The Devil's Interval (36 page)

A final round of applause, the lights came up, and at last—dessert on the table. Mini chocolate éclairs. Mrs. Storch took a ladylike sip of her wine and dug into the éclairs with gusto.

“Isn't this fun?” she asked. “Éclairs! In the middle of the day. It's like being on holiday. All we ever have for dessert is fruit. Melon balls in the summer, apples and cheese in the winter. But chocolate—this is an immense improvement.”

“So,” I leaned toward Mrs. Storch and Calvin, “what did you think about the show? And what were you trying to ask me?”

“I thought Andrea looked very sexy,” said Mrs. Storch. She turned to Calvin, “What did you think, dear?”

“Hot,” said Calvin. “Hot, hot, hot.” I raised an eyebrow at Calvin. He added hastily, “But in a wholesome way.”

He watched Mrs. Storch polish off her éclairs, and gently pushed his untouched plate toward her.

“Aren't you eating yours, dear?” she asked.

“All yours,” said Calvin, gallantly.

“Oh, tell Mrs. Fiori what we were trying to remember,” she prompted Calvin.

“You always have all this ridiculous trivia in your head,” said Calvin. “Mrs. Storch thought Andrea looked like Marlene Dietrich when she was vamping that old professor in
The Blue Angel
. But we couldn't remember her character's name.”

“Naughty Lola,” I said promptly. “And the professor was played by Emil Jannings. This isn't trivia at all. This is important information any movie buff knows.” I polished off my éclairs;
I wasn't trying to butter up Mrs. Storch, I had no intention of handing mine over. “And, you may be right. That slicked-back hair—very Marlene in her cross-dressing days.”

Gertie caught my eye across the table, and tapped her wristwatch. I looked at mine. “Yikes,” I said.

“Meetings this afternoon. So sorry I have to run.” I shook hands all around and took off out of the dining room. As I hurried out, I couldn't help but acknowledge a tiny, wicked disappointment that Mrs. Storch had not seemed more discomfited, less enthusiastic, about Andrea's appearance. But then, oh, well, that's what comes from jumping to narrow, judgmental conclusions. Why
couldn't
a pearl-wearing, New England mother muse about her daughter's resemblance to Marlene Dietrich at her most debauched? And polish off four small éclairs in the process?

D
r. Mephisto was in black, head to toe. What was that about? Had the
Vogue
police come by to confiscate her wardrobe? Had she taken vows in a religious order?

Once again, she caught me giving her the once-over. She delivered one of her unreadable smiles, which I imagined translated directly into “I know what you're thinking and just remember how incredibly shallow it is to judge people by what they're wearing.”

“Going to a funeral, Dr. McQuist?” I inquired mildly.

She gave me a placid smile. “No. But it's funny that you ask, because I'm sensing some real sadness in you. Are
you
going to a funeral?”

Michael looked back and forth, at both of us.

“Am I missing something?” he asked.

“No,” I said at the same moment Dr. Mephisto said, “Yes, I think so.”

We all sat in silence.

“We had an interesting time at the Crimson Club a few nights ago,” Michael volunteered.

“Tell me about it,” she said.

Michael summarized, as if he were highlighting facts in a deposition. Or that's what I imagined. I'd never actually seen a deposition. Except in the movies. He focused on what happened when, what we discovered, when we left, all delivered without much affect or embroidery. He could have been describing a trip to Home Depot with the boys.

Dr. Mephisto sat quietly, listening. Michael fell silent.

“And,” she prompted gently.

“And that's it,” said Michael, a little impatiently.

“Maggie?” She'd turned her attention to me.

Oh, no, I thought. She's trying to turn this into one of those
Rashomon
things, where people who experience the same thing have entirely different takes on it. I expressed that view. Michael sighed.

Dr. Mephisto observed, “Is there something wrong with that? Don't we all have our own experience of the same moment?”

I felt a little headache beginning at the back of my eyes.

“Okay,” I said. “That's not all. Or at least, that's not the whole story.”

Michael raised his eyebrows.

“So, tell us the whole story,” said Mephisto. “Or at least, your whole story.”

I took a deep breath. “What Michael said is correct, or at least, I think so. We found out some information about a scene that happened at the Club, and that may prove useful. Or not.” I glanced at Michael. “Lt. Moon says they knew all about it.”

“You called him?” he asked.

“I was going to,” I said, “but he stopped over, the morning after, while you were out with the boys at soccer. I'm sorry. I forgot to tell you. He wanted to talk to you about playing in Wisconsin or Minnesota or somewhere cold. I don't remember exactly where.”

“And you get mad at the kids for not remembering messages,” he said.

“Promise me we're not going to have another dishwasher-unloading conversation today,” protested Dr. Mephisto.

“No, no, okay,” I said, feeling short of breath. “What I wanted to say was this: I got really sick after we got home that night.”

Michael regarded me curiously. “Is that why you were sleeping in the TV room?”

I nodded. “It was,” I searched for the right word. “It was very upsetting to see you at the Club. Dancing with that woman.”

Michael didn't say anything.

“It made you jealous?” prompted Mephisto.

“Not at first. At first, it was exciting. I was watching you with that redhead, and it was kind of thrilling. Like watching someone in a movie. You looked so sexy, and so—different. Not like a dad, you know?”

Michael nodded. “I didn't feel like a dad, for just a few minutes.”

“Anyway, I kept thinking—I couldn't wait 'til we got home. It was like thinking about going home with a stranger. Only someone familiar, someone I already knew. I was having very entertaining fantasies.”

