She said it was cheaper to hire a detective than to audit her books, which she wasn’t keen to draw attention to anyway. Spandau helped the poor drunken fool off the lake and back to his small cabin, put him to bed, called Titzilla and told her the whole story.
Dee found this appalling, and was surprised that Spandau didn’t. How could he betray a friend, someone who liked and trusted him? Spandau didn’t see it that way. He felt no qualms at all, not a trace of guilt. He tried to make his position clear to her, but it was useless. The man was a crook, Spandau explained. Spandau had been hired to catch him. He did. End of story. But for Dee, friendship and family were sacred. You didn’t betray a friend, nomatter what, especially if there was even a remote justification for his act. You just didn’t.
‘But he’s not my friend,’ pleaded Spandau. ‘He’s a thief.’
‘But you told him you were his friend!’ she accused. ‘You made him feel safe, you let him think he could trust you. And then you used it against him.’
There was nothing Spandau could say. Her whole argument seemed irrational to him. But the case had opened up a rift between them, an unbridgeable chasm. He suspected there was something more at stake, that something else was going on, but he couldn’t grasp what it was. The incident struck some hidden weakness in their relationship.
It wasn’t until Dee had been gone for a few weeks, when Spandau had time to sit and obsessively go over each and every marital fuck-up, that he suspected he had an answer.
Dee herself had pointed it out once, early on. Spandau had told her about his father. About the beatings, the verbal abuse, the coldness and cruelty. How he and his sister and his mother became close because of it. How that closeness excluded everyone else, how it isolated them from friends and confidences, but made bearable the daily mortification that old Horst inflicted.
It was possible, David understood, to watch someone you love be abused and to say nothing to defend them, because that was simply the way of things. You accepted, you let the pain and humiliation ride through you like cold wind through a hole, and you made up for it later by doling out the tenderness you’d kept hidden.
This had meant nothing to Spandau when he told it to her, except for the embarrassment of coming from such a home, such a father. Dee had tears in her eyes. Spandau made fun of her, but truthfully could think of nothing he’d said that should move anyone to tears.
And this, said Dee, was exactly why she was crying. That he had no idea how tragic it was.
That was the word she’d used: tragic. Dee’s upbringing had been boisterous but loving. Beau might get shitfaced after a night out with the boys, but otherwise he was a model husband and father. Two sons and a daughter adored him, as he adored them. He’d raised his voice often enough but had never been malicious and never, never struck any of them. Dee had grown up so loved that she was in college before she realized what a privilege that was.
She thanked David for telling her, and said it explained some things.
Like what? Spandau asked.
Like your ability to distance yourself when you feel threatened, Dee told him. Your ability to turn inside yourself, like a hedgehog.
David said he had no idea what she was talking about, and she wouldn’t discuss it anymore.
The fault lay in their concept of family and loyalty. Dee had grown up expansive in her love, in her trust, in her loyalties. For Spandau, life was like rowing in a very small boat, and you were either in the boat or out of the boat.
If you were out of the boat, how long you could treadwater was up to you. He loved his mother, his sister, he loved Dee and Beau. A tiny crew for a tiny yacht. The rest of the world wasn’t his problem. You protected like a tiger those closest to you and to hell with everyone else; there wasn’t even time to be sorry.
Had this been what ruined his
Dee found this appalling, and was surprised that Spandau didn’t. How could he betray a friend, someone who liked and trusted him? Spandau didn’t see it that way. He felt no qualms at all, not a trace of guilt. He tried to make his position clear to her, but it was useless. The man was a crook, Spandau explained. Spandau had been hired to catch him. He did. End of story. But for Dee, friendship and family were sacred. You didn’t betray a friend, nomatter what, especially if there was even a remote justification for his act. You just didn’t.
‘But he’s not my friend,’ pleaded Spandau. ‘He’s a thief.’
‘But you told him you were his friend!’ she accused. ‘You made him feel safe, you let him think he could trust you. And then you used it against him.’
There was nothing Spandau could say. Her whole argument seemed irrational to him. But the case had opened up a rift between them, an unbridgeable chasm. He suspected there was something more at stake, that something else was going on, but he couldn’t grasp what it was. The incident struck some hidden weakness in their relationship.
It wasn’t until Dee had been gone for a few weeks, when Spandau had time to sit and obsessively go over each and every marital fuck-up, that he suspected he had an answer.
Dee herself had pointed it out once, early on. Spandau had told her about his father. About the beatings, the verbal abuse, the coldness and cruelty. How he and his sister and his mother became close because of it. How that closeness excluded everyone else, how it isolated them from friends and confidences, but made bearable the daily mortification that old Horst inflicted.
It was possible, David understood, to watch someone you love be abused and to say nothing to defend them, because that was simply the way of things. You accepted, you let the pain and humiliation ride through you like cold wind through a hole, and you made up for it later by doling out the tenderness you’d kept hidden.
This had meant nothing to Spandau when he told it to her, except for the embarrassment of coming from such a home, such a father. Dee had tears in her eyes. Spandau made fun of her, but truthfully could think of nothing he’d said that should move anyone to tears.
And this, said Dee, was exactly why she was crying. That he had no idea how tragic it was.
That was the word she’d used: tragic. Dee’s upbringing had been boisterous but loving. Beau might get shitfaced after a night out with the boys, but otherwise he was a model husband and father. Two sons and a daughter adored him, as he adored them. He’d raised his voice often enough but had never been malicious and never, never struck any of them. Dee had grown up so loved that she was in college before she realized what a privilege that was.
She thanked David for telling her, and said it explained some things.
Like what? Spandau asked.
Like your ability to distance yourself when you feel threatened, Dee told him. Your ability to turn inside yourself, like a hedgehog.
David said he had no idea what she was talking about, and she wouldn’t discuss it anymore.
The fault lay in their concept of family and loyalty. Dee had grown up expansive in her love, in her trust, in her loyalties. For Spandau, life was like rowing in a very small boat, and you were either in the boat or out of the boat.
If you were out of the boat, how long you could treadwater was up to you. He loved his mother, his sister, he loved Dee and Beau. A tiny crew for a tiny yacht. The rest of the world wasn’t his problem. You protected like a tiger those closest to you and to hell with everyone else; there wasn’t even time to be sorry.
Had this been what ruined his
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