“Could you bring Felix to work?” Benton asks, and Mrs. P just laughs.
“Why couldn’t you?” Benton is serious.
“Well I couldn’t.” She looks across the dining room, making sure no one else has come in.
CHAPTER 6
OUR CORNER TABLE IS to the right of a big fireplace framed by a burled-wood mantel that reaches from the carpet to the ceiling. Perpendicular to it the gold-damask-covered wall has been arranged with fine British, Dutch and Italian art that wasn’t here when we were last month.
The new exhibit includes a seascape, a religious allegory, and a still life that has a skull in it. There are oil portraits of stern men in colonial dress, and powdered women with corseted waists too cinched to be anatomically possible without bruised ribs and crowded organs. I never know what I’m going to see from one visit to the next because most of the art is on loan from the surrounding Harvard museums, which hold one of the finest collections anywhere.
The paintings constantly rotate, and this appeals to Benton in particular because it’s not dissimilar to how he grew up. His wealthy father invested in art and constantly moved priceless paintings in and out of the Wesley home, a brownstone mansion not so different from the Faculty Club.
How amazing it must be to pick a Pieter Claesz this week and a J. M. W. Turner or Jan Both the next. And maybe a Johannes Vermeer or a Frans Hals while we’re at it, I think as I scan our private gallery, each painting illuminated by a museum light and framed in gold.
It’s difficult to imagine growing up the way Benton did when I compare it to the minimalist and decidedly nonglamorous conditions of my Miami upbringing. He comes from Ivy League New England stock while I’m the only one in my second-generation Italian family who went to college. As hard as it was to have so little in every sense of the word, I’m grateful that when I was growing up I didn’t get what I thought I wanted.
Benton was deprived in a different way. He got everything his parents wanted. He lived their dreams, and in many ways it only made him more impoverished and lonely. I imagine I was sad and isolated at times when I was a child. But what I remember most is feeling driven, having no choice but to learn to make do, whether it was the way I dressed, what shampoo I could afford or how long I could make something last.
I became adept at experiencing the world through books, photographs and movies because there was no such thing as a vacation or traveling anywhere for any reason until I finally began visiting colleges in my midteens. Benton on the other hand lacked for nothing except attention and a normal boyhood. He says he never felt rich until we met, and it’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.
He moves the table a little, angling it as he pleases, as if the dining room belongs to him. “I’m worried you’re going to be cold.”
“So far I’m all right. Other than the way I look.”
“Which is beautiful. Always the most beautiful person I’ve ever known.” Benton smiles at me as he pulls out my chair.
“I think you’re made delusional by the heat.” I sit down.
Scooting in closer to the table, I tuck my messenger bag under my chair, and we never position ourselves so that our backs are to doors or any other egress. We don’t place ourselves in front of windows that might make us as conspicuous as fish in a bowl.
In fact we really aren’t shown to a table as much as we’re deployed to one. Benton and I locate ourselves where we can keep up our scan of what’s around us, making sure nothing could surprise us from behind or through glass. In other words, in my husband’s safe home away from home, we sit at dinner like two cops.
We couldn’t relax if we didn’t, and it’s the little habits that are sobering. It’s impossible not to be reminded that we belong to a small and special tribe. The tribe of the public servants who are traumatized.
“Are you sure you’re going to be all right in the air-conditioning?” Benton asks as a waiter heads our way, an older man who must be new. “Would you like my jacket?” Benton starts to take it off, and I shake my head.
“I’m fine for now. I’ll manage. Again I apologize for ruining what was left of our night.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. You haven’t ruined anything.” He opens his white napkin and drapes it in his lap. “Well, maybe your panty hose. How did that happen by the way?”
“Oh my God. Is there anything I’ve not been asked today?” Then I feel irrepressible bubbles of laughter rising up my throat as Benton watches me quizzically.
“Is there something I’m missing?” he finally asks, but the waiter is waiting.
He stands by our table in his white jacket, starched and buttoned up, and he has the gaunt face and loose skin of someone once handsome who lost a lot of weight. He looks at Benton, the pen resting on the order pad. We’d like water before anything else, my husband says, and suddenly I remember my panty hose in the ladies’ room trash and I’m amused again.
“I’m sorry.” I dab my eyes with my napkin. “But sometimes I’m struck by the absurdity. To answer your question, I ran my hose just like any other woman, I’m sure.”
“I doubt it.” He’s watching the waiter talking with the young man we saw out front a few minutes earlier, both of them checking on a big table set for a large party, fussing with silverware, repositioning the flower arrangements. “Usually your mishaps involve sharp weapons, body fluids, and blowflies,” Benton adds.
“I ran my panty hose on a gurney, one of those cadaver carriers with a crank for raising and lowering. As I was helping lift a body off I got snagged, possibly on one of the casters.”
“And then what?” and it begins to penetrate that he really is asking for a reason. “You didn’t change into a new pair of panty hose,” he says. “Why not?”
It’s not a frivolous question after all. Of course nothing he asks really is even when he’s being funny.
