Still, death is a great teacher. It’s just too harsh.
I wish I could tell you that through the tragedy I mined some undiscovered, life-altering absolute that I could pass on to you. I didn’t. The clichés apply—people are what count, life is precious, materialism is overrated, the little things matter, live in the moment—and I can repeat them to you ad nauseam. You might listen, but you won’t internalize. Tragedy hammers it home. Tragedy etches it onto your soul. You might not be happier. But you will be better.
What makes this all the more ironic is that I’ve often wished that Elizabeth could see me now. Much as I’d like to, I don’t believe the dead watch over us or any similar comfort-fantasy we sell ourselves. I believe the dead are gone for good. But I can’t help but think: Perhaps now I am worthy of her.
A more religious man might wonder if that is why she’s returned.
Rebecca Schayes was a leading freelance photographer. Her work appeared in all the usual glossies, though strangely enough, she specialized in men. Professional athletes who agreed to appear on the cover of, for example, GQ often requested her to do the shoot. Rebecca liked to joke that she had a knack for male bodies due to “a lifetime of intense study.”
I found her studio on West Thirty-second Street, not far from Penn Station. The building was a buttugly semi-warehouse that reeked from the Central Park horse and buggies housed on the ground floor. I skipped the freight elevator and took the stairs.
Rebecca was hurrying down the corridor. Trailing her, a gaunt, black-clad assistant with reedy arms and pencil-sketch facial hair dragged two aluminum suitcases. Rebecca still had the unruly sabra locks, her fiery hair curling angrily and flowing freely. Her eyes were wide apart and green, and if she’d changed in the past eight years, I couldn’t see it.
She barely broke stride when she saw me. “It’s a bad time, Beck.”
“Tough,” I said.
“I got a shoot. Can we do this later?”
“No.”
She stopped, whispered something to the sulking black-clad assistant, and said, “Okay, follow me.”
Her studio had high ceilings and cement walls painted white. There were lots of lighting umbrellas and black screens and extension cords snaking everywhere. Rebecca fiddled with a film cartridge and pretended to be busy.
“Tell me about the car accident,” I said.
“I don’t get this, Beck.” She opened a canister, put it down, put the top back on, then opened it again. “We’ve barely spoken in, what, eight years? All of a sudden you get all obsessive about an old car accident?”
I crossed my arms and waited.
“Why, Beck? After all this time. Why do you want to know?”
“Tell me.”
She kept her eyes averted. The unruly hair fell over half her face, but she didn’t bother pushing it back. “I miss her,” she said. “And I miss you too.”
I didn’t reply to that.
“I called,” she said.
“I know.”
“I tried to stay in touch. I wanted to be there.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. And I was. Rebecca had been Elizabeth’s best friend. They’d shared an apartment near Washington Square Park before we got married. I should have returned her calls or invited her over or made some kind of effort. But I didn’t.
Grief can be inordinately selfish.
“Elizabeth told me that you two were in a minor car crash,” I went on. “It was her fault, she said. She took her eyes off the road. Is that true?”
“What possible difference does it make now?”
“It makes a difference.”
“How?”
“What are you afraid of, Rebecca?”
Now it was her time for silence.
“Was there an accident or not?”
Her shoulders slumped as though something internal had been severed. She took a few deep breaths and kept her face down. “I don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“She told me it was a car accident too.”
“But you weren’t there?”
“No. You were out of town, Beck. I came home one night, and Elizabeth was there. She was bruised up. I asked her what happened. She told me she’d been in a car accident and if anyone asked, we’d been in my car.”
“If anyone asked?”
Rebecca finally looked up. “I think she meant you, Beck.”
I tried to take this in. “So what really happened?”
“She wouldn’t say.”
“Did you take her to a doctor?”
“She wouldn’t let me.” Rebecca gave me a strange look. “I still don’t get it. Why are you asking me about this now?”
Tell no one.
“I’m just trying to get a little closure.”
She nodded, but she didn’t believe me. Neither one of us was a particularly adept liar.
“Did you take any pictures of her?” I asked.
“Pictures?”
“Of her injuries. After the accident.”
“God, no. Why would I do that?”
An awfully good question. I sat there and thought about it. I don’t know how long.
“Beck?”
“Yeah.”
“You look like hell.”
“You don’t,” I said.
“I’m in love.”
“It becomes you.”
“Thanks.”
“Is he a good guy?”
“The best.”
“Maybe he deserves you, then.”
“Maybe.” She leaned forward and kissed my cheek. It felt good, comforting. “Something happened, didn’t it?”
This time I opted for the truth. “I don’t know.”
13
Shauna and Hester Crimstein sat in Hester’s swanky midtown law office. Hester finished up her phone call and put the receiver back in the cradle.
“No one’s doing much talking,” Hester said.
“But they didn’t arrest him?”
“No. Not yet.”
“So what’s going on?” Shauna asked.
“Near as I can tell, they think Beck killed his wife.”
“That’s nuts,” Shauna said. “He was in the hospital, for crying out loud. That KillRoy loony tune is on death row.”
“Not for her murder,” the attorney replied.
“What?”
“Kellerton’s suspected of killing at least eighteen women. He confessed to fourteen, but they only had enough hard evidence to prosecute and convict him on twelve. That was enough. I mean, how many death sentences does one man need?”