Topping From Below (31 page)
She remembered when they first met. She remembered how she’d wanted to step out of her life and into his. Franny had wanted Michael to teach her the meaning of life; she’d wanted to be his student. She’d felt as though she were going on a journey, a quest, and Michael, her teacher, her mentor, would liberate her, and love her, and protect her—or so she’d thought. It was to be a wonderful journey. They were to have a wonderful life. She didn’t think it would turn out like this. How could she possibly have known it would turn out like this?
When Franny arrived at Michael’s house, she was wary. She’d got caught up in traffic in Sacramento and was ten minutes late. She didn’t know anymore what would set him off. She tried her best not to displease him, but lately, no matter what she did, he could always find fault. She parked her black Cadillac next to the curb and locked the door. Walking around the car, she noticed it needed a coat of wax, and she should buff it with a chamois.
When Michael answered the door, she expected him to be annoyed, but instead he invited her in and led her into the living room. He sat on the couch next to her, leaving a polite distance between them. Neatly dressed, he was wearing a white loose-knit sweater, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and charcoal-gray slacks.
“I have something to tell you, Franny,” he began, a concerned tone in his voice, which made her instantly alert. “This isn’t working out.”
Nervously, Franny clasped her hands together in her lap. “What isn’t working out?” she asked, but she knew what he meant.
He gave her a slow, sad smile. “You know what I’m talking about,” he said softly. He took her hand and held it for a minute, a look of compassion in his eyes. Franny couldn’t remember the last time he had been so gentle—months ago, perhaps, after they’d first met.
“We’re very different,” he said. “It’s time for you to move on to someone else. You don’t belong with me.”
Franny got a panicky feeling inside her. “But I do belong with you,” she said.
Michael just gazed at her, not saying a word. Undisguised pity covered his face, the face she’d grown to love—dark, handsome, square-jawed. But now the face was different, harsher, the wrinkles more prominent, the furrow in his forehead deeper, and his jaw was set tightly—it was as if his decision had hardened not only his feelings, but also his face. She wanted to lean over and kiss him, his eyes, his cheeks, his furrowing forehead, kiss him so much he’d soften his face and take back his words. But that wouldn’t work with him. He’d push her away.
“I do belong with you,” she repeated, but Michael just stared at her, impatiently it seemed, his lips slightly pursing as if he’d swallowed something distasteful.
“I know we’re different,” she added. “But I’ve changed since we met. And I can change even more.” She knew her voice sounded desperate. She was desperate.
He reached up and brushed her cheek, lightly, with the back of his hand. “Don’t,” he said quietly. “I won’t change my mind and nothing you say will make any difference. Our time is over.”
“It doesn’t have to be.”
“It’s over for me, Franny.” He said it with such a cold finality that she knew nothing she said would make him change his mind.
She tried to keep the emotion out of her voice. “Why?” she asked.
Michael shrugged. “Why does anything happen? Sometimes it just does.”
Franny could feel the tears start. Her throat felt constricted and dry. She thought of everything she had done for him, and now he was telling her it had all been for nothing.
“Tell my why,” she said. “I want the truth. Didn’t you ever love me? Or even care for me?”
“Franny, let’s not do this.”
“Tell me. I want the truth.”
He sighed and leaned back in the sofa. “You don’t want the truth, Franny. You want me to say that I made a big mistake, that I love you now and always have loved you. You want me to beg your forgiveness.”
She swiped at her face with the palms of her hands, wiping off the tears. “No,” she said. “Just tell me the truth. Tell me what I meant to you.”
“Don’t—”
“Tell me!”
Michael was silent for a while, then he said, “I’m fond of you, but that’s all. We have nothing in common. The truth is—and I know you won’t want to hear this, and it’s not a very noble sentiment—but the truth is I brought you into my life for my own amusement.”
“You don’t mean that.” Franny chewed on her lower lip. “You don’t mean that,” she repeated.
“You should be glad to get out of this, Franny. You hated every minute of it. You hated what I made you do. You should thank me for ending this.”
“Thank you?” she said, and she started to laugh, then choked on a sob. “Thank you? How can you say that?”
