Rebecca Schwartz 05 - Other People's Skeletons

Chapter One
    I once said to one of my clients, a man who’d killed someone in self-defense, that it must have been the hardest thing he ever had to live through.
    “Not even close,” he said. “Not nearly as hard as my divorce. Learning that someone I thought I knew was so different; living with that. That’s the hardest thing I ever had to do.”
    The night Chris Nicholson, my law partner, was nearly arrested for murder I started to see what he meant. It was a time when everything I thought about the world changed, everything I thought I knew about human beings and who they are turned upside down and inside out. And it was probably a change for the better.
    I can say that now that it’s over. I can even say that I think I’m a better person for it, a bigger and more aware person. I’m certainly a weirder person. But I notice I’m a little more careful about whom I call weird these days. Who among us is exactly like the rest of us? And more to the point, who hasn’t got a secret? Even, maybe, a whole secret life.
    I think I should go back to the old Rebecca for a moment here, just to illustrate the progression of the thing; the Rebecca of the Cosmic Blind Date.
    I was standing in line at the post office one day, mailing a birthday present, a job it’s not ethical to give to my secretary— and anyway, he wouldn’t do it. I was impatient, in a hurry because I had to go home and pack for a business trip to Seattle. And a man was staring at me. He was sort of a nice-looking man, in fact a very nice-looking man, nothing wrong with him except that his hair was a little long and he was rumpled. That could have meant nothing or a lot, like maybe he was crazy and didn’t care how he looked, or maybe he was homeless and didn’t have a mirror, which also might have meant he was crazy. Without being narrow-minded about it, most urban women would agree, I think, that men who stare at you and might be crazy are probably best avoided.
    I was busily keeping my distance and avoiding eye contact (or trying to) but I couldn’t help it, I kept sneaking little nervous glances to see if he was still staring. And he was, every time.
    Finally, he simply walked up to me and said, “Excuse me, I know this sounds crazy, but you aren’t named Rebecca, are you? By any chance?”
    “Do we know each other?”
    “You mean you are ? I don’t believe it— I’m scaring myself.”
    “Apparently, you know me, but I don’t know you.”
    “Well, I have to know one more thing. There’s no chance you’re from Seattle, is there?”
    Ordinarily, I’d have been too irritated to answer, but it was so odd, his bringing up Seattle, that I blurted, “No, but I’m going there tomorrow.”
    “Oh my God. Oh my God. I don’t believe this.”
    “Excuse me,” I said, as coldly as I could. By now I was thoroughly sorry I hadn’t called the nearest cop, and it was my turn at the window.
    He waited for me. When I turned back toward the door, I saw that he had smoothed his hair and tucked in his shirt. “I'm Max Bruner,” he said, offering his hand and looking as normal as an oatmeal cookie. “I know you think I’m crazy, but I wonder if I could just talk to you for a minute. I teach religion at a college in Oregon.” He stopped suddenly as if he’d had a brainstorm. “I know! Come and meet my wife.”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “She’s right outside. Really. Waiting in the car.” Dazed, I walked out with him. “There she is.” He pointed to a blue Nissan driven by a perfectly attractive, sensible-looking woman who looked as if she couldn’t possibly be married to a crazy man. By this time I was a lot more curious than annoyed. I walked over with him.
    “Dear, this is Rebecca…”
    “Schwartz.”
    “Rebecca Schwartz. My wife, Lorraine. Honey, remember what those psychics told Roger DeCampo? About the dark-haired woman in the pink suit?”
    “Ah, yes, the one named Rebecca.”
    “Well, I saw… uh… this lady in the post office and that was her name.”
    She looked dismayed. “But Roger’s gone back to Seattle.”
    I was dark-haired, wearing a deep rose suit, and not at all liking the turn the conversation was taking. “She’s going there tomorrow.”
    Lorraine lit up. “I don’t believe it; this is much too weird.” It was obvious she thought it was a good kind of weird. “Tell her, Max.”
    He turned to me. “Well, we both just finished a six-week seminar over in Berkeley. Roger’s a— well, a specialist