AT MY HEADQUARTERS, BRYCE is in charge of keeping certain necessities in stock including coffee, snacks, standard toiletries—and extra pairs of panty hose.
If he doesn’t oversee the supply of such things there’s a good chance they won’t enter my mind because skirts and stockings aren’t my friends even if I pretend otherwise. Given the choice, I wear my usual field clothes of flame- and insect-resistant cargo pants, the more pockets the better, and tactical shirts embroidered with the CFC crest.
And of course sturdy cotton socks and low-profile boots. I’m also partial to parkas, packable jackets, baseball caps, and I suppose it all goes back to those impressionable years in medical school and the Air Force. When I was getting started I lived in scrubs and BDUs, and if I had my way I still would.
But since I’m often summoned to testify in depositions, in court and before lawmakers, I have to keep other accoutrements on hand that are appropriate for a director and chief who can influence the type of body armor our soldiers wear or whether someone should land in prison.
“I go through several pairs of hose a week at work,” I’m explaining all this to Benton. “And I suppose Bryce hasn’t been shopping much in this heat. Or maybe he’s been too busy with his own dramas to bother ordering things online. So yes, I wasn’t happy when I discovered I had nothing to change into after I ruined my hose. But I don’t know why it didn’t enter my mind to stop in the CVS myself at Harvard Square and pick up another pair so I’m not sitting here bare-legged. I suppose that’s yet another miscalculation on my part.”
“Then what you’re saying is Bryce has been letting you down, and you were upset with him even before he drove you to the Square. When you realized you had nothing to change into, that was the catalyst.” Benton slides his reading glasses out of their case. “But the fuel load was already laid.”
“And what fuel load might you mean?” I smooth my napkin over my skirt and am reminded of how badly I want to get out of these clothes.
“I think you know.”
What he’s leading up to is my family—specifically my reaction to my sister’s uninvi
ted and unexpected visit, and I glance at the time. I’d planned on heading to Logan by nine thirty but now I’m not sure what to do. Lucy says Dorothy might be late. Well it would be nice of my sister to let me know so Benton and I don’t race away from here and end up sitting outside the baggage area for hours.
“Bryce stopped by my office around four thirty to give me a ride to The Coop, to take me on any errands and then drop me off here,” I begin recounting what happened this afternoon. “And that was fine except he wouldn’t stop talking. I honestly couldn’t take it.”
“Talking about what?”
“That’s very difficult to reconstruct when it’s Bryce. It seems he’s convinced I don’t feel the same about him, that I don’t like him or want him around, and this predates today’s incident with the panty hose. Lately I’ve gotten the impression he has some strange notion that I’ve distanced myself and am thinking of firing him or who knows what.”
“Based on?” Benton slips on the reading glasses, parking them low on his straight narrow nose, his hazel eyes finding me over the top of the frames.
“Based on his repeated questions about what else he’d done wrong. He kept asking that when he was arguing with me in front of The Coop.”
“Were you arguing or was he?”
“I’ve always heard it takes two.”
Benton laughs. “It doesn’t when it’s him. Bryce is pretty good at playing both sides of the net.”
“I didn’t argue. I just resisted and denied, telling him I needed to go. He was so worried about the broiling heat, and here I was standing out in the middle of it because he wouldn’t leave me alone.”
“So in other words, he’s reacting to you.” Benton picks up the thickly bound wine list that was on top of his menu.
“As usual but it’s more extreme, it seems.”
“This may shape up to being one of those unfortunate situations that’s all about bad timing.” Benton turns several thick creamy pages, glancing at wines. “I hope not. But it was bad timing for you to get out of sorts with him while a detractor, possibly a stalker, was watching. Normally we could let it go, dismiss it as a deranged rambling. But the marijuana-leaf tattoo is a problem. If it wasn’t for that detail I wouldn’t give any credence to someone calling in what sounds like a completely frivolous complaint. I wouldn’t even bother listening.”
“What are you saying?” I reply. “And how did you know about the tattoo?”
But Benton turns another page in the wine list. He doesn’t answer.
“Are you suggesting that you’ve listened to the nine-one-one recording? Is that what you’re telling me?” I ask him next.
CHAPTER 7
THE WAITER HAS RETURNED with a bottle of still water, and we’re quiet as he fills our glasses.
We say nothing unless it’s related to appetizers and how lovely it is to have the dining room all to ourselves for as long as it lasts. Benton always gets the crab cakes with grilled scallions and pickled banana peppers, and I usually indulge in the lobster bisque with lemon brown butter.
But it’s too hot for either, we decide, and instead we pick the Mediterranean salad with heirloom tomatoes and crumbled feta. I ask if we can substitute purple onions for sweet ones and have extra dressing on the side with crushed red pepper to add a kick. I order another bottle of water, this one sparkling with lots of lime. The instant the waiter has moved on I return to what Benton was saying.
“What do you mean you wouldn’t bother?” I ask. “Your wife is the subject of a police complaint and you wouldn’t bother to pay attention? Even if it’s chickenshit?”
