Chapter One
Isaac shot me two times in the chest. With his toast.
"You're dead," my two-and-a-half-year-old son said,
biting off a chunk of his Glock 9mm semiautomatic pistol.
"Mama doesn't like that game, Isaac. You know that.
Mama
doesn't like guns." I ruffled his hair with my hand. I
planted a kiss on the top of his older sister's head and
turned to my husband. "Don't cut his bread on the diagonal
anymore."
"Why not?" Peter asked over the top of his coffee mug.
His hair stuck out in wiry spikes and his gray eyes were
bleary with exhaustion.
"Because he chews out the middle and turns the crust
into a gun."
"Maybe if he had a toy gun, he wouldn't need to fashion
weapons out of his breakfast."
I gave my husband a baleful glare and poured my own
coffee. I leaned against the kitchen table and slurped.
Ruby turned to me with a conspiratorial air made only
slightly ridiculous by the fact that her uncombed curls
stood up all over her head. She looked like a dandelion
puff.
"Isaac has been playing guns all morning, Mama. And
Daddy let him."
"Oh really?" I said.
"Don't be a tattletale, Ruby," Peter said.
He was right. Telling tales is a dreadful habit.
Nonetheless I was glad of an ally. I was becoming heartily
sick of the never-ending game of 'bang bang you're dead.'
Honestly, what is it with boys? Before I had one of my
own,
I would have sworn up and down that gender differences
were
cultural constructs and that it was possible to raise a
boy
who defied stereotypes by being more interested in dolls
than trucks and in arts and crafts than weapons. Then
Isaac
was born. And he was interested in dolls: Superman dolls.
Batman dolls. And he loved painting and sculpture; they
were wonderful tools with which to make the weapons I
wouldn't buy for him.
I took away the Play Doh, the modeling clay, and all
cylindrical objects. We stopped eating food that could be
easily chewed into the shape of artillery. I banned all
remotely aggressive videos and television, including most
of the Disney movies the kids liked; Peter Pan spends way
too much time sword-fighting and that Sea Witch would
inspire anyone to violence. I refused to be swayed by the
fact that the Isaac was chafing under a diet of
Teletubbies
and Barney. Mindless pap was better than warfare any day.
I
bought him an endless succession of gender-neutral toys
and
videos, played house with him, changed his dolls' diapers
and taught him every single Pete Seeger song I could
remember. So far my efforts had borne exactly no fruit.
My mother attributed Isaac's gun obsession to the fact
that I'd been shot the day I gave birth to him, but that's
just blaming the victim, as far as I'm concerned.
"What fabulous thing are you guys going to do today?" I
asked. I'm afraid I didn't do a terribly good job of
concealing my glee at the thought of being excluded from
my
family's plans for the morning. Peter, a screenwriter, had
just finished two long months of shooting on his latest
work of art, The Cannibal's Vacation. The director had
demanded his presence on the set, apparently worried that
without Peter there to rewrite various exclamations of
horror, the film would never wrap. To compensate me for
having been alone with the kids while he lounged away the
days and nights on Lomboc, a lesser-known tropical island
in Indonesia, my husband had been doing solo kid duty for
a
week or so.
"We're going fishing for dinosaurs," Isaac announced.
"Really?" I asked.
"We are not going fishing." Ruby reached across the
table and pinched her brother who squealed in protest. I
inserted myself between them and frowned at her.
"Ruby, watch it, or you won't be going anywhere," I
said.
"Yes I will. Because Daddy promised to take us to the
La
Brea tar pits, and you're going to the gym, so I am, too,
going."
The mouth on that kid. But you couldn't argue with her
logic.
I didn't bother answering her, just picked Isaac up and
buzzed him with my lips. "I'm going to miss you guys
today," I lied.
"You could come if you want." Peter's voice was a
hopeful squawk.
"No thanks. Ruby's right, I'm going to the gym."
I plopped Isaac on the floor and finished my coffee
with
a gulp. I took a Powerbar out of my stash hidden in the
back of the pantry, waved gaily at my family, and headed
out the door.
