I tried to talk to Charles but took care to stop short of speaking about the things that really scared me. I told him about the threatening visit, but not the dog.
“You’re overreacting again. This ex-husband of your sister’s sounds shallow and a little stupid. Even if he did actually do these things—trying to scare you, playing pranks and yelling … those are the things a little boy does. They’re childish. Doesn’t your sister have a few other ex-husbands? I don’t think there’s anything to worry about.”
I was of two minds about this reassurance. I was grateful, because I’d wanted to be reassured and he offered this; I was disgusted, because the reassurance felt so blind and dumb and cowardly, so far from the reality of Ricky Luhrmann at my door, whispering “Bitch” with white spittle at the corners of his mouth. Charles Helbrun III didn’t believe in evil. What good was he when it raised its head and hissed?
It’s a lonely thing to be the only person who sees what’s sitting coiled right in front of you. So one afternoon when Ruga Potts and I sat over a row of sample lipsticks to compare color and texture, I told her about Ricky Luhrmann’s visit. Also the meat and the dog. Ruga Potts had met Ricky Luhrmann on a couple of occasions when he’d come to the office to pick up Lilly. Ruga reacted with a shrug, like Charles Helbrun had done, but she had lived in places Charles Helbrun had only read about in the newspaper. “That kind of man,” she said, “you try to ignore him he just comes back and lines your family outside your front door and shoots them. He only leaves you alive so you can tell others what he did. So he can poison their sleep as well as yours.”
I nodded. That was more like it.
LILLY AND BOPPIT
Are You Made for Fire or Ice?
“Look at this Revlon advertisement, Boppit. This ad launched a million nail polish sales. It’s the reason Be Your Best started to make money on the stuff.”
“I know that.”
We were looking at the “Fire and Ice” nail polish advertisement that changed the beauty business. There was a statuesque model in a skin-tight sequined dress, her gleaming nails fanned across her face and hip. A red cloak was gathered and draped through her arms and behind her shoulders, framing her. “That brilliant little quiz they included in the ad,” I went on. “Look at this woman, all lit up like a silver goddess with red talons: ‘Question one: Are you made for Fire and Ice? Question two: Would you rather have a cocktail with Mata Hari or tea with Florence Nightingale?’”
“Well, of course the correct responses are ‘Hand me that martini,’ and ‘Hello, Mata Hari,’” says Bop. “Did you know that Mata Hari was executed wearing a Creed suit?”
“The suit is not the point, Dog.”
“Oh, but it is. She was Mata Hari, in part, because she knew what a Creed suit could do for her waist and because she carefully chose her execution outfit. That, my dear, is class. But the real point is that glamour has always required a little touch of tramp. It’s why your ‘Fast Girl’ hot pink and ‘Vampy Red’ flew out the door. Every girl wants a little Pirate Lover in her life.”
“A little what?”
“You know. Like that book. Evil threatens; people experience sexual adventures, some of a very sordid nature; love triumphs. All that.”
“Damn book. She should never have stolen it.”
“It wasn’t really stealing. Mrs. Daniels knew she had it.”
“Really?”
“Mrs. Daniels is a woman who paid attention. Actually, she was charmed when she noticed the book was missing. She knew where it was.”
“This is all taking so long, Boppit. How are we supposed to get to Neave?”
“We think and think until we’ve got her clear in our mind. We concentrate. First she’ll be like a picture in a frame; then the picture will start to move so it feels like a movie; then it gets its real depth and heft, like a hallucination.”
“So it’s imaginary. Not true.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s the most true. We get her firmly in our minds. At first she’ll just feel us like a memory. Or a dream. We move closer. We concentrate. She thinks of us. We think of her. It’s only a matter of time before she sees us, and we’ll help her deal with her situation.”
“Which is very bad,” I said.
Mr. Boppit nodded. “It is.”
NEAVE
I Am Not Alone
Going back to Max Luhrmann made no sense, maybe, but it was what I did. He was in my head. Actually, his throat, the part of the throat just above the collarbone that shows when a shirt’s top button is open—that was in my head.
I found him sitting at his desk working something out with a slide rule. He went very still while he listened to my description of Ricky’s visit: the smashed plate, the spittle on the lips. He stayed still for a full two minutes, which is a long time if you’re sitting in front of somebody trying not to stare.
“He said it wasn’t over? That you’d regret it? He used those words?”
I nodded. “He said that women like me end up regretting the way we act.”
“Well, you wanted to find him so you could speak to him. Now you’ve spoken to him and you know how helpful talking to Ricky really is.”
“You hate him.”
“I wouldn’t use that word.”
“What words would you use?”
“Every choice I’ve made I’ve made because I thought that Ricky would not make it. It’s given him a strange power over my life. He’s shaped it because I made myself in direct opposition to him. We know each other so far under the skin that I feel a buzz in my scalp when he gets too close to me. Neave, trust me when I say that you don’t want him to show up at your apartment again. Don’t stay there alone. Reconsider moving in with your sister or your brother.”
I ran through this idea again. Again, I imagined Luhrmann arriving at Janey’s door, Annie answering his knock, Luhrmann smiling, the tiny girl alone there in the doorway with him for just a little window before anyone knew what was happening. I imagined Luhrmann at Snyder’s door, towering over my brother, pushing past him into his apartment or studio, driving him into a wall with the force of nothing but his own bulk. I said, “I’m not going to their houses.”
“Then you have to at least get harder to find. Take my offer to let you use the Rubber Duck. Don’t be alone nights. Sleep on board until this blows over.”
Things were not likely to blow over. The Ricky Luhrmanns of the world don’t lose interest and stroll away. They slither out of sight under an abandoned car or wood pile, and next thing you know they’re back, coiled in your bathroom sink when you go to get a glass of water in the middle of the night.
“Max, do you believe in evil?” I asked him.
He responded immediately, easily. “Of course I do.”
My response was as quick and artless as his had been. “Thank God,” I said.
Which made him laugh.