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Chapter 30
October 2004
Guest in the
House wasn't just a
bad play. It was an exceedingly awful piece of theatre. The very
dated plot involved the neurotic cousin of a housewife happily
married to a painter. This disturbed hypochondriac named Evelyn,
who on the outside appeared so virginal that sugar wouldn't melt
in her mouth, actually wanted the painter for herself and tried
to break up his marriage and alienate their young daughter. When
it became apparent that the painter's marriage was too strong
for Evelyn, she set her sights on the painter's innocent brother.
The wife, knowing that her cousin suffered from ornithophobia
- a fear of birds - solved the problem by releasing her canary,
which frightened Evelyn into such a state that she had a fatal
heart attack. Fatal Attraction made more sense than this
dreck - not melodramatic enough to be funny or scary enough to
be enjoyable.
Why would a perfectly
good community theater produce this play?
Reginald de Courcy
thought he had the answer. He changed the setting of the play
to some period of time in the future, after "some enormous
catastrophe," when sexual mores would be similar to that
of the Victorian era. The bird became a robot parrot. Think Wuthering
Heights with laser beams.
Emma Katz didn't
care that the play was terrible. De Courcy thought it was genius,
the actors were having fun, and she was able to get out of the
house. There wasn't a whole lot for her to do as stage manager,
as de Courcy was running around everywhere backstage. The lighting
technician had threatened to quit if the director stepped into
the light booth again - it seemed he almost blew up the control
board.
So Emma spent a
great deal of time sitting backstage near the Green Room with
the actors. They were interesting people, especially Frank Church.
His part - the impressionable brother, Dan Proctor - only appeared
at the beginning and end of the play, so he didn't have much
to do. He usually found a place near Emma, and the two had fun
laughing over de Courcy's latest foible.
The show ran for
two weekends. On the last Thursday night of the run, the two
were sitting together as usual.
"Two more performances,"
sighed Frank.
"Last one for
me," Emma remarked. "You're on your own tomorrow and
Saturday."
"You are
coming to the wrap party, right?"
Emma shook her head.
"I wish I could, but my husband's family is coming in."
"Too bad."
They sat in silence, listening to the dialog on stage. "How
come you're not on stage?"
"I can't act."
Her hands stroked her jeans; like her top, it was black.
He leaned over.
"You'd make a better model than Julia." The girl playing
Miriam, the nude model, spent the entire play in a bathrobe.
"Frank!"
she pretended to be affronted, but secretly Emma was flattered.
"Just kidding,"
he said. "But I am sorry that we don't have a better play
for your set. Maybe next time?"
"I…I don't
know. I hate to leave my father all alone so much."
"Aww, c'mon,
Em, we can't lose you now! The theater needs you!"
Emma was flustered.
"I'll think about it."
He leaned over.
"I'm thinking about directing, myself."
"Really? What
play?"
"I'd like to
do Same Time Next Year."
"Oh."
It was a play about long-time lovers, who only got together once
a year, throughout their marriages to other people.
"I'd like you
to design the set. Maybe even be in it."
"Frank, I said
I don't act."
"I think you
can - if you have the right director." He looked deeply
into her eyes.
"I…I don't
know."
"Emma, I know
I can do it. I know I can get the passion out of you…for
the stage."
Emma looked at him.
Suddenly, they were
interrupted. "Emma!" de Courcy hissed. "I need
your help!"
She shrugged at
Frank. "Duty calls. Later."
Frank forestalled
her. "Let's have coffee soon. Talk about it."
Emma hesitated.
"All right." She got up to see what problem the director
had gotten himself into, Frank's eyes following her as she walked
away.
It would be an understatement
to say that Frank Church liked women. He adored women.
It was his goal in life to experience them all. Women came in
so many agreeable shapes, sizes, colors, and textures. He just
had to sample them all - or at least as many as he could. The
only problem was that many of them couldn't understand his need
to experience all that womanhood could provide. They wanted commitment.
Ugh, what an ugly term! The last thing Frank wanted was to settle
into a boring life of monogamy.
