Читать книгу Embracing The Fool - Dawn Leger - Страница 3

More than thirty-six hours passed before I felt like myself. The shot of Imitrex I took when I got home knocked me out cold for twenty-four of them, and then after I ate some soup and took a shower, I slept for another twelve. By the time another day rolled around, I was feeling better but unsteady on my feet. My phone, with its ringer turned off, had fielded calls from the police, my department, and members of the writing group. In a daze, I jotted names and numbers on a blank piece of stationery.

My first call was to the department chair, Terrence Graham, to explain my absence and try to salvage my job. He was more understanding than I had expected, until the topic of the police investigation came up.

“So, Cassie, what’s this about the police looking into your background?” asked Dr. Graham. “I know you said you found Neville’s body—so unfortunate, ghastly what is happening in the City—but why would the police be calling me and asking about your credentials?”

“Oh, you know, they need to check out everyone who was at the apartment, it’s just routine,” I said. “Nothing to be concerned about.”

“I don’t know. They sent someone over here to look at your personnel file. That doesn’t sound routine to me,” he said.

“Well, how would I know? I’ve never been involved in anything like this before. This is the first time I ever set foot in a police station.”

“You mean they took you to the station?”

Dammit. “Just routine questioning. I think they brought in the entire writing group, as a matter of fact,” I said, back-pedaling as fast as I could. I stared out the window at the dreary gray sky, rain smudging the edges of nearby buildings and trees.

“Is that so?” He sounded skeptical.

I called upon his Southern upbringing to cadge his agreement to let me out of teaching for the remainder of the week to recover from my traumatic experience.

“I’ll be as good as new in a day or two, I promise,” I said. “I just had such a migraine. It was so upsetting, seeing Neville in that condition. I can hardly get it out of my mind.”

When I hung up, I reached for the silk-wrapped bundle that I kept in the nightstand next to my bed. Unwrapping the fabric, I removed a well-worn deck of Tarot cards and began to shuffle them. They moved between my hands like old friends, and I closed my eyes, focusing on the questions that ran through my head.

“No,” I said. “I need to know what this has to do with me. Why is this happening in my life now?” I turned over a card: the Fool smiled up at me.

“Really?” I asked. “Who is the fool? Me?”

I contemplated the card. The Tarot had been a part of my life for many years, a fact I’d hidden from my father, for I was certain that he would not approve. I’d watched my mother lay out these very same cards for years, starting when I was quite young. I could still recall her patient explanation of the meaning of the Major Arcana, of which the Fool was the first card.

“The Fool is at the beginning of the journey that the cards will take you on,” she’d said. “See how carefree he is? He’s starting fresh, just like a child having an adventure. No matter how old you are, remember, when you see this card, it means that you are going to have a chance to start over, to get another chance in life. And you should always, always take it. Never lose your inner child, Cassandra. Never let anyone take that away.”

I picked up the card and studied it. “I did it, Mom,” I said. “I came here and started fresh. And now look at the mess I’m in.”

I tossed the card on the bedspread and fanned the deck around it. Randomly, I pulled out another card and tossed it on top of the Fool. It was the Eight of Swords, in which a woman was depicted in bondage, her hands behind her, her eyes covered by a blindfold. I laughed aloud.

“I see,” I said. “I get the message.” Although the woman looks trapped in her dire situation, in fact, the bindings are all in her imagination—she is tied only by her own hesitation and the limits she has brought on herself. I swept up the cards, shuffled them lightly, and said, “Okay, Mother dear. Any other advice?”

I tossed down a card. It was the Fool again. I laughed and put the cards away.

“Got it,” I said. “I won’t give up on my dreams, at least not yet. I’ll keep trying this new life I started.”

I went out to the living room and plopped onto the couch. My apartment had nothing to compare it to the spacious home in which I’d discovered Neville. This was an institutional box in a tower of faculty housing, much of which was occupied by lower-level, untenured laborers like myself. It had four white walls and a muddy brown carpet, with the sole redeeming feature the large picture window overlooking Washington Square Park. It was nice to look at, but a nightmare to live above: if you had any inclination to open a window, the constant noise coming from the park made it impossible to hear any music, television show, or conversation inside the apartment.

I had tried to brighten the place up in the few months I’d been there with a red couch, a black Ikea chair, an artfully draped shawl over a small table in the corner. I'd added an old lamp I picked up at a tag sale in Somerville before I moved to New York, and a throw rug from my father’s basement that mixed the red and black colors nicely and almost obscured the ugly institutional carpet beneath. I hadn’t really hung anything on the walls, and there was only a small bookcase with some fiction that I dragged out—nothing at all like the massive library Neville cultivated. If I was going to make my new life an exciting and interesting one, I needed decorating help and it was just the thing to distract me from the pickle I’d gotten into with Neville. I picked up the phone.