"I'm taking your car!" I shouted, all too happy to
leave
Peter with the station wagon that was bursting with car-
seats, baby wipes, and haunted by a mysterious odor whose
origin lay in some long-lost tube of fluorescent yogurt. I
slipped into his pristine, orange vintage BMW 2002, popped
the car into gear, and zipped off down the street,
reveling
in my hard-won freedom.
I'm the first to admit that I'm a somewhat unwilling
stay-at-home mom. Not that I didn't choose that role. I
did. Before I'd had my kids, I'd been a public defender
representing indigent criminals in federal court. My
particular specialties had been drug dealers and bank
robbers, but I'd happily handled white-collar cases and
even the odd assault on a national park ranger. I had
never
expected to leave work. I'd planned for a three-month
maternity leave, imagining that I'd toss Peter the baby to
take care of while I happily continued my twelve-hour-a-
day
schedule. I even tried it after Ruby was born. I went back
to work when she was four months old, skipping off with my
breast pump in one hand and my briefcase in the other. Ten
months later, I was back home. I couldn't stand being away
from her for so much of the time. By the time I realized
that I wasn't any happier at home all day than I'd been at
work all day, I was already pregnant with Isaac. That
pretty much put the nails into my professional coffin. The
past couple of years had passed in something of a blur,
punctuated by carpool, endless loads of very small
laundry,
and the occasional murder.
I pulled into the parking lot of my gym and slipped
into
a spot. For my last birthday, Peter had given me a series
of training sessions at a glitzy Hollywood health club. I
had decided to view the gift not as a passive-aggressive
comment on the magnitude of my ass, but rather as the
expression of a good-hearted wish to see me fit and
healthy. I'd been having a terrific time, despite my usual
loathing of all things physically active. There is
something remarkably pleasurable about having your very
own
personal trainer hovering over you, expressing apparently
sincere interest in your food intake and exercise
concerns.
I, like the majority of women I know, am certain that the
rest of the world finds every detail of my calorie
neuroses
and body image obsession as scintillating as I do myself.
I
skipped into the gym, ready to confess to Bobby Katz the
grim tale of the four Girl Scout cookies and half pound of
salt water taffy I'd eaten the night before.
Instead of the collection of almost familiar Hollywood
faces in brightly colored Lycra, straining under Cybex
machines and hefting free weights, I found an empty gym.
There were no trainers shouting encouragement, no
beautifully sculpted and perfectly made-up starlets
grunting and groaning. The machines glinted forlornly in
the sun shining through the windows, and the place echoed
with a silence made all the eerier because I'd never
before
walked in without being subject to a blaring retro-disco
beat.
It took me a few minutes to track down the denizens of
my snazzy work-out studio. They were huddled around the
juice bar behind the locker rooms. The trainers, deltoids
shining with carefully applied moisturizer and abdominal
six-packs peeking from skin-tight tops cropped at the
midriff, wept noisily. The clientele, a bit more concerned
with the exigencies of eye makeup and foundation, dabbed
their eyes with Kleenex. The owner of the gym, an over-
sized Vietnamese bodybuilder named Laurence, opened his
arms to me and pressed me to his sweaty chest.
"Oh darling. You poor darling. You don't even know, do
you? You just came here to see him, and you don't even
know," he wailed.
"Laurence, calm down. Tell me what's happened," I said
as I attempted to extricate myself from his damp embrace.
His nipple ring was poking me in the cheek.
"It's Bobby. He's dead. They found him this morning in
his car. He shot himself."
I gasped and now leaned against Laurence despite
myself. "What? What are you talking about?"
"Betsy just called. He didn't come home last night, so
she called the cops. They found his car parked on the PCH,
just north of Santa Monica. Bobby was inside. Dead. He
shot
himself in the head."
I led Laurence over to a chair and sat him down. Then I
asked him, "How's Betsy?"
"She's a mess, of course. Oh my God, I can't stand
this,
I can't stand this," Laurence wailed, burying his face in
his hands.
