The case of the Vanishing heart

By P.V. Tkach

By 1984, the positive vibrations of the late 1960's and 70's were fast fading and life wasn’t so peachy keen. Jersey was just another tough guy with a broken heart and a bad attitude. And then she walked into his office, the perfect femme fatale, with a lie resting on her full red lips, and the scent of gardenias fogging the air; Margaret Washington was all the trouble a man could ask for.

But it isn't the provocative Mrs. Washington pulling his strings, calling his shots, and making a mug of him. No, cool as he is, and determined as he might be to hide his heart from the world, Jersey is powerless to control his own story. He is at the mercy of a woman lost in the darkness of despair, a woman who hates her own romantic heart as much as she hates he who was her husband, he who had been her husband for nine years, and now is not. Night after night, Persephone puts her young daughters to bed, sits down at her desk, and quietly opens up Jersey's world, finding solace in murder and disharmony. But as she writes her way deeper into Jersey's life, the line between their realities dissolves, and Persephone slips ever closer towards a fictional world where anything is possible.

In “The case of the Vanishing heart,” an old fashioned who-done-it becomes the makings of a modern romantic tragedy. As Persephone struggles to face a life she never dreamed of, Jersey is left to solve the mystery that threatens both their destinies.

• Language: English
• Publisher: P.V. Tkach
• Release date: Apr 10, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476145372

Book preview

The case of the Vanishing heart

by

~ pvTkach

The case of the Vanishing heart

Published by pvTkach at Smashwords

Copyright © 2012 pvTkach

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever including Internet usage, without written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental or used fictiously.

Thanks to Bob, Alistair, and Brian of the Al Ain Writers’ Group – Sand, for their e-pub persuasion.

Cover design by wizzy widget.

Cover photograph of typewriter (minus the heart & words): © Miflippo at www.stockfreeimages.com.

Digital edition by: GoPublished at www.gopublished.com.

For Mary, and Michael

I distrust a close-mouthed man. He generally picks the wrong time to talk and says the wrong things. Talking’s something you can’t do judiciously, unless you keep in practice. Now, sir, we’ll talk if you like. I’ll tell you right out, I’m a man who likes talking to a man who likes to talk.

~ Sidney Greenstreet as Kasper Gutman

The Maltese Falcon

Dashiell Hammett

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter Two

Chapter 3

Chapter Four

Chapter 5

Chapter Six

Chapter 7

Chapter Eight

Chapter 9

Chapter Ten

Chapter 11

Chapter Twelve

Chapter 13

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter 15

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter 1

You would not be wise to place your trust in me.

The room suddenly smelled of gardenias. Jersey twisted his chair around; the view of downtown Saint Paul didn’t compare with the view that’d just appeared in his office; quiet, like the fog in that Sandberg poem, creeping in on cat feet.

I’m sorry to intrude like this…your door was open…

It was near noon on a Tuesday in mid-October, but her voice was from the early hours before dawn, on a too hot, too humid July night.

Perfectly all right, he said, and leaned up out of his chair, wondering how she’d gotten by Pearl.

Jersey motioned towards the fat leather chair in front of his desk, an expensive relic from a previous life. He watched her settle delicately on the edge of the cushion. The straight cut of her burgundy suit lent her the appearance of height, but five-five is what he guessed. Early thirties, thick black hair twisted up and pinned with a simple gold clip, light on the make-up except for the extravagant red showing off her shapely lips. He glanced down, his own appearance now crossing his mind. He hadn’t loosened his tie yet, nor had his first drink; he looked as good as he would all day. She sat poised, her gloves in her hands resting across a small flat purse on her lap, dark legs glossy in sheer nylons, ankles crossed demurely. Her burgundy suede heels held Jersey’s eye a moment too long, and when he looked back up, her gold-flecked brown eyes were waiting for him.

I promise not to take up too much of your valuable time, Mr. Jersey.

If she was being facetious she hid it nicely under that smoky purr.

How may I help you, Miss…?

Margaret Washington, she said, and then left a long silent moment hang in the air between them, finally adding, It’s difficult to know where the story begins. It’s all so ugly, she said, the words fading as she dropped her voice.

And there’s the rub, Jersey thought, sitting back, arms resting amiably on his second-hand executive chair, watching her calculate how much she’d need to confide to get the job done.

It all seems so long ago, but of course it hasn’t been that long at all.

