Play Dead
Page 18
“I know.” She wiped her face with her sleeve. “I’m glad Earl is going to do a eulogy. And I’m glad you two are together.”
“We’re not together,” Serita stressed, “only fucking.”
Laura forced out a chuckle. “Wonderful.”
Serita was the best friend Laura had with the exception of her sister, Gloria, if you wanted to count a sister as a friend. Laura had befriended very few models during her magazine-cover days. This was not because of the ridiculous stereotype that models are dumb. They’re not. Actually, they’re a rather crafty and intelligent group. But sometimes their self-image got in the way of uncovering the real them. Plus, with Laura being unquestionably the world’s number one model, many of the other women were somewhat jealous of her. And jealousy was an emotion Laura doubted Serita had ever experienced.
Today, the city of Boston was dedicating a bronze statue to David to be placed in Faneuil Hall, near Clip Arnstein’s own likeness. Clip was the Celtic’s seventy- year-old president, a man David had both loved and respected. He, along with the mayor of Boston, Senator Ted Kennedy (a man David had never cared much for), Earl, and Timmy Daniels, another Celtic teammate, was going to eulogize her husband.
The work on the statue had been started months ago but for a whole different purpose. Originally, it was to be placed in a small playground at a school for handicapped children in honor of David’s work. Now it had been speedily completed and moved to Faneuil Hall to stand in memory of his premature death. Laura sighed. She could not help but think that David would have preferred to keep the statue in the small playground.
After the dedication, there would be a private burial. Burial. Funeral. Laura shook her head as Serita led her into the bathroom. She heard Serita turn on the water.
“Go on. Get in there.”
Laura stepped into the shower, the water cascading over her naked body.
Don’t make me go to some service, Serita. There’s no reason really. You see, David is not dead. It’s all a lie. David is just fine. I know he is. He promised he would never leave me. He promised that we would be together forever. And David never broke a promise. You know that. So you see, he can’t be dead. He can’t be dead. He can’t be. . . .
Her body slowly slid down the shower’s tile wall until she lay huddled in the corner of the stall. Then she placed her hands over her face and cried.
THE surgeon looked at the clock on the far wall.
Four forty-five a.m.
He took a deep breath and continued stitching. A few minutes later, the wounds were all closed.
Six hours of surgery.
The surgeon walked out of the makeshift surgery room, untied his mask, and let it fall onto his chest. He approached his friend and business associate. The surgeon noticed that his friend was much more nervous this time than usual.
But that was understandable.
“How did it go?” the man asked the surgeon.
“No complications.”
The man seemed very relieved. “I owe you one, Hank.”
“Wait until you get my bill.”
The man chuckled nervously at the joke. “What now?”
“The usual. Don’t let him do anything for at least two weeks. I’ll check in on him then.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll leave a nurse with him.”
“But—”
“She’s done this type of thing before. She can be trusted.”
“This is a little different, don’t you think?”
The surgeon had to agree. This was most definitely different. “I assure you she can be trusted. She’s been with me for years. Besides, he has to have a nurse.”
The man thought for a moment. “I guess you’re right. Is there anything else?”
A million questions swirled through the surgeon’s head but he had been in this business long enough to know that the answers to such questions could be dangerous. Even fatal.
He shook his head. “I’ll see you in two weeks.”
4
JUDY Simmons, Laura’s aunt, was packing for the trip to Boston when the phone rang.
David is dead, Judy. Pretend all you want but you’re to blame. . . .
She closed her eyes, struggling to shove the cruel voice away, but the accusations continued to echo across her mind.
You could have stopped it, Judy, but now it’s too late. David is dead and it’s your fault. . . .
She refused to listen anymore. Judy had recently turned forty-nine, lived alone, had always lived alone, had never wanted to live alone. It wasn’t her fault. It was just that when it came to men she had the luck of Wile E. Coyote chasing the Road Runner. To be more precise, her relationships with the opposite sex ended up being disasters of Hindenburg-like proportions. Though she wasn’t any great beauty like her sister, Mary, she was attractive enough by most standards. Her face was pretty, if somewhat plain, and she had a very nice figure. Her most noticeable feature was her auburn hair, which she wore shoulder-length. Men had always liked her. The problem was that for some reason she always attracted the wrong kind of men.
That isn’t exactly true. I almost had the best. Twice.
But that was a long time ago. Best forgotten. Besides, she was happy enough. She was an English professor at Colgate University, and while the winters got cold, she liked the small community lifestyle. She was content, satisfied. . . .
Bored.
Maybe. But a little boredom was not always such a bad thing. Right now, she hoped for boredom, begged for it. She wanted no new surprises.
Her poor beautiful niece. Such an awful thing to have happen to Laura. But perhaps it was divine intervention, Judy thought, though it was strange for a woman who was in no way religious, for a woman who had always despised those “comforting” words that glossed over tragedy as “God’s will,” to have such thoughts.
But maybe that’s what it was. God’s will. Please let that be what it was. David’s death had to be God’s will. Or some bizarre, tragic coincidence. Or . . .
The alternative was too horrifying to even consider. She placed her heavy sweater in the Samsonite as the phone rang again. Her hand reached for the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Judy?”
It was her sister. “Hello, Mary. How are you feeling?”
Tears were her answer. “Awful,” Mary said. “Laura still won’t talk to me. She hates me, Judy. I don’t know what to do.”