"Oh for God's sake, Laurence. Quit crying. This is not
your opera, girlfriend." I turned to Jamal Watson, one of
the other trainers. He was dressed, as usual, in a vibrant
shade of pink. His dark brown leg muscles strained at his
micro-mini shorts, and his top stopped a good six inches
above his bellybutton. He looked back at me and said
somewhat abashedly, "I mean, really, Bobby was my friend,
too. Laurence here is acting like he's the only one who's
devastated. We all are."
I turned back to the weeping gym owner, "Laurence,
honey. You're upset. You should close up shop for the
day."
The other trainers and clients began to protest. They were
sad, very sad, but not quite sad enough to sacrifice a
morning's worth of crunches and leg lifts.
"No. No." Laurence heaved himself off his stool with a
sigh. "The show must go on. Back to work, all of you. Back
to work. That's what Bobby would have wanted." He waved
everyone on to the gym floor and turned back to me, "Shall
I give you a referral? Luzette's got some free slots, I
think."
"No, no, that's okay. Maybe later. Can you give me
Betsy's number? I want to see if she needs some help or if
she could use a shoulder to cry on."
I could have used one myself. I'd been working out with
Bobby Katz only for about six months, but in that short
period of time, we'd gotten strangely close. Or maybe it
wasn't so strange, considering the fact that we spent
three
hours a week together, most of that time filled with
intimate conversations about our lives, loves, and the
shape of my thighs. As a teenager, Bobby had made the
thirty-mile leap from Thousand Oaks in the Valley to
Hollywood, convinced that his sparkling azure eyes, flaxen
hair, and laser-whitened teeth would garner him instant
fame. It hadn't taken him long to realize that there were
at least 7,200 other kids who looked just like him
auditioning for all the same parts. He'd had some success.
He'd gotten a couple of fast-food commercials and even a
role in an Andrew Dice Clay movie. Unfortunately, his part
in that work of cinematic genius was so small it could
only
be appreciated using the frame-by-frame viewing option of
a
VCR.
He'd become a personal trainer as a way to supplement
his acting income; it had soon become his career. And if
I'm anything to go by, Bobby was good at what he did. I'd
gained over sixty pounds with my second pregnancy, and
despite the fact that Isaac was now well over two years
old, before I met Bobby, I hadn't managed to lose more
than
half of it. He'd put me on a kooky diet that involved
eating a lot of egg-white omelets and set me on a workout
program that was having remarkable results. I could
actually see my feet if I looked down. And craned my neck.
And leaned a bit forward. Anyway, it was working for me.
But that's not why I kept coming back. Before Bobby, I'd
quit every exercise regime I'd ever begun, despite the
fact
that they all showed at least some results. I kept seeing
Bobby because I liked him. He was a sweet, gentle man with
a ready hug and an arsenal of delightfully dishy Hollywood
gossip. He remembered everything I told him and seemed to
genuinely care about what I'd done over the weekend or how
Isaac's potty training was progressing. He was interested
and attentive without being remotely on the make. He gave
me utterly platonic and absolutely focused male attention.
A few months before that horrible morning, Bobby had
asked for my advice as a criminal defense lawyer. Bobby
was
a recovered drug user and an active member of Narcotics
Anonymous, where he'd met his fiancée Betsy , and he'd
asked me for help on her behalf. She'd fallen off the
wagon
and tried to make a buy from an undercover cop. The good
news was she never actually got the drugs. The bad news
was
that she found herself in county jail. I was thrilled at
the opportunity to help Bobby after all he'd done for me,
and I'd gotten them in touch with a good friend of mine
from the federal public defender's office who had recently
hung out her own shingle. Last I'd heard, Betsy's case had
been referred to the diversion program. If she remained
clean for a year and kept up with NA, it would disappear
from her record.
Betsy and Bobby¹s place was in Hollywood, not too far
from my own duplex in Hancock Park. I gave a little
shudder
as I climbed the rickety outdoor staircase up to their
apartment. The building was made of crumbling stucco held
together with rotted metal braces. The doors of each unit
were dented metal, spray painted puce. The floor tile in
the hallway was cracked, and large chunks were missing.
Given the Los Angeles real estate market, they probably
paid at least fifteen hundred a month to live in this
dump.