The fragrance of money sat like a mist around her pretty shoulders. Even the diamond and ruby brooch over her right breast, sparkled discretely against the finely woven jacket. Jersey waited through another of her silences, tapping an old fountain pen against the pad of paper on his desk until he caught himself and stopped.

Have you ever been in love Mr. Jersey?

Not successfully, he said.

Her gaze drifted past him to the large window behind his desk. The daylight lit her brown cheeks, but didn’t penetrate the richer brown of her eyes. Jersey tried not to stare at her, but it wasn’t easy. She brought her eyes back to his, looking at him thoughtfully, as if confirming his integrity. He hoped he was returning a concerned and sympathetic face to her. He knew his cool, grey eyes sometimes gave the wrong impression.

I’m being blackmailed, Mr. Jersey. And it must stop.

There was a new edge to her voice, though still feline, still from the wee hours of the night. He waited a moment but she didn’t clutter up the conversation with further details. Jersey admired straightforward women. He could make the small talk if he needed to, but it didn’t particularly suit him.

Any idea who or why, he asked.

I believe it’s the man I’ve been seeing. He’s…he’s impatient.

What’s he impatient about, Jersey asked patiently.

Alphonse wants me to leave my husband.

She didn’t flinch, avert her eyes, change her pose or drop a clue. Jersey let go his end of the stare, and glanced again at the wide gold band with diamonds, emeralds, and a ruby on her left hand that he’d mistaken for a mere decoration. But if she was looking for a reaction, she’d picked the wrong guy. Jersey was reactioned out over true romance. And she wasn’t asking for his moral advice.

Why blackmail, Mrs. Washington? Rather an odd form of love letter, isn’t it?

Alphonse believes the threat of a social scandal will hurry my departure from Randall.

Will it?

No.

Have you spoken with him, suggested perhaps that this is not endearing behavior?

If it were that easy, Mr. Jersey, would I be here in your office?

Jersey sat up, his arms on the desk as he leaned closer to her in hopes of shortening the distance between questions and answers. He had to make an effort to keep his voice professional, non-judgmental, as he got down to the mundane business of stepping into the muck of another marriage, looking for evidence of its demise, as if it weren’t already visible.

What is it you’d like me to do for you, Mrs. Washington? Have a talk with the gentleman?

No, she said, as if startled by the suggestion. Just follow him for a few days, see what might be motivating his behavior.

It was a challenge, but Jersey kept a smile off his face as he thought about what might be motivating Romeo’s behavior. The outer office door opened roughly and slammed shut, pulling Jersey’s eyes away from hers as a handsome, well dressed man stormed into his office. Where the hell was Pearl?

Margaret, I forbid you to do this. He was tall, late forties, with a deep voice and an annoying sternness.

Randall, I’m doing it for you, she replied without a trace of apology.

My lawyers will deal with it.

I can take care of my own affairs, she said firmly. There was an awkward pause at her poor choice of words, but she didn’t back down.

I don’t want you talking to this guy.

He finally looked over at Jersey, and gave him a raised-lip sneer, white teeth like icicles against his dark complexion.

Jersey didn’t waste his breath defending his reputation, but he was starting to feel nostalgic for the couple of hundred bucks this case had been leaning towards a few minutes earlier.

Margaret.

Her husband spoke in a condescending voice, making a complete sentence out of the one word. Jersey threw his pen down on the desk and ran his hands through his hair. He had no patience for amateur theatrics, and clearly his part in this scene was over. He stood up to move the two-bit players off his stage.

Randall, it needs to be done, and I believe Mr. Jersey, she cast her eyes ever so slightly in Jersey’s direction, is well suited to the task.

A strong vibration hit Jersey along with her words, and it wasn’t a good vibration.

We’re leaving, Washington said, reaching down and grabbing his wife’s arm.

Now, Mr. Washington, Jersey said, finally addressing the man as he came around his desk to show them the door. There’s no need to –

Jersey’s words were cut off as Randall Washington’s right fist flew into his jaw sending him stumbling backwards, surprised at the muscle hidden under the well cut suit jacket. Before he could get his own swing in, the fine lady jumped to her feet and slapped her husband’s face with nearly the same force he’d just applied to Jersey’s jaw.

Randall, you fool, she said, and the pitch of her voice made it clear her feathers had finally been ruffled.

Her husband’s face flushed red, color spreading from the small area where his wife’s hand had landed. He gave Jersey one last snarl and strode out of the room as he had entered, slamming doors.

