Revenge of the Spellmans (4 page)

OLIVIA:
In what direction are you heading, Isabel?

ISABEL:
Nowhere, at the moment.

Sunday

Milo walked into the bar, which isn’t all that unusual, what with it being his bar and all. I usually cover my afternoon shifts solo so Milo has more time off, but Sunday afternoon we always work together and take stock of the inventory. I’ve known Milo going on ten years now; he’s been my employer
for only five months of those. Bar owners’ expectations differ from other employers’: Show up on time, don’t steal, make the right change, and don’t be too generous with the booze. Most nights, I’m at least three for four.

While I cleaned glasses, Milo did the
San Francisco Chronicle
’s crossword puzzle, which he considers to be some form of actual work. (Something about keeping his mind sharp being good for business—don’t quote me, I wasn’t paying attention.)

“What’s a four-letter word for a lunch staple?”

“Beer,” I replied, because how is Milo staying sharp by asking me to do his crossword puzzles for him?

“That’s not it. It has to be something you eat.”

“Fish.”

“It’s not fish. Fish isn’t a lunch staple in any place I know.”

“I still think it’s fish.”

“Soup!” Milo shouted as if it were a different four-letter word.

“Congratulations,” I said. Frankly, I was happy to know he could get at least one clue in the puzzle. Another minute passed in peaceful silence. But then it was over.

“I was talking to a friend of mine the other day,” Milo said as he hung his coat on a rack behind the bar.

“Fascinating story.”

“Give it time. It gets better.”

“And then what happened?” I asked with rapt interest.

“He was telling me about this time he went into a bar, was making casual conversation with the bartender, and the next thing he knows, the bartender for no good reason tries to strangle him with his own tie and accuses him of having some kind of conspiratorial relationship with her own mother.”

“I’m sure he’s recovered by now.”

“Not completely. There are a few lingering side effects.”

“For instance?” I asked, playing along.

“He’s got a closet full of ties—a regular clotheshorse, this one—and
yet he’s afraid to wear all of them. Used to be his signature look. Now he’s got to figure out a whole new thing.”

“Tragic story.”

“Izz, he don’t know your mother. We were conversing the other day, he has a situation, he needs a detective, he’d rather not pay an arm and a leg like your parents charge, so I mentioned you might be able to help him out.”

“I have a job, Milo.”

“This isn’t a career, Izzy.”

“For you it is.”

Milo tossed his newspaper on top of the bar and sighed dramatically. “I’m cutting your hours to three days a week. It’s time for you to get back in the game or find an entirely new game that doesn’t involve serving booze.”

“How much are my parents paying you?”

“Nada.”

“I don’t approve of your random use of Spanish.”

“Ernie’s gonna drop by again today. He’s gonna tell you about his problem. You’re going to offer him your services. You’ll both negotiate a reasonable price. You’ll do a good job for my friend.”

“And if I don’t want to?”

“I’ll trim your hours some more.”

1800 hrs

As promised, Ernie Black returned to the bar.

His problem was the kind of problem you hear about all the time, at least in my line of work—or my previous line of work. Scratch that. In every line of work I’ve known,
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the suspicious wife (or husband) comes up often.

At the age of fifty, Ernie met the woman of his dreams. She applied for a receptionist position at the muffler shop he co-owns with his brother,
they dated for six months, decided to test their relationship on a four-day vacation in Reno, Nevada, and by the second day, decided to wed. Her name was (and still is, I presume) Linda. Maiden name: Truesdale. She has red hair, brown eyes, and is covered in freckles. I took note of this fact because redheads are easy to follow. Depending on Ernie’s financial situation, I thought I just might cut him a break.

This was Ernie’s first marriage and he wanted it to work. But women had always been a mystery to Ernie and so he tried to solve the mystery through cheap self-help books. When I first met with Ernie (well, the second time) he was reading a battered paperback titled
Women: Everything You Ever Wanted to Know and More.
He had recently finished a chapter on secrets and realized that his wife had a few.

I asked for the hard facts first, not wanting to be influenced by Ernie’s interpretations. To begin with, his wife would often disappear for hours at a time and use a flimsy excuse for her absence. Ernie never pressed her on this issue because he didn’t want her to feel smothered. Then there were the expensive items of clothing and perfume that would show up after these unexplained excursions, with no dent on their mutual credit card. The money had to come from somewhere. Those hours that passed without him—she had to be doing something. Ernie had a feeling he didn’t like in the pit of his stomach, but he told himself that he was imagining things. It wasn’t until last weekend, when he cleaned out the garage and found a shoebox full of $3,000 in cash, that he decided to look at the matter more closely.

I then asked Ernie what he thought might be going on and he handed me a handwritten sheet of paper that listed, in descending order of preference, his list of possibilities:

• A) Nothing’s going on. Everything has a simple explanation.
  
• B) Linda has a shoplifting problem.
  
• C) Linda is having an affair with a man who gives her money and gifts.
  
• D) Linda is having an affair and she has a shoplifting problem.
  

While I was no expert on Linda, I decided that Ernie should leave with at least a shred of hope. I told him that option D was extremely unlikely. Then I asked him a question my mother always asks whenever we consider taking on a domestic case.

“Ernie, if we do find out that your wife is having an affair, what will you do?”

Ernie consulted his shoes for the answer: “We’d have to go to marriage counseling, I guess.”

His reaction was calm, which was what I was looking for. You can’t predict human behavior, but I would’ve bet a week’s wages on Ernie being a peaceful man. So I decided to take the case.