Betsy opened the door and fell into my arms, a somewhat
awkward endeavor since she was at least six inches taller
than I. I led her inside and found myself face-to-face
with
two police officers. The cops took up much more space than
it seemed they should have. The instruments hooked on to
their black leather belt‹the guns, billy clubs, radios,
and
other accoutrements of the LAPD‹seemed to blow them up all
out of human proportion. They were planted on the electric
green carpet like a couple of bulls in a too-small
pasture.
I squeezed by one of the pneumatically enlarged officers
and lowered Betsy on the light beige leather couch, where
she folded in on herself like a crumpled tissue.
I turned back to the men. "I'm Juliet Applebaum. I'm a
friend of Betsy and Bobby's."
One of the officers, a man in his late twenties with a
buzz cut so short and so new that his ears and neck looked
raw, nodded curtly. "We're here to escort Betsy on down to
the station so she can give a statement."
I turned to the weeping girl. "Betsy, honey? Do you
want
to go with the officers?"
She shook her head, buried her face in her hands, and
slumped over on the couch.
"I don't think Betsy's quite ready for that," I said in
a firm voice.
The officer shook his head and, ignoring me, leaned
over
Betsy's prone form. "It'll just take a few minutes. The
detectives are waiting for you." He managed to sound both
menacing and polite at the same time.
Betsy just cried harder and jerked her arm away from
the
officer's extended hand. I sat down next to her and
slipped
an arm around her shoulders.
"Officer, why don't you let the detectives know that
Betsy's just too distraught right now." The cop started to
shake his head, but I interrupted him, "Am I to understand
that you are placing her under arrest?" I asked. I felt
Betsy quiver under my arm, and I gave her back a
reassuring
pat.
"No, no, nothing like that," the other officer spoke
up.
He looked a bit older than the one trying to get Betsy up
off the couch. "We just need her to give a statement to
the
detectives."
"Unless you're planning on arresting her, Betsy's going
to stay home for now. You can let the detectives know that
they can contact her here. And if there's nothing further,
I think Betsy would like to be left alone."
The police officers looked at each other for a moment,
and then the older one shrugged his shoulders. They walked
out the door, leaving behind a room that suddenly seemed
to
quadruple in size.
I patted Betsy on the back for a while, and then got up
to make some tea. Bobby had introduced me to the wonders
of
green tea, and I could think of no time when I'd needed a
restorative cup of Silver Needle Jasmine more than at this
moment. I opened the fridge in the little galley kitchen
off the living room and sorted through the jars of protein
powder and murky green bottles of wheat grass juice until
I
found a little black canister of tea. I dug up a teapot
and
ran the faucet until it was hot. I poured some water over
the leaves and let them steep for a moment. By the time I
came back out to the living room holding two small cups of
tea, Betsy had gathered herself together and was wiping
her
eyes and blowing her nose.
"Thanks," she said. "You still know how to be a
lawyer."
"What? Making tea?"
"No, no." She smiled through her tears. "Getting rid of
the cops."
"Don't mention it. Pissing off cops is my specialty.
Are
Bobby's parents on their way?"
Betsy shook her head.
"Do they know?"
She nodded and said, "The police called them this
morning and told them. I tried to call, too, but they
aren't answering the phone. I just keep getting the
machine."
That surprised me. "You mean you haven't talked to them
at all?"
"I haven't talked to them in months. Ever since...ever
since that whole thing happened. When they found out about
it, they tried to get Bobby to break up with me. They told
him that I was a bad influence and that I'd drag him down.
Which I guess I did." The last was said in a sort of moan,
and more tears dripped down her cheeks.
I wrapped my arm around her and handed her a tissue and
the cup of tea. "Drink," I said. "It'll make you feel
better." She took a few sips and then blew her nose
loudly.
