“I was doing a lot of babbling.”
“I suspect you had your wits very much about you.”
“What are you leading up to?”
I sigh. The day is wasting. There are thistles in the carrot patch. “Where is the suit, Jonathan? The brown suit she was wearing?”
“Back in my closet.”
“Has it since been dry cleaned?”
He looks at me sharply. No answer.
“Jonathan, did you take it out later to be dry cleaned?”
“Yes.” “When?”
“That day. . the day after.”
“After you found it lying crumpled on your bedroom floor.” “That’s right. She’d badly creased it.” “That’s the reason? There were no seminal stains on it?” “Of course not”
“Presumably, if the suit were lying by your bed, at some point that night she again disrobed beside it?” A long, painful pause. “I don’t know.”
“The suit she had worn was on your bedroom floor. Were you not present when she took it off? Did you not say you went to bed after settling Miss Martin on the downstairs couch? Did she sneak upstairs while you slept, then undress and paint herself with lipstick, then leave in sudden hysterics?”
Jonathan looks at his feet and does not answer. How sorry a spectacle he is. Still, there is something to be said for a man who lies so hopelessly; ironically, there is a certain honesty about him, a lack of facileness.
“It has been a while since I read Saint Joan,” I say, “but isn’t there a line to the effect that he who tells much truth is sure to be hanged?”
Jonathan’s head remains bowed.
“I’m afraid in this case it’s bad counsel.”
Slowly, he drains his cup of laced tea. “I didn’t rape her, Arthur.”
“Your version of the events is not to be believed, Jonathan. I repeat, it’s too preposterous.”
Just then, ghoulish sounds from the kitchen, a mousetrap springing shut, the little rodent’s death throes, a brattle of wood on the floor. The freezer makes a groaning sound, then silence.
“Oh, shit,” says Jonathan. The phrase is repeated several times, softly, in utter capitulation.
I turn to the others. “Well, gentlemen, what is your verdict?”
None but Bully can look at me. “I’m sorry, Arthur, maybe we’ve been wasting your time.”
“I apologize if I have ruined everyone’s day. By way of benefit, you have learned your client is a poor witness and a worse liar.” But I am feeling pity for the forlorn fellow sitting in my favourite chair. I soften my voice.
“I assume, Jonathan, that the reason no evidence of semen stains exists is that you burned the used sheets in your fireplace and replaced them with clean ones.”
“Actually, I used a safe.” The voice is hollow, distant. “But, yes, I did burn them. Just in case.”
“A safe” says Hubbell. “You used a condom in the course of this. . this. .” He cannot find the words to express his revulsion.
“And I suppose that item, the used condom, isn’t to be found anywhere among your personal memorabilia?”
“Burned it.”
“Along with your bridges. You might as well have thrown yourself into the fire, too, Jonathan. You have done the work of the prosecution. You have almost convicted yourself. What a pity.”
Gowan extends an arm like a traffic officer. “Okay, whoa, everybody, let’s stop and reconnoitre. Almost, that’s the word. Almost convicted. Nothing’s been proved, and we’re not in a court of law. The defence still holds, we can salvage it, it’s still his word against hers, and for the record we didn’t hear what the brilliant Professor O’Donnell just admitted to. I didn’t hear it. Did anyone hear it? The presence of the suit in the bedroom can be explained — ”
“Shut up, Gowan,” Jonathan says.
“Shut up? You shut up. You’ve already said too much. Telling bald-faced lies, screwing around with the evidence — you don’t deserve a defence — ”
Jonathan begins to rise. “When’s the next ferry back?” I restrain him with a hand to his shoulder. “Gentlemen, please — ” “I got it,” Gowan says. “He had to tie her up so she wouldn’t run off while he was putting a rubber on. He’s a gentleman, didn’t want to knock her up — ”
“Gowan,” says Jonathan, “I’m about two seconds from stuffing your teeth down your throat.”
“That’s enough!” My bull roar subdues this contumacious group. “This is quite unseemly.” “Sorry,” says Jonathan.
“All right then, let us be fair to Jonathan. After all, he has been proven guilty only of the capital sin of lying to his lawyer. If all were hanged who had done that we couldn’t find graves enough. But guilty of rape? I think not.”
I bend towards Jonathan, and he cannot escape my eyes. “She hadn’t really passed out, had she? She was waiting for the others to leave. The two of you then moved on to the final, unscripted act of your play.” He nods.
“She consented,” I say. “More than that.”
“Then why the hell did you cover up?” says Hubbell. “I think he expressed his overriding concern,” I say. “To admit he bedded one of his students ends his career no more finally than if he’d actually assaulted her.”
“That’s the current diktat from the harassment committee.” Gowan comes out of a sulk. “Well, that’s a damn lot better than ten years in the joint. Okay, we’re doing better — so what the hell happened?”
Jonathan purses his lips, examines his hands. They are shaking a little. He responds in a slow, monotonic voice. “When I brought the sheet, she was still asleep on the chair — and I draped it over her. As I bent over her, she. . well, she awoke. And we kissed. She became animated. I couldn’t stop her. I couldn’t stop myself. I couldn’t stop it.”
Jonathan slowly rises from the chair and begins to pace, not looking at any of us.
“We found ourselves on the living-room couch. Didn’t talk, just, well, we necked. Then I led her upstairs, and I got the condom. We undressed, and. . I’ll spare you the vivid details. . She seemed starved for it. She had an orgasm and it kind of startled her. And then we, um, we continued at it. Had another bottle of wine.”
“She shared in this?” I ask.
“Yes. Later, I got rid of the empty, washed the glasses. Anyway, at some point I went to the bathroom, drew a tub. I was there for a few minutes, and when I came out she was gone. I assumed she was just prowling around the house, and I flopped on the bed, waited for her. . and fell asleep. Or passed out. And the next morning when I awoke — she wasn’t there. That’s it.”
“And the lipstick on her lower regions and on her breasts? Her curious behaviour upon leaving your house?”
“Sleepwalking, nightmares, maybe Egan Chornicky dropped a tab of acid in her B and B. Maybe she was having a divine experience. A la Jeanne d’Arc. Maybe she forgot to take her Prozac. Who knows?”
“I like it,” Gowan says. “It works.”
Jonathan gapes at him. “You like it?” He erupts, a burst of unleashed pique. “What do you mean, it works? Blow it out your tailpipe, you smarmy bastard!”
“Easy, pal,” says Gowan, and he looks to me for support.
Jonathan puffs his cheeks and slowly releases air. “Sorry. Get it together, O’Donnell. Get it together.” He pours himself another large scotch, sips it, winces.
A strained silence follows, broken only by Bully clearing his throat a few times.
Jonathan has now taken a book from one of the shelves and is leafing through it.
“There’s a line in here somewhere…. Here: ‘Quisque suos pati-mar Manes.’”
The Aeneid. He reads the ancient verse well.
Jonathan replaces the book. “‘Each of us bears his own hell.’”
I ask, “Where did you study Latin?”
“Oxford. And earlier. Six years of it.”
I return to my vigil at the window, look out upon my humble garden, my orchard thick with small green bulbs of apples, my pond where a wren trills sweetly on a reed.