The Last Goodbye Read online

  What happened next in her voice wasn’t a crack, exactly, more a kind of low tremor. “Yes,” she said. “There is something.”

  “Maybe it would be easier if I told you what it was.”

  A small sigh. “Yes, it would. Much easier.”

  “You want to talk about Doug Townsend.”

  I could hear her exhale quietly, like a little slump. “That’s right. Doug.”

  “You’ve called the right person.”

  “This is all such a horrible thing.”

  “I agree.”

  Her next sentence was delivered in kind of a blur, faster than the rest. “Look, Mr. Hammond, this isn’t something I really want to talk about on the phone. Can you come up?”

  “Up to where?”

  “The Four Seasons. The Ansley Suite.”

  I sat holding the phone, momentarily confused. “Look, no offense, but why aren’t you—”

  “At home, with my husband?”

  “If you don’t mind me asking.”

  “I do mind. Can you come up?”

  “Thirty minutes, okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  It was raining when I pulled under the parking canopy at the Four Seasons. There was no doorman working at that hour, so I parked in an empty spot on my own. I stepped out of the car and reentered a carefully constructed world of magazine living. The fresh flowers alone could have paid my rent.

  The Ansley Suite was on the nineteenth floor. I rode up the cherry wood–lined elevator, watched the door slide open, and stepped out. The Ansley was the third door on the left. I knocked. Nothing. I knocked again. A small stirring, then a shadow darkening the viewing lens in the door. Two locks opened, one high, one in the center. Then the door swung open, and I saw the tear-stained face of Michele Sonnier.

  She turned back into the room without a word. I followed her in, closing the door behind me. She led me back through a spectacular suite, with two enormous picture windows looking out over the city lights of Atlanta. She sat heavily down on a long, patterned fabric sofa, gently crying. I sat down on the other end, just biding my time.

  It took about five minutes, I suppose. It was hard to tell, time was crawling so slowly. For all I knew, Ralston was going to appear at the door at any moment, wanting to know what the hell I was doing with his wife at two o’clock in the morning. When she finally looked up at me, I think she was a little surprised I had just let her cry it out. But I’ve spent hundreds of hours with people inches away from confession, and I’ve learned to recognize the moment guilt surfaces. I’ve watched clients swim as hard against that current as they can, desperate not to be submerged by their own sense of right and wrong. I’ve learned who to push, and who to watch drown. Confession was on her face, in the slope of her shoulders, the fatigue in her eyes.

  Eventually, she brushed her hair back off her face. She wore dark green pants and a tan pullover. “Forgive me,” she said. “I’m a little better now.”

  “It’s all right.”

  “I’m sorry I’m such a mess.”

  Even through the fatigue, she was still beautiful. Her skin was so smooth and brown, it was almost impossible not to reach out and touch it, if only to be sure it was real. “So you want to talk about Doug.”

  “Yes. Doug.” She stared past me toward the wall. “You knew I lied about him. I thought I was a better actor than that.”

  I shrugged. “You’re a wonderful actor, but I’m a hell of a critic.”

  Sonnier watched me a moment, then nodded. “People who don’t lie are at a premium, and their price is rising.” She walked to the bar, the line of her thigh moving through perfectly tailored fabric. “You can’t trust anybody these days, from priests to presidents.”

  “So I noticed.”

  “It’s enough to make a person lose faith, except I never had any to begin with.” She poured herself a glass of mineral water. “You’re sure you don’t want anything?”

  “I want you to tell me about Doug.”

  “What do the police say?”

  “They say he’s dead. Probably self-inflicted by overdose.”

  She replaced the bottle and took a sip, delicate and formal. “The police in Atlanta are excellent, Mr. Hammond. I’m sure they know what they’re doing.”

  “That’s a very patriotic attitude.”

  She looked up. “Not every black woman hates the police, Mr. Hammond.”

  “Not every black woman is a rich opera singer, either.”

  “What does that mean?”