Since reaching puberty,
Frank had spent his life pursuing and bedding women. As a salesman,
he had the perfect occupation for his avocation. He quickly learned
that single secretaries were not good hunting. Oh, they
were as amenable to seduction as the next girl, but when lust
turned to love, it could be damn sticky. Nothing could derail
a sales career faster than a pissed-off secretary, as they were
often the gatekeeper to the customer's decision maker.
Married women -
bored, ignored, frustrated, lovelorn wives and mothers with workaholic
husbands - were the ticket. The trouble was where to find them.
Married secretaries were not much better than single ones. Dipping
in the customers' pool was out. It was career suicide to go after
co-workers. That left females not associated with his job.
Bars were happy
hunting grounds, except for two things. One: Women who hang out
in bars do so because they like bars - and drinking. Contrary
to popular belief, a drunk woman is a lousy lay. And two: Bars
were very public. Someone was sure to see you. More often
than not, husbands would be notified - a bad scene all around.
Therefore, the best
places to hunt were places husbands tended to avoid: health clubs,
grocery stores, and shopping malls. A couple of years ago Frank
found the best spots - artistic places, such as art classes and
community theater. He could always find a ready supply of ladies
who fit his bill: lonely, unappreciated, and possessed of a slightly
adventurous spirit. His affairs would last the run of the class
or production, his skill and practice keeping his paramours enthralled
until they parted, the ladies with a secret to hold in their
hearts.
Usually, Frank chose
mothers. They were the least likely to become romantically involved.
Not that it didn't happen. But when faced with the choice of
latching onto Frank or keeping their children, the kids won every
time. A bitter farewell and a tear-stained kiss, and he was free
again.
It must be understood
that Frank didn't see himself as a seducer or home-wrecker. In
his mind, he was providing a service to neglected ladies. And
the last thing he wanted was to break-up a marriage - he certainly
didn't want some divorcée trying to hogtie him into a
committed relationship with her brats and baggage.
Emma fit all his
particulars, except that she had no children. But her dedication
to her father- she would never leave him - made up for that as
did her unbelievable body. Frank had always been a breast man.
That Daddy lived at home could be an obstacle. Frank preferred
to have his assignations in the lady's house - the less they
knew about him, the harder it would be for them to track him
down in case it went bad. But Frank was willing to make an exception
in Emma's case, if it meant he would have the enjoyment of her
abundant charms.
Frank's compliments
and conversation were making progress, he could see. He would
call her the next week for coffee and turn on the charm. He smiled.
She was ripe for the taking. As long as her stupid husband kept
doing whatever stupid thing he was doing, it was only a matter
of time before the lovely Mrs. Katz was sharing his bed.
~*~*~
Special Agent David
Baugham of the New Orleans FBI office sat down with the chief
forensics investigator, Kathy Taylor, reviewing the report of
the Naquin murder, and the CSI-type was excited.
"And this guy
thought he was clever, using gloves," she was saying, "but
we thought about it. What if it wasn't a Colombian smugger who
offed Naquin, as it appears? What if Pyke wasn't alone? Did he
meet Pyke somewhere and ride down to Port Fouchon with the Bayliner
in tow? He wouldn't be wearing gloves then. What would he touch?
"So, I had
my people go over the passenger side of Pyke's truck thoroughly.
Not too many clear prints, but we found a couple of partials."
Baugham thought
the scientist's grin was excessive for a couple of partials.
"And…?" he prompted.
The grin turned
into a wide smile. "And…a full set on a plastic Mountain
Dew bottle on the passenger floorboard. We got a hit on IAFIS."
She slid over the report and Baugham picked it up.
"Wickham, Gregory
Allen. A/K/A G-Daddy. Drug dealer. That name…" Baugham
searched through his file. "Yeah, here it is. Greg Wickham
- on the list of known associates of Pyke." He looked at
the investigator. "Anything else?"
Taylor shrugged.
"No. No other useable prints in the truck. Nothing on the
trailer left at Fouchon, or on the murder weapon found in Naquin's
car. The only thing we could get off what was left of the Bayliner
cabin cruiser were the dental impressions from the victims."
"What about
the cigarette boat?"
"Lots of unknown
prints - the Colombians, we think. We're waiting for a report
from Interpol. But, the prints on the wheel and that anti-thief
device were smeared, like in the truck."