“Give her some time.”
“She’ll always hate me. I know it.”
“We’re not together,” Serita stressed, “only fucking.”
Laura forced out a chuckle. “Wonderful.”
Serita was the best friend Laura had with the exception of her sister, Gloria, if you wanted to count a sister as a friend. Laura had befriended very few models during her magazine-cover days. This was not because of the ridiculous stereotype that models are dumb. They’re not. Actually, they’re a rather crafty and intelligent group. But sometimes their self-image got in the way of uncovering the real them. Plus, with Laura being unquestionably the world’s number one model, many of the other women were somewhat jealous of her. And jealousy was an emotion Laura doubted Serita had ever experienced.
Today, the city of Boston was dedicating a bronze statue to David to be placed in Faneuil Hall, near Clip Arnstein’s own likeness. Clip was the Celtic’s seventy- year-old president, a man David had both loved and respected. He, along with the mayor of Boston, Senator Ted Kennedy (a man David had never cared much for), Earl, and Timmy Daniels, another Celtic teammate, was going to eulogize her husband.
The work on the statue had been started months ago but for a whole different purpose. Originally, it was to be placed in a small playground at a school for handicapped children in honor of David’s work. Now it had been speedily completed and moved to Faneuil Hall to stand in memory of his premature death. Laura sighed. She could not help but think that David would have preferred to keep the statue in the small playground.
After the dedication, there would be a private burial. Burial. Funeral. Laura shook her head as Serita led her into the bathroom. She heard Serita turn on the water.
“Go on. Get in there.”
Laura stepped into the shower, the water cascading over her naked body.
Don’t make me go to some service, Serita. There’s no reason really. You see, David is not dead. It’s all a lie. David is just fine. I know he is. He promised he would never leave me. He promised that we would be together forever. And David never broke a promise. You know that. So you see, he can’t be dead. He can’t be dead. He can’t be. . . .
Her body slowly slid down the shower’s tile wall until she lay huddled in the corner of the stall. Then she placed her hands over her face and cried.
THE surgeon looked at the clock on the far wall.
Four forty-five a.m.
He took a deep breath and continued stitching. A few minutes later, the wounds were all closed.
Six hours of surgery.
The surgeon walked out of the makeshift surgery room, untied his mask, and let it fall onto his chest. He approached his friend and business associate. The surgeon noticed that his friend was much more nervous this time than usual.
But that was understandable.
“How did it go?” the man asked the surgeon.
“No complications.”
The man seemed very relieved. “I owe you one, Hank.”
“Wait until you get my bill.”
The man chuckled nervously at the joke. “What now?”
“The usual. Don’t let him do anything for at least two weeks. I’ll check in on him then.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll leave a nurse with him.”
“But—”
“She’s done this type of thing before. She can be trusted.”
“This is a little different, don’t you think?”
The surgeon had to agree. This was most definitely different. “I assure you she can be trusted. She’s been with me for years. Besides, he has to have a nurse.”
The man thought for a moment. “I guess you’re right. Is there anything else?”
A million questions swirled through the surgeon’s head but he had been in this business long enough to know that the answers to such questions could be dangerous. Even fatal.
He shook his head. “I’ll see you in two weeks.”
4
JUDY Simmons, Laura’s aunt, was packing for the trip to Boston when the phone rang.
David is dead, Judy. Pretend all you want but you’re to blame. . . .
She closed her eyes, struggling to shove the cruel voice away, but the accusations continued to echo across her mind.
You could have stopped it, Judy, but now it’s too late. David is dead and it’s your fault. . . .
She refused to listen anymore. Judy had recently turned forty-nine, lived alone, had always lived alone, had never wanted to live alone. It wasn’t her fault. It was just that when it came to men she had the luck of Wile E. Coyote chasing the Road Runner. To be more precise, her relationships with the opposite sex ended up being disasters of Hindenburg-like proportions. Though she wasn’t any great beauty like her sister, Mary, she was attractive enough by most standards. Her face was pretty, if somewhat plain, and she had a very nice figure. Her most noticeable feature was her auburn hair, which she wore shoulder-length. Men had always liked her. The problem was that for some reason she always attracted the wrong kind of men.
That isn’t exactly true. I almost had the best. Twice.
But that was a long time ago. Best forgotten. Besides, she was happy enough. She was an English professor at Colgate University, and while the winters got cold, she liked the small community lifestyle. She was content, satisfied. . . .
Bored.
Maybe. But a little boredom was not always such a bad thing. Right now, she hoped for boredom, begged for it. She wanted no new surprises.
Her poor beautiful niece. Such an awful thing to have happen to Laura. But perhaps it was divine intervention, Judy thought, though it was strange for a woman who was in no way religious, for a woman who had always despised those “comforting” words that glossed over tragedy as “God’s will,” to have such thoughts.
But maybe that’s what it was. God’s will. Please let that be what it was. David’s death had to be God’s will. Or some bizarre, tragic coincidence. Or . . .
The alternative was too horrifying to even consider. She placed her heavy sweater in the Samsonite as the phone rang again. Her hand reached for the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Judy?”
It was her sister. “Hello, Mary. How are you feeling?”
Tears were her answer. “Awful,” Mary said. “Laura still won’t talk to me. She hates me, Judy. I don’t know what to do.”
“Give her some time.”
“She’ll always hate me. I know it.”