  I shrugged. “It means that race is the eight-hundred-pound gorilla in this town, and I decided a long time ago I wasn’t going to play that game. I have nine black clients for every white one, and I’m glad to have them. So if you want to start laying down race cards, I can go home now.”

  For a second, I thought she might throw me out. But after a tense moment, she relented. “Maybe I misunderstood,” she said. “I just get tired of defending myself over being too white.”

  “I do the same thing to my clients, all day long.”

  She smiled wanly. “Of course you do. We can drop all that, then.”

  “Good. And I’m still in your thousand-dollar-a-night hotel suite, waiting for you to tell me what this is about.”

  She looked away. “Do you know what’s always bothered me about lawyers, Jack?”

  I felt like laughing. With most people, there’s usually a list. “No.”

  “It’s the horrible assumption that it’s always best for things to come out into the open. They’re always turning over rocks, trying to dig up people’s sorrows. There are times when it is better for things to stay in the dark, so people can get on with their lives.”

  “When somebody dies, you give up the right to privacy,” I said. “That’s how it works.”

  “Even when there are innocent victims? When there is someone who has done nothing to anyone, and is simply being dragged through this horrible mess through no fault of her own?”

  “Are you talking about yourself?”

  She looked genuinely surprised. “Me? Innocent? You really don’t understand anything, do you?”

  “This is your chance to clear that up.”

  She looked past me. “I don’t know where to begin.”

  “You can start with how you met Doug.”

  She nodded, gathering her thoughts. “We didn’t exactly meet,” she said. “He crept up on me, a little bit at a time. I would look out at the audience, and I would see a face. Something would seem familiar, but I’m normally so absorbed in my singing that I can’t afford to think about the audience.” She focused on the opposite wall. “It took a long time, quite a few performances. But eventually, there was no mistaking it. It was him—although I had no idea who he was. It was disorienting, at first. Everything would be different—a different town, a different dressing room, different music—but he would be the same, just plucked out of one world and set down in another. For a moment, I would wonder what night it was, if I were in the right place.”

  “Were you afraid?”

  “Of Doug?” She shook her head. “No. Opera has its share of obsessive fans, but they’re not frightening. They’re mostly a little awkward, polite. But no one had ever come close to him. He was everywhere.” She exhaled deeply. “He seemed harmless enough. He knew a lot about the music and that set my mind at ease. I mean, seriously. Ax murderers don’t hang out at classical music concerts.”

  “At some point, you began talking.”

  She nodded. “Yes, just before this current tour. I began to notice him outside the hall, which was a change. He would be smiling this little half-smile, very shy, very diffident. A long ways from frightening.”

  “Go on.”

  “I would catch glimpses of him, like tonight, with you. He would hang back, behind the crowds at the stage door. He never asked for an autograph. I don’t think he wanted to be considered part of that crowd.” She paused, drawn back into a memory. “Finally,
he spoke.”

  “What did he say?”

  She smiled softly. “‘L’amore non prevale sempre.’”

  “What’s that?”

  “‘Love does not always prevail.’ It’s Italian, from Romeo and Juliet.”

  “The one you’ve just finished.”

  She nodded. “It’s my most famous role, the signature. I get asked to do it constantly, but I try to keep it down to a couple of times a year.”

  “Where was this?”

  “San Francisco, I think.”

  “So what happened?”

  “It was charming, in a way. All these people pressing in, and Doug, waiting patiently. I was ready to go, and then, from the side I hear his gentle voice saying, ‘L’amore non prevale sempre.’ I looked up, and there he was, looking down at his shoes.”

  “Did you say anything back to him?”

  “The next line, Romeo’s line. ‘E c’è ancora nessun’ altra maniera a vivere. ‘And yet, there is no other way to live.’” She paused. “Look, what he was doing—following me around like that, I mean—if I stopped to think about it, I knew it meant he had some kind of problem.”

  “I agree.”

