We didn't see each other again that night. Around two in the morning, after rolling over and over the phrase 'one big thing,' I gave up hope of sleeping. I went downstairs to do whatever I could find to do in someone else's house after I'd just had my skin peeled off.
In the kitchen, the McCabe cupboards were an explosion of circus-colored junk-food boxes and a vast array of bottled hot sauces. The fridge had a hodgepodge of nasty-looking survivors from various takeout joints. When it came to food, Frannie called himselt a "gourmutt" and seemed pleased about it.
There was nothing else to do but turn on the Van Damme video for a few minutes and spend time with the Muscles from Brussels. I went to the machine to put in the video. Lying on top of it was a porno film titled Dry Hard. It starred Mona Loudly and from her picture on the box, Mona looked like better company for the midnight hour than Jean-Claude, so I put it in, figuratively speaking. A little porno now and then is good for the soul, and mine could have used a spicy diversion.
Before the film started, the company advertised some of its "Come – ing Attractions!" A few minutes of sleaze to rev up our appetites for another trip to the dark corner of the video store. I laughed at the clip of the first one, settling into the mood. Then the second preview came on, Swallow the Leader. Veronica Lake opened a door to a hunky-looking repairman. My Veronica Lake. One and a half minutes of my lover doing guess what with a Jeff Stryker look-alike.
I bet you've never had that experience: The woman who is charmingly modest about undressing, always closes the door when she goes to the toilet, and likes to wear simple white nightgowns to bed is suddenly in front of you on a television screen, doing things only prisoners and misogynists dream of women doing.
My Veronica Lake.
What is the decorum for asking your lover why they didn't tell you they acted in porno movies? Where is Miss Manners when we really need her?
The next morning I called a friend who is a movie buff and also happens to be plugged into every Internet station in the galaxy. I asked him to find out how many movies Marzi Pan had made. Two. Swallow the Leader and The Joy Fuck Club.
While I was sitting in a semi-coma, trying to think of what to do next, Veronica called. I tried to be normal but my voice must have sounded like it was coming from the other end of the Alaskan Pipeline. She picked up on it immediately.
"What's the matter?"
"I found out about Marzi Pan, Veronica."
Whatever I was expecting, what she said next wasn't it.
"Oh that." Her voice was dismissive, uninterested.
"What do you mean, 'Oh that'? For Christ's sake, Veronica, why didn't you tell me?"
"Because I was afraid you would react like this. What do you want me to say, Sam, I'm sorry? Sorry for once being a person I no longer am? Sorry you had to find out before you cared, or knew, enough about me to understand? Which sorry do you want?"
"I'm spinning, Veronica. I feel like I'm inside a clothes dryer."
Her voice became very small and hesitant. "Do you want to hear about it now? The whole story? That's what Zane meant in L.A. when she told you to ask me about Donald Gold. It was his fault, but I went along because I wanted him to love me. I would have done anything and that's what he wanted. He even thought up that name for me.
"But it's over, Sam. That was years ago. You're not ashamed of anything in your past? Something you can't do anything about, so you just have to be sorry and move on? I'm proud of myself now. Proud of who I am and what I do. I'm proud that you want . . . ," her voice faltered and she took a quick breath, ". . . that you want to be with me." She had begun to cry and it was clear why.
Shit that I am, I could think of nothing to comfort or console her. Instead, I whispered I would call her back and hung up.
The cemetery in Crane's View is wedged between the Lutheran Church and the town park. It's nondenominational and some of the gravestones date back to the eighteenth century. Ironically, both Gordon Cadmus and Pauline are buried there, not far from each other. It's a small place where you can have a good look around in less than an hour. When I was a kid we'd go there at night to mess around, sneaking up on each other, or making noises that were supposed to be scary but fooled no one.
I got out of my car and climbed over the low stone wall that enclosed the grounds. It was a beautiful morning, warm and still, the air full of birdsong and the smell of flowers.
I found Pauline's grave first. The stone was a small black rectangle, engraved only with her name and dates. The plot was well tended: Clearly someone spent time there bringing fresh flowers, weeding, keeping a candle burning inside a small protected lamp. I stood above it, thinking not very original thoughts – what a tragedy, what would she be doing now if she had lived, who killed her. I remembered the time I saw her at school bent over a drinking fountain. She was wearing a white blouse and long red skirt. Her hair was in a ponytail that she held to one side while she drank. Passing by, I had purposely veered so as to pass within inches of her. For one instant I was the closest person in the world to Pauline Ostrova. Her hair was shiny, her fingers so thin and long on the silver knob.
Kneeling down, I ran my hand across the lettering on her gravestone and said, "Remember me?" I stood up slowly.
I started away, thinking to look for Gordon Cadmus next. A car slowed and stopped out on the street. Thinking it might be Frannie, I turned and saw it was only a brown UPS van making a delivery. Then because of my position, I saw the back of Pauline's gravestone for the first time. Written on it in thick white letters was "Hi, Sam!"
After Pauline's death, a number of strange occurrences took place in Crane's View. Some of them we were aware of, others Frannie told me about years later.
The day after we'd found her body, someone went around town writing "Hi, Pauline!" in large white letters on walls, the hoods of cars, sidewalks, you name it. We saw it on the side of the Catholic-Church, on the huge glass window at the Chevrolet showroom, on the cashier's booth at the movie theater. Our gang was used to rowdy acts, but this was sick. Never for a moment did we think any of us could have done it. Gregory Niles, the class brain, said it was "pure Dada." We didn't like the sound of that, whatever Dada was, and threatened to kill him if he didn't shut up. Pauline's death was bad enough. Murder doesn't belong in a small town and we were dazed by what had happened. But someone – someone we probably knew – thought it was funny. Writing a greeting to a murdered girl was funny. For the first time since returning to my hometown I felt real foreboding.
When I got back to Connecticut, my darling child was sitting in the backyard, feeding popcorn to Louie, my unpleasant dog. Of course when he saw me he growled, but he always did that. I could feed him steak, pet him with a fur glove, or take him for hour-long walks. No matter, he still growled. Cass thought he blamed me for the breakup of my last marriage. So I tried to tell him Irene didn't like him either but to no avail. We put up with each other because I fed him, while he was at least some kind of company when my empty house got too large. Other than that, we gave each other a wide berth.
Cass had been baby-sitting him while I was in Crane's View. Normally, she lived with her mother in Manhattan during the week and came up to my house on the weekends.
I sat down next to them. "Hi, sweet potato."
"Hi, Dad."
"Hi, Lou." He didn't even deign to look at me.
She turned to me and smiled. "How was your trip?"