Jersey sat on the edge of his desk, his arms folded, the left side of his face smarting, his eyes on the delicate hothouse flower standing before him. She didn’t speak, and avoided his look by turning her face away from him as she pulled her gloves on. She glanced at the file cabinet and the stereo on top of it, then down to the stack of records on the floor, and over to the Japanese screen in the corner, and finally at the couch against the wall, near the door her husband had just made his dramatic departure through. She turned back and met Jersey’s grey eyes without missing a beat.

I’m sorry, Mr. Jersey. Her voice wasn’t as tough as it’d been a few moments before, but it wasn’t really begging for forgiveness either. She walked to the stack of records and picked up the top one, pulled it out of its sleeve and placed it on the turntable. One of my favorites, she said, and placed the needle in the groove. I’ll phone you later. I hope you’ll take my call.

Jersey kept his eyes on her as she left, and if it bothered her he couldn’t tell. He returned to his chair, sat down and twirled it to look out the window that took up nearly the entire wall behind his desk. He stroked his face carefully, and stared down on the intersection of Wabasha and Fifth, Miles Davis blowing "So What" at his back.

* * * * *

A few minutes later he heard the outer office door open and close and Pearl’s familiar high-heeled step enter his office.

Jeeze Louise, boss, some days are just so darn weird.

She walked behind the Japanese screen and came back with a coffee pot in her hand. I’m making a fresh – whoa! What’d you run into?

Randall F. Washington, III’s short temper.

What?

The guy who socked me in the jaw.

I’m going to sock you if you don’t tell me what you’re talking about.

Pearl put the empty coffee pot on his desk and sat down in the chair Margaret Washington had recently vacated. She swung her long, straight black hair over her shoulders, and neatened the hem of her blue polka-dotted skirt across her knees.

It took me a moment’s reflection to remember who he was, Jersey said, and added, but you’ll know him from the gossips, I imagine.

Society pages, boss, but the name doesn’t go ding-dong. How do you know the guy?

"I don’t. I know of him. His father made a name for himself in architecture. One of the first black architects to make it in the better white neighborhoods; a darling of the liberal 1960’s."

You haven’t told me why he slugged you.

He didn’t want his wife fraternizing with riff-raff, near as I can tell.

Bit too cryptic, boss.

The beautiful Mrs. Washington, first name Margaret, claims she’s being blackmailed by her lover, a fellow named Alphonse.

Her husband told you this?

No, the words were from her very own, full lips, he said with mock wistfulness.

So were these lips in the room confiding this indiscretion to you with the husband’s assistance? And don’t forget to add why he smacked you, not that you don’t often ask for it.

Jersey accepted the pain it took to smirk back at her.

While you were out, he began, and told her the whole story, minus the part about the stereo.

Huh, Pearl said, nodding her head. Beats my weird story of the day. So, did either of the charming Washingtons leave any money on retainer? Actually hire you?

Pearl, you’ve got no imagination.

That wealthy upbringing of yours that you so disdain and dismiss left you a fool about money. You’re darn lucky I’ve got an accounting degree and not an imagination.

Touché. Now tell me the story of the disappearing secretary.

I got called down to the lobby to sign for a package for Ted – you were having one of your window meditations, so I didn’t bother you. Anyroad, I went down but there wasn’t anyone there with a package. And then Ted comes strolling off the elevator from upstairs; he’s been in his darkroom all morning, and no one called about a package, nor was he expecting anything. It was just odd. But now that I think of it, I saw your Mr. Washington. He was in the lobby when I got down there. Good looking black guy, right? I didn’t notice him get on the elevator, but he disappeared while I was talking with Ted. Jersey nodded, and she added, You want an icepack?

No, thanks.

Why not? This a Zen thing, getting in touch with the pain?

If I say yes will you go away?

She stood up, turned on her petite gray pumps, and went out to her office. A moment later she popped her head around the corner.

Does Alphonse have a last name, she asked the back of Jersey’s chair.

Not yet.

Jersey looked out on the intersection four stories below, uneasy in his stomach, and not because of a punch in the jaw. Would she call as threatened? And then what? Jersey’s hand found its way to his sore jaw, as his mind fingered the first pieces of a puzzle.

Twenty minutes later Pearl walked into his office and he twirled around.

I’m off to lunch, boss.

She’d pulled on a thick cotton sweater, and had a library book tucked under her arm. She often lunched with Agatha Christie at the Tick-Tock Café over a sandwich and a cherry phosphate, joyfully wandering about the ever charming and sinister English countryside.