  “But what can you do about it? It’s flattering, in a strange way, if you sense the person is safe. You know how he was. He was gentle. We would talk a bit after shows, occasionally before. He said he knew a lot about computers, and that he was starting a small company.” She smiled sadly. “I think he wanted me to be proud of him.”

  “I’m sure he did.”

  “Yes, he was a child in that way. So I encouraged him. I would listen to his little victories. He was longing for approval. It’s all so sad.”

  Yes, sad. Doug slumped over his couch, dead with an arm full of fentanyl. “But something happened,” I said. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here.”

  She withdrew again, her body language turning remote. “Doug was brilliant in his way, you know. But he couldn’t leave well enough alone. He thought he was helping me, but he put things into motion . . .” She trailed off. She turned her back to me, dropping her voice so low it was barely audible. “One day he came to me, and I could feel something was different. He was still inside. He said he wanted to tell me something. I said fine, but he didn’t answer right away. He came close and whispered to me.”

  “What did he say?”

  “‘I would do anything to help you.’ His eyes were boring into me. He didn’t even blink. ‘To help you with your secret I would do anything at all.’ I had never seen anything like it from him. I honestly believe I could have asked him to jump off a cliff and he would have done it. Or worse.”

  “Do you have any idea what would make him say something like that?”

  She stood silently awhile, gathering courage. “Shall I tell you my story, then, Jack?” she asked. “Shall I give an accounting of my life?” She stared down at the floor, smoothing her pants with the palms of her hands. “It begins in a two-bedroom apartment, with rented furniture, the phone turned off because the bill isn’t paid. I’m six years old. I can hear my mother rummaging around in the bathroom.”

  “She was a teacher, wasn’t she? I saw your web page.”

  She gave a bitter laugh, looked up at the ceiling, and sighed. “A teacher? My mother was a secretary. Quite a prize. Mother of the Year material, except for the part about being a drug addict. I think they deduct points for that.”

  “And your father? The website said he was a doctor.”

  She closed her eyes. “My father drove a truck. Or so I’ve been led to believe. I never actually met him.”

  I stood silently a moment, trying to make sense of what I had just heard. “Maybe I ought to sit down.”

  “Do that. We’re just getting started.” I moved to the couch, and she continued. “So mother was a secretary, when she was working. Mostly, she was in love with Valium and Percodan. She didn’t start out with any of the really tacky drugs. That came later.” She laughed bitterly. “It’s surprising how far down a person can go, isn’t it? How someone can play with fire for a long time, never noticing the moment that it’s too late? One day they’re completely lost, and they don’t even know it.” She looked at me. “Money ran short, of course. She couldn’t hold a job after she started showing up stoned during the day. But—” she paused, a look of revulsion passing across her face. “She was resourceful. Men can be quite generous, under the right circumstances.”

  “How old were you when this was going on?”

  “By then? Eight.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, well, we’re all sorry, Jack. I’m sorry for how my mother stopped caring about anything except how she could get more of the drugs she loved, sorry for how the sight of me made her crazy because it reminded her of what a terrible mother she was. I would say something, and she would look up at me like I was in the wrong house. Having a child around made her choose, and mommy couldn’t give up some things. So one day I came home from school and she was just gone. Vanished from the face of the earth.”

  “You were abandoned?”

  “Mommy left with one of her so-called boyfriends. He was a piece of work. The worse she got, the worse the men got. She was finding her level, you see. Drifters who had never worked in their lives. She wasn’t exactly pretty anymore, of course. But in a certain light. . .” She turned away. “So to get away from me, she followed him off into the drug world.” She choked, as though swallowing down bile.

  “What did you do?”

  She shrugged. “The great state of Georgia became my new mommy, and she was spectacular.”

  “Georgia? I thought you were from New York.”

  “Everyone thinks that.”

  I paused. “Everyone? You mean—”

  “Yes, Jack. Even Charles.”

  I stared. “That’s not good.”

