Rina turned to face him. “I’d hate to think of her flitting around in one confused mental state after another,” she said. A pause. “Maybe she’s gone home to make peace with her grandmother.”
Decker said, “How would you feel about that?”
Rina didn’t answer right away. “I don’t know. It’s a terrible position to be in, to love a woman who once was a monster. Still, even though Ava Mueller would be an old woman now, perhaps even frail, she has innocent blood on her hands. She ought to be held accountable for her actions.”
Decker ran his finger over the rise of Rina’s cheekbone. “Maybe that’s why Eve came to you in the first place.”
“Why?”
“To see if you, as a Jew, were capable of forgiveness.”
“There’s nothing to forgive. Eve didn’t do anything wrong. Even my parents, who are camp survivors, don’t believe in collective guilt.”
“Not to forgive her, to forgive her grandmother. Could you have done that if Eve had asked you?”
Rina thought about it, then slowly shook her head. “No, I couldn’t have forgiven Ava Mueller, because I’m in no position to grant that forgiveness. The only people who can do that are long since dead.”
“I know. But it’s sad to think of Sarah going around with this burden. Do you think she’ll ever make peace with her guilt?”
“I don’t consider guilt a burden,” Rina answered. “ To me, guilt is the police department of the human soul. No offense, Peter, but cops can be pains in the neck. But think of how bad we all would be if they weren’t around.”
“Maligning my profession?” Decker laughed.
“Not at all. I’m complimenting it.”
“Yeah, right! Let’s go to sleep.”
She kissed her husband good night and then stared up at the darkened ceiling. As her mind free-associated, Rina thought not of Sarah Miller but of a crime more than half a century old, and of those lives taken prematurely. She said a prayer for the deceased, and her words comforted her. As she fell asleep, Rina wondered if Sarah Miller would ever find words to comfort herself.
T he Stalker
“The Stalker” deals with the double-edged sword of idolization and adoration. This is a case of obsession and compulsion gone horribly wrong, until it reaches its terrifying conclusion.
It was hard for her to fathom how it all went so sour, because in the beginning the love had been sweet. The roses and candy that had been sent for no occasion, the phone calls at midnight just to say “I love you,” the amorous notes left in her mailbox or on the desk at work, his stationery always scented with expensive cologne. The many romantic things that he had done during their courtship were now a thousand years old.
Somewhere buried beneath rage and hatred lay the honeyed memories. Julian telling her how beautiful and alluring she was, how he loved her lithe body, her soft hazel eyes and silken chocolate-kissed hair. Bragging to his friends about her rapier wit or whispering in her ear about how her lovemaking had made him weak-kneed. The last compliment had always been good for giggles or the playful slap on his chest. How she had blushed whenever he had raised his brows, had given her his famous wolfish leer.
The evening of his proposal had been the pinnacle of their fairy-tale romance, starting off with the Rolls-Royce complete with a uniformed driver. The chauffeur had offered her his arm, escorting her into the back of the white Corniche.
The most fabulous night of her life. And even today, steeped in righteous bitterness and bottomless hostility, she would admit that this sentiment still rang true.
There had been the front-row tickets at the theater. The play, The Fall of the House of Usher, had been sold out for months. How he had gotten the seats had only added to Julian’s aura of mystery and intrigue. Following the drama had been the exclusive backstage party where she had met the leading actors and actresses. They were all renowned stars, and she had actually talked to them. Well, truth be told, mostly she had gushed and they had murmured polite thank-yous. But just being there, being part of the crowd…
She had thought herself in a dream.
And the dream had continued. After the play had come the elegant candlelight dinner in the city’s most expensive restaurant. Julian had preordered the menu-a peek of what was to come. But that evening she had mistaken his controlling nature for élan and confidence. He had arranged everything, starting with the appetizers-beluga caviar accompanied by blinis and crisp cold vodka. Next came a puree of warmed beets served with a dollop of sour cream and a sprinkle of chives. Then a salad of wild greens, followed by a lemon sorbet to clear the palate. All the courses enhanced with the appropriate wines.
She always remembered the feast clearly. So real. If she thought about it long enough, she’d wind up salivating.
The delectable beef Wellington dressed with pungent, freshly ground horseradish, accompanied by boiled red potatoes and julienne carrots and celery. And the desserts! The most sumptuous pastry cart. To complete the evening’s meal, a deep, full-bodied sherry aged over fifty years.
They had eaten and eaten, and afterward their stomachs had bulged to dangerous proportions. So he had suggested a ride to the lake. They had walked the banks in bare feet, small wavelets spilling liquid silver over their toes and onto the shore. How beautiful he had looked that night, his fine sandy hair slightly disheveled by a rippling breeze, gentle blue eyes full of longing and love. At the perfect moment, he had wrapped his arms around her waist. Strong, muscular arms in perfect proportion with his hard, well-worked body. During the kiss, he had slipped the diamond on her finger.
It had been pure magic.
That night she felt as if she had died and gone to heaven. Looking back on everything that had transpired since, she wished she had.
Subtle changes, barely noticeable at first. The catch in his voice when she came home a few minutes late… the questions he had asked.
What happened?
Who were you with?
Why didn’t you call, Dana?
She explained herself, but he never seemed satisfied. She brushed off his nosiness and irritation. It was because he cared.
Then there were other things. The lipstick in her purse placed in the wrong zippered compartment, her clothing drawers in disarray even after she distinctly remembered folding her sweaters neatly. Finally came the strange clicks on the extension when she talked to a girlfriend or her mother.
No, it couldn’t be, she would tell herself. Why would Julian want to listen in on my boring conversation?
Yet the clicks continued-day after day, month after month. At last she summoned her nerve and asked him about it. At first he had waved her off as imagining things. She took him at his word because the clicks seemed to suddenly stop.
But they returned-occasional at first, then once again at frequent intervals.
He’d been eavesdropping: Of that she was sure. She was puzzled by his odd behavior, then angry. He was violating her privacy, and that was inexcusable. Another discussion was in order. Despite his initial denials, she knew he was lying. So she pressed him.
Her first mistake. He exploded, raising the phone upward, yanking it out of its jack, and heaving it against the wall.
“Goddammit, Dana! If you wouldn’t tie up the phone so long, I wouldn’t have to pick up the extension to see when you finished your conversation.”
Tears welled up in her eyes; her ears were shocked with disbelief. She stammered, “J-Julian, why didn’t you just ask me to get off the phone?”
“I shouldn’t have to ask you; you should goddamn know.” He was breathing very hard. Suddenly, he lowered his voice. It became quieter but not any softer. “A wife should know what her husband wants. And where’s your consideration, for God’s sake? What kind of a wife are you, anyhow?”