Beware the Mermaids Read online

  After a week, Dr. Holm called Roger into his office at the university. Roger showed up at two thirty PM the following Tuesday and pawed through Rolling Stone with sweaty palms, certain he had a tumor on his brain stem. Dr. Holm came in holding an ominous manila folder. Roger audibly gulped.

  “Hey, Roger,” the doctor said, but he must have read the pall of dread on Roger’s face. “Oh, my. I didn’t mean to scare you—you’re not dying.”

  Roger exhaled, having held his breath so long he felt dizzy.

  “No, no, you’re fine! In fact, you’re rare!” Dr. Holm said. “Get this. Roger, it turns out you’re a psychopath.” He smiled cheerfully.

  Roger sat there dumbstruck, staring at the MRI charts Holm had laid out for him.

  “Hey, I know I’m not the nicest guy around, but it’s not like I would take a chain saw to some coeds,” Roger said, sounding more alarmed than he was.

  “No, no, Roger, I’m not saying you’re a psychopathic murderer; I’m saying your brain has the same patterns as a psychopathic brain. It’s fascinating. This may prove my hypothesis that psychopathy is a genetic mutation.”

  “This makes no sense. I’m not psycho. Hell, I don’t even cheat on my taxes. Much.”

  “Well, you should. But that’s a different matter.” Dr. Holm sipped his coffee. “Having a psychopathic brain doesn’t mean you’re going to be a serial killer. There are other very traumatic factors that have to happen to turn a psychopathic brain into a murderous one.”

  “Like?”

  “Well, in studying other cases where men had the same brain makeup as you, certain people did turn violent, but it was a nurture problem, not a nature problem. As an infant, one subject was violently abused and neglected by his mother to the point of hospitalization. Soon after, his violent tendencies began. I think he tortured squirrels.” Dr. Holm looked out the window, as if trying to recall what hapless critter had died at the hands of a psychopathic kid.

  “And where is he now?”

  “San Quentin, doing twenty-five to life.”

  “Doc!” Roger’s alarm rose.

  “There’s nothing to worry about, Roger. You grew up in a supportive, caring environment, surrounded by encouragement, friends, and family. It was simply a roll of the dice. Either one—or, I would say, both—of your parents were born with this genetic mutation, so when they coupled, they produced you and your particularly rare and psychopathic brain.”

  “So, both of my parents had some mild form of socio or psychopathic brain mutation?”

  “Yep.”

  “That explains a lot,” Roger said, as he thought back to certain momentous occasions in his life, like graduating summa cum laude, getting married, and the birth of his daughter, where his parents had remained emotionless, generally happy but wildly aloof. He’d always thought it was their way of teaching him a lesson in how to be reserved, a nonshowy characteristic of their fellow engineers. Now it seemed they literally hadn’t felt anything. If they hadn’t both been dead, Roger would have given them hell.

  “But while you may have a brain that is predisposed to having less empathy for other human beings, you have no urge to be violent because you were never exposed to violence. If you were, we’d be having a different conversation.”

  “Should I be … I don’t know … afraid of what I’ll do?”

  “It doesn’t work like that. There is no trigger in your brain that will suddenly switch and turn you into Ted Bundy. It’s on a more basic level, more simple than that. Let me ask you a question. When someone does something to you that is wrong—say, gets one over on you, screws you; for instance, a bad business deal where you felt intentionally cheated—how do you handle that situation?”

  Roger thought back to a real estate deal gone bad. His former business partner, Rick Keller, had explained it was a mistake in the negotiations that had shorted them both on the investment. Roger later found out that he’d been the only one shorted; Keller had taken his share and bought a condo in Siesta Key. Roger frowned and felt an oily heat rise up in him.

  Roger brought his fingertips together and said, “Business is personal. I would find a way to have my revenge.”

  “How?”

  “Well, it’s not like I’d hire a couple of thugs out of Compton, but I get my revenge in the end, and it’s usually when they least expect it.”

  “So you lie in wait? For how long? What’s the longest amount of time you’ve waited to exact revenge?”