I’ll stop over to see Margie at the Press while I’m out. See what clippings she’s got on the Washingtons. The answering machine’s on.

Jersey gave her a wink and a nod, and reached for the phone. He dialed a number from memory, and waited.

Sanderson, a voice finally announced, not mentioning rank or even precinct.

Hey Gus, it’s Jersey, got a second?

No. What do you want? she asked roughly.

What do you know about Randall Washington?

Oh, moving up in the world, are you? Got fancier crooks walking in your office these days, huh?

Is he a crook?

Buy me lunch at Sammy’s in forty minutes, she said, and hung up.

Gus had been a young nurse in Viet Nam at the same time his brother Ben had been a young soldier there. They’d bonded over rival football teams. He was from Milwaukee, a Packer fan, and she was from the north side of Minneapolis, a Viking fan. She’d traded nursing for police work eight years ago, and when Jersey came to the Cities and started at Ramsey County Courts, she’d stopped by to reintroduce herself, and to let him know she’d be keeping an eye on Benny’s little brother. Ben had never been a Benny to anyone but Gus.

Jersey looked at his watch, then leaned back in his chair, folded his hands behind his head, and closed his eyes to replay the morning’s little melodrama.

The phone rang, pulling his attention back into the present. He got up and walked out to Pearl’s office to listen to the answering machine, moving towards her desk in case it was the one call he’d pick up. He waited through Pearl’s message, and then a pause on the line, and then whoever it was hung up. It always gave him the creeps when someone hung up like that, like they could feel him standing there listening. He went back into his office to the chair sitting by the Japanese screen to pick up his tweed sports coat, and then back out to the outer office, grabbing his hat off the bronze bust of Clarence Darrow that sat on a table near the door.

It had warmed up into a strikingly pretty October afternoon, one of the last good lunch hours until spring. The downtown streets were full of workers who had poured out of the office buildings to catch a few of the day’s rays. Jersey stood in the doorway of his building and waited for a group of laughing women to pass. They were dressed in skirts and jackets of varying shades of dull blue, green or gray and wore blouses with self-tied bows that trailed long sashes. Jersey stepped out behind them and joined the flow headed down Fifth Street to Wabasha, and at the corner he turned south towards the Wabasha Bridge. He set a pace for the fifteen-minute walk to the other side of the river.

Half way across the old steel bridge he paused where the iron beams cantilevered out, and looked into the lead colored water of the Mississippi River as it moved away from St. Paul, headed to La Crosse, and Dubuque, and a more glamorous life in St. Louis and New Orleans. Both sides of the river were parked with towboats, and barges waiting to be filled with the fall harvest of grain. It ain’t no Huckleberry and Jim life Jersey told himself every time he stopped to watch barges. Jersey’d known a guy once who worked on a towboat and had laughed his fat belly silly at Jersey’s romantic notions of life on the Mississippi. Ain’t nothing romantic about 4-inch cables ripping loose and whipping out, the scare of death so constant you don’t think about it, losing fingers and limbs a likely possibility at any moment. Jersey nodded and moved on.

At the end of the bridge, he jumped down to the dirt path over to Sammy’s, loosening his tie as he walked towards the riverbank. The old fart of a bar sat squat, with its shoulder to the Mississippi, hunkered down as if ready to fight for its right to be there. The place was noisy with a lunch hour crowd. The jukebox was cranked with quarters, dropping jazz standards from the 40’s and 50’s on the turntable. Jersey’s eyes adjusted quickly to the familiar dimness. He greeted Sammy and ordered a tap as he passed the bar and walked to the back where a couple of tables shared a space with the pool table. Gus was sitting with her back to the wall, first arrival privilege, and had a pint of beer in her hand. She never paid much attention to that not while on duty thing. Jersey deposited his jacket on the back of a chair and sat down.

Well don’t you look manly today? Who did your face?

He hadn’t looked in a mirror before leaving the office, but apparently his morning clash was still showing. It was definitely still aching.

Randall Washington left his personal calling card this morning. He tilted his face towards Gus, and added, I think you can just read his phone number if you look closely.

Sammy walked up and placed a beer in front of Jersey, then took the dish towel off his shoulder, wiped his hands, threw it back on his shoulder and put both hands on the table, leaning his large Italian face into Jersey’s, surveying the damage. Bitter sweat of strong coffee reached Jersey’s nostrils first, with the aroma of deep-fried grease coming in a close second. Jersey moved his eyes out of Sammy’s path and onto the towel over his shoulder; it was cleaner than he’d expected. Sammy leaned back up, mumbled Not bad, and went back to the bar.

