fixing their gaze on something outside themselves. We wanted the same thing.
He walked me outside, and before I headed down Lorimer Street, I offered my hand to shake. But he gave me a hug. That it lasted a couple of beats longer than expected was something that I would think back on in the months to come.
• • •
Usually I walk off bad news, and after leaving McKenzie, the feeling of his arms around me propelled me through the neighborhood. I needed to restock my kitchen; I wanted staples, even though I never cooked. I headed for C-Town on Graham and passed the diner where the old couple sat out front every afternoon. The bench was for customers only, but no one at the diner was willing to send them on their way. A fixture, they had a kind greeting for people who walked by. They were kind to each other, too—every time I saw them I had the same thought: they still love each other. They were the type of old couple meant to elicit just such feelings, and I pushed back against having the response I was meant to have.
A guy with a tattooed spiderweb covering half his face came out the diner door. The old woman said to her husband, “He certainly has made a commitment to his lifestyle.”
• • •
I checked Lovefraud when I got home and found this e-mail:
I have been following your postings about the man you call “Bennett” and I am begging you to stop. Whatever information you think you have about him will not interest me. This man is the last person I would be afraid of, and your implying that he deceives women is a lie. I am engaged to him. I did not pretend to be Susan Rorke, but if you continue to seek her out, you might do better to quiz her crazy friends. I will, however, be willing to talk with you but only because I owe it to him.
I felt as though I were living on the other side of the wall, that I had slept too close to it and, during the night, had passed through into the other world.
I met Samantha the next day at one of the Pain Quotidiens on the Upper East Side. I could never read the sign with its French pronunciation; to me it signified pain , and thus I found it fitting that she had chosen it as our meeting place.
Because we met on a weekend morning, the small, private tables were all taken. We would have to sit at the long communal table. I scanned the patrons for a woman with an empty seat beside her. Three women fit that description. One had her purse carelessly open on the table beside her; one was on a cell phone texting, her nails painted black; one was rearranging a sweater on the back of her chair. The one with the open purse was conventionally beautiful, her features played up by carefully applied makeup. She looked to be about my age, but she also looked too high maintenance for “Bennett.” The one with the black manicure was too Goth for him. That left the nervous woman who, having rearranged her sweater, was now rearranging her silverware. As the knife and fork gleamed, so did the stone in her engagement ring. I watched her until she looked up and met my eyes. She flushed and looked away for a moment—a flush of anger, not embarrassment.
I walked toward the empty chair. “Samantha?”
“I only have fifteen minutes.”
When I agreed to meet Samantha, I wanted to see who else had captured his heart. I wanted to see who else had been taken in by him. I wanted to compare the damage we had suffered at his hands. I wanted to release these women from the illusion of Bennett’s devotion to them. I wanted them to know they were safe. And an ugly part of me wanted to be the one to tell his other women that he was dead.
I flagged a waiter and mouthed, “Cappuccino.”
Not one to bury the lead, and mindful of her fifteen minutes, I told her straight off that “Bennett” was dead.
“No, he’s not,” she said with certainty.
I took out the picture of Bennett I had shown the detective in Boston and asked the woman if this was her fiancé.
She said nothing.
“He
He walked me outside, and before I headed down Lorimer Street, I offered my hand to shake. But he gave me a hug. That it lasted a couple of beats longer than expected was something that I would think back on in the months to come.
• • •
Usually I walk off bad news, and after leaving McKenzie, the feeling of his arms around me propelled me through the neighborhood. I needed to restock my kitchen; I wanted staples, even though I never cooked. I headed for C-Town on Graham and passed the diner where the old couple sat out front every afternoon. The bench was for customers only, but no one at the diner was willing to send them on their way. A fixture, they had a kind greeting for people who walked by. They were kind to each other, too—every time I saw them I had the same thought: they still love each other. They were the type of old couple meant to elicit just such feelings, and I pushed back against having the response I was meant to have.
A guy with a tattooed spiderweb covering half his face came out the diner door. The old woman said to her husband, “He certainly has made a commitment to his lifestyle.”
• • •
I checked Lovefraud when I got home and found this e-mail:
I have been following your postings about the man you call “Bennett” and I am begging you to stop. Whatever information you think you have about him will not interest me. This man is the last person I would be afraid of, and your implying that he deceives women is a lie. I am engaged to him. I did not pretend to be Susan Rorke, but if you continue to seek her out, you might do better to quiz her crazy friends. I will, however, be willing to talk with you but only because I owe it to him.
I felt as though I were living on the other side of the wall, that I had slept too close to it and, during the night, had passed through into the other world.
I met Samantha the next day at one of the Pain Quotidiens on the Upper East Side. I could never read the sign with its French pronunciation; to me it signified pain , and thus I found it fitting that she had chosen it as our meeting place.
Because we met on a weekend morning, the small, private tables were all taken. We would have to sit at the long communal table. I scanned the patrons for a woman with an empty seat beside her. Three women fit that description. One had her purse carelessly open on the table beside her; one was on a cell phone texting, her nails painted black; one was rearranging a sweater on the back of her chair. The one with the open purse was conventionally beautiful, her features played up by carefully applied makeup. She looked to be about my age, but she also looked too high maintenance for “Bennett.” The one with the black manicure was too Goth for him. That left the nervous woman who, having rearranged her sweater, was now rearranging her silverware. As the knife and fork gleamed, so did the stone in her engagement ring. I watched her until she looked up and met my eyes. She flushed and looked away for a moment—a flush of anger, not embarrassment.
I walked toward the empty chair. “Samantha?”
“I only have fifteen minutes.”
When I agreed to meet Samantha, I wanted to see who else had captured his heart. I wanted to see who else had been taken in by him. I wanted to compare the damage we had suffered at his hands. I wanted to release these women from the illusion of Bennett’s devotion to them. I wanted them to know they were safe. And an ugly part of me wanted to be the one to tell his other women that he was dead.
I flagged a waiter and mouthed, “Cappuccino.”
Not one to bury the lead, and mindful of her fifteen minutes, I told her straight off that “Bennett” was dead.
“No, he’s not,” she said with certainty.
I took out the picture of Bennett I had shown the detective in Boston and asked the woman if this was her fiancé.
She said nothing.
“He
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