"You weren't a bad influence on Bobby," I said,
although
I have to admit that at the time of her arrest, I'd taken
the same line as Bobby's parents, albeit a bit more
delicately. I'd just suggested to Bobby that since he had
worked so hard to kick his addiction, he might want to put
a little distance between himself and Betsy, just until
she
got her act together. Bobby had thanked me for my advice
and gently informed me that he loved Betsy and planned to
stand by her. I'd been chastened and never mentioned my
reservations again. I had still had them, though. Bobby
was
the poster-child for twelve-step programs. He'd stopped
using methamphetamine five years before and hadn't missed
a
weekly meeting since. Before he'd gotten sober, his
addiction was so bad that it was costing him hundreds of
dollars a week, just to stay awake. He'd turned his
athlete¹s body into a husk of its former self. The damage
he'd caused to his heart from years of drug abuse was
permanent. Despite the great shape he'd managed to return
himself to, he still had an enlarged heart and a severe
arrhythmia. Bobby had once told me that methamphetamine
was
so toxic to him nowadays that even holding the stuff and
having it absorb through his fingers could trigger a heart
attack. The risks to him of falling off the wagon were
astronomical. I'd been terribly worried that Betsy's
weakness would be contagious. But, in the end, he'd proved
me wrong. He'd gotten her back on the program and never
fallen off himself. So I had believed, until that morning.
"Betsy, why were the police here? Did they tell you why
they needed you to make a statement?"
"No. They just said I have to."
"But it's a suicide, right? Bobby killed himself?"
"I don't know. I mean, that's what they told me this
morning. They said they found him in the car with a gun in
his hand, and that he'd shot himself in the head."
"Was it his gun?"
She shook her head. "I don't think so. I mean, he
doesn't have a gun. At least I don't think he does."
"And just now, when the cops were here, did they tell
you they were considering other things? Like maybe that
someone had killed him?"
She sniffed loudly and wiped her nose on her
sleeve. "They didn't tell me anything."
"Betsy, do you think Bobby killed himself?" I asked,
flat out.
She shook her head and wailed, "I don't know. I mean,
none of this makes any sense. I mean, why would he kill
himself?"
"I don't know," I said. "But then, I don't know him as
well as you do. Had anything happened between you two? Had
you guys been getting along?" The truth was, I didn't
expect Betsy to confide in me. I didn't know her that
well,
and for all I knew, Bobby had told her that, like his
parents, I'd encouraged him to break up with her.
"Things were great. Great," she said, firmly, rubbing
the tears away from her eyes. "We'd set a date for the
wedding; we'd even picked a rabbi."
"A rabbi? But you're not Jewish, are you?"
"Bobby's parents really wanted us to have a rabbi.
Their
guy said that he'd do it, if we went to premarital
counseling and if Bobby did all the tests and stuff."
"Tests?"
"Yeah, you know. Genetic testing for Tay-Sachs. The
rabbi says he makes all Jews who he marries get Tay-Sachs
testing. Just in case."
Tay-Sachs disease is a birth defect that is carried by
something like one in thirty Jews of European descent. If
two carriers have children together, they have a one in
four chance of giving birth to a baby who will die of Tay-
Sachs. Tay-Sachs is always fatal; generally children die
by
age five after being desperately ill for most of their
lives. Nowadays, there's a simple blood test to determine
if you are a carrier. Most Jewish couples automatically
get
tested, but Peter and I hadn't bothered, since Peter
wasn't
Jewish. Since both of us would have had to be carriers for
there to be any danger, we'd never even considered it.
"Bobby had it," Betsy said.
"Had it? You mean Tay-Sachs? He was a carrier?"
"Yeah. We found out a few months ago ’ right before
my...my arrest. I mean, it's no big deal that he had it,
because of course I don't have it since I'm not Jewish. I
mean, it wasn't a big deal." She sniffed. "I guess none of
that matters anymore."
I didn't answer.
"What am I going to do?" she asked, turning to me and
peering into my eyes.
I shook my head helplessly. "I don't know, Betsy. Get
through every day, one day at a time, I guess."
"One day at a time? You sound like my goddamn sponsor,"
she said. "You sound like Bobby."
I sat with Betsy for a while longer, leaving only when
her Narcotics Anonymous sponsor and a few other friends
from the group arrived.
© Ayelet Waldman