Andrew Vachss - Down in the Zero

"Depressed? Mr. Burke, she was born depressed. Lana was always a strange girl. You know the type— dressed all in black, stayed in her room a lot."

"The…suicide wasn't such a shock, then?"

"Shock? Not to me. She'd tried it before."

"She tried to kill herself before?"

"That's what I just said. She wrote this long, incomprehensible poem first. A piece of drivel. Then she ran herself a warm bath, climbed in and cut her wrists. If my husband hadn't called the paramedics, she would have been dead then."

"How long ago was that?"

"Almost four years ago. She was still in high school."

"What happened after that?"

"She went into therapy, what else? Cost enough money, I can tell you. But it was a waste of time. This therapist, she wanted me and my husband to come in and talk about it. And we did that. But I wasn't going to spend the rest of my life in therapy because I had a sick girl for a daughter."

"Did she ever try it again?"

"She was always trying something. She and a friend of hers, another weirdo, they were always writing this sick poetry about death. She tried pills once, too."

"And…?"

"And they pumped her stomach out at the hospital. And she went back into therapy. What a joke."

"You don't seem much of a fan of therapy."

"Why should I be? Everybody I know has been. They want to quit smoking, their husband has an affair, they're losing their looks…whatever it is, some shrink will do a number on you. You want a therapy fan, you need to talk to my husband— he loves the stuff."

"Your husband has been in therapy for a while?"

"Sure. Started when he was a kid. He's a rich, weak man. If that sounds like a contradiction to you, it isn't. He inherited the money. From his mother. He was a sensitive poet too, just like his precious daughter."

"Was?"

"Oh, he's alive. If you can call it that. We have a cabin. In Maine. That's mostly where he spends the summers. Writing ," she sneered, the last word rich with contempt.

"He's a writer?"

"Some writer. He pays to have his own stuff published, can you imagine that?"

"I've heard of it."

"That's so lame. So weak. Him and his literary little friends. Fags, most of them, the way I see it. I intimidate them. The only kind of women they like are so skinny you could use them to pick a lock."

"I know what you mean."

"Do you?" she asked, squirming in her chair to make sure I couldn't accuse her of being subtle.

"Sure. It's a class thing. Working–class men have different taste."

"And what class are you, Mr. Burke?"

"Low–class," I told her, earning myself a wicked smile. "Was Lana at home when she…?"

"Killed herself? Sure. She was only back from the hospital a couple of weeks. Crystal Cove. Another of these joints that charges an arm and a leg. To hear them tell it, we pay enough money, we'd get a brand–new kid."

"How was she when she came back?"

"The same. To be honest with you, I got pretty sick of it. My husband, he gives me my space. But not little Miss I'm–So–Depressed, not her. The shrink at the hospital told me the suicide crap was a cry for help. I never put up with it. I called her bluff all the time. Told her, you want to kill yourself, it can't be that hard."

"How did she react to that?"

"With a lot of babble. Like I said, I wasn't surprised. Only thing that surprised me was the way she did it."

"How did she do it?"

"She drowned. You know where Chalmer's Creek is?"

"No."

"It's maybe ten miles from here. It's not really a creek, more like a lake. But they call it a creek. They found her floating in it. The police said her lungs were full of water, so it was a drowning, I guess. But she didn't leave a note. That would have been the one thing I'd've expected from her— she always loved attention."

"The police tell you why they didn't think it was an accident?"

"They did think it was, at first. But when I told them all about her other attempts, they changed it."

"You've been very helpful, Mrs. Robinelle."

"Marlene."

"Marlene," I agreed. "Just one more question, if you don't mind. This friend of hers, the one she wrote poetry with…do you remember her name?"

"Wendy. Wendy something. She was only here a few times— I never really spoke to her."

"Would you have any of the poems?"

"No. The police took all that. They wouldn't even let me have her room cleaned until they were finished, can you imagine?"

"Yeah," I said, standing up to leave.

She got up too, standing very close to me. I could smell her overripe perfume, sweat running through baby powder. "If you need more information, you know where to find me."

"I appreciate that."

"My husband won't be back for a couple of weeks. It gets pretty tiresome, even with all this," she said softly, sweeping her hand to show me the water view through the picture window.

"I'm sure I'll have more questions."

"Then you come back. Call me first. But don't bring that nosy bitch with you."

I raised my eyebrows in a question.

"I like the way you handled her. I like a man who can take charge."

"She's paying the bills," I said.

"I can pay some bills too."

Fancy was sitting in the lush, paneled library, her face in an art book.

"Come on," I said to her.

She got up meekly and followed me. Marlene Robinelle didn't see us to the door.

"What did you find out?" Fancy asked me from the front seat of the Lexus.

"You first," I said.

"What do you mean?"

"Don't play games, bitch. I know you used that time to stick that perfect little nose of yours places."

"Do you really think my nose is perfect?" she smiled.

"Yeah. Cute as a button. Now what did you— ?"

"I never left the library. I was afraid you'd come back and catch me. I didn't know how long you'd be."

"And…?"

"She's a big phony. I found a list in a drawer. The last four, five weeks of the New York Times best–seller list, okay? And on the shelves, every single one of those books. Brand–new, never opened. You can tell, the spines were too tight. And inside each one, she had a photocopy of the review from the Times , see?"

"No."

"She doesn't read the books, just the reviews. So she can be with it at cocktail parties, see? What a tame cow she must be."

"Because she lets other people tell her what to do?"

"You can't be that stupid," she snapped at me. "I'm talking about your mind, not your body. Sex is different."

"Sex is only with your body?"

"What do you think it's with?"

"It's got to be with your mind. Otherwise, you could do a better job by yourself, right? Once your eyes are closed, once it's dark…how could you tell the difference?"

"Maybe there is no difference."

"Maybe not. But you have to throw the switch first."

She gave me a long look. "You scare me sometimes," she whispered.

"And you like that too, don't you?"

"Yes."

I piloted the Lexus back the way we came, not asking for directions, seeing if I could retrace my steps alone if I had to. Fancy wasn't talking, looking out her window, drumming her fingernails on the console between us.

"None of the books had been read?" I asked her. "In that whole huge library?"

"Oh sure, a lot of them. On a separate shelf. Like they were for separate people. Old books, you could tell somebody really loved them. And I'll bet my sweet ass it wasn't her."

"All that time alone, and that's what you found out?"

"Well, yes. It's a real clue to her character."

"Big fucking deal."

"Well, it could be. Did she offer you sex?"

"Kind of."

"That sow. If she ever climbed out of that girdle she calls an outfit, she'd flop around like a fish."