When The Bough Breaks

She got up, soaked a paper towel in warm water, came over and swabbed the wound. She poked around in one of the boxes and found sterile gauze, adhesive tape and hydrogen peroxide. Tending to me like Florence Nightingale, she bandaged the arm. The craziness of the situation wasn't lost on me - minutes ago she'd tried to kill me, now she clucked maternally and smoothed down the tape. I stayed karate - wary, expecting her to revert at any moment to murderous rage, to dig her fingers into the inflamed flesh and take advantage of the blinding pain to jab me in the eye.

But when she was finished she returned to her seat.

"The papers," I reminded her.

More poking around. But quick. She knew exactly where everything was. A sheaf of papers bound with a thick rubber band found its way into my hand. There were veterinarian's bills, rabies vaccination records, Kennel Club registration - the dog's full name had been Otto Klaus Von Schulderheis out of StuttgartMunsch and Sigourn - Daffodil. Quaint. There were also diplomas from two obedience schools in L.A. and a certificate stating that Otto had been trained as an attack dog for defensive purposes only. I handed the papers back to her.

"Thank you," she said.

We sat across from one another, pleasant as school chums. I took a good look at her and tried to work up some genuine animosity. What I saw was a sad - looking Oriental woman in her forties, her hair chopped China - doll short, sallow, frail, homely in baggy work clothes and shabby as a church mouse She sat, hands in lap, docile. The hatred wouldn't come.

"How long have you been living here?"

"Six months. Since Stuart's death."

"Why live like this - why not open up the house?"

"I thought this would be better for hiding. All I want is to be alone."

She didn't make much of a Garbo.

"Hiding from whom?"

She looked at the floor.

"Come on. I won't hurt you."

"The others. The other sick ones."

"Names."

"The ones you mentioned and others." She spit out a half - dozen other names I didn't recognize.

"Let's be specific. By sick you mean child molesters - all those men are child molesters?"

"Yes, yes. I didn't know it. Stuart told me later, when he was in prison. They volunteered at a children's home, took the kids to their houses. Did sick things with them."

"And at your school, too."

"No! That was only Stuart. The others never came to the school. Only at the children's home."

"La Casa de los Ninos. Your husband was a member of the Gentleman's Brigade."

"Yes. He told me he was doing it to help children. His friends recruited him, he said. The judge, the doctor, the others. I thought it was so nice of him - we didn't have children of our own - I was proud of him. I never knew what he was really doing - just like I didn't know about what he did at the school."

I said nothing.

"I know what you're thinking - what they all thought. That I knew all along. How could I not know what my own husband was doing in my own house? You blame me as much as you blame Stuart. I tell you, I didn't know!"

Her arms went out beseechingly, the hands saffron talons. I noticed that the nails had been gnawed to the quick. There was a desperate, feral look on her face.

"I did not know," she repeated, turning it into a self - punishing mantra. "I did not know. He was my husband but I did not know!"

She was in need of absolution but I didn't feel like a father confessor. I stayed tight - lipped and observed her with forced detachment.

"You must understand the kind of marriage Stuart and I had to see how he could have been doing all of those things without my knowledge."

My silence said Convince me.

She bowed her head and began.

"We met in Seoul," she said, "shortly after the war. My father had been a professor of linguistics. Our family was prosperous, but we had ties to the socialists and the KCIA killed them all. They went on rampages after the war, murdering intellectuals, anyone who wasn't a blind slave to the regime. Everything we owned was confiscated or destroyed. I was hidden, given to friends the day before KCIA thugs broke into the house and slit the throats of everyone - family, servants, even the animals. Things got worse, the government clamped down harder. The family that took me in grew frightened and I was turned out to the street. I was fifteen years old, but very small, very skinny, looking twelve. I begged, ate scraps. I - I sold myself. I had to. To survive."

She stopped, looked past me, gathered her strength and continued.