Of course! The hole in the fence!
I ran down the side street, climbed through the fence, and clambered up the naked hill. (An incredible side note: the blackberries had begun to grow back. All that work for nothing!)
I clawed my way across the watery mud until I reached Bernadette’s photinia. I grabbed the branches and hoisted myself up onto the lawn. There was one police officer at the far side of the house, with his back to me. I crept up the lawn to the house. I had no plan. It was just me, the manila envelope in the waist of my pants, and God.
Commando-style, I slithered up the grand stairway along the back of the house and onto the rear portico. Everyone was gathered in the living room. I couldn’t hear them, but it was clear from their body language that the intervention was in full swing. Then a figure crossed to the far side of the living room. It was Bernadette. I ran down the steps. A light turned on in a small side window, about twelve feet up. (The side yard slopes down steeply, so from the back of the house the first floor is the equivalent of several stories high.) Crouched down, I ran to it.
Then I tripped over something. I’ll be damned, but it was a ladder, lying across the side yard, as if God had placed it there Himself. From that point on, I felt invincible. I knew He was protecting me. I picked up the ladder and stood it against the house. Without hesitation, I climbed up and tapped on the window.
“Bernadette,” I whispered. “Bernadette.”
The window opened. Bernadette’s gobsmacked face was in it. “Audrey?”
“Come.”
“But—” She couldn’t pick her poison, coming with me or being locked up in a loony bin.
“Now!” I climbed down, and Bernadette followed, but not before she shut the window.
“Let’s go to my house,” I said. Again she hesitated.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked.
“Because I’m a Christian.”
A radio squelched. “Kevin, see anything?”
Bernadette and I made our break across the lawn, dragging the ladder with us.
We skidded down the muddy hill and into our backyard. The floor guys were quite surprised to see us mud creatures stagger through the door. I sent the men home.
I handed Bernadette my completed dossier, which also included a newly published article Kyle had found on the Internet about Bernadette’s architecture career. “You should have told me you won a MacArthur grant,” I said. “I might have been less of a gnat if I knew you were such a genius.”
I left Bernadette at the table. I took a shower, brought her tea. She read, expressionless, with furrowed brow. She spoke only once, to say, “I would have done it.”
“Done what?” I asked.
“Given Manjula power of attorney.” She turned the last page and took a deep breath.
“There’s still boxes of Galer Street gear in the living room if you’d like to change,” I said.
“That’s how desperate I am.” She peeled off her muddy sweater. Underneath, she was wearing a fishing vest. She patted it. Through the mesh pockets, I could see her wallet, cell phone, keys, passport. “I can do anything,” she said with a smile.
“That you can.”
“Please see that Bee gets this.” She slipped the documents back in the envelope. “I know it’s a lot. But she can handle it. I’d rather ruin her with the truth than ruin her with lies.”
“She won’t be ruined,” I said.
“I have to ask you a question. Is he fucking her? The admin, your pally, what’s her name?”
“Soo-Lin?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Soo-Lin. Are she and Elgie—”
“Hard to say.”
That was the last I saw of Bernadette.
I returned to Soo-Lin’s and reserved a space for Kyle at Eagle’s Nest.
I found out Bee was at boarding school. I confirmed it with Gwen Goodyear and sent the envelope of documents to Bee at Choate, with no return address.
I just now learned that Bernadette ended up going to Antarctica, and that she disappeared somewhere on the continent. An investigation was conducted and, reading between the lines, they want everyone to believe Bernadette got drunk and fell overboard. I don’t buy it for a second. But I am worried that she might have tried to get word to Bee through me. Warren, I know this is a lot to digest. But please go home and double-check to see if there’s anything from Bernadette.
Love,
Audrey
Fax from Warren Griffin
Darling,
I’m tremendously proud of you. I’m at the house now. There’s no word from Bernadette. I’m sorry. Can’t wait to see you this weekend.
Love,
Warren
FRIDAY, JANUARY 28
Fax from Soo-Lin
Audrey,
I got TORCHed at VAV. I am forbidden to return until I “WYP and Read It.” (WYP stands for Write Your Part, and it’s pronounced, “weep,” not “wipe,” which we think sounds scatological.) It’s an inventory we write, owning our part in our abuse. If I ever find myself slipping into victimhood, I have to TORCH myself. I spent the last three hours WYPing. Here it is, if you’re interested.
WYP by Soo-Lin Lee-Segal
After I got off to a rocky start as Elgie’s admin, our working relationship flourished. Elgie would request the impossible. I would make it happen. I could feel Elgie marvel at my wizardry. It soon became a skyward duet of me doing the best work of my life, and Elgie praising me. I could feel us falling in love.
(TIME-OUT REALITY CHECK: I was falling in love, not Elgie.)
Everything changed the day he asked me to lunch and confided in me about his wife. If he didn’t understand you don’t speak ill of your spouse to a coworker, especially a coworker of the opposite sex, I certainly did. I tried not to engage. But we had kids in the same school, so the line between work and our personal lives was already blurred.
(TIME-OUT REALITY CHECK: The moment Elgie began speaking ill of his wife, I could have politely ended the conversation.)
Then Bernadette got tangled up in a ring of Internet hackers. Elgie was furious at her, and confided in me, which I interpreted as further proof of his love. One night, when Elgie was planning to sleep at the office, I booked him a room at the Hyatt in Bellevue and drove him there myself. I pulled the car up to the valet.
“What are you doing?” Elgie asked.
“I’m coming in to get you set up.”
“Are you sure?” he said, an acknowledgement, to me, that tonight we were going to finally act on our crackling sexual tension.
(TIME-OUT REALITY CHECK: Not only was I completely deluded, I was preying on a emotionally vulnerable man.)
We took the elevator up to his room. I sat down on the bed. Elgie kicked off his shoes and climbed under the covers, fully dressed.
“Could you turn off the light?” he asked.
I turned off the bedside lamp. The room was blackout dark. I just sat there, coursing with desire, barely able to breathe. I carefully swung my feet onto the bed.
“Are you leaving?” he asked.
“No,” I said.
Minutes passed. I still maintained an image of where Elgie was on the bed. I could visualize his head, both arms over the covers, his hands clasped just under his chin. More time passed. He was obviously waiting for me to make the first move.
(TIME-OUT REALITY CHECK: Ha!)
I jabbed my hand toward where I pictured his hands to be. My fingers plunged into something moist and soft, then sharp.
“Gaahh—” Elgie said.
I had poked my fingers into his mouth, and he’d reflexively bit me.
“Oh dear!” I said. “I’m sorry!”