Charlotte came up to their table taking a pen out of her apron pocket. She wore thick-soled Adidas, blue jeans, and either a floral or plaid button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled back, every single day. A small black apron with two large pockets covered her hips. When her hair was short she sometimes wore earrings, when her hair was long, she tied it back with a black ribbon.

How y’all today? she said in her Louisiana accent, still pronounced after ten years in the North.

Good, Char. How you doing? Gus said.

Just another day in paradise.

Know what you mean, Gus said, adding, I’ll have a Cobb salad, thanks.

Jersey ordered a bowl of potato soup and accepted Charlotte’s offer of a second beer.

So talk to me about this guy, he said, bringing his beer to his lips.

Ever have legal dealings with him in your past life?

I was in Juvenile, Gus, he reminded her again.

Know his background at all?

Only that he’s a rich kid of a famous daddy who’s no longer around. Otherwise, zip, he said, with his hands turned up. What’d you know?

Lots compared to you. Doesn’t that cheap profession of yours encourage on-going education credits? Aren’t you interested in staying abreast of the local bad boys?

Not really.

What’d you do with all your spare time, Jerz? Watch soaps?

I read detective stories.

He gave her a synopsis of the well-heeled couple’s morning performance in his office, then sat back, and waited, picking up his beer.

The missus I know nothing about, Gus said. But R. F. Washington, III, has had a long and disaffectionate affair with the local authorities. He was a privileged kid who enjoyed indulgent parents. Familiar story?

Jersey ignored the reference to his own past, and she continued.

His father laughed off a few close encounters with the boys in blue, paid large sums in speeding and misdemeanor tickets, and slid his son out of several bar brawls. Eventually he settled down and his notoriety became less public. He keeps a low profile over at a tony import shop he’s got in Minneapolis. Drew the attention of the Customs boys awhile back, but nothing ever came of it. We keep an eye on him in a vague sort of way, and they do the same across the river, but there’s no real touching him. He sussed out the local players early on, and has made all the right tight connections. Enjoys that quiet, behind the scenes sort of power; let’s his money do the talking. So that problem with a little quantity of coke? What problem? DWI? Just out having too good a time, your Honor. The man pays off his own parking tickets these days. Teflon, Jersey, know what I mean? He’d have to do a lot more than throw a punch for us to touch him.

Gus stopped and looked Jersey in the eye.

I may be glib about the guy, she said, but you take him seriously. That little taste of blood back there, when your cheek was smacked against your teeth, that’s Randall Washington. Dangerous? Or just annoying? She threw back the rest of her beer, and added, You mind your manners on this one, kid.

Charlotte brought their lunch, and set a fresh beer in front of Jersey. They didn’t talk shop while they ate. Jersey handed Charlotte a twenty on the way out, and Gus gave him a lift across the river.

When you know what’s going on, give me a call, she said.

He winked, and lightly slammed the door of her shiny black ‘69 Firebird 400. Like Jersey, Gus still had the first car she ever loved. He took the steps, two at a time, up the four flights to his office. He could hear Pearl typing as he neared his office door.

Okay, darlin’, what do you know for sure? Jersey tossed his hat on Mr. Darrow’s bronzed brow and walked over to her desk.

Pearl rolled her stenographer’s chair around from the typewriter to the desk, and sifted through the newspaper clippings scattered across it.

Daddy’s obit. She held up an article from an old newspaper. Jersey sat against her desk, facing a framed Dutch still life of overripe flowers and fruits Pearl had hung on the wall the first day they opened for business. Gives the place some class, she’d said.

Randall Franklin Washington, II, was a guardian angel to this city. Loads of charity both in money and time. Extraordinary architectural achievements, two honorary degrees, moderately religious, loyal Democrat who put his money where his mouth was, with no political aspirations of his own, loving husband and devoted father. Had a temper for injustice and a soft spot for classical music. He and his wife Millie had two daughters, Florence and Gloria, and one son, Randall. They sent their only son off to NYU to enjoy the gift of education, and… Pearl paused in her narrative and dug through the clippings, pulling a small column out to verify her information. Yes, she nodded, He apparently enjoyed it fully.