  “Fourteen years.”

  “That’s what makes you a psychopath!” Holm said merrily. He sat back with a satisfied smile. Roger found it, and him, unnerving.

  “But I live a totally normal life,” Roger protested.

  “Yes, as a nonviolent, well-socialized psychopath. Look, it’s not normal to hold on to a grudge that long. In the brain of a psychopath, exceptionalism is the name of the game. So, if a psychopath is ever outsmarted or wronged, it’s simply something he or she cannot live with until it’s avenged. You like to get even. I can relate.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Our brain maps match. I’m a psychopath too!” Dr. Holm lifted his coffee cup for a toast. Roger obliged and then thanked him for his analysis.

  As he pulled away from Dr. Holm’s office, Roger turned the psychopathic-brain news over in his head before ultimately coming to the conclusion that it wasn’t such a bad thing. If anything, it was a differentiating factor, one that might give him an added edge in business dealings. By the time he arrived home, Roger had taken his diagnosis in stride, as if it were a tattoo no one could see but him. It was also a secret he’d decided not to share with his wife, Nancy.

  That had been seventeen years ago.

  Now, as Roger waited for Nancy to get home from one of the hens’ houses, he stood out on the balcony of his Hermosa Beach home, puffed on a cigar (Nancy had banned him from doing it in the house), and thought about how was he going to get himself out of this one. A marriage was a contract like any other. His little indiscretion shouldn’t void the contract. It was just a matter of negotiation, and he was a master negotiator. He knew he would have to recalibrate his tactics—Nancy would naturally be very hurt and very disinclined to forgive him. But he had a plan. He’d take her to Kauai, her favorite place, for a week. Smother her in coconut oil massages, tropical mai tais, and declarations of love. They’d be back on track in no time. It would cost a pretty penny, but all business deals did. If luck tipped in his favor, this whole mess would be over by the plane ride home—business class, if necessary.

  Roger’s phone began chirping with the distinctive bluebird ring tone that belonged only to his daughter, Stella—one of the few rings he answered rather than allowing the message to go to voice mail.

  “How’s my little girl?” Stella would always be a little girl to him, even though she was thirty-six now.

  “Well, the kitchen is filled with smoke after one of Sam’s failed cooking experiments, but no permanent damage done. Let me step outside.”

  Roger could hear Sam in the background, swearing loudly at his oven.

  “Okay, that’s better,” Stella said. “So, what’s going on with you and Mom?”

  “Oh, nothing to worry about. We had a—misunderstanding. Sorry to have worried you earlier. She’s got the wrong idea in her head.”

  There was a pause, and Roger actually held his breath. Even with his diagnosed psychopathy, the one opinion that mattered to him was that of his only daughter.

  “Oh, okay. So, it’s just Mom being Mom, then? Having her annual freak-out? Pack your bags, we’re going on a guilt trip kind of thing?” Stella joked.

  “Sure,” Roger said. “Something like that.”

  “I’m beginning to think Mom just needs a purpose. She needs something to focus on besides her husband and daughter so she can give us a break.”

  “We’ll work it out. I’m waiting for her to get home so we can talk it out. We might head to Kauai next week.”

  “Oh, good work, P
ops. She loves Kauai. She gets crazy sometimes. Jesus, when I met her for breakfast Saturday, she was moaning about how she thought Charlotte was in trouble and that my marriage was on the rocks, all because I said Charlotte dyed her hair purple. She’s so melodramatic, it drives me nuts. I can’t imagine what you go through.”

