The Doctor's Wife (29 page)
Authors: Elizabeth Brundage
What are you doing, Annie?
she asked herself, and for the first time in her life she didn’t have a clue.
she asked herself, and for the first time in her life she didn’t have a clue.
“I have some news,” she told Michael when he got home from work. She handed him a beer.
“Are we celebrating?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact.” She clinked her bottle against his. “I’ve been asked to write an article about Simon Haas.”
“You mean the dead artist?”
“He’s not
dead,
Michael—don’t be mean. It’s for
Vanity Fair.
”
dead,
Michael—don’t be mean. It’s for
Vanity Fair.
”
“Wow. Hot shit. How’d you swing that?”
“He asked me to write it. He chose me.”
“Really?” he said. “That old fart’s trying to get into your pants.”
“You may be right,” she said seriously.
“He’s not exactly your type, is he?”
“Not exactly. So, do you think I should do it?”
“What? Let him into your pants, or write the article?” He smiled and she found herself smiling back.
“Both.”
“Hell, yes. Go for it.” He rolled his eyes. “You’re not
that
desperate, are you?”
that
desperate, are you?”
“I just may be,” she said.
23
SIMON HAD LEARNED early in the game that it was always best to be honest with Lydia, lest her imagination get the better of her, so that morning over coffee in the kitchen, he told her about the article Annie was going to write.
“I’ve consented to give an interview to
Vanity Fair
magazine” was how he put it. “It’s about us.”
Vanity Fair
magazine” was how he put it. “It’s about us.”
“What?”
“Well, it’s not about us, really. It’s about me, my work.”
“Your
work
?” She stood up and went to the window, watching the finches in the bird feeder. “I
am
your work.”
work
?” She stood up and went to the window, watching the finches in the bird feeder. “I
am
your work.”
Summoned by her small, indifferent back, he went to her and put his hands on her shoulders. “It’s important for me. It’s important for the new paintings.”
“I don’t give a damn about the new paintings.”
A dark mood circled over his wife’s head like a vulture. He put his lips to her neck and kissed her gently. “Please, Lydia. Please don’t be sad.”
“How can I help it,” she said desperately, and twisted around in his arms. She looked like a little girl again with the soft sunlight on her face, and it brought him straight back to the awful day they’d met. “It’s because of her, isn’t it?”
“Because of who?” he said, feigning confusion, but he knew exactly who she meant.
“That woman. That new professor you like.”
She knew him well, he gave her that. He also knew that each word he spoke was for her a jagged little knife opening a wound. “Well, yes, actually. She’s a journalist. She’s the one who’s going to write it. Frankly, I think that’s the real reason she’s teaching at the college. Not that she’d ever admit to it.”
Lydia’s face went dull and she spoke so softly he could barely hear. “You got
her
?”
her
?”
“I had nothing to do with that,” he said defensively. “That was the magazine, not me.”
She sniffled uncertainly. “She’s going to interview you?”
“Just a bit. Nothing to worry about, though.” It was time to go, he thought. He pulled on his coat and filled his cup with coffee.
“Nothing to
worry
about?”
worry
about?”
“I don’t plan on discussing anything personal, if that’s what’s worrying you. I don’t plan on going into any detail.”
Lydia stole a look at him.
“I’m sorry, but I have to go. I’m late.” He kissed her and her hand flew up to her cheek as if to catch it, as if to keep the small token of love from flying away. He drank the coffee in one gulp, swallowing the burning liquid willingly, a punishment for the sins he would soon commit. Then he set down his cup and walked out, feeling her eyes on the back of his head, a sniper aimed and ready. One day she would finally pull the trigger, he thought, and it would not surprise him if it were soon.
24
A WEEK AFTER the mailbox incident, the phone rang at quarter to six in the morning. When Michael answered it, he heard Celina crying on the other end. “You’d better come down here,” she told him.
Even from two blocks away Michael could see the confusion in front of the clinic. There were cop cars and television trucks, and a helicopter hovered overhead. The place was swarming with reporters. A cop stopped him at the parking lot and asked to see his ID. Through the windshield Michael could see that someone had spray-painted across the front of the building: AS SURELY AS I LIVE, I WILL GIVE YOU OVER TO BLOODSHED AND IT WILL PURSUE YOU. SINCE YOU DID NOT HATE BLOODSHED, BLOODSHED WILL PURSUE YOU.—EZEKIEL 35:6. The paint was red and dripped down the cement like blood.
He found Celina in her office, sitting behind her desk, a wreck. “Do you think we should cancel appointments?”
“We’re not canceling anything,” he said. “You’ve got a waiting room full of people out there.”
She looked at him, her face ashen with fear. “I’m scared.”
“We need more security here. We need a guard out there full-time. I found a Web site that sells bulletproof vests.”
“Where’s the money coming from for all this protection?”
“I’ll pay for it.”
“No, Michael,” she said. “I never should have dragged you into this. I don’t feel right about it. You’ve got kids. I never should have asked you for help. It was selfish of me. I regret it.”
“Celina, you know I can’t let you do this alone.”
“I have this guilt.” She made a fist against her heart. “I have this guilt in here, over you.”
“Don’t.”
“I feel like I’m messing with your life, and I don’t like it. I don’t want you to feel like I took advantage of our past.”
“I’m helping you because I think it’s important. Not because of what we had. I’m not doing you any favors. My time’s too valuable for that.” He stood up. “Speaking of which, we’ve got people waiting out there. Let’s get to work.”
25
IN PREPARATION for the article on Simon Haas, Annie spent hours in the campus library trying to dig up information about him. Very little had been written; his entire youth remained a mystery. She found a few scant pieces in
The New York Times, Art Monthly, Art in America.
