Phillip Margolin - Heartstone

The visit had been a disaster from the moment the guard had shut the metal door behind them. His kiss had lasted too long and she felt that he was clinging to her the way a drowning man would cling to a piece of driftwood.

Their conversation began with a dozen variations of “how are you” and deteriorated into an inhibited discussion of generalities, punctuated by long, self-conscious silences. The longer she stayed with him, the clearer it became that the man who sat before her, shoulders bowed, eyes never meeting hers, was not the man who shared her bed for the past few months. Her lover was a man of substance. This was a man of shadow. She felt pity for the prisoner. Uncomfortable in his presence.

The guard rapped on the door and yelled, “Five minutes.” It was time to ask the question she had come to ask.

“Bobby,” she said, interrupting him.

He looked at her and knew what she was going to say by the way her voice trembled. He had dreaded this moment, anticipating it a thousand times in the solitude of his cell.

“Did you…? Those two people…I’ve got to know.”

It took all of his courage to take hold of her hand and look into her eyes.

“No, Sarah. I never…”

“Remember the night that we talked? The night before exams when you couldn’t sleep. Why did you tell me that you had blood on your hands? Why wouldn’t you let me ask you any more questions?”

The question struck him like a blow. He remembered the night very well and he had hoped that she had forgotten. He felt as if he was breaking up inside.

“I…In Vietnam…That’s where I…killed an old man. An accident…”

He continued on, telling her about that night, wondering if she believed him. It was getting to be too much for him. If she loved him, why had she asked? Why couldn’t she have just trusted him. He began to cry.

She reached over and let him cry on her shoulder. She felt embarrassed. That was all. She wanted to get away from him, the closeness of this antiseptic room, the smell of defeat.

“Sarah, you’re all I’ve got. You have to believe me. I didn’t…You’re all I’ve got.”

The guard knocked on the door and she helped him to stand and compose himself.

On the freeway, driving home, she thought about their meeting. Had he told her the truth when he denied killing the boy and the girl? As soon as she asked the question, she realized that the answer really didn’t matter, because she no longer cared about Bobby Coolidge.

Esther sat in the dark next to the window. She had moved a wooden chair from the kitchen and placed it so that no one looking up from the street could see her. The fingers of her right hand gripped the edge of the window curtain and held it far enough from the window so that she could peek out without attracting notice.

Esther was certain that she was being watched. First, the lawyer had come to her apartment. Then, a few days later, he had called her. She told him again that she would not talk to him and she threatened to call the police.

That evening, she thought she heard someone moving about in her apartment, but there was no one there when she turned on the lights. At times there was a peculiar echo on the phone and she was certain that a blue and white Ford had passed by at least four times since the lawyer’s phone call.

She had told all this to Roy and he had told her that it was her imagination. She said that it would all be okay if he would just stay with her. When she was with him, she felt so safe. She didn’t want to tell him that she had been thinking about Bobby. How he might feel sitting in jail because of her. In a cell for the rest of his life. That was the sentence Roy had said he would get when she asked.

She thought she saw a movement in a doorway, but there was no one on the street. She must be wrong. Still, she couldn’t sleep. She was too upset. She tried to imagine Dr. Hollander’s fingers on her wrist, but she could not concentrate long enough to make that work. She kept thinking about Bobby and what it would be like to look at him from the witness stand and say the same things to him that she had told Roy and the doctor in the privacy of the doctor’s office.

If Roy was with her-if he would hold her while she talked-she could do it. But she knew, because he had told her, that he would not be allowed in the courtroom. She would have to face Bobby alone. She felt frightened again. She wished Roy would come by again. He was always so kind to her. So gentle. He could make her forget the bad thoughts.

A man rose from his seat at the window of the apartment house across the street. He was an old man dressed in a sleeveless undershirt. A floor lamp situated behind his chair bathed his pale skin in light as he walked away from the window. Esther could see patches of gray hair on his arms. They revolted her. She imagined the old man moving about her apartment in the dark. She could feel the clammy touch of his hand on her cheek. She shuddered.

Why did she feel this way? Wasn’t she telling the truth? Dr. Hollander had said so. It was amnesia that had kept her from remembering before. That’s why she only remembered now. She knew it was the truth. Bobby would know when he heard her. He couldn’t hate her for telling the truth.

She could see the telephone sitting on the end table by the sofa. Maybe she should call Roy. She wanted to. Only he seemed so annoyed the last time she had called. She wanted to hear his voice. Even if he was angry. She got up and stood over the phone. Why shouldn’t she call? Weren’t they lovers? Hadn’t he whispered things to her? Told her about how important she was. If she was important, she could call him.

She touched the cold, black plastic of the receiver. She tried to lift it, but she couldn’t. She put her hands to her face and rocked back and forth in front of the phone. She wanted to call so bad. Please, Roy, let me call. Don’t be mad. She couldn’t stand it if he was mad, ’cause if he was mad he might leave her and she loved him, needed him, so much.

She thought she heard a movement in the bedroom. She was going to look, but she was suddenly afraid. She had to call Roy. If there was a prowler, he couldn’t be mad. She sat down on the sofa and dialed his number. Her eyes never left the bedroom door.

Mark knocked on the door a second time and wondered if Sarah was home. He was beginning to worry about her. She had broken appointments twice this week and she was evasive on the phone. Cindy had been complaining about the hours he had been putting into the Coolidge case and, every day, she asked him about the rest of the money.

The money worried Mark too, but it was more than that. He wanted to see Sarah. He thought about her constantly. He could picture her pale features and her long blond hair and wanted more and more to touch her.

She was as beautiful as he remembered, but he could not miss the look she gave him. It was a mixture of surprise and embarrassment, as if he had caught her in the middle of doing something she was ashamed of.

“What’s wrong?” she asked nervously.

The question surprised him.

“Nothing’s wrong. I…I wanted to see you. About the case,” he said.

“Come in.”

She sounded distracted and she brushed at her hair as she led him into the living room.

“I expected to see you at the office on Friday,” he said when they were seated on the sofa.

“I couldn’t make it. I…I’m sorry I didn’t call. Something…An emergency came up.”

“That’s okay,” he said quickly, not wanting her to think he was criticizing and trying to hide his disappointment in her obvious lie.

“How is the…Bobby’s case coming? You said you had something to tell me.”