least, unusual.
Not for the first time I thought of my assistant as a soul that didn’t so much haunt as spiritually guide by a sense of the world that was more intuitive than anything else.
“Mr. McGill?”
“Have a seat, M.”
Mardi made an abortive move for the walnut swivel chair behind her desk but then decided to take the visitor’s chair Aura had been sitting in. I turned my head so that I was looking into her eyes. Mardi didn’t like people looking directly at her—a leftover from childhood, I imagined.
She turned sideways in the padded chair and looked over at her desk; no doubt searching for another pencil to put in its place.
“Tell me about it,” I said.
“What?”
“Twill.”
“What about him?”
“Something’s goin’ on with him. When Twill disappears I get the feeling that there’s a door somewhere that should be locked but isn’t.”
Mardi smiled because she understood and appreciated my imagistic bent.
She shook her head.
“You’re his best friend, M,” I said. “You can’t tell me that you don’t know what’s happenin’.”
“He had a meeting with somebody on Monday, after you left,” Mardi admitted. “But then I was out Tuesday and Wednesday. He covered for me. I didn’t see him almost all week.”
Listening to her words, I remembered the dictum—
Truth is the best lie
.
“Who did he meet with?”
“I don’t know. It was out of the office. A woman called, a young woman.”
“You didn’t tell me you were taking time off,” I said, trying to take on the authority of a boss.
“I’m sorry.” Mardi looked at her desk again, willing me to go so she could get away from the inquisition.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
The expression on her face was equal parts surprise, anger, and
don’t you know who the fuck you’re talking to?
“Talk to me, M.”
“My father has been writing me from Ossining over the past year,” she said. This truth dispelled her shyness. Now she was returning my stare.
Mardi’s stepfather was Leslie Bitterman. Once he was an office manager by day and daughter molester by night; that was before he became a full-time resident of the maximum security prison.
“You want me to talk to some people?” I offered.
“What?” she said, almost angrily. “No. No. At first just getting the letters really upset me but not after a while.”
“Does he want something?”
Mardi clasped her hands and pressed her lips against her left wrist—a kiss that was not a kiss.
“Mardi.”
“He sent a letter every week for seven months before I even opened one. He said things like nothing ever happened between us, like he was a normal father trying to reach out to me and Marlene. He asked about my job and if I had a boyfriend…”
The motherfucker.
“I just thought it was sick,” she said, “that he was trying to fuck with us even though he’s locked away.”
Mardi had never cursed in my memory.
“Then I answered him,” she said. If any four words ever sucked the air out of a room it was these.
“What did you say?”
“I was angry. I told him that he didn’t even have a right to think about us much less send letters. I told him that he destroyed my life and he was going to do the same to my sister. I told him that he made me into a murderer because I would have surely killed him if you hadn’t gotten in the way. I don’t know everything I said but it was eight handwritten pages long.”
Mardi wrote in a tiny chicken scrawl. And she only used purple ink.
“Did he give you an answer?” I asked.
“No.”
“No? Then why did you go up there?”
Mardi looked at me and I saw that she had become another person; someone related to the young woman I knew and loved, but now she was both stronger and weaker, more vulnerable.
“I kept thinking about the letter I wrote to him,” she said. “The anger inside me was bigger than anything I’d ever felt. It was even more than the fear I used to have when he’d come into my
Not for the first time I thought of my assistant as a soul that didn’t so much haunt as spiritually guide by a sense of the world that was more intuitive than anything else.
“Mr. McGill?”
“Have a seat, M.”
Mardi made an abortive move for the walnut swivel chair behind her desk but then decided to take the visitor’s chair Aura had been sitting in. I turned my head so that I was looking into her eyes. Mardi didn’t like people looking directly at her—a leftover from childhood, I imagined.
She turned sideways in the padded chair and looked over at her desk; no doubt searching for another pencil to put in its place.
“Tell me about it,” I said.
“What?”
“Twill.”
“What about him?”
“Something’s goin’ on with him. When Twill disappears I get the feeling that there’s a door somewhere that should be locked but isn’t.”
Mardi smiled because she understood and appreciated my imagistic bent.
She shook her head.
“You’re his best friend, M,” I said. “You can’t tell me that you don’t know what’s happenin’.”
“He had a meeting with somebody on Monday, after you left,” Mardi admitted. “But then I was out Tuesday and Wednesday. He covered for me. I didn’t see him almost all week.”
Listening to her words, I remembered the dictum—
Truth is the best lie
.
“Who did he meet with?”
“I don’t know. It was out of the office. A woman called, a young woman.”
“You didn’t tell me you were taking time off,” I said, trying to take on the authority of a boss.
“I’m sorry.” Mardi looked at her desk again, willing me to go so she could get away from the inquisition.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
The expression on her face was equal parts surprise, anger, and
don’t you know who the fuck you’re talking to?
“Talk to me, M.”
“My father has been writing me from Ossining over the past year,” she said. This truth dispelled her shyness. Now she was returning my stare.
Mardi’s stepfather was Leslie Bitterman. Once he was an office manager by day and daughter molester by night; that was before he became a full-time resident of the maximum security prison.
“You want me to talk to some people?” I offered.
“What?” she said, almost angrily. “No. No. At first just getting the letters really upset me but not after a while.”
“Does he want something?”
Mardi clasped her hands and pressed her lips against her left wrist—a kiss that was not a kiss.
“Mardi.”
“He sent a letter every week for seven months before I even opened one. He said things like nothing ever happened between us, like he was a normal father trying to reach out to me and Marlene. He asked about my job and if I had a boyfriend…”
The motherfucker.
“I just thought it was sick,” she said, “that he was trying to fuck with us even though he’s locked away.”
Mardi had never cursed in my memory.
“Then I answered him,” she said. If any four words ever sucked the air out of a room it was these.
“What did you say?”
“I was angry. I told him that he didn’t even have a right to think about us much less send letters. I told him that he destroyed my life and he was going to do the same to my sister. I told him that he made me into a murderer because I would have surely killed him if you hadn’t gotten in the way. I don’t know everything I said but it was eight handwritten pages long.”
Mardi wrote in a tiny chicken scrawl. And she only used purple ink.
“Did he give you an answer?” I asked.
“No.”
“No? Then why did you go up there?”
Mardi looked at me and I saw that she had become another person; someone related to the young woman I knew and loved, but now she was both stronger and weaker, more vulnerable.
“I kept thinking about the letter I wrote to him,” she said. “The anger inside me was bigger than anything I’d ever felt. It was even more than the fear I used to have when he’d come into my
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