"Gloves again?"
"I'd say so.
Wouldn't hold up in court, though."
Baugham sat back,
considering. "I like Wickham for this. It makes sense."
He leaned forward and ticked off the points with his fingers.
"Naquin's blown away execution-style. Looks like the Colombians
got mad at him and blew him away. But why were they mad at him?
How did they know his schedule? Why use Pyke's truck, and why
abandon it ten miles from the nearest port? And how do they get
out of the country if they sent their boat into the Gulf without
them? No, it looks more and more like a set-up."
"What if they
were picked up by another boat?" asked Taylor.
"Still doesn't
explain the cigarette boat." Baugham sat back. "Our
boy might have gotten away with it if he had sunk the cigarette
boat instead of sending it unmanned into the Gulf. That little
bit of theater is gonna hang him."
"How do you
think it went down?"
"Pyke and Mr.
Unknown - could be Wickham, here - go to meet their connection
offshore of Port Fouchon. Something happens and everybody's dead,
except Unknown. He gets the bright idea to go into business for
himself, maybe. Whatever it is, he knows the Colombians don't
take kindly to having their people killed. So he tries to confuse
everybody and makes it look like one of the Colombians ripped
everybody off."
"That's why
he killed Naquin," said Taylor. "He would have known
if Pyke had an accomplice."
"Yeah. I'll
bet you Unknown had a car parked somewhere near the bar in Golden
Meadow where he abandoned Pyke's truck." Baugham looked
at Wickham's rap sheet. "One problem, though. Wickham's
record is strictly non-violent."
"That's only
his arrest and conviction record. Maybe there're some things
the police know that's not in there?"
Baugham looked at
the investigator with affection. "Who do you think you are
- a special agent? Of course there's more stuff. There's always
more stuff. I'm going to have to make an appointment with…"
he scanned the report, "…Lt. Richard Fitzwilliam of
the NOPD."
~*~*~
Cafeteria lasagna
is generally edible, sometimes tasty, and seldom delicious. Chris
Breaux could hardly tell, for his attention was solely on the
beautiful woman sharing lunch with him, talking a mile a minute.
"…and
so Mom was looking at this magazine at the hairdressers and saw
these bridesmaid dresses. So she calls me right up - while she's
having her hair colored - telling me to go find this magazine.
Hello! It's like six months old! So you know what she tells me
to do? Go to the library! Can you believe that?"
Chris grinned stupidly.
"Believe what?"
Marianne frowned.
"Have you heard a single thing I've said?"
"No."
Her eyes narrowed.
"I would get mad at you, but since you look so adorable,
I'll let it go - this time." She took a bite out of the
collection of greens she selected from her employer's cafeteria
salad bar. "So, what's up with the rest of your day?"
"No appointments,
just my rounds. Friday's gonna be a real ball-buster, though."
Marianne looked
up. "Are we still going to Lafayette to meet with the priest?"
He reached over
for his fiancée's left hand and gave the engagement ring
a kiss. "Right after my last appointment. Mom's already
making the shrimp etouffee."
"Mmm…thanks
for telling me that, Cajun-man. Now I'm really gonna enjoy
my salad." She stuck out her tongue.
"Keep that
up, and I won't tell you about our sleeping arrangements."
Mari raised her
eyebrows. "Chris, I am sharing a room with you on
this trip, aren't I?"
"What - and
shock my parents?" Chris knew his mother had already redecorated
his old room, to add a more feminine flair, but he decided to
keep that a surprise.
"Chris!"
He laughed. "Don't
worry, baby, you'll be bunking with me."
She smiled.
"But - that's
it. We are meeting with the priest, after all."
"Oh, poo!"
A half-hour later,
the two shared a kiss by the bank of elevators and went in opposite
directions. It was a glorious October day, rare for Louisiana
- temperatures in the sixties with almost no humidity. Chris
decided on a cup of coffee before he walked back to the LSU Medical
Center, so he crossed Poydras Street and made his way to a little
French coffee shop on St. Charles across from Lafayette Square
near the Federal Court Building. He walked in, intending to grab
a coffee to go, when his eyes fell on a familiar figure.
