Vanishing Point

By Elizabeth Cowley Tyler

Vanishing Point is a tale of fatal connections in which the lives of three men, a philandering judge, a disenchanted academic and an unrelenting defense attorney, are irrevocably altered by their involvement with Theresa Tavola, a troubled young woman, whose tragic death brings them all to heel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 11, 2013
• ISBN: 9781493101047

Elizabeth Cowley Tyler

Elizabeth Cowley Tyler lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts. She holds a Bachelor of Arts in English Literature from Elmira College and a Master of Arts in French from Middlebury College. She has lived and studied in London and Paris and has traveled extensively in France, Italy, England, Germany, and Russia. Prior published works includes a series of mystery novels: The Madeleine Murders, Murder at the Maison de Balzac, and Murder at Les Halles, featuring Inspector Henri Corbet of the Paris Police. Her literary novels include Pro Patri Mori, a Great War novel, Dark Angel, In Search of Chopin, a biographical novel. Hôtel Chopin, Tavistock Square, Vanishing Point, Italian Hours and Violet Hours are her most recent works.

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Copyright © 2013 by Elizabeth Cowley Tyler.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

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Rev. date: 07/24/2020

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CONTENTS

Bleak House

Flaubert’s Ghost

Crime and Punishment

Epilogue

There is always after the death of anyone a kind of stupefaction; so difficult is it to grasp this advent of nothingness and to resign ourselves to believe in it.

Madame Bovary

Gustave Flaubert

BLEAK HOUSE

Judge Alex Treadwell follows the young waiter to one of the many empty tables in The Oceanaire. Once the site of a grand, old bank on Court Street, it has now been converted into an upscale restaurant, specializing in the freshest of seafood and oysters from both coasts. It’s his favorite time to drop in, at 4:15, after the close of his session across the street at Suffolk Superior Court, a chance to punctuate his day with a little food and drink before heading home to a suburb southwest of Boston.

That is, if he doesn’t decide to spend the night in his new pied à terre on Beacon Hill, a continuing bone of contention between him and his wife, Maureen. She doesn’t buy his argument that he needs time as well as peace and quiet to write his legal decisions, that the hours he spends commuting on the Mass Pike each year could yield him as much as two weeks of productive time.

He can’t deny, either, that the time away from home gives him a chance to avoid the intensifying family conflict over the fact that his thirty-year-old daughter, Eleanor, is pregnant, unmarried, and now living at home awaiting the birth. Then there’s the frequent descent of the passel of grandchildren from his youngest daughter Jane’s marriage. It’s not that he doesn’t like children, just not the yelling, messy clothing and constant demands for attention. His boundaries feel invaded by it and, truth be told, always did, even with his own children when he was much younger than his fifty-two years, when he and Maureen were first married and, dare he even think it, supposed to be in love.

The young waiter reappears and takes the judge’s order for a dozen Sunset Beach oysters, sweet succulent morsels from Washington State, a special for the week, and one that Judge Treadwell has enjoyed in the past. He feels his mood lighten at the prospect of devouring the slippery, pinkish-grey creatures, along with the homemade bread and the relish tray of pickled herring, cucumbers, radishes, black olives, and to drink, maybe white wine or iced tea. Iced tea, there is a decision to write tonight, no point in addling the brain with wine.

And it is this impending decision on a jury waived trial he has been hearing involving corruption in one of the local police departments that tips the scale in favor of a decision to stay in the Beacon Hill apartment tonight, even though he knows that the short notice will annoy Maureen and that he will have to pay for it over the weekend when he would rather be relaxing with a favorite book, the one he’s reading now, Walter Isaacson’s biography of Benjamin Franklin.

He will pay in the form of listening to her nag and carp, in the form of having to take her to a fancier dinner than usual on Saturday night after his day on the golf course. He will pay later, but now he seeks a pay phone—he has never succumbed to the use of a cell phone—to leave a message letting Maureen know that he won’t be home tonight. Thank God she’s out at her art class until six this evening, and since he has refused to install a phone in the Beacon Hill apartment, he won’t have to hear about her dissatisfaction with his decision until maybe tomorrow when she might phone him in his lobby at court or, if he’s lucky, Friday night, when he goes home for the weekend.

