Robert Tanenbaum - Enemy within

But she had developed the habit, over many years, of buying a little something for herself when blue, a habit certainly as widespread and as unacknowledged as, say, masturbation, and upon which retail battens. Usually it would be a small thing: perfume, cosmetics, a scarf, underwear. Something semisecret at any rate. And so she gravitated to the lingerie department of Bloomie's and found herself in front of a table displaying La Perla sets. Marlene had, in fact, one of these already and had suffered or enjoyed that mixed pang of guilt and luxurious pleasure that paying a hundred bucks for a bra and panties provides for some usually prudent women. She touched the flimsies, held them up admiringly. They were silk satin in coral, eggplant, aqua, with lacy panels of contrasting colors. She picked up one, two, couldn't decide between them, or maybe that one… that was nice, too. She let out a giggle. Oh, the hell with it, she thought, and bought one of each color, ten in all. The saleswoman took the magic card and gave Marlene a look she did not recall ever receiving from a saleswoman before.

She wandered now through the designer floor. The thought occurred: I can buy anything I want. Anything. Any. Thing. She tested this novel notion by picking up an ivory Ellen Tracy suit ($700), which fit, but which was wearable in no remotely probable social situation in her immediate plans, and then down on the main floor again, where she dropped $200 on Lancome lipsticks and moisturizers, although her skin felt moist enough, somewhat sweaty, in fact.

Out on the sidewalk she waited until Patel cruised by with his pearl-gray Caddie, one of the numerous chauffeured cars that circled Bloomie's like schooling fish. Patel stashed the loot in the trunk, and Marlene got a smile from a package-encumbered, knockout blonde in a leopard coat. A knowing smile from one of the Sisterhood of Spend to another. Marlene got into the car and said, "Ralph Lauren on Madison."

Ralph sold her a fitted patent-leather motorcycle jacket in navy, and she got the same look from the salesclerk when she flashed the card. This purchase marked the first time Marlene had ever bought a garment without looking at the price tag. After that, down the avenue: Chanel for a couple of suits, Manolo's for half a dozen pairs of handmade stiletto mules and several slingbacks, Celine's for a pair of caramel glove-leather jeans and a long-sleeved, red silk T-shirt encrusted with tiny Swarovski crystals. Here she did glance at the price tag, out of scientific curiosity, and found it cost an even grand, plus tax. I just paid a thousand dollars for a T-shirt, said a voice in her head. More giggling in front of the mirror. The crystals flashed hypnotically as she posed. She wore the pants and the T-shirt out of the store. They made her old leather trench, until lately the most expensive item she had ever bought for herself, look like a burlap sack. In the car she said out loud, "This is crazy. I am nuts."

"Madame?" said Patel.

"Nothing," said the client. "Go to Gucci's."

Gucci's provided loose-fitting faux-snakeskin pants and a dress of the same ($2,300) plus a real crocodile bag with a silver chain, a steal at $8,000 and change. They drove to Dolce amp; Gabbana. Crystals were apparently the thing at D amp;G. They had crystal bras. Marlene bought one. Then she bought a black silk, see-through, chiffon shirt with gold cuff links to go over it, and an embroidered silk suit avec gold embroidery and crystals to go over that, and more shoes to round out the outfit, mink-trimmed pumps, the whole bill around $15,000. She had stopped sweating by now. People with the special dull gray card apparently did not need to sweat, and she hadn't eaten since breakfast, but for some reason food did not attract her. The sun had sunk low now, people were leaving work. On Madison the cabs were multiplying like guppies, but the lovely stores were still gaping for more nourishment.

Oblivion is the goal of all addiction: the boozer's blackout, the junkie's nod, the speed freak's mindless motion. Marlene had not known that shopping could cause the same effect, but then she had never shopped for eight and a half straight hours. She was dead to the world as she stood in front of a full-length mirror at D amp;G, looking at a stranger wearing a white, floor-length silk jacket completely covered with tiny crystals and weighing ten pounds. She definitely remembered buying that, for $78,000. Somewhat later, after a vague interval, they kicked her out of Barneys because they wished to close the store. She could see that they were reluctant to do so because she was clearly buying out the place. A few moments later, she sat in the backseat of the limo, surrounded by charcoal gray Barneys shopping bags and boxes, and recalled that she had a husband and family. She directed Patel to head home and rummaged in her bag. Her cell phone was off, she found, which was a shocker because she never turned her cell phone off. She had a little bag from Cartier's in her hand. Another shocker because she could not exactly recall stopping by that famous store. A number of gift-wrapped items were in it. Apparently she had bought gifts for her husband and her entire family. Watches? Probably. She had a gold Baume et Mercier on her wrist that had not been there when she'd started out that morning. She looked through the Barneys bags with some curiosity. She found a brown leather fleece-lined coat; a couple of de la Renta dresses, a multicolored Fendi lizard bag, yet another crocodile purse, this one by Bulgari, and a white Valentino couture suit. She felt numb, as if the great dentist of capitalism had shot her whole body full of novocaine. She was starving, too. No wonder; eight o'clock and she hadn't eaten for twelve hours. At the corner of Third and Thirtieth she directed Patel to a cancer wagon, where she bought a kielbasa with mustard and a can of Coke. They drove on, she munching ravenously, and at the first pothole she squirted mustard all over her $1,000 T-shirt and Coke on her $1,800 faux-snake slacks. Somehow it didn't matter. She could go out again tomorrow and get more. But the accident made her less numb, which was no good. She spotted a liquor store, dashed out, and came back with a quart bottle of Hennessy. Just a taste to wash that sticky, greasy film out of her mouth. There was a little bar in the limo, so she was able to make herself a civilized drinkee. And another around Eighteenth Street. And a third at Broome and Lafayette. She drank slowly, like a lady, and arranged all the charge slips in a neat bundle. Just for fun, she added up the totals with the tiny flat calculator stuck to her new checkbook: it came to $150,921.35. She looked at the number, which for some reason was expressed in a numerical system she did not understand, and put the device away and gulped down the rest of her drink, not like a lady at all.

Numb returned, and so she felt pretty good when she burst into her loft with Patel burdened like a brown burro under her purchases, confronting her startled family, reeling slightly, glittering with crystal, dabbed with grease, stinko.

Karp looked at her and thought, who are you, and what have you done with my wife?

The choir members at Zion Baptist were dressed in blood-red robes with white collars, and they were singing "I'm Glad Salvation Is Free." Karp sat in a rear pew, not sharing the gladness at all, about as moved by the music and fervor as one of the square pillars that held up the vault of the roof. Karp had a tin ear and no faith in anything but the law and, on good days, love. For most of his life he had placed religious leaders in the same class as people who sold damp lots in Florida over the phone. This opinion had been modified somewhat by his daughter, whom he loved dearly, and who was devout and no fool, so there might be something in it after all, although not for him personally. His daughter said that there was a God gene-some people had it and others did not. His wife, according to his daughter, did not, although she went to church regularly. Or had.