"Emma?"
His friend whirled
around at the sound of his voice, her expertly made-up face flushed.
She was in a dark green cashmere sweater set, the blouse low-cut,
and stonewashed jeans. It was only then Chris noticed the man
in the suit sitting across the small table from her. Chris moved
over to them, curious as to the horrified expression on Emma's
face.
Emma leapt to her
feet. "Chris! How wonderful to see you! You're downtown
today?"
Chris nodded. "Just
had lunch with Mari." He kissed Emma's cheek, but his eyes
were on the stranger. The man's face had gone pale when he greeted
them, but now was blushing red. What the hell is going on?
"Umm…let
me introduce my friend." She turned to the other man. "This
is Frank Church. He's a salesman from…from…"
Frank stuck out
his hand. "Arc Tools."
"Yes,"
Emma said weakly. "Frank, this is Dr. Chris Breaux."
"Nice to meet
you, Frank," Chris said with false sincerity. He was starting
to get a clue.
"Frank and
I do community theater together," Emma explained.
Frank jumped in.
"Yes! We were meeting about our next production, to see
if she'll design the sets. Maybe even act."
Chris nodded. "I
heard you were doing that again, Emma. First time since college?"
"Yes."
Her smile was brittle, and she tried to stop wringing her hands.
Frank glanced at
his watch. "Well, I've got to go. Got an appointment in
a few minutes. Nice to meet you, Chris. Emma, I'll…uhh…get
back to you on the design."
"Right."
She pointedly shook his hand. "Goodbye, Frank." He
gave a fake smile and left the café in a rather hurried
fashion.
Emma looked around.
"Well, Chris, it was good to see you…"
"Emma."
She looked up and
was held in Chris' deep stare.
"How are you?"
"Fine."
Chris nodded. "C'mon,
I've got a couple of minutes. Let's sit down and catch up."
"I…I've
got to go," she said as she picked up her purse.
"Just a couple
of minutes."
Emma reluctantly
joined him at the table. "Just a few."
Chris looked at
her, considering. "How's George?" Her flush of guilt
told him everything he needed to know.
"He's good.
We're all good."
"And Abe? How's
that working out for you?"
"Chris…I…I
don't know what you mean. Abe's fine. He's got a clean bill of
health."
Chris glanced out
the window. "It's hard having him share your home, though."
She shook her head.
"Chris, no - everything's fine."
He turned back to
her. "Emma, you know and I know it's not."
"Chris, I don't
want to have this conversation."
He leaned back.
"That's your prerogative. I can walk right out of here like
I never saw anything. But if anybody asks me any questions, I'm
going to have to tell them the truth." He paused as Emma
blanched. "I saw you having coffee in a downtown café
with a male friend from the theater. Anything secret about that?"
Emma looked away.
"Nothing. It's perfectly innocent."
"Right."
His eyes bore right into her.
"Stop that!"
she whispered.
"Stop what?"
"Stop staring
at me!"
"You think
I'm staring at you, Em?" His expression softened as his
heart broke.
"Please just
leave me alone."
"Is that what
you really want?" He took her hand. "I'm your friend.
I'm trying to help. Just hear me out." He lowered his voice.
"Emma, you can blow me off or tell me to get lost, but I
think you're in trouble here. I can help, but you've got to be
honest with me."
Emma tried to look
up, to answer him, but her voice broke. She covered her face
with her hands as she cried.
Chris patted her
hand. "Em, Em, I'm here for you. Stay right here - I'll
be back." He rose and walked over to the counter.
"What's wrong
with the lady?" the barista asked.
"She got some
bad news. Give me a large dark roast and a glass of water, please?"
A minute later, he had returned to the table. By then, Emma had
gotten her tears under control. She gratefully drank the water
as Chris sipped his coffee. "Better?" he asked.
She nodded.
"Look, do you
want to talk about it?"
Emma bit her lip.
"I'm so ashamed."
Chris' gut twisted,
but he didn't change his open expression. "I'll listen.
As a professional. No judgment. Just between us."
She looked at the
table. "What about George?"
"It's different
now. Doctor-patient confidentially."
She closed her eyes.
