William Lashner - Bitter Truth

“Where?” I asked.

“How should I know?”

“What about the daughter,” I said, “who lived in that house by the pond at Veritas with her widowed mother? You know the place, right?”

Caroline and Harrington glanced at each other and then away.

“Can you imagine her,” I continued, “living in that sagging little hovel, all the time looking up at the great manor house that her father had told her should have been hers? Do you ever wonder what she was feeling?”

“Probably gratitude that great-grandfather had given her a place to live,” said Caroline, who proceeded to empty her wineglass in three quick gulps before reaching for the bottle.

“Did you know Caroline was a Republican?” asked Harrington with an ironic smile I wouldn’t have expected from a banker.

“Somehow I don’t think Poole ’s daughter was gratified at all,” I said. “Have you ever seen that Andrew Wyeth painting Christina’s World? That’s what it must have been like for her, staring up with longing at the large house on the hill. Can you imagine it? She lived there until her mother died, in the shadow of that huge stone house. How twisted must her tender little psyche have become? That she ended up in an asylum is no wonder.”

“Who told you she ended up in an asylum?” asked Harrington with a curious puzzlement.

“The gardener, Nat. I asked about the old cottage on the other side of the pond and he told me.”

“How the hell would Nat know anything about her?” asked Caroline. “This is all ancient history. Jesus, has it gotten cold or something?” She swallowed a gulp of wine. “Can’t we talk about a cheerier subject than the Pooles, for God’s sake. Victor, you’re the mob lawyer, tell us about the mob war that’s in all the papers. It even made the Times . What about that attack on the expressway?”

“Amazing,” said Harrington.

“What happened to your face anyway, Victor?” said Caroline. “It looks like you were in a fight with a cat and lost.”

“I wonder if she had any children?” I said.

“Who?” asked Harrington.

“The Poole daughter.”

“Jesus, Victor,” said Caroline. “Why are you so interested in the goddamned Pooles? It’s enough to drive a girl to drink. Pass the wine.” I couldn’t help but notice that she was now completely ignoring her grouper and had begun to drink like, well, like a fish. I guess our conversation about her family had turned this into what her therapist would have called a situation.

“I’m intrigued by the whole of your family history, Caroline. You asked me to find out if Jacqueline was murdered. Well, after looking into it, now I’m sure that she was.”

“Is Victor acting as your lawyer?” asked Harrington, bemusement creasing his face. I found it interesting that he was more surprised that I might be lawyering for Caroline than that I believed Jacqueline was murdered.

She gave a half smile rather then attempt to describe our peculiar legal relationship.

“So that explains the check and the visit to Veritas.”

“You thought what?” said Caroline. “That he was a gigolo, maybe? Victor?”

“You also wanted me to find out who killed her,” I continued, ignoring Harrington’s laughter. “I think I now know who.”

“What?” said Harrington, his laughter dying quick as a scruple in a bank. “Who, then?”

“That’s not important right now,” I said.

“Of course it is,” said Harrington. “Have you told the police?”

“The evidence I have is either inadmissible or would disappear before a trial at this point. I’ll need more before I go to the police, and I’ll get it, too. But the guy who killed her was hired to do it, I believe, paid. Just like you would pay a servant or a bricklayer or a gardener. And so the question I still have is who paid him.”

“And you suspect the answer is in our family’s history?” asked Caroline.

“I’m curious about everything.”

Harrington was staring at me for a moment, trying, I suppose, to guess at exactly what I was doing there. “You know, Caroline,” said Harrington, still looking at me, “I knew Victor was a lawyer, but law was not the game I thought we were playing here. Silly me, I thought you brought me here just to show off another of your lads.”

“I announced him as my lover at the house just to get mother’s goat,” said Caroline.

“And you succeeded. She was apoplectic.”

“Thank God something worked out right.”

“Well, then, let’s have it out,” said Harrington. “Are you, Victor?”

“Am I what?”

“Caroline’s lover.”

I glanced at Caroline and she reached for her wine and there was an awkward silence.

Harrington laughed, a loud gay laugh. “That was clear enough an answer. Now, I suppose, I must defend my honor.” He patted his jacket. “Damn, you can never find a glove when you need one to toss into a rival’s face.”

“Shut up, Franklin.”

“I’m sorry. You’re right, Caroline. I’m being rude. Don’t worry, Victor, what you and Caroline do after school is fine by me. All I want is for Caroline to be happy. Truly. Are you happy with Victor, Caroline?”

“Ecstatic.”

“Terrific then. Keep up the good work, Victor.” He turned back to his swordfish and lopped off a thick gray square. “Any help you need keeping her happy, you let me know.”

Caroline emptied her glass and let it drop to the table. “You’re a bastard, you know that.”

“Maybe I’ll order some champagne to celebrate.”

“A goddamn bastard. And you want to know something, Franklin. Victor’s amazing in bed. An absolute acrobat.”

I couldn’t stop my jaw from dropping at that.

“Well then, instead of the champagne I’ll call for the check, get you both back to your trapeze.”

“You’re too heartless,” said Caroline, her arms now crossed tightly against her chest, her chin tilted low.

“I wasn’t the one who invited us all out to dinner together.” Harrington picked up the bottle and said nonchalantly, “More wine, Victor?”

“Am I missing something?” I asked. “It sounds like I’m in the middle of an Albee play.”

“Yes, well, the curtain has dropped,” said Harrington, putting down the bottle. He looked at Caroline and the arrogance in his face was replaced by something tender and vulnerable. It was as if a tribal mask had suddenly been discarded. The way he looked at her made me feel small. “You have to understand, Victor, that I don’t care for anyone in this world as much as I care for Caroline. I couldn’t love a sister any more than I do her. She caught a bad break, getting born a Reddman. Any normal family and she’d have been a homecoming queen, happy and blithe, and she deserves just such blind happiness, more than anyone else I know. I’d die to give it to her if I could. I’d rip out my heart, bleeding and raw, and present it to her on a white satin cushion if it would turn her sadness even for a moment.”

Caroline’s sobs broke over the last few words of Harrington’s speech like waves over rock. I hadn’t even known she was crying until I heard them, so entranced I was by this new Harrington and his proffer of love. Caroline was hunched in her chair, thick mascara tears streaking her cheeks, and there was about this jag nothing of the rehearsed dramatist I had seen when she collapsed in the street with her gun that first day I met her. Whatever strange thing was between Caroline and Harrington, it cut deep. She was about to say something more, but she caught her lip with her teeth, tossed her napkin onto her plate, stood, and walked quickly away, toward the ladies’ room.

“She’s an amazing woman,” said Harrington after she had gone.