“I can say it because it’s the truth. I’m doing you a favor. You don’t need someone like me in your life. I make you miserable, you know that. You’re on edge every time you come over here.”
He leaned forward and took her hand again, stroked it gently. She barely noticed. She felt as though she were dreaming, her body numb, without sensation.
“It would just get worse, Franny. I promise you. I would make it even worse for you.”
She shook her head, trying to come out of her dream world. His words seemed so far away. “You can’t do this,” she said. “I need you. I did things for you, whatever you asked. You can’t … you can’t just …”
Michael waited for her to finish, but when he saw she couldn’t, he said, “You don’t need me, Franny. If there’s one thing you don’t need, it’s me.”
Franny had been sitting in her apartment for seven days now. She called in sick at work, although she knew she’d have to go back eventually. In her bathrobe, she sat in the armchair by the phone, waiting for it to ring. In seven days, she’d only got four calls: two from work, one from the newspaper asking if her delivery was satisfactory, one from a woman selling magazine subscriptions. Her isolation was complete. Mrs. Deever was gone, Michael was gone, Nora might as well be gone: Franny had phoned her again, several times, but she still hadn’t returned her calls. If only she could talk to Nora, then maybe she could get through this. But Nora didn’t want to talk, not to her. She had her own friends, her own life, and whenever they were together—at their monthly dinner date—Franny could feel Nora’s restlessness, her desire to leave as soon as she arrived. Franny could not rely on Nora for help. She was alone again, and realized it would always be this way. She could feel herself slipping inward, and she allowed it to happen: she released herself, just as she had—so long ago—released Billy and let him slip away.
NORA
Franny’s diary ended there. She never made another entry, although she lived two weeks longer. She went back to work, and her coworkers later told the police that even though she acted distant, none of them had suspected anything was wrong; she had always been shy and a little remote. She just kept to herself even more, performing her duties routinely, avoiding any personal contact with the others. She was courteous to the patients, and efficient, but a detachment had set in, as if she was just going through the motions. She had, as she had feared, slipped into her own world.
Her last entries were perfunctory, a mere recording of the facts, but they substantiated M.’s retelling of the events. Even after he broke off with her, he said she called him, persistently, until she went back to work. He knew of her state of mind. What he provided—and what her last entries lacked—was the emotion, the insight, the feelings behind the facts. Tersely, Franny wrote: “I called Nora again, but she wasn’t home.” Reading that line, how could I have guessed she was reaching out for me, hoping to be saved? My guilt, my complicity in her death, multiplies. I failed her more than I ever imagined.
I did, finally, return her calls, and we made a tentative dinner date at the Radisson. I had meant to call Franny earlier, but this was an especially busy time for me at the newspaper. I was in the middle of two stories, I was traveling to Berkeley and Los Angeles to gather research information, and I was dating several men. At the last minute, I had to cancel the dinner date we’d scheduled—an interview came up with a scientist who was working in a new field of research, polymer photophysics, trying to use light to get polymers to do useful work—and Franny was murdered before I could see her again. She never had the chance to tell me about Mrs. Deever, or about M., or about any of the things he made her do. I suppose I never gave her the opportunity. I did love her—she wasn’t just a casual acquaintance to me as M. had once said—but he was right: I did treat her as if she was. I wonder now what went through her mind as her murderer bound her with duct tape and began his slow torture. Did she think of me? Did she die thinking no one really cared? If I could be given another chance, Franny, I would make sure you knew I cared.
Parallels. I see parallels everywhere. How could I have been so blind? When she had no one, Franny slipped inward, inside herself; and I, trusting no one, have been there all my adult life. We are alike, so very much alike. And I could have saved her. It was in my power. All I have left is retribution. I shall make sure M. pays for what he did. I shall finish my journey with him, follow the same path that Franny took, and bring it to an end.