Pearl looked up at Jersey, who was staring at the bees buzzing perpetually on the painted tulips. Unfortunately, Daddy Washington died unexpectedly early, and left his millions in the hands of his rakish son, who promptly embraced a life of leisure, which he has quite successfully devoted himself to for the past twelve years. He got into the import export business on a casual basis about ten years ago, and eventually opened a chichi shop over in the warehouse district in Minneapolis. It’s fashionable with the nouveau riche, and those of us who aspire to such wasted lives.

Anything on the sisters? What do they do?

They do money, and lots of it. Daddy left them each a tidy sum, and they each made good financial marriages and took their places in society.

What did you find on Margaret Washington, he finally asked.

Pearl pulled out a clipping with a large photograph. It was one of Joey Milton’s old music reviews.

Margaret Washington, nee Carter, is wife number two. He dumped wife number one rather unceremoniously eight years ago after meeting Margaret Carter out at Diamond Jim’s, where she was singing with Jerry Barnes’s band.

Jersey leaned over Pearl to take a look at the old black and white newspaper picture. She turned her face towards his and nearly buried her nose in his neck, just at the top of his collar.

If you ever stop wearing Bay Rum, I’ll leave you, she said.

You’ll never leave me, Pearl, you’re my number one girl, he said, not taking his eyes off Margaret Carter, prominently standing in the center of the band, lovely, sexy, and young.

Joey Milton had liked Jerry’s band, and particularly the layered, well-inflected voice of their leading lady. The other reviews repeated Milton’s sentiments, the band had been hot and their vocalist a gem. The clippings covered a three-year period that had ended about four years ago. Jersey looked through the reviews, and at the society page photos, all confirming Margaret Carter Washington had gotten to be a stunning woman in her thirties via a very attractive stint in her twenties. Jersey’s father liked to tell him a good looking twenty-five year old woman was nothing compared to the fabulous thirty-five year old woman she’d evolve into. He hadn’t seen a woman disprove his father’s theory yet. And Margaret Carter Washington was textbook perfect.

Shame she gave it all up to become a fancy doily on a rich guy’s arm, Pearl said as she looked at Jersey looking at Margaret.

She’s probably still singing for her supper, Pearl, just eating better’s all. Then he added, Anything else?

They’ve been married six years, no kids. Her mother lives in Chicago. And I’ve got a few ads and promo pieces on the shop, she said, reaching into the pile and handing the clippings to Jersey. Washington has apparently become an expert on modern African art, particularly sculpture, in recent years.

Jersey skimmed the articles.

You think this’ll turn into something, boss?

An afternoon’s work just in case, he shrugged. Feel like going on a field trip to Minneapolis?

Is this a company-wide field trip?

No, I think I should keep my distance from Mr. Washington for the rest of the day.

You could wait in the car.

I could, but it’d wreck havoc with my masculinity. I’ll make myself useful elsewhere, go snoop through whatever files I can get into at City Hall.

Pearl looked at her watch, stood, and began collecting up the clippings and returning them to a large envelope marked, Property of The Pioneer Press. She reached across Jersey and he stayed still, leaning against her desk, enjoying a whiff of her perfume. Women wore such interesting scents. Pearl’s was patchouli. His wife Jeannie, she who was his wife but wasn’t any more, always smelled of Jasmine and Rose. And Margaret Carter Washington smelled of trouble. Trouble, money, and French perfume.

* * * * *

The moon was up high enough in the eastern sky to shine into Jersey’s office. It had been full a few nights earlier and was still bright on his desk. He sat up from the couch where he’d been napping. The phone was still ringing. He went over and picked it up, holding his watch out to the moonlight; he’d fallen into a heavy sleep quickly and was disoriented, not sure if it was early morning or late night, or which day it was. Her voice woke him up.

Will you see me again, Mr. Jersey?

Why, Mrs. Washington? The day was coming back to him. Why not take your husband up on his offer?

My husband wasn’t being serious, Mr. Jersey. It was a charade, meant to convince you to come to my aid.

I’m flattered at your efforts, but why would you think I’d need such persuasion?

If you’re available in the morning, Mr. Jersey, perhaps you’d stop by my home and we could speak further. Ten o’clock, if that’s convenient.

Jersey was lulled by the waves of that melodious voice, drawing him like a siren.

Suits me fine, Mrs. Washington, he said, as if they had no history between them. Then remembering they did, he added, Will your husband be there?

No, he will not.

Is he there with you now?

Jersey detected a startled pause, but her voice was perfectly fine when she spoke.

