Robert Tanenbaum - Falsely Accused

“Wait! What the hell …?”

“I’m okay, I’m not badly hurt, I’ve been to the emergency room …”

“But what happened ?”

She stripped off the gory angora and blouse and tossed them into a corner. “It was Pruitt. I went to meet Carrie, he followed her, we went into a bar, he followed us in and he jumped me.”

Marlene was stripping off her filthy skirt as she uttered this whopper, the official tale she had concocted and sworn to, and had her back to Karp, so she did not observe the expression on his face as he took it in. She would have been dismayed to have seen it.

“And …?” he said.

She slipped into a robe and turned to face him. “And what? Harry was backing me up and he arrested Pruitt. He’s in jail now. Look, it hurts when I talk, and I want to take a hot bath-can the interrogation wait?”

“No, it can’t,” said Karp, blocking the door. “Let me understand this. This guy comes strolling into a bar where you and his girlfriend are sitting and just cracks you in the face? And your tame cop is just standing by waiting to arrest him? Do I have this right? Why did he hit you?”

“Why?” cried Marlene on a rising note. “Because he’s a nut, that’s why. He thinks I’m standing in the way of true love. We were just talking and-”

“Oh, horseshit, Marlene! You set this up. You concocted a trap for this bozo to generate an assault charge and a probation violation. And you’re going to go to court and swear to a pack of lies to put him away, aren’t you?”

Karp’s voice had risen to a shout, and Marlene unconsciously retreated a step.

“He belongs in a cell,” she snarled through clenched teeth. “What do you want? For me to wait until he kidnaps her, or rapes her, or murders her? He’s a stalker, for Christ’s sake!”

“Right, and who’re you?” Karp yelled. “God almighty? Deciding who gets put away, who’s the unacceptable risk?”

“Oh, you know, I can’t stand you when you get this self-righteous attitude. Like you never cut a corner in your life to nail some scumbag.”

He stared at her and she at him for a long moment. Then he said, slowly and carefully, “You don’t fucking understand, do you? There’s a difference, Marlene. I cut corners, you’re a felon. ”

The word hung in the air like sewer gas. Karp turned and left the bedroom. She heard his heavy steps and the slam of the little guest room door.

Karp was gone by the time Marlene awakened the next morning, which she did not at all mind. She looked blearily at the clock and uttered a small shriek of alarm. Fifteen minutes to get ready and off to school. She sat up quickly and let out another shriek, of pain this time. It felt as though the flesh were being wrenched from her face with a dull spatula. In the bathroom she took one look at the Technicolor glory of her face and completed the rest of her toilette with her eye averted.

Lucy gave no trouble about being jammed by brute force into her clothes and eating her breakfast (banana and bran muffin to go) as she did not want to rile the angry and hideous stranger who had mysteriously replaced her mom during the night.

“Aren’t we picking up Miranda?” the child asked meekly, when it had become clear that they were heading directly for P.S. 1.

“No, we’re not. Miranda can get to school by herself.”

“What about the bad man?”

“The bad man is in jail,” Marlene replied in a tone that did not encourage further questions.

After the drop-off, Marlene shopped briefly on Grand Street and went back home. There she found the message light on her answering machine blinking, which she ignored, and also discovered that she had been traipsing through her neighborhood with her sweatshirt on inside out and the fly of her jeans gaping. She cursed and tore her clothes off and threw on a black sweatsuit, the right way, and then allowed herself a good, heaving, mucousy cry.

In the midst of this the phone rang.

“ What ?” Marlene shouted into the receiver.

“Uh-oh, she’s got the rag on,” said Ariadne Stupenagel. “No, it can’t be, you’re knocked up, aren’t you? You’re supposed to have a peaceful glow, unless that’s a lie too.”

“What do you want, Stupe?”

“We need to talk, girl. Can I come over?”

“Not today. I’m not receiving visitors.”

“Oh?”

“I’m washing my hair. Those split ends? There’s a new conditioner I want to try.”

“Mmm, yes,” said Stupenagel after the briefest pause, “and I might have believed that, and I might have been hurt, thinking that you thought so little of me as to use such a moronic excuse to shine me on, had I not drifted by the old courthouse this morning and had a chat with Ray Guma …”

“Oh, shit!” said Marlene, with feeling.

“… and Guma filled my ear with a strange tale- my little housewife friend with her face rearranged coming into the complaint room in the small hours to swear out a complaint against a nutcase who was stalking another woman. Sisterhood is powerful.”

“Everybody knows about this now, right?”

“They will after I finish writing the story, which I will after you give me the details, which is why I’m coming over. I’m at Foley Square-I’ll be there in ten minutes. Shall I bring you some nice soup?”

“How about a nice quart of bourbon?” said Marlene gloomily, and hung up the phone.

She checked the messages. They were all from metro reporters or TV stations asking for an interview, except for one from Carrie Lanin and one from someone named Suzy Poole, a name that rang a bell but distantly. Marlene could not quite recall where she had heard it. She called Carrie and got her machine, and left a message, and called the Poole person, and got an answering service with a crisp British accent, which assured her that her message would be passed on to Miss Poole.

Shortly after she hung up, the front doorbell rang, and there was Stupenagel, grinning and waving a quart of Ancient Age.

“I can’t drink any of that,” Marlene said. “I’m pregnant.”

“Oh, don’t be silly, you can have a little drink,” said Stupenagel, entering the loft and focusing on Marlene. “Oh, God, look at your face! At last I’m more beautiful than you! I ought to send this bum a box of candy.”

“Thanks for your support, Ariadne. You always know how to say the right thing.”

“Oh, come on, it was just a joke.” She waved her bottle again. “Get a couple of mugs and we’ll forget our troubles.”

“Sorry. I meant it. You go right ahead, though.” Marlene turned away and walked toward the living room.

“You know, Marlene,” said Stupenagel, following, “I hope you’re not turning into one of those health fascists. Good God! My dear mother used to tell me she never passed a sober day during the whole time she was preggers with me.”

Marlene gave her a baleful look and said, “No further questions, Your Honor.”

Stupenagel snorted a laugh. “I guess I waltzed into that.” She strode into the living room, flung her greatcoat onto the couch, sat down, and placed the bottle on the coffee table. “Well, shall we get started, then?”

Marlene fetched a tumbler and sat down in the bentwood rocker. “What are we starting, Stupe?”

“The story I’m going to write about you, of course.” She reached into her canvas bag and drew out a steno book and a pencil.

“There’s no story, Stupe. I helped out a friend is all,” said Marlene wearily, and looked with longing at the bottle.

“Don’t tell me my business, girl. You’re news. Okay, let’s start with when this Lanin character first told you she was being stalked.”