Joe Harris and I are in the Paragon again, having another beer. This has become somewhat of a ritual for us. Tuesday nights, when he gets off work, we meet here for a drink before he goes home. I need this ritual more than he. I look to Joe for balance. My life has become limited, a small sphere that, like a dying star, is collapsing in on itself. I see only three people now: Joe, Ian, and M., my own private triad of conflicting morality. Joe and Ian represent everything I admire in men; M., everything I despise. I feel I’m in the middle of a power play, the age-old conflict, good versus evil, wherein the contenders are wrangling for my soul. Like a celestial body, I lean to the mass exerting the greatest pull. I gravitate to M., not because I want to, but because the attraction is strongest. When I was younger—in my teens and early twenties—I was always drawn to the bad boys. I had an affinity for the outlaw mentality, for the excessive, for the outré. I thought I had outgrown my attraction to bad boys and their dangerous games, but it seems I haven’t.
Outside, the wind is blowing, a hot muffled breeze that played havoc with my hair as I walked into the bar. Joe loosens his shirt collar and leans back in the chair. The chair squeaks under his weight. He’s tired today, and the fan of wrinkles around his eyes seems deeper. He takes a long drink from his glass, looks around the bar.
“He’s getting worried,” I say. “The other day he asked me about the details of Franny’s murder. He wanted to know how much the police knew.”
Joe doesn’t say anything.
“All I told him was what the newspapers had printed.” His round face is impassive.
“Well?” I say, waiting for him to comment. “Doesn’t that tell you something?”
He shrugs, takes a drink. Finally, he says, “You’re focusing on him so much, you’re overlooking other possibilities.”
“What does that mean?” I ask, suddenly alert.
“He’s still a suspect, but we’re also looking at someone else.”
“Who? Tell me.”
Joe shakes his head. “No. It’s preliminary. And I’ve told you all along to stay out of this investigation.”
“I have a right to know.”
Again, he shakes his head. “All you’re doing is getting in the way, Nora. And getting in trouble.”
Abruptly, Joe reaches over and takes my hand, holds it firmly in his. I wonder what he’s doing, but then he shoves up the sleeve of my blouse. I have ligature marks on the outside of my wrist where M.’s handcuff chafed against my skin. Joe closes his eyes and sighs, then releases my hand.
I push down my sleeve and start to take a sip of beer. Midway, I set the glass back on the table and look at the floor, my hand still around the glass. I’m too ashamed to speak.
“I thought you said you could take care of yourself,” he says.
I lift my shoulders in a small shrug, still staring at the floor. Nervously, without looking, I twist my beer glass in the circle of water on the table.
“Is that what you call taking care of yourself?”
I cannot raise my eyes to look at him. I am embarrassed that he knows I allow M. to bind me. My demise, over the last few weeks, has been complete. M. puts me in shackles, he tethers me to his bed, to the kitchen table, to whatever he chooses. He ties my hands and legs. I feel the crack of his whip on my ass. He brands me with it, as he did with Franny, but he makes no apologies. Afterward, he kisses me tenderly, he unties me and holds me in his arms, he tells me I am loved, then he tells me he will do it again.
And I always return. I need the information—and his brand of sex—which only he can give me.
Joe walks me out to my car. It’s a typical July evening in Davis: hot, dry, a feeling of lassitude in the air. As I insert the key in the door, he puts his hand on my shoulder. I turn to face him.
“You need to see someone,” he says.
I look at him, not understanding.
“A therapist,” he adds. “Someone who can help you.”
I start to deny that I need help, but it is so obvious that I’m in trouble, even to me, that the words won’t come out of my mouth. Joe puts his hand on my shoulder again, and I lean my head to the side so I can feel his fingers on my cheek. I close my eyes. When I open them again, Joe is looking at me sadly. I step forward and cling to him, burying my head in his ample chest. He holds me, awkwardly at first, then pats my back and comforts me as if I were a little girl.
I break away and open the car door. “I’m okay,” I say. “Really, I am,” and I get in my car and leave.
On the way home, I stop at Taco Bell and pick up a Burrito Supreme for dinner. I rarely cook anymore, not even to throw something from the freezer into the microwave. I either skip meals, or stop at a fast-food restaurant. I am becoming, like Franny, a fast-food junkie. The only decent meals I eat are the ones M. cooks for me.