Chapter 4

Aunt Margie answered the door wearing an old terrycloth robe, fuzzy pink slippers and a towel wrapped turban-like around her head. Apparently, she had just stepped out of the shower, and she was just about to settle onto the couch to eat a microwave dinner and watch the news. She invited me in and asked if she could nuke another one for me.

I was hungry, but I’ve never tasted a microwave dinner that was anywhere near as good as its hype or the picture on the box. I could wait until I got home. “Oh, uh, no thanks. I’d take a beer, though, if you have one.”

“Sorry, no beer. Soda?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

While she was in the kitchen pouring a glass of RC Cola, I set my smart phone to record video and placed it strategically on the mantel among a bunch of framed family photos, aiming the lens at the couch. I was pretty sure she wouldn’t spot it unless she was looking for it. I couldn’t know if I was going to get anything useful, but it was worth a try. All that remained was to coax Dagmar out into the open.

Aunt Margie handed me my soda and we sat next to each other on the couch. She dug into her dinner and I sat quietly sipping my soda through the news anchor’s recitation of the day’s top stories. At the next commercial break, I asked, “So, is that medication Dr. Milton prescribed working for you, Aunt Margie?”

She swallowed a chunk of something and flushed it down with some RC. “I guess it must have done something, because I slept here on the couch off and on all afternoon ... or tried to. I finally gave up and got up about a half hour ago feeling as tired as I was when I laid myself down. I thought taking a shower might help.”

She took a bite of some kind of mystery meat, made a face and set the dinner on the coffee table. “Why do I buy these things? They always taste like cardboard.”

“Sorry you didn’t get any rest. Maybe you’ll catch up tonight after another pill. There’s probably some therapeutic level you have to get to before they work the way they’re supposed to. Well anyway, I just stopped by to tell you what’s happening on the case, if you’re interested.”

She picked up the remote and clicked off the TV. “Of course, I’m interested, but I’m not sure I want to hear it. Is it good or bad?”

Okay, I thought, let’s see if I can stir something up.

I answered, “Whether it’s good or bad depends on whether I’m talking to my Aunt Margie or to Dagmar. I’m working on a strategy for our next court appearance that might make Aunt Margie a little uncomfortable.”

She looked confused for a moment, and asked, “Why do you think you might be talking to Dagmar?”

“Come on, Aunt Margie! By now, you know very well that you’re one and the same person. Who do you think was involved with those boys? If it wasn’t you, then it had to be Dagmar. When she’s here, you’re not, and visa-versa.”

I think she wanted to deny it, but the confident look on my face caused her to retreat. With a resigned slump of her shoulders, she said, “Yes, well, I guess I’ve known, or at least suspected that for a while. I don’t want to believe it because it’s just too weird, but I suppose it must be true. There’s no other logical way to explain this whole mess, is there? And I guess that means I’m officially crazy, doesn’t it?”

I can tell she’s already starting to get agitated, and that’s exactly what I’m hoping for. I hate using her like this, but without convincing visual evidence, we’re going to have one helluva time proving our case.

I patted her hand sympathetically and replied, “No, there isn’t any other way, and crazy isn’t the right word. Those boys in Dagmar’s diary can’t be made up, can they, since you know every single one of them. What we have to do is find some way to clearly separate the you that’s you and the you that’s Dagmar. She seduced all those boys and chronicled each and every event. The diary is evidence we simply cannot refute, so our whole case is built around proving that the you that is Margaret Brenner couldn’t have been present when it was happening, because your body was being co-opted by another personality. Dr. Milton is going to help us with that, and I think Harley is on board as well.”

Aunt Margie, growing more anxious by the second, grabbed my arm and asked, “But what if we can’t prove it, Marty? Does that mean I’ll have to go to jail?”

“I wouldn’t worry about that just yet. Our legal system tends to grind exceedingly slow, what with all the motions, appeals and what not. It’s too early to fret about a possible jail sentence. What we have to concentrate on for the moment is being well prepared.”

She lashed out, working herself further into a major snit. “Well how the hell can I not worry, damn it! I could lose everything!”

Aha! I think I hear Ms. Dagmar knocking at the door.

“Relax, Aunt Margie. I’m working on it.”

And it was just that easy. Dagmar in – Aunt Margie out.

With no discernable transition phase, the woman sitting beside me laughs and bumps against my shoulder, hard, and Dagmar’s voice is arguing, “Relax yourself, sweet buns! You know as well as I do that Miss Goodie-two-shoes doesn’t have the grit to tolerate being locked up. So, tell me, shyster, what’s your big plan?”

This time I was ready to play Dagmar’s game in an effort to try to keep her present and engaged for as long as possible for the video recording.

“Shyster?” I said, feigning shock at the insult, “I resemble that remark, Madam!”

She punches my shoulder playfully and says, “Hey, you’re pretty quick for a lawyer. I’m sure you already have some brilliant plan to keep our girl out of detention, but it’s already too late to save her reputation, don’t you think? The rumors have got to be flying by now.”

“Dagmar, my boy-hungry nymph, I not only plan to save her reputation, I think that, by presenting you as separate entities, I can get the court and the public to feel sympathy for her and anger at you for the mess you’ve gotten her into. By the time I make my closing arguments, it’ll be Dagmar, not Margaret, who will shoulder the burden of guilt. But then, that’s how you get your kicks, isn’t it? Telling society, in so many words, to stuff it?”

“Oh! Oh!” she moans melodramatically, holding the back of her hand to her forehead like a silent-movie Camille, “You cut me to the quick, you cruel, cruel beast! Here, feel how my heart races in despair!”

With that, she grabs my hand and shoves it inside her robe to cup her left breast. I’m momentarily startled, and my first inclination is to pull back, but that lasts only a second. I’ve wanted to feel Aunt Margie up for as long as I can remember. This is it! It may not be Aunt Margie’s person, but it’s Aunt Margie’s firm, heavy tit, and for now, that’s close enough for me! I feel a little guilt, but not enough to stop.