“Michael? What’s your schedule today?” I asked. My best friend in the city, a colleague who worked one flight above my office in the Humanities Department, was a year away from his tenure review and more attentive to spending time in his office than I.

“Um, class at 4:00, office hours afterwards. What’s up? You sound stressed. Where are you?” he asked.

“Home…You wouldn’t believe what happened. Well, maybe you will,” I said. “I spent the night in the pokey.”

“What? Like the ‘hokey pokey’?” He giggled. Michael, a former all-state wrestler from Massachusetts, was a seriously silly person. When we first met, I’d heard his infectious laugh while I was waiting for the elevator. When the door opened and I saw his lively dark eyes, sweeping black hair, and Oh-my-God what a body, I was a goner. Unfortunately, I learned very quickly that he only had eyes for the guys.

“No, like the jail. Can you meet me? I need to shop...I have to fix up this place. When I got home from the Police Department, I realized that their décor was better than mine.”

“Oh, stop. It can’t be that bad.” He paused. “The station, I mean.” He resumed giggling.

“So you’ll help,” I said.

“I really should work on this article, but this sounds like an emergency.” He stopped laughing. “But really, you need to tell me what happened. Did you cook dinner for someone and get picked up for manslaughter?” The peals of laughter started again.

“Har-de-har-har,” I said. “Meet you on the corner in fifteen?”

“You have to buy me lunch,” he said.

“But of course,” I said. I pulled on a pair of skinny jeans, a blue-and white striped shirt (no-iron, thank you very much), and a gray boiled wool blazer. Slipping my feet into Doc Martens, I ran down the stairs and leaned against the massive red library building and watched the bustling corner. My cell phone buzzed with an incoming message: “Walk this way. Igor.”

“Let’s go to Soho,” Michael said when I ambled up next to him on the busy sidewalk. “There’s a cute shop down there that I saw last weekend with José that might have some darling things for your so-called living room.”

I hooked my arm through his, and we crossed over to Broadway and headed south.

“I love this jacket,” I said, fingering the rough tweed of his sleeve and giving his bicep a squeeze. “Very professorial.”

“You think?” he asked. “I thought it was kind of retro ‘Good Will Hunting,’ you know what I mean, but not so much that I look like I’m totally handing it over. Right?”

“Definitely not handing it over.”

“And also not at all gay,” he added.

“So not gay,” I agreed. “Very masculine. I’d date you.”

“I know you would, sweetie, but I’m looking for tenure, not a relationship, right?” He patted my hand. “So, the store is on the next block, but tell me quick, why did you get put in the pokey last night? What happened?”

“Neville was killed. I found his body. Can you believe it?” We stopped and held each other’s hands while he screamed “No!” and I screamed “Yes!” and other pedestrians made a Red Sea parting around us.

“So they think you killed him?” he asked.

“They let me go, so, no, I don’t think they do,” I said.

“But they kept you all night long…and they asked lots of questions, right?” We started walking again. I shrugged.

“Where’s that store?” I asked.

“Don’t worry. It’s right here…” he said. “Are you avoiding my question? I mean, someone might think you have a motive to get rid of Neville, the old fairy. He was treating you badly. Oh, do they know about that? Did they talk to anyone else in the group yet?”

“They hadn’t last night. By now, they must have talked to some of them. And to Kenneth. Oh boy. God only knows what he had to say.” I tightened my grip on his arm.

“Quick, get in the store. The cops could be coming for you any minute. We need to hide,” he said. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes scanned the street as he pushed me into a small, crowded shop filled with linens and knick-knacks.

“What is this place?” I asked. “Is this where you wanted to take me? I don’t think I need to hide, Michael.”

“How can I help you?” asked a small woman, barely five feet tall, her bald head shining like a piece of alabaster under the soft lighting of the store. Brilliant green eyes lined in kohl stood out startlingly from her pale visage as she materialized between two stacks of Turkish pillows and carpets.

“We’re looking for some items to decorate a rather Spartan faculty apartment,” Michael said.

“No better place than this,” she said with a flourish. “Assistance or poking around?”

“We’ll poke for now,” he said, smirking at me.

“I am at your service, just beckon,” she said before disappearing behind a beaded curtain.

“I could use one of these,” I said, fingering the beads. “You know, for the kitchen door.”