The eager, young waiter tells him that the pay phones are downstairs. Alex Treadwell finds a set of marble stairs which flow under a sign, which reads Safe Deposit Vault, and begins his descent into that privileged space which once housed valuables. The bank of pay phones, which he knows will soon be as obsolete as the old telegram offices, gleams on one wall next to a set of doors marked Gentlemen, as it should in such imposing surroundings.

He’s always surprised by how quickly his own phone number comes to him when he needs it. It’s like the Social Security number, one never really forgets it, although he sometimes confuses the last four digits 8466 in one and 8644 in the other, an easy thing to do and no indication, he’s certain, of any failing of his powers.

The failing of powers seems more of a concern now, brought on by the recent death of his father, Martin Treadwell. A capable, but blind, lawyer until he developed Alzheimer’s in his late sixties, Martin Treadwell had to spend the remaining ten years of his life, first at home being cared for by Alex’s mother, with the aid of home health care, and later in a dreary nursing home not far from Alex.

He stands in front of the phone for a moment before dialing, remembering his father’s last days and how difficult it was to see him so compromised. As Alex was growing up, Martin Treadwell had been an imposing figure with a loud voice and an assured manner which Alex can only approximate when he’s on the bench, buttressed by his black robe and the coterie of court officers and support staff who beam at him, trying to anticipate his every need.

Truth be told, that’s the thing he likes best about being a judge. The responsibility of making decisions that will deeply affect the lives of other people is more daunting than rewarding, and he often suffers from too close an identification with the erring party. It’s not that he doesn’t feel for the person offended against, but he worries that he’s more sympathetic to offenders than he should be. This is something he has never really shared with anyone, except Rachel, yes, Rachel, in some small way.

He dials his home number and Maureen’s voice says, We’re unable to come to the phone at this time. Kindly leave your name and number, and we’ll return your call as soon as we can. Why the we? Indeed, most of the calls that come into the house are for Maureen or one of his daughters. Alex doesn’t talk on the phone, in fact, he hates the phone, even though it was often his only means of communicating with Rachel.

He leaves a cursory message, Won’t be home tonight. Big decision looming, and I need to do some research and writing to prepare. See you tomorrow night. He has discovered that he often gets away with staying in town better on a Thursday night than any other because he can then promise to be home on Friday, and Maureen can take her revenge on his weekend, a small price to pay now.

The ascent up the marble stairs reminds him that he needs not only to continue with his running, but to step it up. When he developed high blood pressure about a year ago, he began a routine of running every other morning and has managed to lose fifteen pounds, mostly around the middle. The regular trips around the golf course just weren’t giving him the exercise he needed, nor was the stress of his relationship with Rachel helping his blood pressure.

As he gets to the top of the stairs and looks out the large window in the front door of the restaurant, he sees a young woman, someone he knows, but can’t quite place now, one of those odd sightings of people out of context. Who is it? By the time he places her, realizes that it’s the side view, then, as she crosses the street, the rear view, of a young court reporter he worked with last week, Theresa Tavola, she has passed out of sight. He remembers the name because of the odd association her last name, the Italian word for table, makes with her broad hips. He shakes his head and makes his way back to his table.

Your oysters, Your Honor. Another waiter has been delegated the task of serving him his oysters while the others are in back at a staff meeting before the dinner rush. Odd how each one addresses him differently. Some call him, Judge or Sir, but only this one calls him Your Honor. He hates to admit how much he likes to be addressed this way, with deference for his position and person. Rachel says being born under the sign of Leo gives him an innocent, but shameless, vanity, and he can’t really disagree with that assessment. However, he also knows it serves as an antidote to the feelings of inferiority that plagued him as he grew up, indeed, that still plague him.

Being the only son of Martin Treadwell, a large, blustery man who had overcome legal blindness to become a successful trial attorney, was not easy. With the force of his personality and his raw intelligence, Martin had pushed himself forward and made a name for himself in the community, and he had high expectations for his son.