Then we talked money. Ernie didn’t have much of it, so it was a short conversation. I would be on call for the next time his wife planned an excursion. I cut my usual rate by half, which is 75 percent less than what my parents would charge for the same work. Ernie was getting a deal, but the job seemed easy enough.

It didn’t mean anything to me—I’ll tell you that right now. So don’t get any ideas. There was no significance in me doing a favor for a friend of Milo’s. A few hours of watching a redhead didn’t mean I was back in the game. That’s what I told myself, at least.

(THERAPIST #1: DR. IRA SCHWARTZMAN)

[Partial transcript reads as follows:]

ISABEL:
This week has pretty much been the same as any other week.

DR. IRA:
So nothing of interest happened?

ISABEL:
No. It was a dull week.

DR. IRA:
I see. And how do you feel about that?

ISABEL:
Good. Very good.

DR. IRA:
So there’s nothing you’d like to discuss?

ISABEL:
Not really.

DR. IRA:
Are you sure?

ISABEL:
Let me think about it. [Long pause.
1
]

ISABEL:
I thought of something.

DR. IRA:
Go on.

ISABEL:
Only two more weeks.

DR. IRA:
Excuse me?

ISABEL:
Only two weeks left until the final session of my court-ordered therapy. [Dr. Ira consults his notes.]

DR. IRA:
Indeed you are right, Isabel.

ISABEL:
So our time is nearing its end.

DR. IRA:
Should I interpret that to mean you plan to discontinue therapy after your final session?

ISABEL:
That was my plan.

DR. IRA:
[disappointed] I see.

ISABEL:
We should do something to celebrate.

DR. IRA:
What do you mean?

ISABEL:
What’s customary for celebrating the end of therapy?

DR. IRA:
There is no custom.

ISABEL:
I was thinking of bringing in a cake. I should probably order it now, if we want anything decent.

DR. IRA:
I think it would be better if we just focused on the next few sessions.

ISABEL:
You’re saying no to cake?

DR. IRA:
I don’t feel that cake is appropriate.

ISABEL:
Why not?

DR. IRA:
Let me ask you a serious question, Isabel: Do you think you’ve made any progress?

A
bout a year and a half ago, I briefly moved back in with my parents, into the attic apartment where I’ve lived most of my adult life. During that brief phase of regression, I had a bird’s-eye view of a suspicious neighbor’s activities. Let’s call the neighbor John Brown, because that, it turns out, is his real name. To make a long story
1
short, I began investigating the suspicious neighbor maybe more than I should have—or more than society deems acceptable. A restraining order was filed (against me) and the next thing you know I was in some serious legal trouble. (You met my octogenarian lawyer just a few pages back.)

Having a restraining order filed against you is one thing; violating that restraining order puts you in an altogether different boat. To anyone contemplating a ride in said boat, let me make a friendly suggestion: Don’t do it. Just let it go.

Anyway, back to how I ended up in therapy. You see, my retired-cop father had some connections and so did my ancient lawyer, so they convinced the district attorney that court-mandated therapy was the appropriate way to deal with “someone like Isabel.”
2
I was required to see a
psychologist or psychiatrist roughly once a week for three months. I was given three months to begin therapy, and I took my sweet time. In retrospect, I should have been more proactive and found my own shrink;
3
instead, my mom found one for me. I have only lukewarm words to say about the shockingly mild-mannered Dr. Ira, but this I can say for certain: He was not the right shrink for me.

Eleven weeks and three days after my court ruling, I made an appointment for the following Monday at eleven
A
.
M
. My dad phoned me on my way to the session to impart some information he thought I should have.

“Sometimes they don’t talk right away,” said my dad. “So don’t just sit there and give the doctor attitude. You might have to talk first. Okay?”

“Who is this?” I replied.

My dad sighed and said, “Don’t blame me for all of your problems, either.”

“I won’t,” I said. “I plan on blaming Mom.”

Dr. Ira Schwartzman’s office was (and is, I presume) located on Market Street, right by the exit to the Montgomery Street BART and Muni station. It seems my mother thought convenience was the most important factor in finding me a therapist. The office was unlike the shrinks’ offices you see in movies and television. The waiting room could fit inside a decent-sized closet. It contained two cloth chairs and a wooden coffee table. The furniture was marred by age—coffee stains, frayed edges, worn wood.

Dr. Ira Schwartzman opened his office door.

“Isabel?” he asked.

“That’s me,” I replied as I got to my feet.

The doctor invited me into a room not much bigger than the waiting room. The furniture was superior to the waiting room furniture but similarly outdated. What the office lacked in cinematic authenticity Dr. Ira Schwartzman certainly made up for in his physical being, from the comfortable loafers and tan corduroy trousers to the white oxford shirt and the brown sweater with patches on the elbows. Dr. Schwartzman had one of those kind, wrinkled faces that give you the sense that you could tell him anything and he wouldn’t judge you. Unfortunately, it was my plan from day one not to tell him a thing.

Dr. Schwartzman sat down in his comfortable leather chair, snapped a tiny cassette into a tiny tape recorder (he should really update to digital), and asked me if I minded if he recorded our session, explaining that sometimes he likes to revisit some topics to figure out a better way to help his patients. I told him it was alright and pulled out my own palm-sized digital recorder and asked him if he minded if I, too, recorded the proceedings. Dr. Ira seemed pleased, which I assumed meant he thought I was taking the whole therapy thing seriously. I didn’t want to lower his expectations at that moment, so I just switched on my recorder and launched into my introduction.