  Roger smiled to himself. On his side as usual. Stella had always been Daddy’s girl. When she was young, she was more like a tomboy. Much to Roger’s delight, she was interested in sports and she had natural athletic ability. He spent countless hours playing catch, teaching her how to throw a football and how to play golf. Nowadays, her golf handicap was lower than his and he beamed with pride as he bragged about her to his golf buddies. Her golf talents were eclipsed only by her business talents. After flying through college with honors, Stella went into advertising and became a brand director before the unexpected arrival of his granddaughter when she was only twenty-two. For a moment, Roger wondered if Stella was like her mother. But instead of pausing her career upon the arrival of daughter Charlotte, Stella proved her ambition to be as sharp as or sharper than even Roger’s. She helped her colleagues win a huge automotive account and fielded competitive offers while pumping milk in the executive washroom. The president of the agency was impressed. Stella would often call her dad for advice on how to deal with certain personalities, and they would generally bond over the deals she made. Roger wondered what great cosmic good deed he had done to deserve the bright and shining light that was his daughter.

  Now she was the acting CEO of a highly successful advertising agency in Los Angeles, a cash cow within a larger conglomerate. She was shrewd, smart, analytical, and cold as ice. She reminded him of, well, him. They were kindred spirits in many ways, and Roger knew he and Stella talked about things that really mattered. It kept them close.

  Roger momentarily wondered if anything could shake that bond, even something as grave as his latest misdeed. He shook it off and took a sip of his bourbon, confident in the knowledge that Nancy would never disclose the ugly truth about his affair to Stella. He knew Nancy couldn’t bring herself to damage Stella’s relationship with her father. It would be beyond her decency threshold, a weak personality trait he would obviously exploit. So, he was safe. For this, and for many other reasons, Roger was elated that he didn’t have the emotional sensitivity of the rest of the saps in the world. It was, he surmised as he looked out at the gorgeous sunset, the reason he always won.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THAR SHE BLOWS

  Nancy sat in her car in the driveway of her beach house with the windows rolled down, a sad Jim Croce tune playing on her car stereo. The sun had set twenty minutes ago, and as the winds died down, she could smell cigar smoke that had wafted down from the balcony. Roger must be nervous. He smoked cigars only when he was nervous or celebrating. Since this wasn’t exactly a bottle-popping moment, Nancy figured he was as uneasy to face this situation as she was.

  She felt exhausted even though the shouting had not yet begun. Oh, and there would be shouting. Roger would bellow. And she would yell. Nancy had never known how to hide her emotions. She had been sensitive since she was a child. She would cry when sad, laugh her head off when happy, and yell when angry, even though her mother told her it wasn’t ladylike. As she grew up, she saw how some women were much cagier with their emotions, using them as weapons in relationships, eventually becoming masters at passive-aggressive behavior. Nancy’s brand of sensitivity wasn’t meant for the world at large, and she eventually learned how to share less and rein in her feelings more. This allowed her to protect herself from toxic friends, fake neighbors, and venomous Tupperware party hosts who would float in and then mercifully out of her life. The beautiful thing about aging was that the older she got, the less she cared. But Nancy still gave a shit about Roger. That was the problem.

  She folded down the visor and inspected her face. The lines around her eyes seemed deeper, and she reflected on the fact that it might be time for a few highlights. She looked tired.

  She grabbed her purse, put on a little lip tint, and pinched her cheeks to give them some color. She’d be damned if she was going to let Roger see her looking like hell, even if she felt that way.

  Ruthie’s last comment to her before she left that evening kept ringing through her head. “It’s called a doormat, Nance. Don’t be one. Not anymore.” Nancy cringed as she realized Ruthie knew how much she had given Roger and this marriage. So much that she had made herself invisible and irrelevant. But how could you go from being a doormat to breaking down the door?

  Nancy exited the car and shut the door. She heard the scrape of the heavy metal ashtray that Roger used for his cigars being dragged off the ledge. She knew he was stowing it away so she wouldn’t see it. Another lie. She climbed the stairs like she was climbing up to the gallows, every footfall heavier than the last. The dark questions loomed. Would an apology be enough? Would a promise of change mean anything? Could she forgive him?

  As Nancy was about to turn the handle, the door swung open and Roger stood there, his face tainted with sadness and an expression of possible remorse.

  “There’s my girl.” Roger moved in to give her an awkward hug. Nancy’s arms remained at her sides until he released her, and then with the wave of an arm, he ushered her into her own house.