No, Mr. Jersey, he is not.

I’d like to believe you, Mrs. Washington, so I will.

There was a moment’s silence before she spoke again.

You would not be wise to place your trust in me.

She spoke at nearly a whisper, and hung up her end of the line.

Chapter Two

I shall dance the dance of death this night, and watch the setting stars dislight.

Hey, Perry. Frankie waved to me from across the patio of Mood’s, and as I got nearer the table she said, We ordered you a gin and tonic.

Frankie held a gin in one hand and a cigarette in the other. She flashed a wide, red-lipsticked smile at me, her dark brown eyes behind very dark sunglasses, and her short black hair spiked out in styled, shiny angles. Frankie’s friend Mel, who I sort of knew, was sitting next to her with a rubber band in her mouth, and her freckled arms stretched behind her head pulling her red mass of long, unruly curls into a ponytail.

It was the first warm, sunny Sunday afternoon in April, the girls were with Gabriel for the weekend, and I was happy to be out of the house, away from my homework, and the maddening quiet.

You wanna split an order of nachos, Mel asked me, taking the rubber band out of her mouth, and wrapping it around that thick hank of wavy red hair. Mel was one of those rare people who gave looking natural the reputation it enjoyed.

No thanks, I said, and wrestled a ridiculously heavy, ornate iron chair out from the table. I sat down, and added in my most neutral voice, I’m going out to dinner later with Gabriel and the kids.

There was an awkward pause as the waitress walked up to our table with my drink. We smiled and gave her six sun-glassed reflections of herself, like a kaleidoscope, when we tilted our heads up. The moment she moved away from the table, Frankie leaned across at me.

The fuck does that mean? She blew a hard round smoke ring at me accusingly.

Just dinner with the kids, I said, like it was no big deal, like the ashes were cold.

Frankie snorted a laugh at me and took a swallow of her drink.

The kids need to see us behave nicely with each other once in awhile; still do things as a family. I tried to keep pleading out of my voice.

Uh-huh, Frankie said. And how successful was the last time you tried that?

I reached across the table and bummed a cigarette from Frankie’s pack. I didn’t smoke anymore, except once in awhile around Frankie and liquor. I gave my attention to methodically lighting the cigarette, blowing on the match, leaning back, and stretching my arm out the way you can only do when you’ve got a cigarette in your hand. I inhaled thoughtfully, and exhaled the smoke out across the patio.

Christmas, I said. It was pretty much okay. Which was an odd way of describing what had happened.

Our court-appointed family psychologist had advised we split the holiday at the stroke of midnight; Cassie and Anna with Gabriel Christmas Eve, and with me Christmas Day. It was our first Christmas not being a family together. The original plan was for Gabe to bring the girls back around ten, but instead, he invited me to have Christmas Eve dinner with him and the kids. He cooked spaghetti and opened a bottle of Chianti. We fell easily into familiarity, laughing at our situation like the old friends we used to be. Our truce held, like in that song about the soldiers in World War I who came out of their opposing trenches on Christmas Eve and shared a smoke, and photographs of family back home, sang Christmas carols, and then at dawn retreated to their sides, to continue the war. It was poignant like that the whole night, and we made grateful love in his bed – our old bed – at the stroke of midnight.

Yeah, well; good luck, Frankie said in that way that means you’ll need it, and you probably won’t get it. Then, as if we were on the same subject, she added with vague curiosity, He still dating that chick from Anna’s daycare center? I saw him over in Minneapolis one night, walking on the Nicollet Mall with her. Then she added helpfully, Brown hair, big boobs?

It suddenly occurred to me at that moment that it must be my thick thighs that made people think I was strong enough to take it. That they could just toss off 10-ton comments about Gabriel like that and it wouldn’t crush me. They didn’t even expect me to wince.

When did you say you saw them, I asked, like a disinterested bystander.

Month ago, maybe longer. She thought a second, then added, No, it might’ve been a few months ago.

Frankie was talking about Melinda from the daycare center, the friendly student teacher who was an Early Childhood Development major, and who often shared with me how much she adored my children, and how bright she thought they were, and who started sleeping with my husband within days of my departure. Brown hair, big boobs. Not the first of Gabriel’s betrayals, and by far not the worst. But the first to be talked about in public. I’d learned a new voice to use when we spoke of Gabriel and the women he slept with. I worked at it; made it sound bored and annoyed, and kept my green eyes from showing even a trace of what I felt.