"All right." Her voice was very small.
Chris looked around.
"It's a nice day. What say we grab a bench in the park and
talk?"
She nodded, glad
that someone was taking the lead. Chris tossed a dollar tip on
the table and walked his friend out of the café and across
the street. Sitting her down on a shady park bench, he called
his office, canceling his rounds.
"You won't
get into trouble staying here with me?" Emma asked.
"It's cool
- they'll get somebody to cover. Told 'em it was an emergency."
He leaned back. "So."
"So."
"How are things?
Really?"
Emma drew a deep
breath and told him.
~*~*~
Chris, his elbows
on his knees, watched the birds dance about the grass of Lafayette
Square with envy. Look at them - no worries, no cares. Just
looking for the next worm or crumb. There's something to be said
for that.
The lady beside
him was drying her eyes. "You haven't said anything."
He glanced at her.
"I didn't want to interrupt you. How do you feel?"
"Lousy."
Chris nodded. "Anything
else?"
Emma sighed. "Relieved,
actually."
"Mmm-hmm."
"You knew that,
didn't you?"
"It can be
a great release, talking about things." He leaned back.
"I went to school and paid thousands of dollars to learn
that. Oh, and the ability to prescribe drugs."
She gave a snort.
"Got any for me? I could use something right now."
Chris laughed. "No,
nothing pharmaceutical. But, I do have some advice." He
sobered up. "Want to hear it?"
She nodded.
"You need to
talk to somebody. Somebody who can help you through all this."
"I thought
you…"
"No, Em, not
me. I'm too close." He smiled. "I told you - I'm your
friend."
"Who, then?"
"I can give
you a couple of names of some good therapists, or you could go
see your rabbi."
She nodded. "Let
me think about it."
"Okay. But,
Em, I gotta tell you that no matter how strong you are, you need
help. This thing is breaking your back. Look, it's like your
car. When it's running right, all you need to do is to fill the
tank and check the oil. But, eventually, something's gonna break,
and it's got to go to a mechanic."
She thought about
that. "Not everybody's head breaks, though."
"Not everybody's
transmission goes, either. Wishing it was your tires won't fix
it, will it?"
Emma paused. "No,"
she admitted.
"Besides, it's
not your head, Emma. It's your soul. You've had a lot thrown
on you. You just need somebody to help you."
"Help me learn
how to cope?"
"Yes - and
learn how to get rid of some of the burden you're carrying."
She looked at him,
for the first time hope showing on her face.
"You've been
doing too much, Emma. It's time you let go of some of that."
"But…but
Papa…George…"
He patted her shoulder.
"Talking to someone is only a first step, Em. There are
going to be more and by other people."
"Other people?"
"Yes. Abe,
if he's willing. Definitely George."
She shook her head.
"Papa won't do anything. George - I don't know."
"You may have
to help."
She turned to him.
"How can I help George? I can't talk to him about this!"
"Do you love
him? Do you want to stay married to him?"
"Of course!"
she said with passion. It suddenly occurred to her - she did
want to stay married to George - very much.
"Then you'll
have to help him, Em. But you can't do that right now. You have
to help yourself first."
She nodded. "I
understand." She thought it over. "I'll go talk to
the rabbi."
Chris released a
breath. "Good. If you have any questions, call me. Anytime
- day or night."
"Day or night?"
Her dull eyes showed a ghost of a twinkle. "You sure Mari
would approve of that?"
He laughed again.
"Weeelll…maybe not too late. C'mon, it's time
you got home, and I've got to get back to work." The couple
rose, and Chris walked Emma to her car.
She gave him a kiss
on the cheek before she got into the Volvo. "Thank you,
Chris, for everything. For…not judging me. For understanding."
"Call me if
you need me."
She nodded, closed
her door, and drove off. Chris began walking the ten blocks back
to the LSU Medical Center, the bounce in his step noticeably
missing. Yes, talking things out with a therapist can be a relieving
experience. It can lift crushing burdens from the subject's shoulders.
The only trouble
was sometimes it got transferred to the therapist. There was
a good reason not to treat your friends. Sometimes you learn
stuff you wish you hadn't. And then you have to get it out of
your head, somehow.
