I picture those zombie eyes, compare them to Halberstam’s. The doctor’s blue eyes glittered with life, with . . .
The bed shrinks as a question forms. Halberstam’s eyes are first of all calculating. For him, it’s about making plans, devising strategies, putting them into play. It’s about watching other people dance to his tune. But there’s need there, too. Need and lust.
So, which of the two—Hank Grand or Laurence Halberstam—is more dangerous? Or are the threats merely different, neither one more or less deadly than the other?
Suddenly I feel Eleni’s presence, as real as if she were breathing in my ear. As if she were spooned into me, holding me in her arms. Victoria and Martha have been dominating the body for almost two weeks, leaving Eleni, Serena, and me to communicate in bits and pieces. Halberstam’s been the sole topic most of the time, specifically whether Eleni should let him into her pants. That’s not Eleni’s style, not at all, but the way we’re thinking, Halberstam won’t commit us as long as he gets laid every so often.
Lying here now, thinking about Halberstam’s cold stare, I’ve had a change of heart. Halberstam doesn’t need an incentive to keep us around. He’ll toy with us until he decides we’re no longer fun. And then—
I stir, suddenly restless, when Tina’s voice sounds in my ear. “Daddy,” she announces, her tiny voice surprisingly cool, “will come for me. Daddy always comes for me.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
SERENA
I don’t find il Dottore’s office bland, only soothing, colors not a single shade as Victoria claimed. Pale threads of orange and red and ochre and green running through the fabric of the wallpaper, the blue edge of a robe worn by a porcelain statue of the virgin in a lit niche, a celadon bud vase, a dragon of lavender jade that belongs in a museum, two rosy-red pigs on their hind legs doffing top hats, they lead my eyes around the room, from pleasure to pleasure, the whole screaming money, money, money. The price adds to the seamless whole, everything connected, a single message conveyed in a sensual dance, the chefs’ cliché confirmed: you eat first with your eyes.
Il Dottore’s working hard when I enter his sanctuary, the picture of diligence, one hand brushing his forehead, leaning forward, shoulders stiff and bent, the posture by now as predictable as it is studied and I know he can’t help himself. It’s all he’s got.
I wait patiently, my delight in the room sufficient for the time being, wait for his gaze to turn my way, wondering if I’ll find the piercing glare reported by Victoria or the predatory calculation discovered by Martha or the lust Kirk recognized. But I don’t see any of that when he looks up, only a tired man approaching middle age, hoping against hope to maintain the superhero fantasies that fueled his adolescence. His eyes travel the length of my body, across my windblown hair, amber eye shadow, curving lashes, violet lipstick, over a multitiered necklace of glass beads, my necklace of many colors, a female echo of Joseph’s coat that drops into the neckline of a silky white blouse.
“Please introduce yourself,” he demands.
“Serena Grand, at your service.”
“Ah, you’re the one Martha called a troublemaker. Last week, according to Martha, your control of Carolyn Grand caused her to be late for her appointment.”
Il Dottore’s stilted tone is unexpected, the man trying too hard, his effort only revealing the child beneath, vulnerable, unprotected. I want to console him despite Martha’s warning: Do you remember what it was like in the hospital? Don’t give the bastard an excuse.
I do remember what it was like, the lost days, weeks, months, heavily drugged, each moment weighing down the next. Cinderblock walls framed the long corridors, every hallway identical. You were in the same place no matter where you were, and the worst part—the absolute worst—your suffering might never end, no time limit to the dead time, no life or liberty or pursuit of happiness. Your most basic rights taken away because you happen to be who you are.
“I did,” I admit, my tone contrite. “I was carried away.”
“By what?”
“By a chance to exist, to become flesh and dwell among
you.”
Halberstam responds with a sagacious nod. “‘Dwell among you,’” he says. “Very nice. But Carolyn Grand committed herself to an appointment she couldn’t keep. And before you say anything about there being no Carolyn Grand, please understand this. From my point of view, there must be a Carolyn Grand, a responsible adult who can function, with appropriate support, in the community.”
I can see why Martha hates this man who doesn’t get it, who will never understand because he cannot step far enough away from his own needs to know the needs of another, to make those needs his own, a burden freely held.
Victoria whispers in my ear and I repeat what she tells me, word for word. “We’ve been living at the same address for the past nine years. We have no debts and we never, before the incident, had any contact with the police. In addition, we’re good to our neighbors, maintain our apartment and take out the garbage before it begins to stink. As for being a responsible adult? We receive a disability check every month for a good reason. We’re disabled.”
Halberstam’s chin rises as I go on, a thin smile exposing just the tips of his teeth. “Those are not your words, Serena. Whose are they?”
“They belong to Victoria, whose special skill lies in arranging simple ideas in little choppy elements that sound like accusations. But we don’t think we did anything to merit commitment, none of us. It’s not right.”
“I’m afraid right and wrong don’t apply to what we’re doing. Strictly speaking. But I’m glad you’re being honest.” He reaches for a fountain pen lying on his desk, picks it up, the better to display the green enameled barrel. “Victoria’s presence is a piece of good luck. I can at least be certain that I’ll reach a pair of responsible ears.” He pauses, takes a breath. “Two things. First, I’m reducing your appointment schedule to three times per week, Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Second, your father will be released from prison three days from now. He’ll be living in a Bronx shelter and subject to close scrutiny, but he’s on his own during the day until he finds a job.”
I don’t respond because there’s nothing to say. Here he comes, ready or not.
“As a condition of parole,” Halberstam continues, “a court will issue an order of protection forbidding any contact with you. And let me add that your father is sixty-seven years old and has been in one or another sex-offender treatment program for the past five years.”
I try to sit up straight, but the chair resists. Still, I manage a smile, Victoria’s voice again sounding in my ears. “I sense a warning, Doctor. Despite the reassurances, I sense that you’re trying to warn us.”
“There’s that, too,” he finally admits. “I have a hotline number you’re to call if he does show up. Will you use it? That’s my dilemma in a nutshell. No matter what you tell me, I can’t be sure that you won’t put yourself in harm’s way.”
The red light on Halberstam’s intercom blinks: on-off, on-off, on-off. He lifts a receiver to his ear and listens for a moment before hanging up. I watch him rise, fingertips still on the desk as he leans forward.