FEW:?Nineteen. [PAUSE] Anyway, I used to imagine myself in certain scenarios when I watched it as a teenager.
OM:?Were you a special victim in these scenarios?
FEW:?Never. I was usually a suspect, or an uncooperative witness brought in for questioning, and I was forced to sit in the little room with the two-way mirror and wonder how I was going to survive in prison.
OM:?Were you being observed from behind the mirror?
FEW:?Of course. By Olivia Benson.
OM:?Oh?
FEW:?In one fantasy, my left wrist is handcuffed to the table, and Detective Benson is studying me from behind the mirror, and she watches me eat the snack and sip the coffee like nothing’s wrong, like I haven’t been arrested for murder, and then she comes in to interrogate me—
OM:?Which snack?
“Goddammit,” Greta said.
FEW:?Hostess Snoballs. The pink ones.
OM:?Interesting.
“Is it?” Greta said.
OM:?If you had, say, a fetish, what do you think it would be?
FEW:?[PAUSE] I’m aroused by fog.
OM:?Anything else?
FEW:?Being cold. Watching others who are cold.
OM:?[SCRIBBLING] Can you be more specific?
FEW:?People huddled around a fire, people shivering, stomping their feet, blowing on their hands. I like to see people’s breath. What are you writing?
OM:?Just making a note.
FEW:?Anyway, Olivia Benson interrogates me, but it turns into a conversation. From the outside it seems straightforward, but it’s very charged. Olivia has her own agenda, and I have mine.
OM:?Is kissing Olivia part of your agenda?
FEW:?I wanted to be disciplined by her. Maybe humiliated. But I was young. I think it would be the other way around now.
OM:?So, like, spanking?
FEW:?The humiliation was verbal. I was trying to learn English. But now that I think about it, I’m aroused by silky blouses and pantsuits. My new friend doesn’t wear pantsuits, of course, but she reminds me a little of Olivia Benson. That might be why I’m thinking of this.
“Aw,” Greta said.
OM:?Is she a cop?
FEW:?No.
OM:?How is she like Olivia?
FEW:?She has the same complexion, the same way of carrying herself.
OM:?Your face is very red, by the way.
FEW:?I know, I can feel it. I may have a slight fever. I wouldn’t mind hanging my head out the window for a minute. Do these open?
OM:?Hold on, I’ll turn down the thermostat.
FEW:?Like I said, it feels like there’s twice as much blood in my body.
OM:?Any chance you’re pregnant?
FEW:?She kissed me.
“Uh-oh,” Greta said.
OM:?Who?
FEW:?My friend. Rebekah.
“Shit,” Greta said.
OM:?Where?
FEW:?On the lips.
OM:?At the dog park?
FEW:?Yes.
OM:?Where was the stalker?
FEW:?I don’t know—watching us?
“What?” Greta said.
OM:?Were you trying to throw her off?
FEW:?I wasn’t thinking about the stalker.
OM:?I see. [PAUSE] Did you kiss back?
FEW:?She pushed her tongue into my mouth. I wasn’t expecting that, for some reason.
OM:?Have you kissed a woman before?
FEW:?No.
OM:?Well, how do you feel about it now? Would you do it again?
FEW:?I don’t know.
OM:?Does Luke know?
FEW:?No.
OM:?Have you seen her since?
FEW:?No, but I’ll see her very soon. She seems to feel the need to tell me everything. She can’t talk fast enough. Often she calls and leaves a three-minute voicemail. “I forgot to tell you about such-and-such.” Or, “Here are some details I left out of my last story.”
OM:?Wait a minute, where are you going?
FEW:?I have a patient to see.
OM:?But we have ten minutes left. Can you be a little late?
FEW:?[LAUGHS] No.
OM:?Can we talk about this again next time?
FEW:?Sure.
OM:?All right. I may hold you to it, just so you—
[END OF RECORDING]
* * *
MOST WOMEN WOULD LOOK RIDICULOUS in a mink coat and rancher’s hat. Big Swiss simply looked like the owner of a mink ranch. She’d shown up on Greta’s doorstep unannounced, said she happened to be “in the neighborhood,” so she’d decided to “drop by, hope that’s okay,” which Greta supposed might be true, since Sabine’s house was on the way to Catskill, but, as evidenced by Big Swiss’s texts （“Meet me at the dog park in 17 min” or “See you at 4:22”）， she rarely did anything on a whim.
Greta would’ve put on a pantsuit if she’d had any notice, if it hadn’t been too obvious, if she hadn’t thrown out her professional attire months ago. In Hudson, people in office clothes looked like they’d gotten off at the wrong stop. They always seemed to be searching for an address, and the more prim and professional they appeared, the more lost, desperate, and oddly down on their luck. And so, Greta was dressed somewhat like Sabine: four moth-eaten layers, plus extra-long legwarmers that completely covered her feet, calves, and thighs.
Big Swiss requested a tour of the house, of course, because who wouldn’t. Sabine wasn’t around, so the tour would be succinct and short on context, but okay, here was the kitchen with its low ceilings and stone walls, very European, and these concrete floors should have radiant heat, but, well, it isn’t hooked up, because the plumber mysteriously disappeared and left all his tools, and now he won’t return Sabine’s calls, even though she owes him a bunch of money, and we think he might be dead. Anyway, if you look up at the ceiling here, this is the empty beehive, probably thirty or forty years old, and the enclosure was built by a beekeeper named Gideon, who we’ve been trying to get over here to assess the situation—oh, that? It’s a built-in bread oven, yeah, no, don’t stick your head in it, it’s probably full of dead animals, but this fireplace is enormous, right, and so the kitchen at least is always warm, and in this little room over here, dry storage—yes, that’s weed you’re smelling, it’s behind that curtain, but follow me up this decrepit staircase to the third floor, because you should see these creepy, closet-size bedrooms, and all the weird layers of wallpaper, and the antique hospital beds, the tiny doors, and then Sabine’s lofty bedroom with its exposed beams and lime-plastered walls, blah, blah, so beautiful, so ancient, so… untenable, right, I know, but wait until summer.
Big Swiss displayed the usual curiosity about Sabine. No, she’s not French, Greta told her. No, not deranged. Not an artist. Not rich, though she owns this place outright, and not exactly a criminal, though she hasn’t worked a straight job in years.
“I’m just wondering what kind of woman chooses to buy a house like this,” Big Swiss said.
“A heartbroken one,” Greta said. “Her ex-husband, whom she adored, had an affair, and I think she bought this place because it encapsulated how she was feeling at the time.”
“Old and ruined?”
“Fragile, in need of restoration. She hated how banal and clichéd the end of her marriage was, and so she bought a three-hundred-year-old farmhouse and a pair of mini-donkeys. Pretty much the opposite of getting Botox or a face-lift.”
“What donkeys?”
“They’re not here yet,” Greta said.
Big Swiss nodded at the brick wall near the front door. “Is that what I think it is?”