  Nancy sat at one of the barstools at the kitchen counter. She turned to look out toward the rest of the room and took in the stunning view. She loved this house. From the French blue cabinets in her kitchen to the wood beams of the vaulted ceiling, right down to the wide plank wood floor, she had loved this house from the moment they first walked into it twenty-five years ago.

  Roger quickly prepared a couple of old-fashioneds for them. He set her favorite crystal tumbler in front of her full of bourbon and an amarena cherry.

  Nancy took a sip and let the bourbon sting her lips as the drink allayed her nerves, like an emery board taking off the rougher edges of her emotions.

  Roger was nervous too, a rare state for him. He paced across the living room floor and rambled on about inconsequential things. Something about getting the garage door repaired because it had a squeaking noise.

  “Squeaking noise” brought it all back. Claire’s long tanned legs, Roger’s bare white ass, and the squeak of his boat shoes in the galley of their boat.

  “Can we cut the shit, Roger?”

  Silence. Roger stopped pacing and set down his drink in a way that made it seem like he was ready for his punishment.

  “How could you do that to me?” She kept her gaze even.

  Roger didn’t look at her. Instead he turned back toward the kitchen and took a deep breath. As he exhaled, his shoulders slumped and he gave a shrug. “It’s not that simple, Nance.”

  “You mean there’s more than one reason you were giving Claire Sanford the high hard one on our boat?”

  “It doesn’t come down to reasons.” Roger looked into his drink. Then he looked at Nancy. “Is there a reason that would work?”

  Nancy remained silent, searching for a way forward. She knew there wasn’t one. Then she asked what she really wanted to know. “Why would you put everything at risk like this? Our family, the life we’ve built?”

  Roger stood stock-still, and she could sense his anger at being trapped. “What were you doing there anyway?” he yelled. “Especially with that pack of old crones!”

  “I was there to show them Bucephalus to see if we could auction off a sunset cruise for charity. Further proving that no good deed goes unpunished.”

  Roger picked up his old-fashioned and downed it in one gulp. He set the glass down and instantly looked for the bottle of bourbon.

  “Were there others?”

  “On the boat?”

  “No, I mean others. Over the years?” Nancy looked at him, waiting for his answer. Knowing he would lie. Two years after they were married, when Nancy was nursing Stella and too exhausted to take care of her husband’s needs, she’d found a distinctive silver earring i
n the pants pocket of his suit. She remembered seeing the same cheap bauble on the earlobe of his secretary, Crystal, also a cheap bauble. Then, a few years later, a woman from hotel room service in Santa Cruz mistakenly called Nancy’s number—because it was on the credit card file—to confirm that a bottle of champagne for two was to be delivered to Room 203, even though Roger was supposed to be in San Francisco on a business trip. Nancy had chosen to preserve her family at the time. To preserve her sense of safety, her way of life, even if it was a lie.

  But that was a long time ago. And things had changed. Stella was a grown woman, and there was little holding Nancy and Roger together beyond the yacht club. Plus, it had been Claire. On their boat. With witnesses. It was too much to look away from. Like a cruise ship ruining the view of a pristine coastline, it was impossible to ignore.

  Roger didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he went on the attack. “Nance, do you know what it takes to be successful in this life?”

  “A conscience?” Nancy interjected. She got up from the barstool and headed toward the balcony of the house. Roger mechanically followed.

  Roger continued as if he hadn’t heard her. “It takes balls and brains. And only certain men have the luck to have both, and I am one of those men. I can take a failing company and turn it around in eighteen months. Are there hard decisions to be made? Always. And who’s going to make them? A man with brains and balls, that’s who.”

  “What’s your point, Balls for Brains?”

  “Balls and brains! The point is, you don’t have the capacity to understand me.”

  “Let me see if I can parse this out. You, your balls, and your brains are having a tough time being understood, and apparently the answers are between the legs of Claire Sanford?”

  “What can I say? What would work? She’s … exciting,” he said. He paused a minute, then implored, “Do you understand the patience it takes to be with the same person for decades? The same warmed-over conversations, the same fights, the same sex, the same sameness!”