Clyde made soothing noises while he patted her hand. "Irene, you're okay. It's fine now. I'm right here."
The look in her eyes was pleading, her voice reduced to a plaintive whisper. "It was Mother's tea set from when she was little… I wasn't supposed to play with it. I hid so I wouldn't get spanked and spanked. Why did she keep it?"
"I'm putting her to bed," he said. He eased one arm under her bent knees, put the other behind her, and lifted, not without some effort. He inched away from the coffee table, walking sideways till he was clear, and then he headed toward the stairs. Jermaine accompanied him, hovering close by to help steady the load.
I sank down on the couch and put my head in my hands. My heart rate was beginning to return to normal, no mean feat given the rush of adrenaline I'd experienced. Other people's fear is contagious, a phenomenon magnified by proximity, which is why horror movies are so potent in a crowded theater. I smelled death, some terrifying experience neither Irene nor Agnes could deal with all these years afterward. I could only guess at the dimensions of the event. Now that Agnes was dead, I doubted the reality would ever be resurrected.
I stirred restlessly, glancing at my watch. I'd been here only thirty minutes. Surely Dietz would return soon and get me the hell out of here. I leafed through a magazine that was sitting on the coffee table. At the back of the issue there was a whole month's worth of dinner menus laid out, totally nutritious, well-balanced meals for mere pennies a serving. The recipes sounded awful: lots of Tuna Surprise and Tofu Stir-Fry with Sweet n Sour Sauce. I set the magazine aside. Idly, I picked up the halves of the teacup, rewrapped them in newspaper, and tucked them back in the box. I got up and crossed the room, setting the box by the door. No point in having Irene face that again. Later, if she was interested, I could always bring it back. I looked up to find Clyde coming wearily down the stairs.
21
He looked like a zombie. I followed as he crossed to one of two matching wing chairs and took a seat. He rubbed his eyes, then pinched the bridge of his nose. His dress shirt was wrinkled, the tiny blue pinstripe stained with sweat at the armpits. "I gave her a Valium. Jermaine said she'd stay with her until she goes to sleep."
I stayed on my feet, clinging to whatever psychological advantage I had in towering over him. "What's going on, Clyde? I've never seen anyone react like that."
"Irene's a sick cookie. She has been ever since we met." He snorted to himself. "God… I used to think there was something charming about her helplessness…"
"This goes way beyond helpless. That woman's terrified. So was Agnes."
"It's always been like that. She's phobic about everything-closed spaces, spiders, dust. You know what she's afraid of? The hook and eye on a door. She's afraid of African violets. Jesus, violets. And it just gets worse. She suffers from allergies, depression, hypochondria. She's half dead from fear and probably hooked on all the prescription drugs she takes. I've taken her to every kind of doctor you can name and they all throw up their hands. The shrinks love to see her coming, but then they lose interest when the old voodoo doesn't work. She doesn't want to get better. Trust me. She's hanging on to her symptoms for dear life. I try to have compassion, but all I feel is despair. My life is a nightmare, but what am I supposed to do? Divorce her? I can't do it. I couldn't live with myself if I did that. She's like a little kid. I thought when her mother died… I thought once Agnes was gone, she'd… improve. Like a curse being lifted. But it won't happen that way."
"Do you have any idea what it is?"
He shook his head. He had the hopeless air of a rat being badgered by a cat.
"What about her father? Could this be connected to him? She says he died in the war…"
"Your guess is as good as mine," he said, smiling wistfully. "Irene probably married me because of him…"
"Wanting a father?"
"Oh sure. Wanting everything-comfort, protection, security. You know what I want? I want to live one week without drama… seven days without tears and uproar and dependency and neediness, without all the juice being drained right out of me." He shook his head again. "Not going to happen in my lifetime. It's not going to happen in hers either. I might as well blow my brains out and be done with it."
"She must have suffered some kind of childhood trauma-"
"Oh, who gives a damn? Forty years ago? You're never going to get to the bottom of it and if you did, what difference would it make? She is who she is and I'm stuck."