Beth stood up, sweating and weak. She didn’t have much time. She found Chloe’s passport first. They both had brown eyes but Beth’s hair was dark. To play a convincing Chloe and make it to the airport by six-fifteen, she’d need to leave the Belgravia, visit a hair salon, and return to pack. She didn’t want to take any chances and decided to leave and come back as Chloe in case the doorman was paying attention. Finding scissors, she slit open the bag around Chloe’s head, then cut off all the blond hair not covered in blood. She tied up her own hair, then used clips to fasten Chloe’s to the edges, hiding the jagged line between the two with a winter hat. It looked amazingly natural. She hustled into Chloe’s coat, grabbed her purse, and ran out.
The afternoon became a series of tasks: she was Chloe, rushing to finish errands; she was Beth, discarding hair in the restroom at Liberty Place and washing flecks of blood off her wrists; she was whichever one’s credit card she used, stopping by Liquid Salon, explaining she was about to go to France to meet her fiancé and wanted to surprise him by going blond. Could a colorist do that in the next two hours?
She was Beth, but with honey-colored hair, anxious to get things from her apartment, then suddenly aware of a police cruiser parked on Pine and 19th, so she was Chloe again, walking past Beth’s apartment, no turning back, and heading home.
“Chloe,” the doorman nodded.
She packed as if she might stay in France a long time and got ready to leave. It was a shame about the body-how odd it looked with hacked-off hair. She turned off the heat and opened the bedroom windows. The corpse might not smell for weeks if it stayed cold.
She was Beth, anticipating a romantic getaway with her boyfriend. She was Chloe, anticipating holidays with family. She was trying new things, making strong choices. She was her own mind, racing a thousand miles a second, already in Paris.
Soon, love, she texted Alex from Beth’s phone.
Soon, love, she texted Alex from Chloe’s phone.
Soon, mon amour, he replied to each.
SWIMMING BY HALIMAH MARCUS
Narberth
Tom and Jackie Middleton’s swimming pool is the jewel of Narbrook Circle. The cool aqua rectangle is nestled on the western side of the Middletons’ house, which sits atop a hill and presides over the neighborhood. Standing on the porch of that home, one can easily survey the luscious green neighborhood, the houses that border it, and the stream that divides it in two. Narberth, their town, is a self-conscious time capsule of small-town America, always preserving old traditions alongside new ones: the Memorial Day parade, relay races at the playground, fireworks on the Fourth of July. Although the outskirts of Philadelphia begin only a few miles away, Narbrook Circle is the isolated within the isolated, a suboasis of the suburban oasis, a place as calm and beautiful as any place you could hope to be.
Tom, a psychiatrist, sees clients in the finished side of their basement. There is a separate back entrance to a room containing an armchair and a comfortable couch adorned with too many pillows. There’s a side table with a box of tissues, a Venetian screen hiding an exercise bike, and nothing on the walls. One of Tom’s clients is a seventeen-year-old boy by the name of Seth Lever. Seth attends a private Quaker school on City Avenue, where Jackie happens to be the guidance counselor. Seth is tall for his age and good looking, although he doesn’t seem to know it. He dresses the same way he probably has since middle schooclass="underline" old T-shirts, jeans, and sneakers. In recent months Seth has become noticeably withdrawn and begun to fail his classes. While she did her best to help him, Jackie felt that Seth needed more frequent, longer sessions-beyond what she has time for-and that he might benefit from the positive male influence of her husband.
During their first session together, Seth plops down on the couch and says, “First off, you should know that I don’t want to be here, and that I think therapy’s bullshit.”
After that, Seth says very little. He reveals only the most basic of information: his parents are divorced; he is bored by high school and thinks maybe he’ll go to college to study music, if he goes at all. When Tom presses for more information, Seth mentions that he is also in the chess club at school and reads chess strategy books.
“I play a little chess myself,” says Tom.
“Oh yeah?” Seth brightens.
“Sure, not so much now, but I was crazy about it in college. Used to reenact Bobby’s games and whatnot. Fischer, I mean. We could play sometime.”
“No thanks,” says Seth, but Tom can see that he’s tempted.
For Seth’s next session, Tom brings the chess set down to the basement, just in case. He’s read about therapists doing this-playing games with their clients to put them at ease. Seth is fairly nervous and it would be good for him to be able to relate to Tom over something he already understands.
The thing is, Seth isn’t a shy kid. Tom can see that by the way he sits on the couch, leaning back, taking up lots of space. When he does speak he speaks confidently, knowing exactly how much he will reveal before he opens his mouth, unlike many people who negotiate with themselves halfway through a sentence.
At first, Tom doesn’t mention the chess set, and Seth doesn’t bring it up either. Tom begins as he normally would, by asking Seth what his goals are for therapy.
“I haven’t set any goals,” says Seth. “I already told you, it wasn’t exactly my idea to come here.”
“Whose idea was it?” asks Tom.
“My mom’s, I guess.”
“And why do you think she wants you to go to therapy?”
“I don’t know, you’ll have to ask her,” answers Seth.
There is a touch of defiance in his voice, but it’s nothing Tom hasn’t seen before. Tom lets the room stay silent, giving Seth the space to say more, if he wants. Part of being a psychiatrist is learning to endure these awkward moments.
“I see you brought the board down,” Seth says, after a while.
“I thought we might play a little, if you’re up for it.”
“I’m up for it.”
As it turns out, Tom and Seth are pretty evenly matched. Tom lets the game run out the clock, and when he says, “Time’s up,” Seth doesn’t conceal his disappointment.
That night, before going to sleep, Jackie asks Tom about Seth.
Tom thinks for a moment. “He’s doing all right, I guess. He’s a funny kid.”
“You know, he’s not popular. As far as I can tell, he doesn’t belong to any groups at all. There aren’t many students like that at Friends’ Central. If they’re not popular, they’re into drama or something,” says Jackie.
“He’s into chess,” says Tom.
“Oh really? I didn’t know that.”
“We played today. He’s good. Really good.”
“Hey, you know what you should do?” says Jackie.
“What?” he asks unenthusiastically.
“Switch sides. Turn the board around. Then you’ll have to think like him and he’ll have to think like you.” Pleased with herself, Jackie kisses Tom and turns off the light.
The next time Seth comes in, Tom has the board set up between them on an old card table. The pieces are ready and waiting. They play five moves and then Tom turns the board around. Seth looks at him skeptically but doesn’t ask for an explanation, and Tom doesn’t offer one.
Viewing the board from Seth’s perspective, Tom sees a complex web of attacks and defenses he only half understood from the other side. Seth’s strategy is impressive, and as the board turns back and forth neither gains nor loses much ground.