Bitter Truth

“Temperature. But he was so full of blubbery fear he was useless.”

“Why are you telling me all this, Kendall?”

She stood up and put her now empty cup onto the tray and then walked over to one of her paintings on the wall. It was in a fine oval frame and the oil had also been laid on in an oval, a night scene, with a stream ru

“Well, no, actually. But I’m no critic.”

“And I’m no painter,” she said. “Caroline told me you were looking into Jacqueline’s death for her. That you and she both believe that Jacqueline was murdered.”

“That’s right.”

“Well, Victor, don’t you think that I’ve thought what you’re thinking? Don’t you think I’ve stayed up at night, lying beside that snoring shit, wondering with fear of what kinds of beastly things he is capable? Don’t you think?”

“I guess I hadn’t thought.”

“Well think.”

“And if it turns out to be your husband, what will you do?”

“I married him for better or for worse, and unlike the rest of this world I believe in that. I’d move out to wherever they send him and visit him in prison once a week, every week. I’d be the most loyal wife you’ve ever seen until his father dies and his stock shares vest and then I’d divorce the bastard and take my half and move to Santa Fe. Georgia O’Keeffe painted just outside Santa Fe. Did you know that?”

“No.”

“They must have the most erotic flora in Santa Fe. Any other questions, Victor?”

“Just one. This money he found to pay off a piece of the gambling debt. Where did it come from?”

“Edward would tell you he got lucky at the track.”

“I bet that’s exactly what he’d tell me.”

“He told me he found someone to help him,” she said. “He told me he found someone willing to factor the insurance payout for a few points a week. He made me sign something but then said the man would bail him out.”

“Who?”

“Some pawnshop operator from South Philly. His place is on Second Street, I think, a shop called the Seventh Circle Pawn. A cute name, actually, since this man’s name is Dante.”

First thing I did when I left Kendall Shaw was to find a phone and tell Caroline to get the hell out of her apartment, right away, to get the hell out and hide. I had learned enough to figure that her life was in danger and who exactly it was who would want her dead.

36

I WAITED IN MY CAR outside the large shambling house in Mount Airy, watching the acolytes enter the Haven. I could tell they were acolytes because they wore sandals or colored robes beneath their denim jackets or their hair was long or their heads were shaved or they had the self-righteous carriage of those on the trail of life’s one true answer. They would have looked out of place in every part of the city but Mount Airy, which has long been a refuge for earnest granola eaters and committed activists in long batik skirts. I felt sorry for them as I watched them walk in that house, even as I knew they would feel sorry for me had they crossed my path. I thought they were deluded fools buying into some harebrained promise of enlightenment for a price when all there really was was the price. They would have thought me a materialistic loser who was totally out of touch with the sweet spiritual truths in my life. All we had in common was our mutual scorn, edged with pity, but, hey, I had suffered through long-term romantic relationships that were built on less.

There was five million due to go to the woman in that Mount Airy house. If I could co

The house was stone, trimmed in dark green. There was a narrow front porch with a painted wood floor, scarred and uneven. Across the porch were some old wicker chairs arrayed in the form of a discussion group, empty now. I stepped around a red tricycle, past a pile of old brown cushions left out to rot, past a stack of lumber. Though it was late spring, the storm windows were still up and green paint was peeling from the window sashes and the door. On the edge of the door frame was an incongruous mezuzah, covered with thick layers of paint. I rang the bell and nothing happened. I dropped the knocker and nothing happened. I looked around and twisted the doorknob and stepped into another year: 1968 to be exact.

Incense, Jerry Garcia, the warm nutty smell of a vegetarian casserole baking in the oven, posters of India and Tibet, earnest conversations, bad haircuts, the thick clinging scent of body odor.

We just missed all this, those of my generation, born too late as we were to ever remember a time when Martin Luther King and Bobby Ke

A woman without any hair, wearing an orange robe, stepped over to greet me. She put her hands together, fingers pointing up, and bowed slightly.

Yeah, sure. “I’m here to see Olea

“I’m sorry,” said the woman in a voice that was genuinely sweet, “but Olea

“Why don’t you check and see,” I said.

Before she had time to apologize again I spotted what looked like a hairy boy walking down the stairs. At first I could just see his sandaled feet beneath the overhang of the ceiling, and then the hem of his yellow robe, and then, as more of his body was revealed, I recognized Gaylord. He surveyed the room as he descended and spotted me.

“Victor Carl, what a pleasure to see you,” he said in his high-pitched voice and the conversations that buzzed around us quieted. A smile burrowed out of his beard as he approached. “Welcome to the Haven. We’ve been so looking forward to your visit.”

The woman in the orange robe clasped her hands together and bowed slightly to Gaylord before she backed away from us. Gaylord grabbed me at the crook of my elbow, his smile still firmly in place.

“Come,” he said. “I’ll take you downstairs.”

He led me to the rear of the house, toward the kitchen. The congregants quieted when we approached and backed away from us. Some were dressed in street clothes, but most were in orange or green robes. Only Gaylord was wearing yellow.

“What’s with the different colors?” I asked.

“How much has your friend Beth told you?” he said.