates moved as if an invisible hand pushed them.”
She smiles. “What’s so funny about that?”

“Invisible hand. You know how Dad always talks about the market and the invisible hand.”

“Your father is not in this, Molly.”

“Sorry, Mom.” She puts down her fork. “It must have been scary.”

“No. It was weird. If it was an optical illusion, four people saw it. Four people picked up the shards.” Which isn’t exactly
true. Alison got a server—Brenda—to sweep up the pieces.

“How about that cold draft? Sounds like the wind blew the plates.”

“It wasn’t wind. It was a cold zone, as if a freezer door opened. It felt that very same way on the night the front door closed.
I was with a Realtor friend.”

“I see.” I’m not sure she does. “I hope you don’t obsess about this, Mom. The whole thing could be a trick, hidden wires and
pulleys.”

“To destroy antique Limoges?”

“Maybe the plates were fake. Forgery’s not that hard. If you spent time with artists, Mom, you’d think behind the scenes.”
Molly pokes at a stray salad leaf. Tonight her thick honey-blond hair is scissored like crow’s feathers and tinted a dull
brass. Stylewise, I never know what’s coming next. She says, “Art’s just a big bag of magicians’ tricks.”

“Why would anyone play such a trick on the Arnots? This wasn’t the first time. Things crash and slam in that house. The Arnots
are nearly berserk.”

“Maybe it’s his trick on her. Or hers on him.”

The shocked look I’d seen on both Jeffrey’s and Tania’s faces tells me no way. “Maybe you had to be there.”

“Maybe.”

There’s nothing left to say, except “No psychic message came through to me.”

Molly nods. Unspoken between us is the Josephine Cutter connection, meaning that my Molly, too, has a sixth sense. On occasion,
it’s expressed in her art, though not recently.

“Just remember, Mom, you’re not in charge of party tricks.” She smiles. “Hey, did you hear? Jack’s new girfriend threw him
a birthday party.”

“He called. He likes the new titanium gadget. I hope this girl’s nice.”

“Jack’s bedazzled, that’s what I think.”

Here’s what my son said to me: “In the middle of the night, Mom, I think I love her. But by midafternoon, I think I’m just
stupid.” Of course, he’s on my mind.

“Sometimes Jack and I worry about you, Mom.”

“Me?” Talk about role reversal. “We think since the divorce you’re, like, overreaching. You need to feel personal success.
Why not join a book club? People love book clubs.”

They do, though the one I want to join at the moment is Frank Devaney’s leather-notebook club.

“Reading is one of life’s great adventures.”

It’s amazing how grown children can patronize a parent with a statement of fact. Behind my back, in good faith, my children
want to shrink-wrap my life.

“I might take a motorcycle riding course.”

“Oh, Mom, you’re hilarious. Let’s clear the dishes. I’d better get the mink. I have to get back to Providence. A friend’s
coming to the studio to help with a sound system.”

“Music in your art studio?”

“I’m working on an installation featuring implants and anabolic steroids. We’re putting voice boxes inside Barbies and G.I.
Joes.”

And she used to draw so beautifully, flowers and seascapes. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s America, Mom. It’s G.I. Joe and Barbie. I got razor wire too. It’s the idea of the nation as bulked-up security state.”

Don’t ask, Reggie. “Let’s leave the dishes, Mol, and look at the coats.” I’ve spread out the short female mink directional
and the three-quarter Blackglama. Both came from Marty, commemorating his promotions. They were, so to speak, the coonskins
nailed to the wall. I was scheduled to get an ankle-length Lagerfeld when he made CEO. Dream on, Marty. You hit the glass
ceiling, I hit the fur floor.

“Mom, I just want to be sure you’re ready to give up a mink. Suppose you change your mind?” That hooded look I know so well
on her oval face—it’s guilt.

“Molly, my dear, you are the one and only reason I hauled these coats to Boston. For me, they are relics of a bygone time
of life.” I stop, lest my daughter think she herself is somehow from a bygone era of her mother’s life. “Take your pick, but
first feel each one. Notice the hair is short and velvety and has a delicate sheen. Natural mink has clarity and is understated.
The longer hairs— the guard hairs—are uniform in length.” I turn on an extra lamp. “Notice the depth of color. It’s quality
mink.”

“Mom, you sound like a saleswoman.”

“Molly, if you own it, you need to know.”

She picks the shorter one. “This’ll be great.” The hooded look of guilt deepens.

“Put it on. Go ahead, Mol. Mink with jeans is stylish.” She puts it on. “Very nice. Though the funnel sleeves are definitely
passé.”