Alex’s tall slender build, penetrating blue eyes and taste for classical music were a contrast to his father’s burly build, dark eyes and love of Glenn Miller’s Big Band sound. So, too, was Alex’s interest in history, American and European, a point of contention. Martin had no patience with the idea that the if we don’t understand history, we are doomed to repeat it. His view was that each generation was given tabula rasa to make its own way, need not be encumbered by what happened in the past. No intellectual claptrap for him. It was a waste of time.

The oysters are superb, even better than the last time. How is it that he had never discovered this particular Sunset Beach oyster before coming here? In place of the briny assault from East Coast oysters, this one gives a gentle, sweet tang and a satisfying thick texture to chew while the taste lingers. He tries some red wine vinegar and shallot dip, but finds that he prefers them plain.

The early settlers loved their oysters, and Boston’s Union Oyster House is the oldest restaurant in the country. Even though they serve only East Coast oysters, Alex loves to pop in there sometimes at lunch or after work for a bowl of oyster stew served with homemade cornbread. Maureen never was much of a cook, and, so, if he arrives home not hungry enough for a large dinner, that’s fine with her, unless she has planned to have him take her out, in which case, he simply has to comply, and have a salad while she has her dinner.

He could write a book on the small accommodations one makes in order to stay in a thirty-year marriage. Is he the only one, he wonders? Of course not. And, yet, he has seen couples of such longstanding who do not seem to be suffering under the burden of the compromise. It’s usually these couples that Maureen avoids, saying she doesn’t care for the man’s attitude, the wife’s narrow interests, any form of criticism she can level to keep them away. She seems more comfortable with couples where the stress of their union shows clearly at the seams.

The oysters are almost gone now, two left, and he dives into the homemade bread, breaks it into pieces and lathers it (he knows he shouldn’t) with butter. The sweet, yeasty flavor is a good complement to the remaining two oysters which he devours with some ceremony.

The iced tea glass is almost empty, but soon the waiter comes to refill it, a perk of the meal. Until now he has neglected the pickled herring—didn’t want to spoil his taste buds for the oysters.

As he reaches for the small fork on the side of the relish tray to pick up a pungent morsel, he notices his deformed little finger bowing out from the side of his right hand like a hook. When he was young, his classmates teased him with the name Captain Hook. He tried to take the taunting in good humor, hoping that they wouldn’t know how much it bothered him, how deformed he felt because of this birth defect. However, by most standards, he was a good looking boy who became an almost handsome young man with dark hair, now gone almost white, and vibrant blue eyes, glasses notwithstanding.

The pickled herring proves a good chaser for the oysters and marries well with the homemade bread. The chilled cucumbers and radishes add a splash of cold and texture to the finish of the meal. Eating the relish tray last is out of the normal order, and Alex begins to wonder if it isn’t somehow symbolic of his whole life—that he does things just a little out of the ordinary order while appearing to be in total conformance with prevailing expectations.

He knows that if he were more insistent on a certain integrity in his life, he would certainly leave his marriage, no doubt about that at all. Yet, from what he has seen of others who have gone through divorces from long-term marriages, it’s always a bit of a bloodbath, no matter how equitably it may start out. The Roys, their close neighbors, have just split up, and the fireworks are resounding throughout the neighborhood as Norma Roy vilifies her philandering, soon-to-be ex-husband, and Maureen sanctions her rage while trying to comfort her.

No, Alex Treadwell has always preferred to live a double life, his marriage to Maureen in one part, and, over the years, his rather active pursuit of pleasure elsewhere. Until Rachel, he has always managed to escape relatively emotionally unscathed. A little dalliance, often some good sex, and then time to say good-bye, never too difficult, at least for him. He has prided himself on his straight-forward approach to these connections.

He would always tell the young woman in question, I’m in a marriage I can’t leave. Too many people depend on me. So, you need to know that going in. His blue eyes would seek hers over his glasses which slipped down just a bit on his nose, a real pose of sincerity. Oh, I understand, were the usual words in reply. And even though Alex was quite certain that the young woman in question either didn’t really mean them or soon wouldn’t, he accepted her assurance, as he reached for her breasts and put his hand down between her legs.

Extricating himself from the clutches of these dalliances has always proved challenging. Since he went into the associations not with his heart but with his body, until Rachel, that is, it became only mildly uncomfortable for him to signal that it was time to end an affair.

If luck were with him, often the young woman would be the one