“This wouldn’t be the first time unstable people have spotted you in public and called the police and the media.” Benton turns another page in the wine list, and the light catches his gold signet ring engraved with his family coat of arms. “You’re recognizable, Kay, and people associate you with sensational crimes and disasters. I could tell you otherwise but it wouldn’t be the truth. So yes.” He glances up at me. “I might not have paid attention or as close attention as I should have.”
“You’ve listened to the recording.” I won’t let him evade the question. “I’m going to keep asking.”
He silently reads the wine list, and I can see his eyes moving up and down a page of white Burgundies. I’m not sure why. The most he can have is a glass. In a while he has to drive, and I think of Dorothy and get only more adamant with Benton. I can’t seem to help it.
“I want to hear the recording,” I tell him. “Do you have a copy? And I’m not interested in the transcript. I want to hear the bastard lie about me.”
“Marino should play it for you,” Benton says as he turns pages back and forth between different types of wines. “I assume he’s investigating your egregious disturbance of the peace just like any lead detective worth his salt would spend his time doing.”
“I told you he wouldn’t tell me scarcely anything the person said. He wouldn’t discuss it in detail, and legally I can push this, Benton. I have a right to face my accuser, and in this case the accuser is the person who’s lying about me on that recording. I want to hear it for myself—with my own ears. There are no legal grounds for withholding that recording from me unless you think I’m implicated in a federal crime. And last I checked, disturbing the peace wasn’t.”
This is exactly what Benton wants me to do—to threaten him in a confrontational offended way that doesn’t really reflect my true feelings. What I mustn’t do is treat him like my husband when it comes to this particular matter, which ironically he wouldn’t know about in the first place if we weren’t a couple. He needs to be Special Agent Benton Wesley this moment and I need to be the Chief, and we’ve been down this road many times.
He turns another page in the carte des vins. “I think we should have white wine,” he says. “But it depends on what you want to eat. We’ll have just enough to taste and cork the rest for later, after we finally get home.”
“It would take nothing more than a Freedom of Information Act request. But it’s stupid to make me go through that. I was thinking about fish. Something light.” I open my menu without picking it up as he reaches down next to his chair and finds his briefcase.
He places it in his lap, and I hear the bright snap of the locks again.
“Remember what my eighth-grade teacher said to me?” He pulls out his wireless headset in its zip-up case. “Good ol’ Mr. Broadmoor …”
“Who declared that one day you’re going to get what you ask for and be sorry,” I finish the anecdote for Benton, one he repeats often when he’s sure it applies to me.
“It won’t be pleasant and I’d rather spare you.” He unzips the small black case. “But as you know, the laws about nine-one-one recordings are rather murky in Massachusetts. There’s no statute that tells me you can’t listen. You’re right about that.”
He hands the headset to me and I put it on. He places his phone in the middle of the table, and touches several prompts on the display. I hear static and clicking in stereo. Then:
“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?” The dispatcher is a woman, and I recognize her voice from the chronic radio chatter in my life.
“Hello. It’s not exactly an emergency but I think the police should know that one of our esteemed public servants is disturbing the peace in front of God and everyone in Harvard Square.”
The caller’s voice is mellow and flows at a rhythmic slow pace, bringing to mind someone pulling taffy. It’s as if the person is stoned or putting on an act, and I remember what Marino said about not being able to tell if the caller is male or female. I’m not sure either.
“What’s the address of your emergency?” the dispatcher asks.
“I don’t know precisely but I should think a good way to describe the Square is it’s the area around the T station.”
“Is there an address of a business you can give me?”
“No.” The caller coughs several times.
“What number are you calling from??
??
“It’s my cell phone so it’s not going to tell you my location. You won’t be able to confirm anything about me like that …”
At this point the caller becomes abusive and argumentative in his slow, languid way, and I think of him as a him. But I honestly can’t say because the voice is low and husky in a pleasant range somewhere between a baritone and a tenor.
As I listen to him describe what he allegedly witnessed it enters my mind that my so-called shit fest with my “boyfriend” isn’t something that was happening while this witness who’s a liar was on the phone with the dispatcher. What he says seems too rehearsed to be happening in real time, and instantly I’m suspicious he’s reporting his made-up story after the fact.
“Do you know where the female subject is now?” The dispatcher is asking about me in the recording as I stare down at the white tablecloth and listen carefully through the headphones.
“No, but she’s a C-U-Next-Tuesday if I ever saw one, and I sure as hell wouldn’t want her showing up at my damn house if somebody died. Jabbing her damn finger, slapping the fool out of some poor sissy kid who looks like a real loser. I can’t imagine what sort of bedside manner a nasty bitch like that would have …”
“Where are you?” the dispatcher asks as the caller coughs and clears his throat again. “Are you outside?”
“With the birds and the bees. Of course I’m outside! How the hell else could I be reporting something that’s going on outside in the elements right before my very eyes?”
This goes on until she lets him know the police are on their way, and she asks the caller’s name.
“You don’t need my name, lady, what you need is to pay attention to their names. You hear me?”
“I need a name so the police can find you—”
“Don’t try that shit with me. I know what you’re doing. You’re going to cover this up just like you do everything about the damn government, and it’s time for the intolerance and fascism to end …”