I had looked around Coleman. I couldn’t help it that Tom kept crossing my path.
The appearance of his quaint and spotless home charmed me. I am tempted by men with feminine traits; rugged, masculine men who can do the things that women are expected to do. His house was a beautiful sculpture of woods and wools. His table was set with mauve placemats, a bunch of wildflowers, plates, and flatware. I could smell the aroma of a beefy dinner. There was Fifties music on the CD player.
“This is a beautiful house,” I said.
“I better be staying in it a long, long time,” he said. “It’s a one-man house and everything in it is for one man. One of everything. I built most of the furniture, too.”
He explained his building in a way that one would expect a painter to explain a painting. He built one large room on the edge of the hill and lived in it while he did the rest. The large room was the kitchen. There had been a wall and after he built the great room behind the large kitchen, he tore it down. The two rooms were now divided by shelves two feet thick, so that spines of books could be seen from both rooms. Where there weren’t books, one could look through, which gave the already large rooms more depth. The open-beam ceiling was sixteen feet high at its peak and there were triangular windows on each side. The late-afternoon sun was lowering in the sky. The room would be equally bright at sunrise. The windows were meant to catch dusk and dawn.
The entire kitchen wall, in front of which our table sat, was glass. Sliding glass doors led to a wooden deck that was ten feet wide and surrounded the house on all three sides. From the kitchen you could see a beautiful valley through which an old train track was threaded. In the early morning, he said, there were deer and elk. An occasional moose would lose his way from the high country and wander there.
“When you’re mad at the world,” he said, “and you come upon a place like this, it settles your soul. You can scream obscenities at God... and he whispers back.”
I was romanced poetic. He was good.
The great room had other built-in furniture besides bookcases. There was a desktop with drawers and a wood sofa and loveseat with wool cushions in lavender, mauve, beige, dark rose. Multicolored wool area rugs accented highly polished wood floors. The few decorator items were Southwestern — a bison skull, a sculpture of an Indian woman, woven baskets.
There was a large bedroom, again filled with built-ins, and a huge bathroom off the bedroom. The house wasn’t built for entertaining or for a family or for resale. There were no doors that closed except on the bathroom — and those were double doors that stood open and, I would later see, could not be locked.
Beneath the house, under the kitchen and deck that hung out over the hill on reinforced stilts, was his workshop. I declined a tour of it. When I had driven into the clearing, I saw the corral and a small barn that was about the size of a two-car garage. The horses were in the pasture for the night, he told me. Two dogs barked their greeting as I arrived, and aside from Tom’s “Down, Pat. Down, Sunny,” I was not introduced. They appeared to be friendly mutts.
I had a chance to browse among the books while he chopped salad ingredients. I found myself reading the titles of psychology texts, lawbooks, works on social sciences, astronomy books, and a few hardcover fiction titles of the most popular writers: Michener, Clavell, Ludlum, and Wouk. He showed a preference for pop psychology as well; there were many popular titles in both hardcover and paperback. Everything was meticulously shelved, by subject and author, as though he took his library as seriously as his building. I pulled out a book of popular case studies and paged through it. It was heavily highlighted.
“What are you cooking?” I asked.
“Stroganoff. Red wine or white?”
“Ah... red, I guess.”
“What are you reading?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Psychology... of some kind.”
“Don’t read that stuff, Jackie. You’ll think you’re nuts.”
I laughed. “Is that what happens?”
“For a while. Till you find out that everybody is a little nuts and it’s only the degree of nuts that separates the counselors from the patients. Come out here. The sun is setting — you gotta see this.”
I was reluctant to put down the book. My father was an English professor and sometime writer. He had a habit of counting books in people’s houses; he was intrigued by where they were kept and was most impressed with people who had books in every room of the house. He taught me the art of discerning, after a short perusal and interview, whether the person owned books or read books. I wasn’t going to be able to know for sure because Tom was going to make me see the sunset.
He was right that I should. It was breathtaking from his loft-like kitchen. He handed me a glass of wine, had one of his own, and stood beside me to watch it.
“I can see why you love this, why you’d choose this.”
“Yeah. You can’t take a sunset for granted here, either. Each one is different. The purple ones are my favorite. Glorious.”
“You haven’t left psychology behind. The books, magazines, and so on.”
“Well, it was my life’s work. I chose it because I was completely fascinated. I can’t practice, but I’m still fascinated.”
“Are you sure you can’t?” I had to ask.
He laughed good-naturedly, indulgently, and turned away. “We’ll save that topic for the next time, Jackie. It’s the natural order of progression — and after tonight you’re going to be more insistent about it, I’m sure. First, the salad.”
“What’s going to happen tonight that’s going to make me insistent... ?”
He opened the fridge, took out two plates covered with greens and dressed, and indicated the table. I sat and was served.
“First things first. I was a jackass the other night. I’m going to attempt to explain, though I have no excuse.”
“Listen, it’s all right if —”
“No, I think I might have a reason. I’ve given it some thought. What I’m about to tell you I would have told you eventually, anyway. You were one jump ahead of me. Had my daughter lived and expressed an interest in someone like me, I’d advise her to do what you did — get the facts.