“No,” he said. “Your cat will destroy it within a week.”

“I don’t have a cat,” I said. “I think you’re thinking of somebody else.”

“You will. Either you’ll get a cat or you’ll go to prison. One or the other. That’s what I think.”

“Gee, thanks. I really appreciate your support, Michael. With friends like you, who needs the police dragging them to the pokey?” I said.

“Come here,” he pulled me to a corner where a little settee was hidden next to some lush fabric samples and a towering pile of wallpaper books. Vases of all sizes, shapes, and origins were arrayed around the stacks. “Sit. Now, tell me everything that happened from the beginning to the end, when you called me this morning. Everything. Don’t leave out anything. Ready, go,” he said.

And so I did. Estelle, the bald proprietor, joined us after a time, bringing a pot of tea and some cups on an exquisite wooden stand. They listened, rapt, while I relayed my ordeal. I may have embellished the horror of the discovery a bit, especially when I had to repeat it for Estelle’s benefit after she arrived with the refreshments, and when I was done, we all sat and sipped the tepid brew thoughtfully.

“Wow,” Michael said.

“Quite,” Estelle nodded.

“Can I see your fingers?” he asked.

“I tell you all that, and that’s what you ask me?” I said. “Sure, here you go.” I held out my hands, palm up, over the tea tray and Michael and Estelle fingered my digits.

“Fascinating,” Estelle breathed. With her tiny reading glasses perched on the tip of her nose, she examined my fingers almost as closely as Detective Friday had during the previous night’s interrogation.

I’d had enough when Michael rubbed my index finger on the inside of his wrist. Pulling my hand back, I tucked my hands under my arms.

“So, are we going to shop or not?” I asked. “I need some distraction. Let’s spend some money, shall we?”

Estelle shifted gears quickly while Michael tried to get more information about the missing prints. I left him on the couch and followed her shiny head into a maze of carpets hanging from a massive rack.

“You obviously need color to begin the brightening process. I’d say you are a red personality, yes?” she asked. “Maybe purple?”

“Everything in the place is sort of beige-y gray now, so I’d head into the reds,” Michael said, coming up behind me. “Something dramatic, but not too bloody, if you know what I mean.”

I scanned the carpets as she flipped through, trying to avoid the poofs of dust that each swish released into the small room.

“Stop—go back—I like that one,” I said. Estelle and Michael shook their heads as she reluctantly returned to a red and brown-based kilim. “Yes, this one. Do you have any pillows that might go with?”

“Really? This is what you want? It’s so…rustic. How about something more sophisticated, like this abstract?” Michael swept Estelle aside and pulled forward a modernist mess of red and black swirls.

“That one makes me dizzy.”

“I thought you wanted my advice,” Michael pouted.

“Oh, I do,” I said. “So, you think that would be good in my apartment. You’ll have to help me make it work. Let’s find a couple of lamps, maybe a small table or two?”

He smiled. “Of course, you’ll love it, I promise. It’s really you, not that primitive thing you chose.”

“You really think so? It’s the real me?” I smiled. “I would love to bring a therapist over to your apartment sometime.”

“Already been done,” he said. “Now, look at this fabulous little bar cart. Estelle, does this come in any other colors? With some nice glasses, it will look very classy in the dining area. And we’ll need an ice bucket, maybe something silver or beaded…” And he was off, with Estelle jotting notes on a pad. I followed, picking up a piece and looking at prices here and there.

My credit card was considerably taxed when we were finally seated in our favorite restaurant, Number One Chinese. Michael ordered for us and we were well into our soup before he brought up the murder again.

“So, who do you think did the deed?” he asked.

“I have no idea, really,” I said. “I don’t know Neville very well, outside of the group, and even there, I haven’t even been a member for a full year. It’s hard to say. I don’t think it was Kenneth, I mean, they had some issues—doesn’t every couple?—but they just adopted a baby, so that would be crazy, wouldn’t it? And I don’t know much about his business or his finances, so that could be something, I suppose. And who knows, there could be some other conflict in the group, I guess.”

“Well, that’s why the police think you did it, so I wouldn’t share that theory with anyone else,” he said. “You’re pretty terrible at solving mysteries, aren’t you?”

I nodded. “When I read a mystery novel I can never figure out whodunit. I’m always surprised at the endings.”

Our entrees were delivered and we hunkered down to eat. I knew that I had to be quick because Michael would eat his first choice and then move onto mine when he’d vacuumed up every morsel in his dish. I held off his chopsticks until my hunger was sated, then sat back and drank a cup of watery tea.

