“She may have taken her own life,” Paul says bluntly, and one of the studio crew members, out of sight, lets out a gasp. For Paul it echoes what must be a chorus of gasps in all the tuned-in living rooms and kitchens of the country. Paul feels it run through him like an electric current—crackling, unstoppable.
“I think she may have been…very ill. I’ve spoken to a trusted psychologist about this, as well as the police. Judith was assaulted and…injured in her home as a teenager. This may have festered in her until now and made her mind turn against her.”
“All these years later?” Don asks. Paul nods. He knows Malcolmand Detective Schuyler will be furious to hear him expounding on this on national TV, even if he’s withheld their names. But he goes on, carried on the current and the knowledge that the people out there, watching him, areriveted.
“So her death was…a suicide?” Don asks, so genuine now that the two men might be lounging in a café, having a private conversation. But Paul flinches at the word. He knows he’s all but said it himself, but he’s purposely avoided saying it. America doesn’t like that word,suicide; doesn’t Don know better? Paul backpedals.
“This is atheory, Don. I want to be clear on that. But it’s a strong one, backed by expert advice, and I felt obligated to share it with the public. It’s changed and deepened the way I look at her photographs, and I hope the same will be true for other people, for her fans. She has a lot of them, I know,” Paul says, smiling out at the viewers, reassuring them. Don nods but looks lost as he veers toward the wrap-up.
“Well, that’s certainly some shocking news we’ve had from Paul Sorenson, consulting curator of the upcoming Judith Stanley show at Doven Gallery here in New York City. That’s all the time we have for now. Paul, thank you for joining us.”
When the cameras stop rolling, Don leans toward Paul.
“Well, that should boost your attendance, shouldn’t it? Not to mention picture sales.” Paul can’t read his tone. Half impressed, half annoyed by the surprise? Not angry, though. He’s smiling, so Paul smiles back.
“Sorry you weren’t prepared for that. We had to keep it under wraps.”
Don waves this away.
“All the better. The higher-ups loved it, I’m sure. Great for ratings.” He shakes Paul’s hand briskly and then strides off the stage. Paul envies him, leaving this interview with his life unchanged. Paul rises shakily to his feet, feeling the pain in his chest return as he follows the maroon-suited girl, now grimly silent and unsmiling, to an exit. Outside in the cold, he tries to recapture the warmth he felt while connecting with his countless invisible and captivated viewers. He shivers; it’s vanished now—and he may have invented it anyway.
32.
Morning sunlight snakes through the blinds. When Paul blinks awake, he hears the telephone, ringing and ringing. He was dreaming of wandering through a ragged old house—a nightmare version of the Stanley home with the same furniture, the same blue carpeting—searching for Judith. There were signs of her everywhere: her Nikon sat on a side table, her winter coat hung limp in a closet above a pair of worn leather boots.She must have just left, he kept telling himself, turning in circles. But he couldn’t concentrate with that shrill ringing sound somewhere in the background—where was it coming from?
When he rises up on his elbows, the headache descends.
He went to a bar after leaving the studio and got smashed in its gloomy, welcoming darkness. The place was called…the Pig & Whistle? The Pot & Kettle? Something like that. The jolly bartender kept filling his cup, so by the time he stumbled out to the sidewalk at 2 a.m., he’d forgotten where he was, and all thoughts of what he’d said about Judith on television had long since gone sodden in his brain.
Once home, he fell into bed without remembering to unplug his telephone. He’s paying for it now as he reckons with the wrenching noise, his wrecked head, and the swift return of unwanted—if foggy—awareness. He wants silence and peace—only silence and peace!—but knows there can be none, not after yesterday. The phone’s endlessscreaming is the sound of his longed-for success. And, speaking of that, damn it all, the caller could be someone important. He groans and swings his legs out of bed, stumbles in his underwear to the phone.
“Hello,” he croaks, then clears his throat. He can’t sound like some hungover slouch.
“Fuck you, Paul Sorenson,” a woman’s voice hisses. “Fuck you and your lies about Judith Stanley.”
“Fuck you, too, you loony bitch!” Paul shouts, banging the receiver down. He almost said,Fuck you, too, Charlie, even though it didn’t sound like her. Even though he’s probably incited a whole mob against him after his TV appearance, and any of them—not just Charlie—could ring him up. He sighs and shuffles into the kitchen. He needs coffee and a cigarette. Coffee first. As he’s waiting for it to brew, he spots the day’s printed schedule Tasha gave him; it’s chock-full of interviews. Today’s task will be to rehash his suicide theory all over again, for one outlet after another. Though the first sips of coffee bring a jolt of energy, he still longs to hide in bed in the semi-dark until the whole day has passed.
The first thing he’ll do, after coffee, is call the telephone company and change his number.
33.
After a week of interviews and appearances—each more focused on the possible truth about Judith’s death than the last—Paul returns early one Friday evening, exhausted and profoundly relieved to be home. He’s so glad to have changed his telephone number. He’ll have silence tonight, after a day filled with noise—most of it coming from his own mouth. He drinks a cool glass of water from the tap, folds his suit over a bedroom chair, takes a hot shower, and slides into worn pajama pants and an old white T-shirt. He sits in his chair with his whiskey glass and a cigarette and feels like himself for the first time in days. Like the old Paul, the guy he was so eager to shuck off. Now he revisits the comforts of this former self—tartan plaid slippers, his view of the neighboring brick wall—and tries to sink back into them. Hide in them.
But it doesn’t quite work. He can’t fully relax, hard as he tries. Part of him remains rigidly observant, on alert to answer a question like,Why do you think Judith’s earlier trauma affected her the way it did?That was one he got today from aNew York Timesreporter, and he desperately wanted to answer with,I don’t fucking know, man.Maybe he should have. It would have been more honest. Instead, he theorized—bullshitted—for several minutes with the journalist staring at him as if he could see right through Paul’s skull to his squirming, scrambledbrain. Paul sighs, takes a long swallow of whiskey, and stares at a brown grocery bag bulging with letters by his dining room table.
Maybe this is another reason why he can’t relax: the letters. They’ve poured in since that first fateful television interview—in such great number that his landlord, Cyrus, collected the mail and left a note in his otherwise empty mailbox that said,See me. Paul expected to get a lecture from the old grump, but instead he greeted Paul with a painfully wide grin that bared his yellowed teeth and said,You’ve hit the big time now, ain’t ya?while licking his lips and handing over the bag. Paul didn’t answer; he wondered how much Cyrus knew. Had he seen the interview? Had he seen multiple interviews? And what did someone like Cyrus think about all of it—all the art world drama, the psychological intrigue? Maybe he didn’t think about it at all, Paul mused. Maybe he just saw his tenant, newly notorious, and the bright light of that revelation blotted out everything else.
Paul grabs the bag and reaches in for a handful of envelopes. He riffles through, his eyes half closed. He’s doing it aimlessly, with no intention of opening and reading any of them now, before a well-earned early bedtime, when he spots it: the slanting block letters screaming his name. He tears the envelope right open, all the while knowing he shouldn’t. He shouldn’t, but he has to. The letter inside reads:
PAUL SORENSON
YOU’VE SHOWN YOURSELF TO BE
A LEECH
A NOTHING
A THIEF