  “I lived in six homes in four years. I even did time in the Glen.”

  I looked up, shocked. “The Glen? Are you serious?”

  She nodded. “About eighteen months. The foster homes didn’t work out. People found me . . . difficult. Which is the understatement of the century. I was a terror. And I can’t imagine why, since things were going so well. After all, only two of my six foster parents abused me, and only one of those was a woman. So really, it was ungrateful of me.”

  The image of the cultured diva was shredding before my eyes. More and more, she was sounding like one of my clients. She was recounting the common threads of Atlanta’s lost souls: abuse, abandonment, and the sins of one irresponsible generation landing on the next. Yet somehow, the woman before me had managed to end up in another world, surrounded by luxury. “How the hell can anybody handle all that and come out intact on the other side?” I asked.

  “Don’t be absurd. I’m not intact.”

  I motioned to the suite. “All right. How did you get here?”

  She looked at me pointedly. “I was unloved, Jack. That had nothing to do with the size of my gift. If anything, it’s probably the source of it. So I cut my life into two pieces. The first one, I destroyed. Even the memory of it. I carefully constructed a completely new existence, one that started after everything terrible ended. So all that sadness never happened. It wasn’t even in shadows. It was simply ... gone. And that’s how I didn’t go insane.”

  “Going back through it must be tough.”

  She nodded. “Those wounds are deep, and they took time to forget. I had my time of. . . what do the social workers call it? Acting out. I got kicked around the foster care system for a while. On the other hand, it was the perfect place to perfect my craft.”

  “Your singing?”

  She shook her head. “Acting. You learn how to play nice, to make people believe. Couples would come in, and I would zero in on them, trying to get one of them to want to take me home. Eventually, I became very good at it. I could sit and chat, legs crossed like a nice little girl at a tea party. There were no tragedies, no horrible moments. Yes, ma’am. I’d love another cooki
e. No, my mother didn’t stagger home under the influence and collapse on the couch for two days. I don’t have a mother. I didn’t know it then, but I was practicing for my life. I was learning how to pretend.”

  Listening to her, I wondered again at the resiliency of some people. I had seen it in my practice; nineteen of twenty are flushed down the system, but one is impossible to kill. For those, you move heaven and earth, because in spite of everything, they have character. “What happened next?” I asked.

  “I went home with some people. It was a tryout, a few months together before they made their decision. A nice couple. Nice car, the suburbs. I was thirteen.”

  “Not many people are willing to adopt a thirteen-year-old girl,” I said.

  “It’s all right, Jack, you can say it. A thirteen-year-old black girl.”

  I nodded. “Either way, it was brave.”

  “Not exactly.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Her face hardened. “It was the perfect age, considering the husband’s intentions. You’ll find the percentage of liberals who are pedophiles is about the same as any other group.” I sat quietly, adding this sorrow to her litany. There was nothing to say. There are times that tragedy flows like a river, and it takes a strong swimmer not to drown. “I’m not saying he wanted to,” she said. “I think he hated himself for it, actually. I know I did. But he couldn’t help himself. He just started staring at me, giving me the look. Then one night he came into my room.” She stood, beginning to pace a little. “So I fixed things,” she said. “I instituted my brilliant plan. It worked perfectly, and he never touched me again.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I got pregnant,” she said in a flat voice. There was a long pause. Then she said, “That did the trick. Damaged goods, you see. Not the pretty young thing anymore.” She laughed, a sound as near to crying as I’ve ever heard.

  “Was the husband the father?”

  She shook her head. “No, no, he hadn’t gone that far, not yet. He was more interested in me doing things for him.”

  “Then who?”

  “He was a very glamorous boy from the neighborhood. I chose him, which was the point. He was seventeen, and I was thirteen. I would sneak out to be with him.” She paused. “I never told the boy about the baby. There wasn’t any point. I knew what was going to happen. He had already moved on, anyway. I saw him a few times, and he would try to feel me up.”