“Fact,” he went on. “At the precise time of my life that I was being victimized by Devalian, I had myself so messed up that I was losing credibility in my practice and my family was slipping away by slow degrees. This is uncheckable. It is also true. I was having an affair with a very sick patient who needed me desperately and I was using cocaine. I was stealing money — not holdups or anything. I was taking kickbacks from treatment centers, taking gifts of money from clients, and was generally an asshole.” He half smiled, albeit sheepishly. “A manipulative asshole who was dearly loved by one and all; coke addicts are extremely self-confident.”
I lifted a forkful of salad to my mouth and chewed. I had once listened to a client extol his sexual abuse of his wife without letting my abhorrence show on my face. I was, if nothing else, a well-practiced lawyer.
“I had borrowed heavily from my parents; they didn’t know about the drugs, though they were confused by my behavior, which was alternately euphoric and depressed. I conned my wife, who had come to understand I dabbled in drugs. I convinced her that my intellect prevented me from being like any other cokehead. I had lots of excuses for depression and lots of rationalization for the euphoria. I was unfaithful, a liar, a cheat, and only a good father when I’d had a hit and was on top of the world. Through all this I did not have the slightest notion that I was in trouble.”
He paused long enough to eat a few mouthfuls and sip a bit of burgundy.
“I got started on this roller-coaster ride by being a fast burner and brilliant psychologist. I finished my dissertation at twenty-five and had published a dozen papers by twenty-six. I drew a high check from the state and was considered a gifted shrink. I accidentally got hooked on the power of it; I was invincible. I was never wrong — I read people like maps. Nothing got by me. No one got by
me. I was almost superhuman at testing; I found things that other psychologists missed. I discovered a man diagnosed as a pathological liar and borderline personality who was only learning-disabled. It explained his whole dilemma — he was a highly paid computer lab technician who could barely read. He was deceptive, living a lie, his behavior was aggressive, and his M.O. was hostile. Anyway —”
He ate again and I found myself absorbed. Entertained. Among other things, Tom was a good storyteller.
“Do you know anything about addictive personalities? I never did have to own up to the dope; I managed to get into a treatment program after my wife and daughter were killed, and I told the truth there. To friends I claimed I’d gotten accidentally hooked on tranquilizers from the stress.”
“Why didn’t you tell your friends the truth?”
“Pride. And, the fact that the mess I’d left in my trail was going to cost me. It would have been expensive. I could have ‘fessed up; there’s a little thing in the twelve-step program about making amends when it won’t hurt anyone. Some of my amends would have hurt. I destroyed my caseload, my clients, my everything. I have to carry around that I was responsible for what happened to my family; I wasn’t paying attention anymore. I had begun to make serious mistakes. My brain was all tuned into my next hit — I was beginning to believe I was God. I was unafraid and had the delusion that I was protecting my family from any harm though I wasn’t there. I lost everything at once. Damn — in my heyday, I was good.”
“I’ll bet. How is it you can drink?” I didn’t know that much about cocaine addicts. I had a couple of friends who were recovering alcoholics and they were tuned into cross-addiction. My friend Bill, for example, didn’t even indulge in caffeine anymore.
“I seldom drink, and alcohol doesn’t appeal to me in the same addictive vein. Coke is an energy giver, confidence stimulator, upper. Till it’s out of control, which in my case took a few years.” He finished off his salad, picked up the plates, and began serving up the stroganoff, noodles, and small peas. “Are you wondering where you come in?”
I didn’t wonder at all; I had forgotten this had anything to do with me. I nodded anyway so that he would continue.
“I’m not only ashamed of that part of my life, I’m also paranoid about it. I still worry that someone might find out how bad I really was, blame me for people being hurt or killed. I wanted to do something to make sure something like my family’s murder would never happen to anyone else, and I went to Roberta about a lawsuit against the state. Then, wham! I realized I’d be drawing attention to myself and I dropped that idea fast. I’m waiting for the bill, I guess. What if someone finds out, contacts the state, asks me to give back thousands of dollars in kickbacks? Or what if I’m accused of having perfectly all right people put in treatment programs for the kickbacks?
“I wasn’t wrong about Devalian — I was right about him. He wasn’t the only guy in jail in those days who was angry with me; I was the state’s witness. So, when he was leaving threatening messages on my after-hours recorder at work, I didn’t warn my wife. I called the police, but they were unresponsive. I saved the tapes, which helped get me off the hook for killing them.
“I can be honest about my accountability now, but you surprised me, hit me off guard and I got off balance. I felt confronted because I was confronted. I reacted really defensively.
“Jackie, I like you. I’d hate to not even get to see you because I’m holding back, lying, or screwing up. You were right to check out my story; that was an intelligent decision on your part. You were brave to bring it to me; I can appreciate that now. I’m sorry. Maybe you understand my paranoia better now. I haven’t used anything stronger than a beer or two in over ten years now.”
“A little burgundy now and then,” I added.
“I am sorry,” he said.
“What about Oregon?” I asked.