“It looks like somebody planned the attack pretty well, though,” I said. “And if I was paranoid, I might think that whoever killed Neville was trying to set me up to take the fall.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, the fact that the entire living room was covered with the pages of my manuscript, for starters,” I said. “The room looked like we had a fight and somebody—probably Neville— threw the whole thing up in the air. And the murder weapon. It looked, well, kind of familiar.”

“What?” he squeaked. “That’s kind of a big thing to leave out. Oh, by the way, the murder weapon happened to be mine…Duh. No wonder they questioned you all night.”

“I didn’t say it was mine,” I said. “If I did do it, I’d be pretty stupid to leave all that evidence there to implicate myself, don’t you think?”

“That’s true, you’d never leave your manuscript lying on the floor like that,” he said. “It is pretty obvious. So, how was he killed, anyway? You never mentioned that part. Was there a gun? You didn’t pick it up, did you?”

“No, he was stabbed in the throat, and the knife was still….stuck there,” I said.

“Eeew.”

“I know. I lost my supper when I saw all the blood. Spoiled the crime scene a little, I’m afraid,” I tried to smile. “I know my manuscript was there, because that’s what I was going over early to meet with Neville about. The knife, I don’t know. I don’t know for sure about it, but it seems like I’ve seen it before. It all happened pretty fast, you know? One second I found him, and the next thing I knew, the cops were hauling me out of there in handcuffs.”

“Where would you have seen a knife like that? Was it, like, a kitchen knife? A Swiss Army knife?” he asked, pushing the dishes away and filling his own teacup. “I can picture that—one with the red handle, and all those tools hanging out of it. No? A shiv?” He continued when I kept shaking my head.

“At least there won’t be any fingerprints on it,” he whispered.

“Oh, Michael,” I said. “That’s not really true about the fingerprints, you know. You can’t get rid of them. Even with acid. And sandpaper, it doesn’t really erase them.”

“So what you said before, with Estelle,” Michael began.

“Sorry,” I said. “I was just trying to be mysterious. I mean, gymnastics does a number on your hands, don’t get me wrong, but it doesn’t set you up for a life of crime.”

“Hmm,” he said. “Too bad. It sounded believable to me.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” I said. “What else?”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“What else should I be looking for, checking on?” I asked. “You seem to know about this kind of thing.”

“Murder, you mean? I know about murder?”

“Well, whatever. What else do you think I should be doing?” I asked.

“Maybe you need to get a lawyer,” he said. “And maybe you should talk to some of the other people in that writing group, and see if you can find out anything from any of them.”

“Like what? What I am I supposed to ask? Hey, Joanie, do you happen to know who killed Neville and may have decided to frame me for it? Was it you, by any chance? Hey—maybe I should call Kenneth and ask him, too. What do you think?”

“I think you can be a little more creative than that, Cassie. God, do I have to do everything for you?”

“Maybe,” I said. “I’ll pay for lunch, though. If my credit card isn’t rejected.”

We walked back to campus, strolling through the crowded streets of the East Village, stopping once for frozen yogurt and twice for Michael to try on hats at street vendors. Both of us slowed down to peruse tables stacked with used books, easels displaying art and photography, and once to throw a dollar bill into the open guitar case of a talented young man performing an athletic version of “Classical Gas.”

“Did you see that?” Michael asked. “What a face that kid has.”

“Talent is what that kid has,” I said.

“And looks,” he added.

“I guess,” I said. “Not my type.”

“So just what is your type, anyway?” he asked. “I’ve known you for almost a year and I haven’t been able to figure it out. Do you not like men? Are you a dyke or something?”

“No, I’m not,” I said. “I’m just really, really focused on my career right now. I don’t have time for a social life. And besides, you’re my type. I’m just waiting for you to get over this fascination you have with men, and realize that I’m the woman for you.”

“Oh my God, that is so not what you just said,” he said.

“And that is so not proper English,” I replied.

We were crossing the park, closing in on the residence towers, when I saw the cruiser.

“I think I may have company,” I said, nodding towards the officer leaning against the car. “I don’t think he’s spotted me yet.”

I took Michael’s arm and gently steered him around the corner.

“Maybe he didn’t see me. Let’s go in here.” We went into a coffee shop and I pulled out my cell phone. “I’d better get on that lawyer thing right away,” I said.

Michael went to the counter to order. I flipped quickly through my contacts and pressed a speed dial. He motioned to me, asking what I wanted to drink, just as the line was engaged.

I held up a finger and said, “Father? I think I’m in trouble.”