"There are many kinds of crazy," he said, as if being
crazy were no different from having red hair. "Some kinds of crazy aren't so bad."
"You said that before."
"Must be because it's true." He gave her a little smile. "We were getting somewhere last time, and then all of sudden I lost you. Something really scared you, and you went out like a light. My guess is you're terrified of your husband."
"Have they found the baby?"
The shrink shook his head. "Not that I know of."
"Oh God. I hope she didn't hurt him." Tears filled Heather's eyes. "I thought giving him back to his mother was the right thing to do."
"Yes, you implied that; but you didn't tell me who she is. That's why they can't find her."
"I don't know her name." Her tears were falling harder now. "Everything was arranged through Annie."
"Annie?"
"Annie is the family's Chinatown connection. She works in the factory, kind of manages the personnel side of the business. Annie told us about the baby in the first place. She arranged it when I decided to give him back to his mother."
"Did you tell your husband?"
"No," she wailed. "I couldn't talk to him about anything. I just did it. I don't know what I thought would happen. I just had to. . . . He's an angel baby. Oh, God, I hope he's all right."
"How did you get involved with your husband?" the doctor asked her suddenly.
She blew her nose and pulled herself together. "We met in college."
"Where was that?"
"Yale. Only number two," she said softly.
"Number two?"
"For my family there's only Harvard. After that, forget it. I'd failed. You asked about Anton. He was a senior. I was a freshman. I'd never been away from home before."
"San Francisco, right?"
"Yes. You saw my parents: very strict. I couldn't go out at all. I'd never had a boyfriend before. I guess you could say I've never had a boyfriend."
"What do you mean?"
She moved her head on the pillow.
"Did your parents approve of your husband?"
"No, of course not."
"Why not?"
She shook her head again. Any idiot should know why not.
"What did you study?"
"Oh, I had to choose business, medicine, or science."
"I thought Yale offered many more choices than that."
"Those were the choices I had." She found that she had been holding her tongue for so long it was easy to speak now. Someone wanted to know, so the words came out.
"Who gave you the choice?"
"My parents did. Will you tell the police to ask Annie about the baby? She must know where he is."
"Yes, I will."
"I loved him; I would never hurt him. He was the sweetest thing—the best thing that ever happened to me." Her throat closed, taking her breath away.
"Why did you give him back, then?"
"I found out he wasn't really adopted. I thought it would be better for him to grow up poor with his own mother than be hurt by those people."
"How did Anton hurt you?"
"Anton was my first boyfriend. No one had ever asked me before. ... I was homesick and alone, and he made it like the movies, like a dream come true." Heather looked at the doctor with her eyes streaming. "Like a dream come true."
He handed her the tissue box. "From the looks of your arms and your head the dream didn't come true."
"He never touched me."
"He didn't burn you?"
Heather's head ached. "I mean, it wasn't like the movies where there's all that kissing, rolling around . . . and then they get married." She chewed on the inside of her mouth. Maybe that would be as far as she would go.
The shrink continued listening, didn't prompt her with another question this time. She thought he had a nice face. He was handsome, almost like a Kennedy. She turned away to blow her nose, then looked over at him to see if he understood. He didn't say either way, so she had to go on.
"I thought he respected me, do you know what I mean?"
He was sitting beside her; he gave a tiny shake of his own head.
"Have you talked to him?" Heather Rose asked.
"Yes."
"What did he say?"
"Oh, I can't really tell you that; then you'd be afraid that what you said would go back to him."
"You told me he said I had health problems. You told me he said I couldn't have a baby. You told me he had a girlfriend and had the baby with her."
"Maybe."
"Not maybe, you did. You see how he does things, twists things around, tells people it's my fault when it's his fault. He
couldn't
have a girlfriend if he wanted to. He doesn't want anybody to know—" She closed her eyes.
"Is he homosexual?"
"No, that's all I'm saying. I'm going home now. The lying is over for me."
"Heather, the police need to know if Anton beat and burned you. If you did it yourself, you need help. If he hurt you, it should come out. No one has a right to do that. You wouldn't want it to happen to someone else, would you?"
"You don't know him. It's not his fault. That's all I'm going to say."
A few minutes later the psychiatrist left. Heather used the phone in her room to call the Central Park South apartment where she had lived for six years. By eight-fifteen, no one was picking up the phone. When she and her parents felt certain that Anton had left for his office, they went home to get her things.
CHAPTER 37
T
ick, tick, tick: 10:06
A.M
. at the law offices of Pfumf, Anderson and Schmidt. Anton sat at his desk, staring at the screen of his computer and trying to ignore the subtle pulse of the expensive mahogany mantel clock whose heavy brass pendulum swung back and forth all day long to remind him that every second of his time was supposed to be paid for by clients. In the richest of tones it also chimed the same message on the hour and the half hour. The symbolic clock had been given to him by his father the evening of his first day at the firm. The whole family had been assembled for dinner and the ceremony: his grandfather, still alive then; his father, uncle, brother, and cousins; their spouses and children; his aunt, his mother, everybody, all dressed up for the event and the mountains of food the women had prepared. It had been a kind of unspoken celebration of his survival. The family had triumphed and he was now formally proclaimed master of the system, ready at last to give back in services all that he had received in support and loving care. Then, he had been proud. Now, he looked back on the occasion in the light of bitter remembrance; what a contrast it made to their less joyful response when he married Heather Rose. As so often happened in families, the price for their support had been high. Anton thought about that as he waited for word from his brother. Marc had phoned early that morning sounding upset—"Big trouble." Then he said he couldn't talk, he'd have to call back.
"Yeah, sure, whatever," Anton had replied. "I'll take care of it." He said the words easily, even though he didn't want to take care of anything for his relatives ever again.
For quite a while he'd been making no secret of the fact that dealing with every single problem of his highly litigious family was getting out of hand. Not only were his partners furious that he never billed relatives for all the time he spent on them, but also the cases brought by Marc and Ivan, and even the older generation, were often problematic.
"There's an argument for everything" had been his grandfather's motto. Anton had followed it and become adept at riding out untenable positions. The message of the elegant clock made him feel guilty with every tick. He'd paid his family back over and over and couldn't get out from under.
Gloomily, Anton thought of his wife's black eye. Oh yes, he had more than the looks of his partners to contend with now. They passed him in the hall; no one said a word. That was the way it was done uptown. No weeping and complaining and carrying on would do here. The surface had to be smooth: they had to do their work no matter what. Nevertheless, Anton knew his partners were talking about him behind closed doors. They'd never liked him, and now they had their chance to dust him.