The few pictures of him, taken years before in his studio, showed Haas as a gangly young man with leonine hair and brooding eyes, wearing a white T-shirt and trousers, his bare feet splattered with paint. There was the ever-present cigarette, the demeanor of gloom. One of the featured paintings,
Disposable Love,
portrayed a man with silver loins in a motel room with a young girl—it was Lydia—who sat on the floor, naked, Indian style, eating French fries out of a cardboard container while watching the
Road Runner
cartoon on TV. The relationship between the two figures was left ambiguous. One did not know if they were lovers or not. One did not know if the girl was a prostitute, or a runaway, or even, perhaps, the daughter of the naked man. The suggestion of impropriety left the viewer hanging. Simon did not judge his subjects, nor did he judge his viewers for wanting to look.
The New York Times, Art Monthly, Art in America.
The few pictures of him, taken years before in his studio, showed Haas as a gangly young man with leonine hair and brooding eyes, wearing a white T-shirt and trousers, his bare feet splattered with paint. There was the ever-present cigarette, the demeanor of gloom. One of the featured paintings,
Disposable Love,
portrayed a man with silver loins in a motel room with a young girl—it was Lydia—who sat on the floor, naked, Indian style, eating French fries out of a cardboard container while watching the
Road Runner
cartoon on TV. The relationship between the two figures was left ambiguous. One did not know if they were lovers or not. One did not know if the girl was a prostitute, or a runaway, or even, perhaps, the daughter of the naked man. The suggestion of impropriety left the viewer hanging. Simon did not judge his subjects, nor did he judge his viewers for wanting to look.
Sifting through the photographs, she felt herself wanting to be the one person who could know him better than anyone else. His asking her to write the article had been a calculated method of seduction—she was certain of that now—and it provided each of them with a perfect excuse to spend time together. And she wanted that. Oh, yes, she wanted it. She had not chosen him, yet curiously he had come into her life. He seemed to know her in some significant way; he seemed
to know her,
voraciously, fundamentally, better than Michael did. How strange, she thought, remembering his hands on her body, urgently taking ownership.
to know her,
voraciously, fundamentally, better than Michael did. How strange, she thought, remembering his hands on her body, urgently taking ownership.
She returned to her office and began to write an outline. There were gaps, of course, things she needed to find out. His life with Lydia was a mystery. Why had he dropped out of the art world so suddenly?
The phone shook her alert. A woman’s voice came on the line. “This is Susannah calling for Simon Haas.” The woman had a deep, velvety voice. “He’d like to know if you’d be willing to have lunch with him.”
Momentarily disarmed, Annie said, “What?”
Who in God’s name was Susannah?
And then she added uncertainly, “Lunch? Sure, what time?”
Who in God’s name was Susannah?
And then she added uncertainly, “Lunch? Sure, what time?”
The woman muffled the phone with her hand and Annie could hear some giggling in the background. “One o’clock. He’ll meet you on the path halfway.”
Annie hung up, annoyed. Why hadn’t he just called her himself? She went into the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror. She hadn’t planned on seeing him today and now regretted the old black turtleneck, the jean skirt that had seen better days. On her feet were a pair of clunky Bean boots and indecently holey wool socks. Her lipstick, which might have salvaged her appearance, was somewhere in her car, having rolled into the sticky abyss beneath her seat.
At ten of one she threw on her coat and went downstairs. The truth was, it felt good to be writing again. She remembered her days in the city during graduate school when, with the help of her father’s connections, she’d gotten an internship at the
Times.
She had fond memories of her tiny studio apartment, living on coffee and cigarettes and the happy hour chicken wings they served at her neighborhood bar. Thirsty like a vampire when it came to her work, hunting down victims, winning their trust, then biting them in the throat. She’d given it up when Henry was born and they’d moved to Albany for Michael’s fellowship. Motherhood had changed her; she had lost her fangs and had never thought she’d want them back. Until now.
Times.
She had fond memories of her tiny studio apartment, living on coffee and cigarettes and the happy hour chicken wings they served at her neighborhood bar. Thirsty like a vampire when it came to her work, hunting down victims, winning their trust, then biting them in the throat. She’d given it up when Henry was born and they’d moved to Albany for Michael’s fellowship. Motherhood had changed her; she had lost her fangs and had never thought she’d want them back. Until now.
The black path was thick with yellow leaves. Some of the students had gathered an enormous pile of them and were jumping in them like children. They called out to someone—it was Simon—and he said something and they all laughed. Everybody liked him, she realized. They all looked up to him even though he was enigmatic as a Hollywood icon. People liked the mystery, she thought, and he liked it, too. He did little to enlighten them.
Now he was coming toward her in his lumberman’s coat, a black watch cap pulled over his ears, his violet scarf around his neck. Whenever she saw him her heart began to thump. “Who’s the girl with the voice?”
“That would be Susannah. My secretary. Used to do phone sex. Amazing what a voice can do. Conjures up all sorts of exciting images. You’re thinking tight sweater, short skirt, right? Couldn’t be further from the truth. Stop by sometime and take a look. I don’t think the scale goes up that high.”
“You have your very own secretary? How’d you pull that off?”
“Lots of red tape. Stopped handing in grades, evaluations, et cetera. The following Monday Susannah was there.” He smiled, thoroughly pleased with himself. They crossed the yard and headed toward the parking lot in the direction of his car. “She’s my, how do you say, my conservator.”
“Is your car actually running?”
“Yes, but be careful, she’s very sensitive.”
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