A. Rich - The Hand That Feeds You

I took the incoming call and immediately wished I had not.

“I heard you met Pat,” Samantha said.

It took me a moment to formulate the obvious question. “How did you know?”

“Did she show you the naked photographs of herself? She shows them to everyone. That fucking pig’s heart?”

My own heart was beating faster.

“Did she also tell you her ex stole her grandfather’s paintings? She gave them to him to sell, and it’s not his fault that the auction house never paid her.”

Samantha was clearly trying to bait me, but her words left me exhausted. I did not want to engage with a crazy person, a possible killer. I wanted help. I wanted this crazy woman to leave me alone. But what really scared me was what we had in common. Though I was not still defending him. How to navigate a conversation like this? Better still, how to end it? I took a submissive stance, not wanting to ignite the person who must have followed me out to Sag Harbor. How else would she have known about my visit? The Pat I met would not have called Samantha.

“I saw the pig hearts,” I said, as neutrally and calmly as one can say I saw the pig hearts.

“She blames him for ruining her career. Ha! Who would hang a pig’s heart over a sofa?”

“I know I wouldn’t.”

“You didn’t tell her I gave you her name, did you?” Before I could answer, Samantha said, “He only married her because she pretended to be pregnant.”

“Women still do that?” I said, knowing they had not married. “What did Bennett do when he found out she had lied about being pregnant?”

“Same thing he did when he found out she faked a miscarriage later — he felt sorry for her.”

I knew that pity was a condescending emotion. Bennett was not capable of empathy.

“He still thinks she has it in for him,” Samantha said.

It unnerved me to hear her use the present tense. I refused to side with unreality. I felt only relief when Samantha banged down the phone. She was crazy or dangerous or both. And I wanted none of it.

• • •

It was Friday afternoon, and I had no plans for the weekend. Whereas this would have troubled me a year ago, I was now glad for the unclaimed days ahead of me. I needed to be a normal person, someone not facing a court hearing or worrying about my murdered fiancé’s other fiancées. I lifted little Olive and, instead of asking if she wanted to go for a walk, said, “Wanna go out to lunch?” I put her in my tote bag, forgetting it held so many dog treats. No wonder she settled in right away. Thanksgiving was a few days away, so Christmas ornaments were already crowding the streets. I’d promised Steven I would bring a pie, so I set off for the Blue Stove on Graham to order one.

It was cold and clear with the white sky familiar to New Yorkers in winter. I decided to spruce up the apartment and went to Abode on Grand. I browsed the shelves: a bottle opener that was just a nail in a board ($18.99), and the cardboard end tables made to look like tiny stacked cargo crates ($59.99). I passed up the black, geometric hanging light fixture that looked as though it contained a galaxy ($12,500). A black throw pillow had what looked like a swirl of smoke on it ($270), and I knew I’d find nothing I could afford. I stopped by the vintage store Mystery Train, but they had no pillows, just clothes. Two Jakes, on Wythe, carried furniture, mostly, and I found “accent pillows” in a color called chalk. At $39 apiece, they seemed like a bargain, and I bought one. I next walked to Grand Ferry Park — a nod to Olive. I sat down on one of the benches right by the East River and lifted Olive out of the bag. She wanted to sit on the bench next to me. The Manhattan skyline lived up to its reputation. I had never heard a metaphor that made it more than what it was on its own.

I put Olive back in the tote, and we were on to the hardware store, with its five-thousand-square-foot plant section in back. The bonus here was an eighty-five-pound hog named Franklin; he lived in a good-size pen (think studio apartment in Williamsburg) among the thousands of plants for sale. I picked up several small flats of herbs for the kitchen, and a container of lavender to scent the bedroom.

I dropped off the pillow and plants, poured Olive’s kibble, and left by myself. It had been a long time since I’d seen a movie. I took the L to Union Square, where half a dozen theaters are within a few blocks. The multiplexes showed the blockbuster commercial hits, none of which appealed to me. I checked out the Village East, where I found the documentary Twenty Feet from Stardom , about black female backup singers. One of the women who affected me most had had no interest in a solo career. She valued the harmony several voices created. Of course I thought of Cilla. She had told me during a recent session that a time had come when she no longer knew how to harmonize. Deeply rattled, she stopped singing. Eventually, she told me, she realized that this inability just meant it was time for her to make a different kind of harmony; she brought harmony to people in trouble and turned their lives around.

“Don’t say no right away,” I said, “but this volunteer who’s coming to testify today, you might like her.” Steven and I were looking for a parking spot near the courthouse on Schermerhorn Street.

“Morgan.”

“You like the outdoor type.”

“Not after Claire made me train for the marathon with her.”

“That was the deal-breaker? You were never in better shape.”

“Physically.”

Steven was not resilient in this realm, or any realm. I knew he had not yet recovered from Claire’s moving out after two years together. She had wanted him to enter the private sector and make money, and he wanted to continue working for Avaaz.

“What does she look like?”

It never failed to throw me, this question from a man — because it was always the first question. “Up there on the right.” I pointed to a space we could squeeze into. “You’ll see her in the courtroom in a few minutes.”

The room designated for the hearing was spare and worn. The bench we sat on had initials carved into it. The judge took his place behind an equally marred desk.

I nudged Steven. “There she is.” Fixing up my brother was a welcome throwback to normalcy, something I had fallen out of touch with, to say the least.

Billie was already seated next to McKenzie. I had not seen him dressed for a court appearance before. Suited, polished, he looked more than capable — he looked commanding. For her part, Billie had traded her motorcycle boots for sleek calfskin boots. Her hair was pulled back in a low ponytail, and she wore a simple black blazer over a white shirt, with tight-fitting, black jeans.

Steven whispered one word to me: “Wow.”

After we were sworn in, McKenzie made his opening remarks to the judge. “I would first like to cite Article Seven of the New York Agriculture and Markets Law. ‘A dog shall not be declared dangerous if the court determines the conduct of the dog was justified because the injured, threatened, or killed person was tormenting, abusing, assaulting, or physically threatening the dog or its offspring, or has in the past tormented, abused, assaulted, or physically threatened the dog or its offspring.’ ”

McKenzie reached into his briefcase and took out a thick file. “I’d like to place in evidence Exhibit A, a copy of the Boston police file on the murder of Susan Rorke. The police believe that Ms. Rorke had her skull fractured with a hammer before her body was thrown out a window. James Gordon, aka Bennett Vaux-Trudeau, was the prime suspect. The attack that took his life occurred less than a month after the murder of Susan Rorke. This man has demonstrated a history of violent behavior. Cloud, the Great Pyrenees, has lived with Morgan Prager since eight weeks of age and has no history of aggressive behavior. Ms. Prager adopted George, the pit-bull mix, five months ago, and he has not demonstrated aggression of any kind either.”