heard—they did. But they didn't need alibis."
"I think it was murder." Even as I say the word, something icy creeps into my heart.
They both stare at me.
"I mean, in all the books and all the movies, the husband is always the prime suspect."
I can't stop my mouth. It just won't listen to my head. "Sure, death by sports and leisure. Maybe the next one will be a 'heart attack' in a hot-air balloon."
Two sets of chopsticks are put down. Two sets of eyes show astonishment.
Why can't I stop myself? I babble on.
"You don't like the husbands? Maybe there's a serial killer who is after very rich women. Someone who had a very deprived childhood." In my embarrassment, I'm trying for a light tone. But I sound like an idiot.
At Morrie's raised eyebrow, I continue my imitation of a lemming jumping off a cliff. "Maybe some other very rich ladies want to get on the twenty-five-wealthiest roll and they're knocking off these women so they'll move up on the list."
Morrie says, "What don't you understand about 'natural causes'?"
"You'll change your tune when the next heiress bites the dust. Pardon me for mixing my metaphors."
The two of them now talk over my head, pretending to ignore me.
Morrie asks Jack, "What would you do about such insubordination if she were in your precinct?"
"I'd probably demote her to Traffic," he answers. "And tell her to stop reading so many books and watching so many movies."
"Stop talking about me as if I weren't here." I need to get off the hot seat. "Enough about me. So, Jack, tell me. How did a nice Jewish boy like you decide to become a cop?" I pour myself some jasmine tea. I need the distraction. I could kick myself for getting on to this subject.
Jack's obviously told this story many times. "As the old ads used to say, I was a ninety-pound weakling and I was getting smacked around a lot. We grew up in a tough neighborhood in Brooklyn where there were three sets of immigrants—Jews, Italians, and Irish. And since Jews always seem to be the 'chosen' people, I was chosen to get beaten up by whichever gang was roaming the streets that day.
"So I joined a gym, buffed up, and met some guys who were cops. Italians, Irish, and Jews. They taught me how to fight back. They became my mentors and I followed in their footsteps. I had found my career."
"And, naturally, I followed in my dad's footsteps," adds Morrie.
"Now if you'd marry me, we'd have three detectives in the family."
I shouldn't say it but I do. "Jack, just don't tell me you were in Homicide."
He looks at me for a long moment and says in a flat tone, "Then I won't tell you."
The two men stare at me curiously.
Why did I bring it up? Why? I lower my eyes and clutch my fingers around my chopsticks. I never talk about that. Never.
13
Dancing Books
I squint at the clock in the very early light. Six a.m. Dream wake-up time again. Don't these dreams of mine ever give me a break and come at a decent hour?
I'm supposed to analyze you, Mr. Dream? Wait. First I've got to deal with Mr. Coffee.
This one usually makes me smile. Get this: Imagine an MGM extravaganza. In Technicolor, with the Glenn Miller band playing "Moonlight Serenade." A glamorous Busby Berkeley Hollywood set all in white and gold. With a double staircase and glittering chandeliers. Here they come, the Dancing Books. Perched atop sexy legs, like the old Chesterfield TV ads, tap-dancing their way down to center stage, then into the audience where I sit enraptured, front row center. Each book kisses me gently on my forehead as it imparts its story to my mind and heart. Little Women. Marjorie Morningstar. Catch-22. Madame Bovary. To Kill a Mockingbird. Bonjour Tristesse. The Catcher in the Rye. Breakfast at Tiffany's. East of Eden.
On and on they come.
I keep saying
"I think it was murder." Even as I say the word, something icy creeps into my heart.
They both stare at me.
"I mean, in all the books and all the movies, the husband is always the prime suspect."
I can't stop my mouth. It just won't listen to my head. "Sure, death by sports and leisure. Maybe the next one will be a 'heart attack' in a hot-air balloon."
Two sets of chopsticks are put down. Two sets of eyes show astonishment.
Why can't I stop myself? I babble on.
"You don't like the husbands? Maybe there's a serial killer who is after very rich women. Someone who had a very deprived childhood." In my embarrassment, I'm trying for a light tone. But I sound like an idiot.
At Morrie's raised eyebrow, I continue my imitation of a lemming jumping off a cliff. "Maybe some other very rich ladies want to get on the twenty-five-wealthiest roll and they're knocking off these women so they'll move up on the list."
Morrie says, "What don't you understand about 'natural causes'?"
"You'll change your tune when the next heiress bites the dust. Pardon me for mixing my metaphors."
The two of them now talk over my head, pretending to ignore me.
Morrie asks Jack, "What would you do about such insubordination if she were in your precinct?"
"I'd probably demote her to Traffic," he answers. "And tell her to stop reading so many books and watching so many movies."
"Stop talking about me as if I weren't here." I need to get off the hot seat. "Enough about me. So, Jack, tell me. How did a nice Jewish boy like you decide to become a cop?" I pour myself some jasmine tea. I need the distraction. I could kick myself for getting on to this subject.
Jack's obviously told this story many times. "As the old ads used to say, I was a ninety-pound weakling and I was getting smacked around a lot. We grew up in a tough neighborhood in Brooklyn where there were three sets of immigrants—Jews, Italians, and Irish. And since Jews always seem to be the 'chosen' people, I was chosen to get beaten up by whichever gang was roaming the streets that day.
"So I joined a gym, buffed up, and met some guys who were cops. Italians, Irish, and Jews. They taught me how to fight back. They became my mentors and I followed in their footsteps. I had found my career."
"And, naturally, I followed in my dad's footsteps," adds Morrie.
"Now if you'd marry me, we'd have three detectives in the family."
I shouldn't say it but I do. "Jack, just don't tell me you were in Homicide."
He looks at me for a long moment and says in a flat tone, "Then I won't tell you."
The two men stare at me curiously.
Why did I bring it up? Why? I lower my eyes and clutch my fingers around my chopsticks. I never talk about that. Never.
13
Dancing Books
I squint at the clock in the very early light. Six a.m. Dream wake-up time again. Don't these dreams of mine ever give me a break and come at a decent hour?
I'm supposed to analyze you, Mr. Dream? Wait. First I've got to deal with Mr. Coffee.
This one usually makes me smile. Get this: Imagine an MGM extravaganza. In Technicolor, with the Glenn Miller band playing "Moonlight Serenade." A glamorous Busby Berkeley Hollywood set all in white and gold. With a double staircase and glittering chandeliers. Here they come, the Dancing Books. Perched atop sexy legs, like the old Chesterfield TV ads, tap-dancing their way down to center stage, then into the audience where I sit enraptured, front row center. Each book kisses me gently on my forehead as it imparts its story to my mind and heart. Little Women. Marjorie Morningstar. Catch-22. Madame Bovary. To Kill a Mockingbird. Bonjour Tristesse. The Catcher in the Rye. Breakfast at Tiffany's. East of Eden.
On and on they come.
I keep saying
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