I don’t know, I said in my designer voice, the kids haven’t talked about her in a while.

I used the cigarette and drink as props while we talked about he who was my husband, had been my husband for nine years, and now was not, walking with a new lover around downtown, where he and I used to walk when we were first in love. I sat as if comfortable on the iron patio chair, totally feminist and hip, speaking coherently and disinterestedly about he who had been my best friend, holding hands with a new best friend, whispering and smiling intimacies into the arms of another woman. I was cool, calm, collected and glad to be wearing sunglasses. Sometimes the images in my head became too much to bear, and flashed and exploded and nearly blinded me, making me worry I might burst a blood vessel like a character in Spoon River Anthology. You couldn’t even sue for adultery anymore and shame the sinner in public. Irreconcilable differences was all you got. No shit, Sherlock. But it was the 1980’s now, and the new mantra was, for God sakes, move on. There was no mourning the loss of a marriage, no sacred rites performed to ease the pain, and dispel the ghosts.

I smoked my cigarette slowly, and hoped the topic would fall away. He’d told me at Christmas he wasn’t seeing her much, wasn’t seeing much of anyone. When he held me in his arms, curled up like spoons after making love, whispering how he missed the comfort of my body next to his, I believed every word he said, and all those he didn’t say.

I turned away from the disquieting memories and looked around the patio, checking out the crowd, looking first to see if there was any guy I’d rather be with than Gabe. It was the first warm weekend we’d had since October, and I sat peacefully, enjoying my drink and sucking up the sun, famished after the long, brittle cold winter that had struck a near mortal wound to my heart. I leaned my head back and closed my eyes, and for a moment, as I sat in the soothing sunshine, I had no life outside of that patio. I had no history and no future. I could have been in a Magritte painting, floating against a perfect blue sky with white clouds painted behind me.

I vaguely followed what Frankie was telling Mel about the band she and her boyfriend George had gone out to hear last night. George wrote a music column for the Minneapolis newspaper, and I liked to imagine their cool, clubby life, which Frankie insisted wasn’t as cool as I imagined.

You making it through the semester, Perry?

Frankie broke into my sunny bliss. She had her Masters in Public History, and Mel, in addition to her softly freckled, red-haired good looks, had a degree in botany. They were out working and making money, and living full and rewarding lives. I’d left school to work while Gabriel got his marketing degree, and somewhere in there we got married and had babies. I was back in school full-time, finishing my junior year as a returning student, on a college campus of kids right out of high school. I lived modestly on scholarships, CETA job training funds, grants, and a part-time job on campus showing films for the Film Society. I had put such an enormously happy face on my financial situation in front of the judge, that Gabriel wasn’t required to pay child support; another new ‘80’s phenomena.

I dropped Anthropology, I said, tilting my head over at her, and worked out an Incomplete in my Fiction class, so I should be able to pull out Shakespeare and African History before the end of the semester.

My gorgeous grade point average had plummeted through the depths of winter, and I’d been placed on probation in the Honors Program, which put my scholarship dollars in jeopardy. Meanwhile, President Reagan, as if in cahoots with Gabriel, had deemed CETA dollars were being poorly utilized, and taxpayers would be better served by placing job training in the capable hands of private business. So he gave them all my CETA money. There’d been a couple of reprieves, but now finally the funds were ending. I begged for an increase in my scholarship dollars, and was told I needed to successfully reclaim my place in the Honors Program first.

Gabriel had nearly been given custody of Cassie and Anna based on his Oscar winning performance in court, in which he transformed himself into Father of the Year, from something considerably less. His finances looked better than mine, too. I had made a modestly impassioned argument that I could afford to provide for my children and myself, and volunteered to give up child support to prove it. An overly liberal, post Kramer vs. Kramer judge accepted my offer.

Anxiety kept me awake at night, and depression kept me in bed. I’d lay in the dark with my eyes open, staring into nothingness, too tired to pull out a schoolbook, my mind too rattled to make sense of words. I had crashed out of everything I knew in life, and landed on Mars. Some nights I could barely breathe, and other nights I sobbed Scarlett O’Hara’s lament from Gone with the Wind. The semester couldn’t end soon enough for me, though it was ending sooner than I could catch up with. When I started crying daily in Anthropology, I knew I was losing it. As soon as the lights went down for a slideshow, my mind darted right back to some horrific scene from the previous months. I’d be racked with pain and bitter anger all over again, and looking a mess by time the lights came back