Dream Girl(58)

VICTORIA IS IN AN ODD MOOD on April Fool’s Day, a day that Gerry has always loathed, finding practical jokes to be a particular kind of sadism. His father, of course, had loved them. His father’s sense of humor was so low that he had thought it funny to shake his four-year-old’s hand with one of those old-fashioned buzzers that administered a shock. To this day, Gerry isn’t much for hand-shaking. People think he’s a germaphobe, but he’s simply never gotten over the idea that something hard and electric might be pressed into his palm.

He attributes Victoria’s mood to the weather. March has gone out like a wet, cranky lion, the temperatures falling from last week ’s springlike interlude, rain squalls sweeping across the city every few hours. She isn’t unkind—if anything, she is more solicitous of him than usual, asking him twice if he’s sure that a turkey sandwich will suffice for lunch, if he’s happy with his tea. She does inquire at one point whether the detective from New York has followed up with him about Margot, but she appears to be making idle conversation.

Yet—her hands are shaking when she clears his tray and she is unusually pale. Probably love trouble. A neurasthenic type, he decides, the kind of girl—woman—who takes long, solitary walks at night, considers the Bront?s and their heroines to be role models. He remembers a young woman in that vein whom he and Lucy had known, who was given to floaty, ankle-length dresses and outrageous hats. What a revelation she had been when they had gotten to know her better.

When Victoria comes in to say goodbye, she says: “We should probably start talking about the next phase of your care. You won’t need a nurse forever. Do you think you could be comfortable without Aileen once you’re able to use a walker?”

It’s a day he has been yearning for, but now he’s terrified of this benchmark. To move on his own again, to reclaim his body will be glorious. But—to be here, alone, in this apartment, where there are still things that can’t be explained. To not have Aileen in his sight or within earshot. How will they ever be free of each other? To think that this is the person he will be yoked to for the rest of his life, not because of love or passion, but because of a terrible secret. If he were to call the detective—no, if he were to call a lawyer, explain the situation, and they could cut a deal—no, if he were to call Thiru—

His mind abandons all plans as preposterous. He can never confess without a horrible scandal. Imagine the first line of his New York Times obituary if this should come to light.

“Let’s see what my doctor says. I admit, I am nervous about being alone here at night. What if I were to fall again?”

“I guess you could wear one of those bracelets?”

I’ve fallen and I can’t get up. Gerry remembers being in his twenties when that television ad became famous. How he and Luke and Tara had laughed at the idea, at the poor production values. Why had it struck them as funny? Why had it struck them as improbable? He thinks of the Sphinx’s riddle, about the animal who starts the day on four legs, goes to two, ends up with three. Add a walker and one could argue it’s six.

So there, Sphinx. You didn’t know everything. But then, neither did Oedipus.

“Let’s see what the doctor advises,” he says. It is four P.M. and he is counting the hours until Aileen’s arrival and his nightly dose of Ambien.

*



GERRY WAKES UP in the middle of the night to the sound of a quarrel. Mama never raised her voice, he thinks. When his parents did argue late at night, he would have to tiptoe to the bottom of the stairs if he wanted to hear anything and, even then, it was difficult to make out the words.

But most of the time, he didn’t try to eavesdrop, he just stayed in bed, willing himself to go back to sleep. He starts to do that now. Maybe the Olympic swimmer has finally decided to spend a night here, he thinks. Maybe the sheikh is here, berating his staff. It would be just like Baltimore to erect a luxury high-rise in which one could hear the neighbors through the walls.

And then he realizes the two voices are female and coming from downstairs. Tiptoeing is out of the question, of course. Even if he were mobile, he would be nervous about standing at the top of those stairs.

One voice is clearly Aileen’s, only it sounds different from the way it usually does. Less flat, more passionate. I did what I had to do. Don’t second-guess me.

The other voice is higher, but not as loud; her words don’t carry as well. She seems to be asking questions, each sentence ending on a little wail. Do? Do? What are we going to do?

I had no choice.

Jesus, Leenie.

Leenie. Leenie. Gerry knows a Leenie. Knew. “I go by Leenie. Rhymes with Deenie, like in the Judy Blume novel.”

It’s as if his bed starts to float through the night sky, taking him to his past, the way the ghosts guided Scrooge through London. He is in his office at Goucher. Leenie has big thick glasses, she is round as a bowling ball. She has requested this office visit to explain why she wants to avoid participating at the next class, which has been designated a day of silence in support of LGBTQ people. He thinks that was the acronym at the time, although maybe the T and the Q hadn’t yet been added.

Leenie. Leenie Bryant. And she had a friend in the class, they were thick as thieves, a slender girl. One so thin and one so round they had looked like the number 10 when they walked side by side.

The thin girl had been named Tory. At least, that was the name she used for her short stories, anemic little sketches that always ended with someone’s suicide. “It’s short for Victoria,” she had told him, “but I prefer it because it rhymes with ‘story’ and all I want to do is write stories.”