I stopped talking, so desperate to have something to do with my hands. I reached out and picked up Michael's mug of horrid green tea, and took a gulp.

Mephisto watched me.

“But then…” I closed my eyes, and I could see Michael again, at the end, dancing with the redhead, with her hot-pink dress cupping that perfect butt, and her hands wrapped around his neck. “But then, we couldn't find you when it was time to go. And Puck and I went looking for you, and there you were and it was just awful. I thought—how could you touch someone else so intimately? And be so distracted that you didn't even know I was there?” I stopped again. “And you know that thing Fran Lebowitz says. That there's no conversation in life—there's just these standard remarks everyone makes. Like—I just have this one thing, can I go ahead of you in line. And…”

“‘Good. Now you know how it feels,'” finished Michael.

“Right,” I said. I sat back on the couch. “Pretty dumb revelation, huh? Pretty obvious?”

“A reminder, Mrs. Fiori,” said Michael coldly. “I believe you're the one who said you wouldn't mind a few surprises in our love life. You might have anticipated that an evening at the Crimson Club wouldn't be as predictable as…” He paused, and pretended to pluck something from his memory. “Ah, yes, ‘folding laundry.'”

My own glib words hung in the air. No one said anything. “I didn't mean that kind of surprise,” I protested weakly.

“Here's the thing with surprises, Maggie,” observed Michael. “You can't control what they are. Or then, they won't be surprises, will they?”

“So, anyway,” I finished briskly. “It was awful, and after we got home, I didn't want to have sex anymore. I just wanted to die, because I couldn't figure out who the hell this person was, this person I knew so well, who could look like that, and touch someone else like that. And be so remote from me.”

“And that made you feel sick?” asked Mephisto.

I shook my head. “I didn't
feel
sick. I was sick. I threw up, and I couldn't stop shivering, and I thought I was dying from some awful flu. But instead,” and I felt the tears well up, “I was dying from knowing all over again what a terrible person I was. I am. And now I have some small glimmer of how you must have felt.” I scrabbled in my handbag for a Kleenex. Dr. Mephisto pushed the box on the table closer to me, but I ignored her. I wanted
my
tissue from
my
purse; somehow it made me feel less pathetic. Michael watched me. He leaned forward a little, and I thought for one moment, he was going to put his arms around me. Then, he leaned back again, and crossed his ankle over his leg.

“Michael?” prodded Mephisto. “Do you want to say something?”

“I don't know,” he said. “I just don't know.”

“I'm so sorry,” I said.

He waved his hand at me, a little dismissively. “I know you are,
Maggie. You've said so. I believe it. This is not new information.”

“But I think there is something new here,” said Mephisto. “At least, for Maggie.”

“What's new?” asked Michael impatiently. “She screwed up. She knows she did. She's apologized. She's not going to do it again. Or at least, that's what she tells me.”

“Here's what I think is new,” said Mephisto. “I don't doubt Maggie's sincerity in her remorse. I don't doubt that she's sorry. But, what's different from my point of view, at least as Maggie's reporting it, is that she had just a glimmer of how it might have felt to be you.”

Michael shook his head. “Not one single clue,” he said. “She has not one fucking clue. The Crimson Club was…silly. Harmless. What Maggie did was lethal.”

The ride home was completely silent. I kept glancing over at Michael, looking for something. Nothing. The stillness in the car felt like an uninvited hitchhiker. Finally, I reached over and hit the radio. National Public Radio filled the car, earnest, intense reporting on another, slightly inexplicable move by the Fed. I listened intently. I figured that if this was the end of our marriage, I might as well learn something about monetary policy.

“Maggie,” Michael ventured.

“Yes?” I responded eagerly. Whatever he had to say, I'd listen. I'd pay attention.

“Do you mind switching it to the ball game? Oakland's at Boston.”

“Oh, sure,” I said, and hit the button, so that sound of “swing and a miss,” would fill the immeasurable space between us.

T
ravis sat erect in the hard plastic chair. All around us families were having Sunday supper experiences. Instead of roast beef or fried chicken at the dining-room table at home, they were sitting at beat-up aluminum tables, dining on the contents of the vending machines, but the spirit was the same. Lots of noise, people kidding one another, kids racing around the room, while mothers called for them to “come on, sit down, stop that running around right now.” Mostly they ignored their mothers, as children do. And, as the adults finished eating, the anachronistically elegant promenade started up around the room.

Travis, Isabella, and I sat in a triangle, facing each other. Isabella, as restless as the kids, was tapping one of her trademark red pencils on the table. Travis reached out and put his hand on the pencil. “Isabella, please,” he said.

She'd brought him up to date on our developments, and his face brightened at the report of Carol Ann's information.

“Don't get too excited,” said Isabella. “We don't know what it means yet, but at least we've got an eyewitness who saw someone with Grace the night of the murder.”

Travis allowed himself a smile. “See Maggie, I knew you'd turn something up.”

“It's a start,” I said. “And there's something more,” I added. “A group of us went to the Crimson Club the other night.”

“Really?” said Travis. “I wish I'd been there to see that.”

“Yep,” I continued. “We drove up in the Volvo stationwagon and everything. If the valet hadn't been ripped out of his mind, I'm sure he would have commented on our choice of ride.”

I briefed Travis on our evening, including the information about the altercation.

“So, any theories about the tall guy? Or the woman he dragged out of there?”

Travis shook his head. “Not really. You know the cops had already asked around about that scene. And the trial attorney didn't think there was anything there for us to follow up. I mean, theoretically there was somebody who seemed angry at Grace, but we don't know why.”

“Grace never mentioned it to you?”