An occupational
hazard of his profession was the difficulty practitioners experienced
handling their portion of the grief, delusions, and anger pulled
or poured out of their subjects. Some turned to alcohol and other
mind-numbing substances in an effort to drown the burden of knowing.
Others wrote, painted, or exercised extensively.
As Chris Breaux
began his abbreviated rounds in the psych ward of LSU's Charity
Hospital, he was already planning his own treatment for management
of too much information.
~*~*~
The house was quiet
when Emma returned home. Apparently, Abe was taking a nap. She
took immediate advantage of the situation and sought the sanctuary
of her bedroom.
Emma lay on the
bed, a pillow clutched to her midsection, fighting the shame
that threatened to overwhelm her. She tried to tell herself that
her meeting with Frank that day was innocent - just some harmless
flirtation. But deep inside, she felt that she was fooling herself.
She had picked downtown, rather than Lakeview, because the chances
of anyone she knew seeing her there was low. She was coming to
the realization that she had no idea where today's meeting would
have led, but it couldn't have been good.
If Chris hadn't
come across us, would I have…? She couldn't finish the thought.
Glancing at her
bedside table, her eyes fell on a photo from her wedding day.
She and George looked so happy. What had happened? Could she
ever feel that way again?
She sat up and reached
inside a drawer in her nightstand for a telephone book. A minute
later, she was dialing.
"Hello. May
I speak to Rabbi Tuckmann? Thank you, I'll hold."
~*~*~
George grinned as
he pulled his car into the driveway. Two procedures had been
postponed, so he took the opportunity to come home and surprise
Emma. Walking through the house, though, he saw no sign of her.
"Abe, where's
Emma?" he asked his father-in-law.
The older man peered
at him from his recliner. "Don't know. Haven't seen her
all day."
"She leave?"
George was confused, as his wife's Volvo was in the garage.
"Yeah, around
lunch. I didn't see her come back, but I took a nap earlier.
Maybe she's in her bedroom."
George turned. "Okay."
"Ask her about
dinner, huh?" Abe told his son-in-law's retreating back.
George opened the
door to the sight of his wife asleep on the bed, the comforter
pulled about her. He silently closed the door and quietly moved
to her side of the bed. He sat down and stroked her cheek. Emma
awoke with a start, her eyes wide in surprise.
"Hey,"
George said. "I got off early."
"Oh,"
was all she could manage.
"I thought
we could go out to dinner somewhere."
"Oh."
George started to
get a little apprehensive. He thought she was tired. Was she
ill? "Em, honey, are you all right?"
The undisguised
concern in George's voice set off Emma's waterworks. Sitting
up quickly, she embraced her husband and hid her tears. "I
will be. I will be."
~*~*~
Marianne was just
turning on the oven in her kitchen when the doorbell rang. She
quickly walked to the door, and before unlocking the deadbolt,
peered through the peephole.
"Chris!"
She hastily opened the door. "Come in, sweetie. I didn't
know you were coming by."
"Hi. I'm not
bothering you, am I?"
"Of course
not! I was just getting dinner ready."
"Oh. I'm sorry…"
"Chris, get
your butt in here!" She escorted her fiancé to the
sofa in the living room and sat down next to him. "I'm glad
to see you, sugar, but why didn't you call?"
"Sorry, I guess
my brain's not working."
She scooted over.
"Honey, what's wrong?"
He sighed. There
was so much he wanted to unload, but couldn't - not without violating
the confidentially of his patients. "Work. It was bad today."
Mari took her lover
in her arms. "Oh, baby, I'm sorry. What can I do to make
it better?"
Chris closed his
eyes and relaxed in her embrace. "You're doing it."
She kissed his temple.
"Then you stay right here."
"What about
your dinner?"
"I was just
getting ready to heat up a pizza. Want some?"
"Maybe later."
The two sat in silence,
Mari slowly caressing Chris' scalp. Finally, Chris spoke again.
"Mari, promise
me something. If I ever do something stupid like working too
long, or ignoring you, or taking you for granted, would you take
a two-by-four to my thick skull?"
Marianne knew Chris
was being serious. "Absolutely."
"Thank you."
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