“Oregon?” he asked, as if he were momentarily off track. He looked at me with confusion, as though he didn’t remember telling me he’d lived in Oregon.
“You said you went there to practice for a couple of —”
“Yeah. Yeah. Well,” he began, lifting his fork to his mouth and chewing as though thoughtfully. “I had trouble working. Recovering addicts go through that kind of thing. My mind was on my day-to-day recovery rather than the clients who needed my full attention. I had it in my head that I couldn’t do it without drugs.”
“You said it was about your family. You’d lost your ability to reason.”
“I had. That had more to do with cocaine than my tragedy. Cocaine, guilt, remorse, and regret. Mostly, cocaine. Don’t misunderstand — I was filled with grief, guilt, and all that stuff. If you understand addiction, you know that my drug killed my emotions and I didn’t get to my grief for a long time. I came out of recovery with a short attention span and severe preoccupation. I discovered building, and I discovered I loved the mountains. In the end, I made a good choice for myself. From ‘seventy-nine to ‘eighty-six I did small things, like I was testing all sorts of odd jobs. I really was a short-order cook for a while. I was a dock worker, picture framer, produce stocker, chicken farmer —”
“Chicken farmer?” I laughed.
“You bet. I just roved for a while, unsure and unsettled. I changed my name; I did odd jobs. I might have gone through more than a quarter-million dollars on coke, and what a treat it was to discover I didn’t need much money. You have any idea how little it takes to live? You have money, or what?”
“I don’t have money. I have a retirement fund,” I said, chewing his tender, highly seasoned stroganoff. “Getting Roberta to pay for that was the toughest part of my negotiation.”
“Yeah,” he laughed. “Yeah. Roberta and Harry have a retirement plan that’s this: You don’t retire till you drop dead.”
“Right. Mine will all just go to some home, anyway.”
“No family?”
“My parents are dead and I have no brothers or sisters. There are a couple of little-old-lady aunts I keep in touch with, though we haven’t visited. Friends, though. I hadn’t realized how special they were until I moved away from them.”
“But you did. Why?”
“Are you exercising your prerogative of asking about me?”
“I am,” he said, smiling. Then, as he studied my face for a moment and his warm brown eyes — I could see the contact lenses — gained seriousness and lost mirth, he said, “You don’t have to. I didn’t bring you here to make you trade. My stuff is free.”
“I’d like you to know something — I’m not into secret-keeping, Tom. I don’t have any dark stuff like trouble with the law or drugs. What I have is something that evokes pity and I can’t stand it. I am pitiful, and I hate it.”
“Look...”
“No, you’re entitled. It’s just that for all kinds of different reasons, I don’t want to draw attention to this. It’s simple and sloppy. I was married one year; the guy was a bum and a jerk then, though he’s come a long way now. I had my only child and my parents’ only grandchild four weeks before my divorce was final. I lived for this kid and all the things I did were for him — law school, hard work, savings. He was killed in an accident when he was eleven; he was hit in an intersection by an armored car. It was resolved that Sheffie was riding his bike against the light — freak accident and instant death.” I paused. My appetite was gone. I had known it would be. I took a deep breath. “You’re the first person who might understand how devastated I was, how alone I became. My friends fell into two categories. Invisible or oppressive. I came here because I felt I had to do something different. I couldn’t live in our house anymore; I couldn’t take the loneliness any more than I could abide the caretaking and pity of well-meaning friends.”
I pushed my plate away. I saw sympathy in his eyes.
“See what happens? I can’t eat; you don’t know what to say. There could be a murderer on the loose around here and we’re up here eating stroganoff and licking our wounds.”
&nbs
p; “Murderer? Around here?”
“That Porter woman...”
“I thought that was somewhere else.”
“She lived here; she might have left here with someone she knew.”
“No kidding? Is that what Bodge says?”
Did I dare say that Bodge might have gotten it from the Beauty Shop? “It’s what Bodge guesses. There are no suspects.”
“I bet it’s her husband,” he said, eating. “You hear about that. I can’t think of one person around here who I’d suspect of murder.” He chewed again. “Oh, wow,” he said, looking surprised. “Did you hear what I just said? Guess I have no business knocking the narrow-minded, huh? Her husband.” He shook his head. “God.”
“It was my first thought, too,” I said.
“Well, on the other subject — thanks, Jackie, for telling me about your son. I’m glad I know that. Is that why you were all screwed up the first day we met? When I measured for shelves?”
“Yes. You know, I had hoped not to tell it.”
“It doesn’t work, does it? Not telling? I mean it’s okay not to tell strangers. When you feel close to someone, you have to open up. I’m sorry for your loss.”
I was still hurting inside. It would pass soon — I knew this now. I still couldn’t tell the story without the inevitable pain.
“I’m glad you trust me with it. I’ll support you while you grieve that loss... if you can accept that from someone as messed up as I am.” I was touched by both the offer and the humility. He went on: “We tend to miss our former lives, and when we think it’s in the interest of our survival to keep it quiet and subdued, we deny a part of our identity. Despite your law practice and success as a woman, your fundamental and chosen identity was as Sheffie’s mother. You lost your child and your job and your identity.”